Crow Irontouched's page

Where genetics have been rather less kind, and life unkinder still, is in beauty. Crow’s dark skin is rough and scar covered, as befitting his calling, but his face is blunt, brutal, sharp edges and angles. His eyes - with sclera so dark a blue as to seem black, and the reason for his name - are small in his skull, his forehead long, his nose broken and reset often enough that it’s unclear what shape nature intended. His head and beard are usually meticulously shaved off.

When out of his armour, which is rare, Crow tends to wear simple, loose clothing - an open vest that allows his great gut to hang over his belt, linen trousers and boots when he can find a pair that fits, or bare foot when he can’t - he doesn't typically care, as it’s usually only for as long as it take to perform the maintenance that his armour needs to keep it at its best or when getting a new tattoo.

When out of his armour it is easiest to see the huge number of interlinked tattoos that cover Crow’s rough hide. Created in fire ink, these are the tales and stories of Crow’s life and thoughts, and he adds to them after an especially arduous or challenging battle or when inspiration strikes. They currently wrap around the back of his skull and down his neck, right shoulder, and arm, the right side of his torso, across his hips and down his left leg.

Crow’s armour is typically what is seen, however, and it is impressive. Unable to find a set of armour that satisfied his needs, Crow commissioned and created the armour he wears, adding, changing and modifying it as needed. It is formed of a central breastplate of smooth mithral with the symbol of Gorum in the centre in iron, with additional plates of iron on the arms, legs and in a collar around the neck. Thick leather coated with iron chain sits on the joints and a skirt or leather and iron hangs below the breast plate, down to his knees.

Much of this is covered by a dark grey leather greatcoat with red fur trimming, cuffs and collar, but the helmet sits above if. A great helm with with a wyvern skull sat on top, two sweep black horns reaching nearly three feet in length sweeping over his shoulders. On these horns Crow hangs small trophies he takes from his toughest foes - a broken holy symbol or Iomadae, a orc fang, a melted knife handle and many more.

Both armour and coat don’t cover Crow’s right arm, allowing his tattoos there to show - most notably the huge Symbol of Gorum on his shoulder and upper arm.

Not surprisingly given his size, Crow’s voice is deep, and surprisingly melodious. He smells of sweat and iron, most of the time, which is no great surprise given his calling.

He does not always get on well with more traditional members of the congoration. However, these beliefs help Crow work well with others, as he both understands and admires more than pure, brute force and is able to see that a path to success that is not littered with slaughtered foes is an option. Not, he will admit, one he likes - he is a Gorumite, even if a some heretical one - but one he is willing to explore.

Crow is in fact quite meticulous, moving with a focus and purpose one might not expect. He fights the same way, striking only when certain of success and with a flawless, single blow rather than raining an assault down on his foes, and he moves surprisingly lightly for someone so massive. This pedantic nature is sometimes awkward, however, and makes him unwilling to commit until he has examined an issue as much as possible.

He is also surprisingly good in social situations, adept at soothing, terrifying and, when he wishes, lying with a surprisingly breadth and skill. Despite his looks he can be surprisingly convincing.
Still, any who think Crow a softer, kinder Warpriest of Gorum need only listen to his litany of battle, which he recites with the morning sun as part of his worship, to remember that killing is always an option.

So it was that the boy became a blacksmith’s apprentice earlier, perhaps, than would be proper in a kinder city. As it was he had the strength to work the bellows, and a strange endurance to the heat of the forge, and as such he was useful. Work paid, and so he worked hard, because a growing boy needs to eat - and Crow was always growing.

It was here that he saw the event that changed his life. A Thanek, a Priest dedicated to Gorum, had bought several swords from his masters forge. During one of these exchanges, as Crow toiled at the anvil, a hooded figure came up behind the grizzled old Cleric. Taking the greatsword he was holding, Thanek moved, at such speed that Crow didn’t understand what happened. Before the assassin’s head rolled from his neck the greatsword was being examined once more, and declared ‘acceptable’ before the head finished rolling.

Crow had never seen such speed, such power, such precision before. He had always thought of swordfighting as little better than brawling, iron battering iron, but the skill, speed and beauty of the strike moved him in a way he had never felt. Thanek must have felt it too, as when the boy begged to learn of Gorum and his ways, he was accepted.

Thus was Crow’s life until adulthood - working in the forge for his keep, working for Thanek for his teachings. Crow proved shockingly adept at fighting, quickly learning to control his strength and leaving few gaps for enemies to exploit. His mastery of magic was...shakier. He could master basic spells well, but learning the more advanced magics seemed a struggle, and he went more slowly than others of his calling.

During this time, Crow began to have his own ideas as to the true nature of Gorum. Perhaps Our Lord in Iron did not just wish for any victory in his name, where aimless luck and flailing iron won the day when it could have been as easily lost. Perhaps he wished for a finer quality of victory - perfect battles fought between worthy opponents where it was only the finest edge of skill that allowed victory. He would never be a berserker, which was one route to Gorum, but instead chose to focus on perfecting a single, unstoppable strike.

Thanek disagreed with hs young pupils interpretation of Our Lord in Iron. When words would move neither the two came to blows, greatswords flashing in the rising sun’s light. Crow proved his point valid, and Thanek laughed as he said he would go and ask Gorum personally.

With his teacher’s blessing, Crow travelled, searching for better ways to kill - to make the perfect blow more perfect, to recreate the moment the assassin’s head rolled from his shoulders only when his heart forced it away. But then it occurred to him - perhaps there was more than simple strength as a means to battle? The faithful of Gorum were widely derided when words prevailed. Did this have to be so? Was a victory of words unworthy of Gorum? Could the Iron Mind prevail?

