Lawful Neutral Male Ranger 1
Melee Dwarven boulder helmet +3 (1d4+2) Bludgeoning or
Roll With It: (Campaign) You gain a +1 trait bonus on Reflex saves (added). In addition, twice per day, when a creature with the giant subtype successfully confirms a critical hit against you with a weapon or a slam attack (not a spell or special ability), you can roll with the attack. You take normal damage from the blow, as if the critical had not been confirmed. You must be aware of the attack and able to react to it—if you are denied your Dexterity bonus to AC, you can’t use this ability.
Armor Check Penalty (ACP) = Scale mail –4
Languages Common, Dwarven
==EXTRAORDINARY, SPELL-LIKE ABILITIES & SUPERNATURAL ABILITIES==
Lorekeeper: Dwarves with this racial trait receive a +2 racial bonus on Knowledge (history) checks that pertain to dwarves or their enemies. They can make such skill checks untrained. This racial trait replaces greed.
Rock Stepper: can ignore difficult terrain created by rubble, broken ground, or steep stairs when they take a 5-foot step. This racial trait replaces stonecunning.
Favored Enemy (Ex) +2 Orcs. At 1st level, a ranger selects a creature type from the ranger favored enemies table. He gains a +2 bonus on Bluff, Knowledge, Perception, Sense Motive, and Survival checks against creatures of his selected type. Likewise, he gets a +2 bonus on weapon attack and damage rolls against them. A ranger may make Knowledge skill checks untrained when attempting to identify these creatures.
Track (Ex) A ranger adds half his level (minimum 1) to Survival skill checks made to follow tracks.
Wild Empathy (Ex) -3 Cha. A ranger can improve the initial attitude of an animal. This ability functions just like a Diplomacy check to improve the attitude of a person (see Using Skills). The ranger rolls 1d20 and adds his ranger level and his Charisma bonus to determine the wild empathy check result. The typical domestic animal has a starting attitude of indifferent, while wild animals are usually unfriendly. To use wild empathy, the ranger and the animal must be within 30 feet of one another under normal visibility conditions. Generally, influencing an animal in this way takes 1 minute, but, as with influencing people, it might take more or less time. The ranger can also use this ability to influence a magical beast with an Intelligence score of 1 or 2, but he takes a –4 penalty on the check.
==EQUIPMENT== average 175 gp
(5 sp) Multi-pocketed belt (bandolier)
Current Load 116.5 lb. = Medium
Dvalin has unkempt dirty blond hair with a short beard and moustache. He is a lean, heavily scarred dwarf with corded muscles. His gray eyes have a bit of crazy in them. He wears scale mail, a boulder helmet, several weapons, and a full backpack.
He has an excruciatingly painful hatred for orcs and constantly berserks (Favored Enemy) when fighting them.
He often wonders if he is already dead, but his body just doesn’t realize it. His unconscious dream is to somehow atone for the death of his Janderhoff patrol and love of his life. If he can kill every orc, goblin, and giant in the Mindspin Mountains, it would be a good start.
After training, Dvalin was assigned to skyside patrols. He ranged all around Janderhoff within the Human lands of Varisia and into the untamed Mindspin Mountains. This began the happiest time of his life. Besides traveling widely and seeing more of Torag’s creation, he also met the love of his life. Her name was Thovina. They patrolled together, and their love blossomed. It took years before they admitted it to themselves, while it had been clear to everyone around them that they were in love. They were married and continued to patrol together.
The primary skyside economic concern of the Janderhoff patrols in the the Mindspin Mountains is the Broken Spine orc tribe. The Mindspins are home to “giants, ogres, trolls, and all other manner of dangerous beasts;” however, the Brokens, for that is how the Janderhoff dwarves refer to them, are the most organized and hungry for trade goods causing them to regularly threaten caravans. The other, usually greater dangers of the Mindspins are effectively random, while the Brokens utilize a network of lookouts to spy and attack caravans.
