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I am going to go ahead and bow out here. Within a breath of a month's downtime here, and I've got other gaming opportunities trying to earn a spot on the plate. Hope everything's okay with DM Locke, and there are no hard feelings besides--I've enjoyed our little romp through the Realms thus far (and subsequently awoke a desire to give it more attention than the past half decade or so have allowed). Best wishes, everyone.
Ever the master of subtlety, Dargrim eyes the "man" up and down briefly, his nose curling slightly at the unpleasant odor wafting from him. "Aye, it be a fine day fit fer marchin' under th'sun. Assumin' ye dinnae blunder intae dead men intent on yer murder. Or stinkin' flowers intent on yer murder. Ah cannae ken what afflicts yerself, but ah'll nay reckon th'plant crawlin' out yer head spells good news fer ye."
It's the Dargrim and Gyro show! Everyone returns from the weekend to find us armwrestling nipplebears in Sigil over a mug of mulled cider.
"Ah, if tha' be a lookout, he's doin' a shite job at it." Dargrim squints and shields his eyes from the sun to stare down the way at the motionless sentry. "Worry not Gyro. One thing yer always safe t'bet on's a fool're a beasty what needs a proper crushin'. Come nightfall, our arms'll be sore o' the toil, eh? Hue hue hue!"
"Numbers accountered thus far leaves plenty left yet fer th'saving." Dargrim offers with a bit of hope. "Nary had t'put down plants what raise deaders afore. Puts a crawl aneath me skin ah cannae itch, it does. If yer bleedin' God needs vengeance doled, ah'll nay shirk th'task, lad." Dargrim plants the butt of his earthbreaker against the ground, his hand gripping the weapon's haft firmly near the enormous head. He nods grimly to Ulciscor. "Th'wee one's right. Maybe th'bulk o' them be dead, an' maybe they're still suckin' air aneath the ground somewhere. We won't reckon a'true until we delve th'deep ourselves." He hefts his hammer before him and presses forward with the rest, the thrum of adrenaline from the scuffle still not out of his blood completely.
BAB: +1
Slayer Talents:
Skills:
Blendergrim the Blenderinator What Blenders I've jotted down most of what I'll be taking on level up. Just need a confirmation to a PM to the GM and I'll post everything.
Dargrim closes the distance to the enormous plant-creature and continues whirlwinding his mighty hammer about him with cries of glee.
Planting his left heel, Dargrim reverses Lullaby's trajectory into a backwards arc aimed at the vomiting horror that just assailed his gnomish companion. "Wretched, wretchin' wretch!"
I'll try to be more vigilant about tracking stuff. I'm often sneaking posts in at work and end up putting it off until it doesn't happen at all. I may start tracking it in combat-posts as well, that seems to be better in regards to retracing steps.
"Tha's th'spirit!" Dargrim howls with glee, Lullaby already descending in another masterful arc. The fine points of the weapon's metal head drive downward and through what had been the corpses's head only a second prior. As bits of ruin spread around the point of impact, Dargrim begins laughing hoarsely once more. "A skullbreaker!" He wheels to face the advance of more foes, the din of battle all around him emboldening the dwarf's maddened fervor. _____________________________
At this point, Dargrim's huge hammer head is pure momentum. All the dwarf need do is maneuver its culling arc towards the onslaught of infested corpses to disperse the creatures into bits of organic and rotten matter. His hammer soars into the nearest body with another sickening crunch of bone and fiber before Dargrim wheels away to flank the yet-standing foe in front of Innocent. "Thrice an' climbin' laddie! Hasten yer steel afore ah've killed yer share as well, " the dwarf bellows with mirth. ______________________________
Dargrim growls through clenched teeth and twirls his earthbreaker around for another pass at the next infested corpse. The weapon continues its destructive dirge, continuing to hiss through the air with each frenzied swing.
Dargrim's deep frown is well concealed by his unkempt hirsute, but the deep gravel of his voice conveys his mood plainly enough as he calls out, "Hark yer spores ye husks o' th'dead! Ah've a peace t'offer yens. . ." Lullaby is in his hands in an instant, short strides carrying him into the left flank of infested corpses. The head of his enormous hammer whirls through the air with a hiss towards the nearest of the creatures. ____________________________
"Cannae say it be a way ah'd choose tae go. 'Twere it me, ah'd beg th'killer's axe fer mercy's sake." Dargrim somberly adds to the alarmed and disgusted remarks.
