Ardym Uhhi's page

You can expend one use of mythic power when you activate Power Attack to ignore the penalties on melee attack rolls and combat maneuver checks for 1 minute.

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Special Abilities
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Cleave If you hit a foe, attack an adjacent target at the same attack bonus but take -2 AC.
Combat Expertise +/-2 Bonus to AC in exchange for an equal penalty to attack.
Darkvision (60 feet) You can see in the dark (black and white only).
Deadly Aim -2/+4 Trade a penalty to ranged attacks for a bonus to ranged damage.
Elemental Strike (+2 cold) Swift action to imbue your weapons with elemental damage for a round.
Endurance +4 to a variety of fort saves, skill and ability checks. Sleep in L/M armor with no fatigue.
Favored Defense: Favored Enemy (Humans) +2 You can add half your favored enemy bonus as a Dodge bonus to AC and CMD.
Favored Enemy (Humans +4) (Ex) +4 to rolls vs. humans foes.
Favored Enemy (Monstrous Humanoids +2) (Ex) +2 to rolls vs. monstrous humanoids foes.
Favored Terrain (Water +2) (Ex) +2 to rolls when in water terrain.
Furious Focus If you are wielding a weapon in two hands, ignore the penalty for your first attack of each turn.
Hunter's Bond (Companions) (3 rounds) (Ex) As a move action, grant half favored enemy bonus to allies in 30 ft.
Keen Scent (Ex) Notice other creatures by scent in 180-ft. radius underwater.
Power Attack -2/+4 You can subtract from your attack roll to add to your damage.
Swim (30 feet) You have a Swim speed.
Water Sense Blindsense 30 ft. against creatures in contact with the same body of water.
Waterborn (50 minutes/day) (Su) You can breathe underwater for 50 min./day.

Ardym’s own memory of the incident has mostly faded with time. He remembered collecting sea shells to give to his mom one day, and then waking up in the same bed where Old Man Wickle had died of some disease. He always found it funny how his seven-year-old brain chose that memory to keep but erased the rest. Of course, only Ardym’s father was there. His mother had left shortly after Ardym’s birth. His father rarely said more than “She was a spirit of th’ water. She couldna stay,” and “N’man can tame th’ sea. He can only hope ta survive it long enough ta become a better man, ” and on occasion he would add “If a man’s lucky, th’ sea will gift ‘im with far better than any riches.”

It wasn’t until Ardym tried to get out of bed that he even noticed his right leg was missing from just above the knee. He was certain he had cried even if he didn’t remember doing so.

Growing up with the only prosthetic his father could afford - a cheap peg leg made from the leg of Grandfather’s workbench - Ardym refused to let the other kids leave him behind. Fear of being left behind quickly gave way to hatred for the thing that had taken his leg and, eventually, he was able to swim well enough to go beyond the shallows. But no matter how good he could run or swim, or how many of those soulless fish he speared, his friends just grew up faster than the Ardym. By the time he was grown, most of Ardym’s friends had moved on to one of two stages in their lives: sun-baked seadog or doting grandparent. And by the time his father succumbed to old age Ardym had become the premier fisherman in the village.

He fished alongside his friends’ children and grandchildren. He taught them how to tie a bowline, how to reef the mainsail, how to spot a shark that is hunting your same waters, and most importantly, how to deal with them.

One day, while watching the sunrise, Ardym realized that most of the faces he knew had long since gone to see the Mother of Souls. He spent the day reminiscing and speaking with people who now carried the names of the deceased and, when nightfall came, he loaded up his small rowboat, and headed into the dark waters along the coast.

He always stopped at each new fishing village or port city to stay for a couple of days. Ardym would gather the latest news and enjoy a hot meal and a drink or two, he even picked up a stowaway once in the form of a small, chattering monkey. But he never stayed long and always turned down offers to sail on larger ships. He had been marooned on land for far too long and people had become the crutch that kept him chasing his dreams.

