Harsk

Dorn Dundragon's page

6 posts. Alias of Arrius.


Full Name

Dorn Dundragon

Race

Humanoid (Dwarf), HP 14, +5F/+2R/+2W (+2 vs. spells), +2 Initiative

About Dorn Dundragon

"Alms! Alms! No? Get out of way, I busy now!"

Possessing an uncommonly-heavy northern-dwarvish accent (think Russian), Dorn is much more than meets the eye.

Dorn Dundragon (Fighter 1); Medium Dwarf, Lawful Good [Common, Dwarven] XP 0 (2,000 to level 2), +4 Initiative
AC 18 (+2 dex, +6 Armor), +4 vs. giants, +2 vs. confirming critical hits, HP 14 (1favored), SP 4 (1/minute), SPD 20 ft. (4); SAVES +5F/+2R/+2W (+2 vs. spells), CMB+4 (+2 to bull rush, +2 if using Boulder Helm), CMD16 (+6 vs. Bull Rush or Trip)
STR +3 (16) DEX +2 (14) CON +3 (16) INT +1 (13) WIS +1 (13) CHA -2 (5), TRAITS Indominable Faith +1 to Will, Difficult Childhood +2 Initiative
PROF -4 ACP, Climb, Knowledge (Lore_Dragons), bCraft (Weapons), bProfession (Begger) (1sp), FEATS Power Attack, F_Improved Bull Rush
SQ Darkvision 60 ft., hatred (+1 vs. orcs and goblins), Stability (+4 vs. Bull rush/Trip), Hardy +2 vs. Sp, SLA, and Poison, Stonecunning (+2 Perception), Greed, Fighter (1 feat; CE)
# Melee Atk Warhammer +4 (1d8+4), Boulder Helm +4 (1d4+4); Ranged Atk Throwing Axe +3 (1d6+3, 10ft.)
EQUIP (30/76-153-230; WPL -245 gp) Hand of Torag (Bronze Warhammer), Throwing Axe (2), Breastplate, Boulder Helm, backpack (bedroll, iron pot, mess kit, torches (10), trail rations (5 days), waterskin), belt pouch (flint and steel, bone dice (x4), soap, rope), IOU (200 gp, with 2% interest per month (currently 12%))
Boulder Helm. Can gain +2 to Bull Rush, but is staggered, gives +2 vs. confirming critical hits

Scaling Weapon:
Forge-Fire
Price 417 gp; Slot none; CL 4th; Weight 5 lb.; Aura faint evocation; Scaling prize
This ancient bronze warhammer is engraved with Dwarven runes. It deals 1 extra point of fire damage to enemies or objects struck. This damage is applied only once per turn. The warhammer can also be thrown with a range increment 10 feet.
3th Level: The warhammer becomes a masterwork weapon, and can be used 3/day to add additional fire damage (1d4) to a single melee attack.
6th Level: The warhammer becomes a +1 flaming warhammer

PERSONAL HYGINE & EXERCISE
* Do good; Never spend a day in stink; Bathe every day in honor of Torag; Pay tithes and taxes; Break five rock every morning!
SOCIAL STANDING
* Treat wife good; Honor Torag; Be nice to children; Be respectful of glorious leader; Never swear except against true foes
OBSERVANCES
* Never drink a drop; Always throw a meat to fire to honor Torag; Always heat hammer on campfire to honor Torag; Never sleep on back; Use bone dice

Backstory:
Dorn Dunareen is a dwarven begger (for lack of better word). In other dwarf clans' attempts to rise the nearly-immortal ranks of dwarven aristocracy, some are tossed aside. These dwarves, unlanded and untitled and forgotten, often look for refuge in other dwarf homes to make new names for themselves.
Dorn is one of those exiles, but who never managed to get off dwarven streets. One day while begging and being turned away, he exploded in the face of a visitor who did not appreciate Dorn's scent, who shouted, "You think I enjoy?! Nobuddy gives Dorn anythin'! Alms or get out of way!"
The visitor said something about money spent on alcohol and threw a copper coin or two, which Dorn (without dignity) jumped after.

After buying and quickly consuming an unfulfilling bit of egg and bread, and collapsing from a briefly interrupted three days of hunger, he prayed in an alleyway (something he didn't often do).
"Torag, father in heaven. Look at poor Dorn. Is Dorn sadness funny? Well, I hope you have fun!" he shouted. "Ya. Beggar not useful. They don't give money to priest, but please...just gimme a chance. I today do good, and never spend day in stink, and pay tithes and taxes, and treat wife real good, and honor name of Torag, and never drink a drop, and be nice to children, and..." and he went on, making vow upon vow.
He ignored the occasional "SHUT UP DORN!" from the frustrated old dwarf smith whose bedroom window looked over the alleyway "SOME ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!"

The vows continued, until he stopped at "...and always heat my hammer on a campfire to honor Torag, and never sleep on back...", where he heard an explosion far above him. A giant shadow passed over the moon, dropping the entire alleyway in darkness. The shadow circled again, and another explosion rocked a high tower atop a cliff. It was one of the towers of Clan Karahad, the strongest family there was, and the family of the great warrior-priest Olaf Karahad, who is said to have recently traveled north to slay a dragon.
As mage-lights flew up to light the shadow, and as the night watch raised the alarm, Dorn saw bright red scales glitter in the moonlight as a third explosion rocked the sleeping city. Dorn climbed up to get a better look, before (with great fear) he hid behind a large roof tile. In the echo of the explosion blast, the form of the dragon was all too clear.