Dargrim spends much time poring over the small journal in his meaty hands. He mutters to himself unintelligibly all the while as the room is further ransacked. Finally, he clears his throat and glances up briefly to the others. "Best ye be bendin' yer ears. Yer mines be fore-manned by a thief what deals wi'unsavories. But they'd kindness enough t'commit scrawl t'book fer us. Listen ye t'this. . ." Dargrim's eyes and a stubby index finger on his right hand follow along the pertinent information as he reads them aloud for everyone to hear. After concluding, Dargrim grumbles, "Ah be hopin' we find th'snivelin' shite what wrote this alive. Lullaby's got a song fit fer traitors."
Outside, Dargrim only manages to frown wordlessly at the strange scene. He does recall their scuffle with the orcs outside of the village, however, particularly the orc shaman who bore strange holy symbols. Still frowning, he says gruffly, "This Moander o' yers. . . th'orcs what were put t'steel an' dweomer in th'refugee camp carried such symbols. Might be they've a hand in th'foul-deedin' after all." In the foreman's office, he nods to Innocent at the proffered journal. He thumbs through the journal quickly, seeing if any of the writing within makes sense to him.
"Could be th'miners holed up in shaft 'til th'raid passed em o'er." He hopes that's the case, but still wonders at why they would remain within after the threat had moved on.
"Count me aboard what crusade ye mount fer smitin' th'beasts. Ah've a score o' me own what needs settled. An' yet, much as me blood do boil t'find 'em now, hunderds're countin' on us lot. Ah'll nary fathom a hunderd what ought be saved count fer less than dead needin' avenged." Dargrim shifts his gaze from Argentia to Innocent, an appraising look prompted by the grim human's own words. "Vengeance is nay fer balancin' th'scales alone. Tradin' death fer th'sake o' death be an empty, poisonous thing, true. Swingin' yer steel fer protectin're avengin' them what cannae protect 'emselves be a different story altogether."
Dargrim thinks he finds a trail once or twice, but ultimately turns up nothing that might lead them to a worthwhile answer. After a few infuriatingly lacking attempts to piece it all together, he throws up his hands in frustration before stalking back to the group. "Ah dinnae spy a trail what begs're feet t'pursue. If there stood here a soul t'be saved, we'll nary ken, ah'm afeared."
Dargrim's not much of a digger, a fact his kin loathed, but he has their eye for valuables. The barest dance of sunlight off a golden band is enough to garner his attention. He rifles around in the area quickly, coming up with a ring and a grimace at the carnage in the area. "Dinnae s'pose th'dogs be marryin' like th'cityfolk now, aye?" He proffers the ring to Argentia, wondering if it might look familiar to the woman.
Keeping an eye towards the road, Dargrim gives a gruff ascent to following by cover of undergrowth and overgrowth. Given how the previous night went, he's not keen on being worg food again just yet.
Dargrim considers the towers for a moment, then turns back to the huddled forms of his companions. "Dinnae smell right. Orcs be thick, but they ken a killin' ground. Best be seein' if it be trapped a'fierce or set fer ambush."
Dargrim shakes his head, and peers out into the darkness that had nearly been his end. "Ran after 'er fast as me stubs'd run. Dinnae scour hide, hair, or sniff o'er. Cannae ken a'true, but seems likely 'tis a trap."
"Aye, les bed down an' get movin' afore what reckoned us meals pays us further mind." Dargrim slumps down against a protruding bit of stone, nursing what remains of his injuries.
"'Tis a trap!" Dargrim warns aloud—and stupidly—through clenched teeth. He raises his large hammer in front of him in an attempt to fend off the press of wolves, sliding several feet back towards the camp warily. He takes a parting swipe at the nearest of the two beasts, but it is easily avoided.