By the light of a hooded lantern, Mite set about burying the bodies of the two people he had called his friends. Both slain by He Who Walks in Blood. The heavy rainfall worked against him and continued to wash the mud from the graves back into the holes. When Mite was about halfway through the first grave he considered letting the two share one bed but, was quick to decide against it. Gelvin deserved his own grave and Cierra….well, Cierra did too.

Thunder clapped in the distance as the storm moved on. Mite laid the last bit of saturated soil upon the graves. It occurred to him that the only funeral services he had ever heard had been by one of Alseta’s priest in Erages. Somehow, talking about ”Transitioning through the doorway of life” just did not seem appropriate. Nor did he wish to leave words left unsaid. Mite let the shovel slip from his fingers and brushed the soaked, blonde hair from his face, leaving streaks of mud along his forehead.

”I knew what was coming and I did nothing. I betrayed you, Gelvin,” Mite let the words linger as the last of the oil in the lantern burned out. He turned his gaze to the second grave, ”You may have used me but, you still trusted me. And look where it got you.

Mite collected the crimson armor and twin swords, along with of Cierra’s canvas pack. She had crammed it full of gear deemed necessary to the journey. Alongside a pouch of gemstones he noted a box of tindertwigs, a dagger in a sheath designed to strap to a forearm and a pair of shimmering feathers. The sabres he dropped down the well behind Gelvin’s house and, with the aid of a flask of lantern oil, he burned the damnable, red costume.

Mite pressed a hand to the spot where Cierra’s blade should have sliced him, ”So….I guess we need to think of a name for you, huh?”

It was weeks later, in a rundown tavern, that Mite heard rumors of a Red Mantis that had gone rogue. At first, he thought maybe the drunken man was talking about Mite but, as he listened he came to understand.

”Ready to take our second step, Veil?” He downed the last of the overpriced ale and winced at the taste, scrunching his face. Which made him wince from the pain in his eye. ”Maybe next time I don't let you convince me to tattoo my face?” Out of the corner of his eye Mite thought he saw his reflection laughing in the bottles behind the bartender.

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On a normal Starday, the red glow of dawn would creep over the treeline and illuminate the simple, pine door of the Aldeas house. Roughly an hour later, Seranil Aldleas would come outside with his easel and begin his Starday morning prayers to Findeladlara. Afterwards, he would join his loving wife Renetta at the table and break their fast together while their children took turns snatching up a biscuit and heading outside. By lunchtime he would make the same walk he had made for about a year and wind up at the pier. He would ask the fisherman, the merchants, and the travelers if they had any word of a twenty-something half-elf that looked like Seranil but, with lighter-colored hair. Come sundown he would wind up in the middle of town and strike up a conversation with someone he had yet to meet. He would ask them to talk about their happiest memory as well a their saddest while he painted. Seranil would push and prod, asking for the littlest details, ”was it windy?”, ”what did the graveyard smell like?”, ”what color we're the leaves on the trees?” When their story was finished, Seranil would give the former stranger the painting of their two memories blended together. He would then head home for a quiet dinner with his family and dozens off by the fire where he would stay until Renetta or one of the children would wake him to come to bed.

But, on this day. He simply held his wife and children as they all wept as they took turns reading the note pinned to their door.

I have taken my first step along the path that I have been searching for. I miss you all very much and think of you often. Love, Mithlumin “Mite”

”If you really want in that bad, I can show you how,” Mithlumin said.

The woman spun to face him, arms outstretched and with the tip of her sword pointing at the ground. ”Who are you?” she answered in the common tongue, ”Why are you here?”

Mithlumin stopped mid stride and held his hands out, palms turned upward, ”Mithlumin Aldleas. I live in Erages. I come out to these ruins all the time.” As he waited for her response, Mithlumin noticed that the cuffs of her sleeves were singed,”Tried to pick the lock and narrowly avoided the fifteen-foot spray of flames?” He chanced a step forward as the woman lowered her blade, It resets every two hours, by the way.”

