Arkthor's page

Most folk who know Arkthor think he's dangerous and wildly unpredictable. After suffering years of abuse at the hands of the authorities in Kintargo, he has become self-reliant and quick to anger. Hardly a diplomatic soul, Arkthor is a "punch first, ask questions later" kind of Tiefling. Indeed, he has built a reputation where most dottari now attempt to defuse the situation rather than meet him head on. However, Arkthor actually has a deep sense of honour and is fiercely protective of the few people who would call themselves his friend.

Arkthor was born a Tiefling and sadly discarded by his family. He doesn't even know who his birth parents are, which has deeply affected him since his earliest years. Raised in the church of Asmodeus, he rejected their beliefs in his teenage years and has spent many years looking over his shoulder and has had several run-ins with both the authorities and the church. His continued survival stands testament to his ability to break those who come for him.

Now he spends much of his time drunk in and around Kintargo, picking up coin now and then by involving himself in illegal bare-knuckle fighting. He's managed to save enough to buy some decent armour and some other knick-knacks but much of his gold goes on alcohol, something that he is both utterly addicted to and fiercely dependant on.

Those few people he calls friends are in similar situations to him; down-and-outs and a couple of barmaids who take pity on the scarred fighter. For these people, he would gladly step into the firing line.

Arkthor sullenly swilled the last of his ale around his mug, before taking another mouthful. His coin purse was light; his last fight over a month ago. After many years fighting in Kintargo, his reputation often proceeded him and there weren't many opponents left for him.

"You know it isn't going to magically refill itself," Marsha teased from behind the bar. Arkthor growled playfully and pulled another gold piece from his coin purse, looking at it thoughtfully before placing it on the bar top. He finished his current drink with one gulp.

"Only you would get away with that," he grumbled, although his eyes were filled with mirth. A rare moment for the Tiefling. Marsha was a good woman; born and raised to peasant farmers outside of the city, she had moved here when bandits had raised her home to the ground. Those same bandits had mysteriously disappeared over three years ago. Arkthor doubted anyone would find their corpses. Marsha set another mug of ale in front of him with a smile, before turning to another customer.

Arkthor took a sip of the fresh ale before turning his thoughts inwards. Money was becoming harder to find; perhaps he would have to take up some of the local crime lords of their offer to work as an enforcer.

Suddenly the door to the tavern burst open. Arkthor growled as a cold wind blew down his back and he turned in his seat to glower at the newcomer. The man was short, stocky and sweating profusely.

"The park," he managed, after sucking in several deep breaths, "Rebellion in the park!" With that, he span on his heel and disappeared.

Arkthor grunted. He'd heard rumours of rebellion in the past few weeks but figured that the populace of Kintargo was too impotent to do anything. Perhaps someone had finally grown a set of balls. Turning back to his drink, Arkthor saw a look of concern on Marsha's face.

"Don't worry, darlin', we've been here all day. Nothing bad will come of it," he rumbled, before taking another gulp of his ale.

Several hours later, as business was winding down and the customers were beginning to file out of the tavern, Arkthor realised he had almost run out of gold. Setting his empty cup on the bar top, he smiled at Marsha.

"I guess that's me-" Arkthor's words were cut off as the tavern door slammed open again. This time, a guttural growl left his throat as he turned towards the opening. Instead of a local, this time there was a small group of robed men, symbols of Asmodeus hanging around their neck. Several of them looked at Marsha with open avarice.

"You, beast, remove yourself from this property, we're looking for rebels!" their leader said imperiously. The man didn't even bother to look at Arkthor as he spoke. Arkthor's mind suddenly cleared as though a thunderstorm rolled through it.

"No rebels here, devil-f*cker," Arkthor answered, drawing a short and sharp gasp from Marsha. "We've been here all day."

The attention of the small group of men swivelled towards Arkthor, although several of them did a double take when they saw just how large he was. The leader, however, wasn't going to be shown up in front of his men.

"What did you call me?" he practically shrieked, "I am-" his words were cut off when Arkthor's mug unceremoniously smashed into his face, causing blood to splatter around him. For a second, the man teetered on his feet, before he crashed to the floor, like a felled tree. A few moments passed. Arkthor stared down the group. Marsha drew even sharper breaths but seemed to be rooted to the spot. One of the men drew a club. It was all that Arkthor needed.

With a guttural roar, Arkthor crossed the tap room with blistering speed. His fist met the face of the man who had drawn the club, and a sickening crunch reverberated around the room as he cannoned off his feet and into the wall behind him. The attack suddenly galvanised the other men who began to draw their own weapons, but it was too late. Arkthor was a whirling dervish of fury, his hands hammering out like pistons, dropping the men where they stood. The last man tried to run back out of the door, but Arkthor scooped him up into an enormous bear hug. He felt ribs cracking, and the man stopped squirming shortly after. Arkthor dropped the man, his rage thundering through him.

Marsha suddenly cried, and Arkthor whirled on her, surprised at the sound. The look she gave him struck him to the core, and the blood rage left as quickly as it had come.

"Marsha," he whispered, before looking down at the men at his feet. "Run, find the dottari. Tell them what happened. If you don't, they'll think that you're in on it." Marsha looked at him, dumbfounded.

"RUN!" Arkthor roared, feeling immensely guilty as she almost jumped out of her skin and bolted for the back door. Alone in the taproom, Arkthor looked at the mayhem he had caused. In the distance, he heard shouts. More of these idiots, perhaps. Worse, the dottari. Without a second glance, Arkthor bolted through the door and into the night.