While the dark isn't much of a hindrance, the dwarf doesn't relish the thought of charging off blindly into the night. He turns his attention to where the cries seemed to originate from and approaches that way. If he can't find the person the cries belonged to, he hopes he can find signs of their passing. Slinking around a tree a little more cautiously than prior, the dwarf hopes to at least catch a glimpse of what's going on beyond.
Hearing the cries of one in need, Dargrim steels himself and tears off at a sprint towards the wolves. Lullaby remains grasped firmly in his right hand as he goes, his left unoccupied to aid with his furious approach.
"Ah'll steer me sight t'what lurks without whene'er ye rightly reckon it be deserved. T'would advise leavin' me t'stand at an attention what hides from th'blasted sun, unless some o' yens fancy a blinded tumble." Dargrim eyes the surroundings as he speaks. He eventually calls out while leaving the campsite "Ah'll see what's crawled this way. Dinnae figger ah'll want t'bunk wi' any beasties this night."
I won't bat an eyelash at more time to delve into Pillars of Eternity over the weekend, heh!
Dargrim grins and nods an agreement with the burly half-orc. "Ah've nay had me fill o' head-breakin' meself."
Surprising to no one, Dargrim revels in the attention and offers of libation. He recounts the tales of their heroics beyond the gate with glee, allowing some somber tones to creep in at those that were lost, but mostly focusing on the toll his earthbreaker Lullaby exacted on the orcish contingent. Ichor from his felled foes still clings to the head of the weapon in unseemly gobs. Dargrim had resolved to hold his peace when confronting Malfell again, but the dwarf's inability to plug his word-hole ultimately wins out. "Put yer quill t'scroll an' scrawl yer mark so we may do th'same. An' if ye got a lick o' sense, ye'll see about ingratiatin' them that's huddlin' past yonder gate. They without homes'll be th'first tae offer an arm fer swingin' pick or blade. Ah'd be nary surprised if yer minin' operation be havin' a vacancy or fifty in the very near future, though we'll set steel to mitigatin' what losses we can." Dargrim is trying—and largely failing—to conceal a sneer for Malfell, though he knows better than to try and raise another ruckus. Instead, he's trying to spin the situation to favor the refugees as much as he can, though he's fully aware his word likely carries little weight with the elder.
"Ah'd prefer t'be off'n helpin' them what's trapped aneath a mine—or avengin' if need be. Might be hard fer t'drink an' wassail on a bounty unpaid, but e'er moment we be dallyin' be a moment th'diggers cannae afford, aye?" Dargrim hooks a sausage-sized thumb back towards Leilon and says, "Ah'll wager Malfell be ready t'honor his end. Might be th'type t'wet 'imself when heroics be called for, but ah'll nary wager he be th'type t'withold payment where payment be deserved. An' ah'll wager a few hundred miners what owe us life an' limb would let th'codger dip out without handlin' our tab."
"Jes' smash their bleedin' heads in an' be done with th'lot." Dargrim growls out casually, plodding his way over to the orcs yet disabled by Dorn's dweomer. "Cannae afford t'feed em, even were we addled enough t'fathom it. It be more 'an th'ugly bastards deserve fer all o' this. An' after we've caved in skulls one an' all, let's point our ire at what needs pointed at t'save them diggers what need savin', aye?" Awaiting no permission or reaction, Dargrim's earthbreaker swings hard into a motionless orc's head, adding a little more gore to the already gruesome battle site. He isn't wearing a grin as he performs the motion, his eyes hard and jaw set in a look that conveys solemn necessity. Dispatching a disabled foe isn't a prospect he enjoys, but he reckons it needs doing. "Probably best we away an' soon. I'd as soon throttle th'cowardly old codger as look at 'is stupid face." Dargrim's gaze wanders to the palisade wall of the town, and then to the fallen forms of refugees littering the field.
Watch-Captain Kundgen used to boast about a perfect stroke he landed on an ogre many years prior. The old dwarf said he struck the creature so hard and true that that it exploded into a hundred pieces all around him, cascades of innards and sanguine spraying in all directions around Kundgen without getting a drop of it on himself. Everyone figured he was full of it, but it is in this moment that Dargrim wonders if there was truth to the Watch-Captain's telling. The pronged tip of Dargrim's earthbreaker arcs down square against the orcish bowman's sternum, and the wild eyed dwarf can only look on in wonder as the authenticity of old Kundgen's story rings true in his memory.