Journeying to the ‘civilized’ lands of Taldor, Crow took his coin as a guard, a mercenary, and a gladiator and used it to buy teaching. Taldor was positively overflowing with people who believed themselves smarter, wiser and more clever than an ogre-blooded thug, and sometimes they were right. But Crow learned what he needed, and while knowledge of most things flowed from his mind like water from the wing.

When he heard of the House of Fate and Fire, it seemed like a good way to earn the coin he required to seek what he needed. It turned out to be much more - a place full of people to learn from, to teach, to laugh and cry with. A home, unlike anything he had ever experienced. Crow’s loyalty to the House became second only to Gorum himself.

Thus concludes this litany, Our Lord in Iron! May it please you to fill it with more names!

Rarely was it his words they wished. How intriguing.

Ducking beneath the door frame of the doorway - rarely were such things sized for such as he, and when they were he was usually too busy fighting the owner to appreciate the convenience - Crow entered the recruitment hall of the Guild. He looked around. It seemed...homely, comfortable. Some of the furniture was smaller, sized for the smaller races. Hm. Interesting.

He moved over to the table and sat down, noting the way the chair groaned and creaked in protest as his weight, and his armour’s weight, eased into it. It was, he noted, not as bad as many - chairs collapsed beneath his bulk more often than he was happy with. After a moment he pulled off his helmet and placed it on the table.

”Your name, please?” the interviewer asked in a voice that said they had asked that question a lot today. Another good sign, in a way. It suggested the place was popular.

”Crow Irontouched,” he gave the names he had been given.

The scratch of a quill on paper followed. ”Alright, Master Irontouched. We just wanted to ask some questions so we can get a better idea of how you would fit in within the Guild, if we may? It should only take a few minutes.”

Crow nodded, ”Of course. I am happy to answer,” he replied honestly, and with a tnge of curiosity to his voice.

The interviewed nodded, dipping the quill in ink before continuing. ”For what reason did you become an adventurer? What motive keeps you going? How did you first hear about the House of Fate and Fire?”

Pausing for a moment to think, Crow responded, ”Adventure is a whetstone, to sharpen my skills, to make me a better warrior. I am an adherent of Our Lord in Iron, so fighting is a religious rite for me. To perfect my art is what keeps me going, and to search deeper into the mysteries of Gorum. Adventuring, it is better that soldiering or guarding for such, because each job is different. One week you guard, the next you hunt, and after you search through the dungeons of an ancient giant’s castle.”

Recalling, he added, ”I heard about this House when searching for jobs. I was intrigued that an interview would be needed. This is rare - normally I simply go to a job, and am hired or told it is already taken. I liked the idea.”

Scritch, scritch, scritch, dip. ”Why did you decide to join the House over other options available to you? How does the House fit into your motives as an adventurer?”
The Warpriest considered the matters once again. ”When I heard of these interviews, I asked around about this place. I heard good things. That the masters care about their people. That they don’t simply herd a bunch of low recruits into a job and see what survives. Maybe use them to soften something difficult up. I have seen such, and it is not my way. I believe Gorum demands war between equals, that simply crushing weaklings is no victory. I feel like this Guild will suit my views.”

Another sheet of paper came out as the scratching of the pen finished. ”The adventuring parties live in dormitory-style apartments. The rooms are quite spacious, and the living/kitchen area is shared. What will your room look like? What kind of roommate are you?”

Crow blinked, black eyes caught in surprise as the question. ”I, uh, it has been sometime since I lived with another.” He wasn’t sure he liked the idea, even if he felt the wisdom. He preferred privacy, and to not feel judging eyes on his twisted flesh. Yet living together, training together, eating together and working together - these things would make a group one cohesive unit.

”Neat,” Crow said after a moment. ”I am too big, too bulky, for things to have a place and not be in it when not in use. Tidy is good. I can cook, somewhat. Enough that few complain and fewer get sick from my cooking, so I can take my turn in the kitchen. The places I sleep are...mostly bed,” Crow said with a small smile, gesturing to his massive bulk. ”Sleep is a luxury for the times when I am not on a task. A stand for my armour, so I can work on it, weapons. Trophies I do not wish to adorn my armour. We worship Gorum in conflict and victory, so anywhere can be his shrine.”

The interviewer nodded, acknowledging the answer without judging. ”While Teladora insists that adventurers don't need as much rest as normal people, Layla disagrees. The lamia makes sure that all parties get at least a week of downtime between adventures unless they ask for less. What does your character do to unwind?”

Lamia? Interesting. He’d heard the Guild was more accepting of monstrous beings, and that one such was high within their ranks. It was a part of why he felt his own, obviously not entirely human, heritage would not be an issue as it sometimes was. ”Pray. Train. I maintain my armour, my sword.” He paused, considering - but his interviewer did not seem a dedicant of Gorum. ”Sometimes I take lessons, and learn. I read books - I speak six tongues. I feel...the mind is another weapon that must be kept sharp.”

The interviewer nodded, the pen ceased its scritching, and the pen went down. ”Alright, thank you. We’ll send a messenger to your inn when as decision has been made.”

Crow nodded and rose, picking up his helm and putting it back on. ”My thanks,” he said, extending one massive hand. After a moment the interviewer reached out, taking it - or rather two of the fingers - and shaking it gently. Crow nodded again, turned and head back to the inn - with its tiny, scratchy bed, to await word.