Cierra knelt and shoved a set of thieve's tools into a canvas pack, ”It’s an old lock. Too much dirt in the grooves.” With the pack slung over her shoulder, she stood again and narrowed her eyes at Mithlumin [B”If you can truly get me inside this tower, I'll consider us even for you creeping up on me. And if you are lying to me, I'll kill make sure you never make it home.”[/b]

”I still don't think you're 'possessed,’ Mite,” Cierra groped blindly in the hole in the wall, a grimace on her face.

Mithlumin shrugged and averted his eyes from the olive skin that shone through the thin cotton blouse, ”I never said 'possessed,’ you did. I said that something shares my body. It's not my fault that your wholly human brain can’t comprehend the complexities of my mental and spiritual state.”The half-elf leaned against the wall and raised an eyebrow, ”Also, you really shouldn't be doing that. I brought Gelvin here once and he almost lost a hand doing that. Don't you adventurer types bring tools so you don't have to risk your limbs?” In reality, Gelvin had only been bitten by some angry ants but, when Gelvin told the story he was almost cut in half by a swinging scythe. Mithlumin liked to meet in the middle.

Cierra furrowed her brow, Do I look like an 'adventurer type’ to you, Mite? I hate being out here,” she grunted, ”I prefer the big city.”

Mithlumin winced at the name. She had taken to calling him ”Mite” the day he had said that the Other hated it when his childhood bullies had called him that.
Cierra smiled, ”Calm down, Mite...besides,”she jerked her arm hard, causing an audible ”click” to echo throughout the ruined tower, ”I found it.” The Varisian woman stepped back as one of the large slabs of stone began to lower as if on a hinge, revealing a bare pedestal behind the wall.

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Two weeks had passed and Cierra had finally stopped threatening Mite's life. It had probably helped that when she ran out of food and water Mite began bringing supplies from Erages and snaring the occasional rabbit.

”You still haven't told me why you're here. I told you my secret,” Mite was just as irritated asking as Cierra was hearing it.

”Gods above and below!” Cierra leapt from the tree branch to the hole in the tower wall that had once been a window. ”The way you tell it, everyone in Erages knows your secret,” she affected a sullen demeanor, “'I was kidnapped by Fey and taken to the First World. Now, a voice whispers to come to the Elven ruins and look for the path.’ Does that sum it up?”

Mite blinked and feigned disinterest, ”You forgot the part where sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I see my reflection looking at me.”

It was true, or course. He had been taken by the Fey when he was only four years old. His parents had nearly given up all hope of seeing their youngest child again when a druid wandered into town with a five-year old asleep in his arms. The druid claimed that he had been collecting mushrooms in a clearing and as he turned to leave he saw a child clad in strange furs step out of a breach, wave to something on the other side, and then collapse.

The child slept for nearly a week and when his eyes finally opened on the sixth day he told wondrous stories about decadent foods. He spoke of colors that he couldn't describe, and a celebration that never ended. And how every time he thought he might lay in a corner to sleep the other ”colorful people” would give him a sweet cake and all fatigue would melt away.

It did not bother Mite hat Cierra did not believe him. Just as it no longer bothered him that he grew up with few friends. ”Odd,” they called him. Only Gelvin never seemed to mind the way he picked at his food or spent all of his free time exploring the Elven ruins. Then again, by all accounts, Gelvin was strange too. Even for an aged Gnome.

The only thing that still managed to get to him was the whispering from the Other. The whispers that flowed like spilled ink over his own thoughts and compelled Mite to wander the Elven ruins around Erages. It had always been hard to explain to others what the whispers were like -- they were not truly whispers after all, just the closest approximation of what it felt like. Whatever words he heard or saw were not even in a language he recognized but, he understood all the same. When they first began, at the age of ten, he tried to describe them as they felt, ”Like liquid shadows that mask my own thoughts that leave bits and pieces revealed to convey its own message.”

Cierra swore in that somewhat alien language and brought Mite back to his senses, [b]”Still can't find what you're looking for?” Her glare was enough of a response.