"Meet yens back'n th'middle! Dinnae get yens gutted!" Dargrim cries out with a whoop of glee as he sails across the distance between he and the lonely archer. Lullaby sings through the air once more to visit ruin on his savage foe.
Seeing the vicious strike dealt to Kevkas, Dargrim decides to surge forward before the orc's bloodrage scores a fatal stroke. "On yer arse, big'n!" Dargrim cries upon approach, his earthbringer a whirlwind in the dwarf's hands as it zeroes in on the orc's head. A sickening crunch and spatter of skull and brain matter precede a maddened smile crawling across Dargrim's face. Satisfied, Dargrim cries out again, nodding at the fallen form of the orc that stood before them, "'Ey be fightin' less when ye take their heads off, aye!?"
Though part of him delights at the prospect of getting to paste a few orcs, Dargrim's heart sinks a bit to see the destruction the creatures have already wrought on the beleaguered refugees. He strolls forward with his jaw set tight and hatred seething from his glare. "Lullaby" finds its way into his hands as he trudges past the refugees and towards the line of orcs, though his legs cannot quite close as much distance as the dwarf would like. He notices the line of newly found companions forming on his left, so Dargrim elects to hurl himself into the right side of the orcish wave. "" Dargrim calls out as his squat legs carry him past the bulk of the refugees near the gate. ____________________
Dargrim's heart is at the front of the pack, but his squat, dwarven legs land him firmly in the rear. He's a bit surprised to see the barkeep reaching for a weapon to join the fray. It gladdens him to know that there are at least some among the community willing to risk their lives to benefit others, even strangers. Chuffing along behind the others at a steady gait is an annoyance Dargrim isn't used to—his experiences thus far having been almost solely in the company of other dwarves—but he doesn't give up the chase. After a frustrated growl, Dargrim calls out from the back, ""
"Worry not yer bleedin' hearts, me friends! If orcs ye be needin' put t'steel, then ye've found yer man. Ah come from th'real North, where ye cannae spit without hittin' an orc. We be taught from th'day we be freed from teet how t'kill th'bastards. . ." Dargrim feels it necessary to heft his enormous hammer firmly in the grip of both hands to drive home the point. Another grin splits the dwarf's face, and he rotates his head slightly as he allows a wink to Argentia before continuing, ". . . an' how t'enjoy it." Having accomplished a bit of salesmanship, and probably overestimating his own mettle, Dargrim recedes into his own thoughts for a moment as the discussion continues. 500 bleedin' miners!? Klangeddin's gleamin' nips! How can ye lose so many? Ah'll nary believe what put t'death 500 can be reckoned t'fare worse again' 7. More likely th'poor diggers're all dead. An' th'orcs what did th'deed long gone. The dwarf shakes his head sorrowfully for a brief moment before being replaced by a rekindled resolve.
"I'm Innocent," he says simply after the introductions, prepared to accept any clever comments with stoic grace... Not surprisingly, it's the simple-minded dwarf that takes the bait. He eases off of his own tankard of ale long enough for a smile to crack somewhere beneath the dense confines of his copper beard as he calls out a bit louder than necessary, "Innocent, be it? Ye look a sight more th'guilty t'me, laddie! Huehuehuehue!" On the bright side, the remark comes from a misguided stab at comradery, Dargrim going so far as to even clap Innocent on the back as his horse laugh carries across the common room. A little more subtly, the dwarf is sizing up the scimitar-toting man behind his jovial veneer, as he has done with the crowd since the moment he arrived. Turning back to the table at large, Dargrim's ears perk up a little as the discussion turns to talk of the matter at hand—the reward in particular. His dumb grin fades into a look of confusion, and his hand rises to meet his beard and stroke it thoughtfully. "Ah'd be less 'an forthright if ah confessed t'fathomin' a reward what's divvied atween a merry band an' not a small fortune o' pressed gold fer each o' th'heads crazed enough t'be sallyin' intae th'mines." The dwarf contemplates the ceiling as he continues to run a hand through his considerable hirsute. "On th'other hand, ah've seen nary a proper reason t'be heftin' Lullaby since headin' down Th'Coast." "What'll th'lot o' ye be considerin' when th'job be done an' behind? Fancied a stroll t'Waterdeep meself. Might try me hand at tamin' tha' mountain under th'city."
