[D&D 5e] Wrath of the Righteous ala Fabian (take 2) (Inactive)

Game Master Fabian Benavente

Into this Kokam was born, the fourth daughter of an important chieftain. With three sisters and two brothers ahead of her, Kokam could really only look forward to an arranged marriage later in life. That plan was shattered when she was kidnapped at 9 by traitors within. Demon worshiping cultists stole her in the night and brought her to a terrible altar not far within the borders of the Worldwound. There many rituals were enacted, culminating in the last , for which she was meant as the primary sacrifice. She was saved by a large force of Kokam warriors , led by her Father and Brothers.

But the damage was done. What she'd seen and had done to her...tainted her in the eyes of all of the Kellid; and in some small part the family as well. No one would marry her now. Still full of love for his youngest daughter, Kokam's father pondered her future. Then, an interlude from his own youth came back to him. He'd spent a number of summers among the holy men, high in the Tusk mountains, learning self-discipline and wisdom in equal measure. He knew that they produced some
of the finest fighters...a fine future for his daughter, and a redemption for the family name.

And so, in the twilight of her 9th year, Kokam made the difficult journey up into the mountains to her destiny. The fastness there clung to the mountains, looking out on the plains and the darkness of the Worldwound beyond. A constant reminder of what those who studied and taught there strove against.

Ten years of study, training , hard discipline and harder lessons followed; all couched in the teachings of Iomeadae. Day after day, Kokam would kneel on one of the parapets and gaze out at the smudge of black and red and purple that was the Worldwound and hope that someday she would be worthy to be released from her tutelage and join the fight against the Abyssal invasion.

From time to time, her hand would, of its own volition, rise and softly caress the scars on her neck, her only physical reminder of those horrible days long ago. Even here, some held it against her, but such was easily forgiven by Kokam, the wisdom and grace of Iomeadae shining through. Despite the rigor of her training, her anger
at what was done to her would well up and cause Kokam to act out, or ignore her studies. Many meditative techniques were taught to her to manage her feelings at those times, but one of the most effective was the simple act of painting. How many times she first sketched, then with simple pigments, painted the plains of her birth, the surrounding mountains, the Worldwound, a bruise in the distance....she lost count. But help it did, for it removed her from the now, detached her from the cares of the world, if but for a brief time.

On a bright cool sunny day, she led some of the younger students in drills, using the flexible wooden rod to adjust posture and postition. Walking among the straining and struggling children, she caught sight of one of the Elders watching. With a short command, she released the students from their practice and walked over the the Elder.

After bowing to him , she stood quiet waiting for his instruction. Also, without a word he turned and walked away, a small movement of his hand indicating that she should follow.

Curious, she followed, growing still more curious, when the Elder led her towards her own quarters. He stopped before her modest bunk, then moved out of the way , revealing a number of items necessary for a long journey, including a number of items from the armory....but most pleasing a travel kit containing the necessaries to continue her love
of painting.

Cocking her head curiously at him, her smile matched that of his own as she realized what was happening, "You have become the best of us, Kokam. Now , go... the road to Kenebres awaits!" the Elder exclaimed, slapping his hands together, signally all of her other friends, fellow students and instructors alike, gathering to congratulate and bid her farewell.

With a strong, square chin, manicured hands, hair of the latest style and clothes of a good cut (and eternally spotless) one would assume that others would find Rankev quite attractive. Alas the man conducts himself with so aloof an air that such a claim can hardly be supported.

Though he cuts a fine figure walking boldly forward, he has eyes only for his own concerns, and can rarely muster so much as a good word if there is not obvious gain in it.

Rankev was neither the oldest child of the House of Martel brood, nor the most favored. But he was amonsgst the most entitled and made certain both his presence and his wishes were known at any function he attended, and, indeed, for any room in which he happened to be present.

Upon his BirthFest commemorating his second ten-year, he held a lavish party and, with no small help of the strong apple brandy he favored at the time, made some amount of fuss over his intentions to be the next patriarch of the family when Father (who is known to the rest of the world as the wealthy General Charles Martel) died...or perhaps even before.

His favor in the family court was never quite stable, and he was not so loved that such a proclamation could go unnoticed.

However, he was liked (or was it feared?) enough that instead of being cut off or challenged to a deathduel, he was instead given a Trial by Fire--he was granted his own apartments off the estate, given freedom from all family requirements (some would call this an "exile" but Father was ever so the silver tongue) and presented with an expectation that if he was the man he said he was, he would prove himself.

Rankev embraced both the opportunity and the freedom to make something of himself.

With an acerbic wit and and a narrow gaze, Rankev is hardly one to make friends with the average farmer, of whom nothing can be asked or answered.

Though he has enjoyed some nights of drinking surrounded by paid sycophants, his release from the family's orbit has brought about him a waxing curiosity, and more nights have found him furiously poring over some dusty tome of forgotten lore, searching deeply for its meaning even at the cost of his own comfort.

So too, such solitude has sharpened his analytical mind, and, though he is ever sharp with his tongue, he has found that greater reward comes from good action. Thus, though his words seem foul, few can say that his deeds do not meet the utmost standard.

As he solidifies his preparations to take the fight to the demons and thus win his share of honor and glory, his most recent research has shown a line of orcish evocation that has found good success before. It should work well...if his allies survive.

Lastly, he is accompanied by three loyal manservants, for he could hardly be counted on to lower himself to perform a share of chopping wood or boiling stew. The two young men are failed prodigies of the family and so seek to find good favor in good service. The last is an older man, once a powerful major-domo, but now sees this last service as just one more in a long line of loyalty. He hopes to reap retirement, or a death with honor. To him they are the same.

A possible quote: "Confound man, you mean to charge up the middle? Why do you wear a helmet if your head is so dense?"

Then Rankev pauses and scratches his square chin in ulfish thought.

"Beseems, if you tarry a moment I shall demonstrate in their centre, and you can charge Eastward and take them in the flank.

Just stick with me, man, and we both might survive this."