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”So, that's it then? 'Thanks for the help. Bye,’”

”I never said 'Thanks,’” Cierra turned to push a small sailboat into Lake Encarthan.

”I spent weeks helping you scour that tower and since your precious bauble wasn't there you're just going to leave!” Mite could feel the anger rising from inside the Other. No, not anger, it was panic, ”Since meeting you, the whispers have started telling me to 'follow the path,’” he grabbed Cierra by the arm, ”I have to come with you!”

Cierra spun and swept his legs from under him while drawing one of the two serrated blades. She pressed the edge under his chin, ”If you ever put your hands on me again, I'll make sure you never make it home.”

A lifetime passed before Mite's lungs knew air. He felt the Other smile before he felt his own, ”'Again?’ As in, there would more opportunities? As in I'm going with you!”

Cierra helped him to his feet, ”Don't make me regret it, Mite.”

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A year passed and dozens of recruits came to the tiny island in the middle of Lake Encarthan and dozens left for Mediogalti Island. Both the Other and Mite became more and more frustrated with not being permitted to progress within the ranks of the Red Mantis. Adding to his frustration, recruits that had been on the island when they first arrived overheard Cierra refer to him as ”Mit” and curiously, Other’s fury at the name dwindled. After a while it almost seemed like it took it as a challenge of sorts.

”Why won't you send me to Mediogalti?” Mite asked Cierra one morning as she was leaving on assignment. “I know I'm having trouble with the sabre but, my arrows are more accurate and hit harder than most of the recruits that come through here.”

”Because you're coming with me,” Cierra had grown weary of dodging the question. ”Remember what we were searching for in the ruins? I know where it is,” her amber eyes had taken on a fierce glow as she spoke.

Mite struggled to respond, even as he helped push the boat into the water, ”The bauble?” was all he managed to say as he stared at the Mantis outfit folded neatly in the boat.

”Not a bauble. A second Mantis Blade.”

A few nights later and the pair were crouched beneath the leaves of a large taro plant as heavy raindrops pelted the ground around them. They had waited just outside of Erages until nightfall and now they watched as the last lantern went out in the dilapidated, two-story house.

”This is Gelvin's house,” Mite said. ”Why are we at Gelvi-”

Cierra held up a hand, ”After I’m inside, you follow in suit. After this, I'll make sure you go to Mediogalti.” Cierra gave him a moment to process her words then burst out of the foliage. She clambered up an ancient tree and jumped from its branches to an open window on the second floor.

Mite took a deep breath and followed after her. But, even as he climbed to the tree branch Mite could already tell something was wrong. A bright, blue light flashed inside the house. Cierra shouted questions in Infernal.

In the the cluttered study, Cierra stood several feet from Gelvin. Her right side was coated in frost, along with a large swathe of the room which looked like it had been flash frozen. Cierra had both blades pointed towards the ground and had already begun weaving the blades in a hypnotic pattern. Mite had seen her do this before but, only while sparring though he knew what it meant. Gelvin managed a pleaful look to Mite before becoming lost in the prayer attack.

With his bow in one hand, Mite stopped just behind Cierra, ”Don’t do this,” he said.

Cierra’s glanced over her shoulder, ”The gnome put my Blade somewhere not on Golarion!”

Mite gripped the Cierra’s arm. She cursed and slashed at Mite with one of the deadly sabres. Mite gasped as a near-perfect replica of his body crumpled to the ground, dissolve into a small pool of black liquid and then vanished completely. Even through the ask, Mite could read the confusion on Cierra face. And in the instant before Gelvin hit her in the back with a searing beam, Mite thought she might have felt regret.

Cierra bellowed and turned again to face Gelvin, this time foregoing the entrancing maneuver and simply hurled one of her sabres across the room. A million thoughts raced through Mite’s mind as the blade went end over end. But when the sabre found its mark the spilled ink covered all but the Other’s command.

Kill the first. Follow the path.

Mite nocked an arrow and fired two powerful arrows as fast as he coul. The first sailed wide of the Red Mantis. The second erupted in crimson from the Mantis’ heart.