Dargrim looks up to the silver-capped elf with open disdain and a deep frown. His demeanor soon cracks and gives way to a raspy exhale of laughter. He removes a muddy glove to extend a thick, meaty hand in greeting. "Pleased t'meet ya, Lioslan! Ye've th'pleasure o' addressin' Dargrim Rumblecask. 'Ere t'put right what's wrong, as th'rest o' yens be, no doubt." His eyes survey the gathered crowd of people encircling the dancing troupe, sizing up the likely among them to be capable of even lifting a weapon with a proper heft. "An' judgin' by th'prospects ah be seein', slim pickins indeed. More fer th'rest o' us, then!"
"A bath, be it? If ye be offerin', I'll nay decline, lass! Huehuehue!" Dargrim gives Vanessa a friendly wink before looking down and behind to see the muddy trail he has left in his wake. He had taken the time to wash up on what few occasions the opportunity was afforded, usually taking a dip in a stream or a pond secluded in some hidden vale or glade. With the orcs raising so much of a fuss in the area, sticking to the roads became problematic at times, especially at night. Unfortunately, he hadn't seen the opportunity to look to cleaning his clothes and gear for well over a month now. He would have to remedy that soon. A hero needed to look the part, and his mud-caked visage didn't lend itself well to that pursuit. Hearing the voice behind him call for mead, Dargrim instinctively wheels around to take a glance at the newcomer. He arches a brow when the man weaves a spell right there in front of his eyes, the dwarf's nostrils flaring as he snorts in the sudden introduction of a pleasant smelling fragrance. "Yer one o' them what weave spells, aye?" Dargrim approaches the table, scanning Dorn with an appraising eye. "Fixin' t'rescue them what's lost in yonder mines, then? Figger ah'll get t'know me company afore we be dispatched t'task properly. Ye've th'pleasure o' bein' spake at by Dargrim Rumblecask, friend!"
From the entryway comes a stranger's cheer to add to the chorus of celebrants already gathered within The Delve. He might well be the most roadworn sight to ever grace the establishment. At present, it seems likely that a horse trough is the closest thing to a bath the dwarf has seen in tendays beyond counting. Muck and mud cakes most of him from the waist down, some of which having managed to find its way into the stout fellow's copper-hued hair and beard. Despite his ragged appearance, he seems to be in good spirits, waving about one of the posted notices in his right hand as if it were a voucher for a free hot bath. His accent is thick as a blood sausage as he calls out over the crowd in a rumble of a voice, "" Something between pride and insanity gleams in the dwarf's eyes, which seize the brunette serving-girl in short order. "Speakin' o' ales. . . yer hero is a wee parched, aye? Ah dinnae suppose ye've a fine brew fit fer me hand?" His hands reach for his coin-purse as he closes the distance to the girl. Wide as his frame is, the crowd's forced to part before him with a murmur of indignant cries, but Dargrim doesn't seem to notice or particularly care.
^ Neverwinter and Luskan to the north, Silverymoon to the northeast, and Waterdeep to the south.
Dargrim initially meant to just pass through Leilon on his way to a life of adventure and luxury in Waterdeep. After hearing of the town's plight, however, he can't pass through in good conscience. When he learns of the call going out to willing persons to investigate the missing persons, Dargrim would be the first in line.
I was thinking Zest for Battle. For some reason I had it in my head that there was a Bard in the lineup, but I was mistaken. As to being in Leilon and the troubles with the mine, you'd have to physically restrain Dargrim to keep him from trying to help. I would maybe slate him as arriving only just as the notice is going up that they're taking volunteers. Otherwise he may have well ended up being one of the persons that went to check on the miners only to go missing himself.
Fun times indeed. The dwarf espousing freedom and the Zhentilar expatriate—what could go wrong? @DM Locke: Would you be open to allowing Dargrim to take this trait as a replacement trait?
"'Ere I be, bandyin' words with yens." |