It seems Olaf failed.

The tower was collapsing and burning, and screams within to rise in the city, slowly awakening into a state of terror. The treasures of the clan (held in the tower) scattered over the city from the force of the explosion, tinkling gold, silver, and burnt pieces of fabric everywhere. One such objects (a bronze, arm-sized object) gleamed in the moonlight, arcing towards the tile Dorn hid behind.
Ducking with a shriek, a cloud of dust arose and a series of powerful ringing thuds sounded against the wall of the alleyway as the object fell the way down. When he opened his eyes and wiped the dust from his face (and the residents of the house next door shouted in alarm) he noticed the tiles the object hit were pounded to dust and were blazing hot. Climbing down to the alleyway, he passed by the first point of impact, where the bronze object hit the wall; a red-hot scorch marked the point, and a thin line of smoke rose from the object on the ground.
Descending to the bottom, he saw his straw-bed catch on fire. Approaching quickly and screaming, "Not bed! Not bed!" as the fire consumed his blankets and winter-shirts and remaining bread. He began putting out the fire--and only when a bit of the flame jumped on his shirt, did he stare at the source of the flame. He stared in wonder, for at the heart of the fire, a bronze warhammer sat with a scaly black leather handle, its head shimmering red with heat.
"Ooooh!" Dorn whispered. He licked his finger and put out a creeping fire on his bushy unkempt mustache, and then knelt. "Oh, great father Torag, I see message! I serve Torag's name will and do as Torag pleases!"
He then remembered his vow, including "And I will bathe every day in yer honor--" and "never drink a drop,", and asked the hammer directly, "But wait--do I really to do everything?"
The shadow of the dragon swept over the alleyway once again, and another explosion followed--tossing a loose roof tile on Dorn's head.
"Torag's will shall be done!" he said zealously in response to the divine sign. He reached to and lifted the hammer from the handle, which was at a welcome degree of warmth. Surely this meant he was destined for greatness!

Right?

Before him, the screams grew louder in the house, and Dorn noticed that the dragon dropped a fireball over the dwarf smith's house (apparently as a farewell gesture). The house of the frustrated resident (who, Dorn knew from experience, never gave alms).
"Hah. Serves cheap smith well!" chuckled Dorn, about to leave.
His children's screams joined his own, as the house began to burn. He paused, looking at the impressive flame as the fire crept through the wood greedily. He paused some more, not knowing what to do. He never lifted a hammer in combat or in anger, and was more used to be ushered quietly from place to place by angry shouts. Without paying attention, he lowered the hammer in confusion as to what to do. He yelped as the still-hot hammer-head seared his thigh.
"OW---wait! This is clear sign Lord!" he said, his rump slightly scarred. "I will aid you!"
He burst through the house door (or attempted to, as apparently it was locked). Dorn raised his blazing hammer, and smashed it three times into the door, knocking it from its hinges. Barging into the house, he had a moment to recognize the fine woodwork that was on fire, the small pile of unneeded clothes, and the half-dozen locks on the now-broken door. He charged up to the upper rooms, which were rapidly filling up with smoke, and Dorn opened door after door, dragging the unconscious, slightly-burnt residents from the house, dropping them, coughing, outside.
Singed from more than one area and shirtless (which he had to sacrifice to put out a fire), he slumped outside the house as the city guards finally approached (looking a little singed as well).
"Are ye well, sir?" said the guard. Dorn looked up in surprise. He was never called 'sir' before. Perhaps the guard did not notice the sooty, ragged, hobo-threads. All he saw was a man who saved a family, wielding a--
"The Hand of Torag!" shouted another guard who just arrived. "Lord Olaf! You've returned! Och, that be great news!"
Dorn was confused, and stood up unsteadily.
The other guard looked skeptical, and said something that sounded like, "Did you lose...height?"
"That's not Olaf," coughed the smith. "That's the begger who lives in this 'ere alleyway."
"I saved your life!" shouted Dorn, red in the face. "Respect Dorn!"
The skeptical guard frowned (apparently vindicated), and said, "You, beggar! Return the Hand of Torag to where it came from."
Twitching from being reverted to 'beggar' instead of 'sir', Dorn held tighter to the hammer, and said, "No! I on divine quest!"
He then took off as fast as he could, ignoring the "halt"s and "stop right there, criminal scum"'s. He never ran so hard or fast before, and while some would attribute it to adrenaline and excitement, he attributed it to divine blessing.
He finally stopped--by tripping over a rather thick root at the outskirts of the city, where he tumbled down a hill and stopped by deep pond, hitting his head on a rock covered by moss. The hammer fell from his hands into the pond with a plop.
Dorn looked up, rubbing his head, and then down the pond. He never learned how to swim, and had no idea how deep the water was.
Already, he has failed.

"Oh, Father in Heaven! I fail quest!" he wailed. But before his eyes, there was a light in the pond. Fighting his fear, he held his breath, before braving the waters! Thanks to divine intervention, they were knee-high, and he retrieved the hammer. "Oh lord! Praised thy name!"

Dorn then took the name of Dorn Dundragon, and fancies himself a 'paladin' of Torag. In a moment of brilliance after clearing a cave of doll-stealing goblins, he found a bag of large, finger-sized six-sided dice. Questing was not going so well. Divine interventions were particularly few these days.
"Father Torag, I beseech you, bless this dice so that I may know will in future."
Placing the hammer-head on the dice caused it to burn.
So Dorn took the whole bag, and pretty much took it that he must burn one dice, and the next one will be indicative of his god's favor.