Dron Farwalker's page

Male human (Kell) ranger (guide) 1
CG Medium humanoid
Init +5; Senses Perception +6
DEFENSE
AC 15, touch 11, flat-footed 14 (+4 armor, +1 Dex)
hp 13 (1d10+2)
Fort +4, Ref +3, Will +2 (+1 on all saves vs. spells,
spell-like abilities, and supernatural abilities of evil
arcane spellcasters)
OFFENSE
Speed 30 ft.
Melee battle axe +4 (1d8+3/×3) or
dagger +4 (1d4+3/19–20)
Ranged shortbow +2 (1d6/×3) or
dagger +2 (1d4+3/19–20)
Special Attacks ranger’s focus (+2)
STATISTICS
Str 16, Dex 13, Con 16, Int 8, Wis 15,
Cha 12
Base Atk +1; CMB +4; CMD 16
Feats Improved Initiative, Quick
Draw
Skills Climb +7, Handle Animal +5, Knowledge
(geography) +3, Perception +6, Stealth +5, Survival
+6 (+10 to avoid becoming lost)
Languages Common, Hall.2
SQ track +1, wild empathy +2
Gear battle axe, cold iron dagger, dagger,
shortbow and 20 arrows, chain shirt, backpack,
bedroll, belt pouch, cold-weather outfit, explorer’s
outfit, flint and steel, iron holy symbol, mess kit,
rope, torches (5), trail rations (5 days), waterskin,
whetstone, 3 gp, 8 sp, 3 cp
Encumbrance 45 lbs.

Dron is only 5 feet, 9 inches tall, but
muscular and barrel-chested, weighing 220 pounds. He
wears his black hair long, with the hair at the temples
braided, pulled back and tied behind his head to keep
it out of his eyes. He sports a short beard, interrupted
by a thick scar that runs down his left cheek and under
his jaw. His deeply tanned skin sports numerous scars.
Dron has eyes of steel gray that are surprisingly warm
and full of humor, at odds with his Northern ancestry.

Background: A man originally from the harsh, cold
lands of the North where the mammoths roam, Dron
Farwalker (DRAHN FAR-WALK-er) was a young
tribal hunter when he last roamed the icy tundra. One
day while out hunting, he came across a strange sight.
In a shallow, bowl-shaped depression in the terrain sat a
pile of stones, with others laid out in strange, spiraling
patterns about it. Rising from the center of the stones
was a spire of ice, blue-white and sparkling in the
sunlight, carved with strange symbols. The brashness
and folly of youth overrode the remembered voices of
his elders, which warned that strange things such as
this should be avoided, lest their magics corrupt him.
He cautiously moved down to the cairn and its spire
of ice. He was overcome with a strange compulsion
to reach out and touch the thing, which he did despite
his misgivings. A numbing cold shot through his body,
deadening Dron’s limbs, bluing his lips, and frosting
the tips of his fingers even through his fur-lined gloves.
Dron was certain he would die, and lost consciousness.
The next thing Dron knew, he was lying on his back,
having opened his eyes to see the night sky overhead.
A butterfly of blue and gold danced in the air above
him. “Go home,” said a quiet voice in his ear. “Go
home and live to wander another day.” With that, the
butterfly flitted into the sky, lost to sight as it seemed to
join with a bright star. Dron followed that star, sure of
his bearings, and walked into his tribe’s camp come the
dawn. Since that day, Dron has been a devout follower
of the Song of the Spheres, certain that the goddess
saved him from evil witchcraft.
Since then, Dron has left his homeland, traveling ever
southward away from the evil influences that lurk in
the cold North. He makes his living guiding others on
their travels, sharing the blessing the goddess bestowed
upon him with others, as is right. Still, on lonely nights
Dron often finds his gaze drawn northward, a silent
longing stirring within, urging him to return. He is
still unsure whether that longing comes from him, the
goddess, or something else.