On Dvalin’s last patrol for Janderhoff, they followed a Broken raiding party further into the Mindspin than their normal patrols, in order to put these orcs to axe and hammer. But the dwarves were sucked into an ambush. Half of their numbers were down from traps and javelins before the whole patrol was aware that they were in battle. They were overwhelmed. Dvalin was one of the unfortunates like his wife who were taken prisoner. The dwarves were tortured for entertainment and one by one were flayed, roasted, and eaten by the orc celebrants. Dvalin was the last prisoner, because he looked least appetizing. Even to the orcs, Dvalin appeared quite mad, and some of the orcs were superstitious about consuming madness. He had watched his friends and love of his life painfully killed and consumed by his captors over a couple of weeks.
Then, his world changed again as a couple gangs of trolls raided the orcs. Dvalin’s cage was kicked over and broken open in the chaos. He crawled away and hid until the trolls had left. He scavenged what he could and picked off wounded survivors for a couple of weeks while he regained his strength and collected armor pieces and weapons. Alone and barely hanging on to reality, he found a cave that would become his home for almost a year living as a hermit somewhere in the Mindspins. It was a sign from the gods that finally awoke his unsettled mind when a beam unfiltered sun pierced his cave to alight the back wall and his whole small world. Within an hour, he had all of his belongings packed heading East.
He decided to leave his Stonesteady name and Janderhoff behind. Surely, his homeland thought he was dead, as he wished to be, with the rest of his patrollers. Dvalin wandered the Mindspins for many months until finally he found the foothills and the small town of Trunau in time for winter. His regrown beard (for the orcs had hacked and burned off his beloved and braided beard) covered most of his scars, so he looked like another Dwarven trapper or miner, albeit without any of their telltale equipment.
Dvalin has spent seven winters in Trunau staying at the Longhouse. Outside of winter, he hunts or patrols for Jagrin Grath depending on the need of the time. He steadily saves his money for the siege tax. Inside Trunau, he is a loner by preference. Dvalin has yet to earn back is empathy (4 Charisma), but all Trunau residents all know his scarred face and story of orc capture and torture and give him sympathy and wide berth. Even Agrit knows him as another Janderhoff expatriate with his own reasons.
Dvalin quickly aligned with the Trunau hatred of orcs when he arrived. Over the years, he has adopted the view that half-orcs are victims of orc aggression like himself. As such, he actually possesses an affinity for half-orcs with what little empathy remains within him.
You awaken to a blood-curdling scream that ends as abruptly as it began. You turn to the sound, as much out of reflex as curiosity, but find yourself in strange surroundings. Enclosed in a crude prison, a cage shaped out of the bones of some huge creature, the bars obstruct much of your vision. Further within the cavern, looming above a fiery cauldron and clutching the crushed, spasming remains of what might have once been an adventurer, is a malformed brute twice as tall as any man. Tattered bits of fur and cloth conceal much of its pudgy bulk, but beneath its garb you glean a blubbery, grey hide with a hideous array of pustules.
The giant deposits the broken, bleeding corpse it grips into the cauldron, where it lands with a splash in some unidentifiable concoction. Judging from the stench it kicks up, you would likely rather not know. One bulging eye seizes you as it begins stirring its feast, drool running unmitigated down the rolls of its chin and neck.
Dvalin awakes to a common nightmare with a maddening smile and replies more comfortably than if was within the warmth of the Longhouse of Trunau, ”A pretty tale, a pretty tale. It’s been too long since I’ve seen a pretty tail. The last time too we were waiting for supper as I am now. Guests, but ones who wanted to be anywhere else. And that pretty tail was pulled from her cage by her hair and prepared for supper before my eyes. No, these chefs of dwarven flesh were connoisseurs and gourmet cooks, and they would not accept my plea to replace my pretty tail. Because my eyes were too mad and my body too broken for their celebration. No, I would wait my turn to be transformed into sturdy trail rations.”
He pauses and licked his lips, because he was just getting started. ”These orcs did not simply pulp my pretty tail with mallets or tenderizers, or grip in your case. No, no, she was flayed alive to ensure the blood ran warm and red. They removed her slack skin professionally and efficiently, such that her lungs still pumped air through her mouth that had become hoarse from screams. Then, upside down they hung her and drained the rest of her blood into a pot from a neat cut near her neck. It was hard to tell when her lungs stopped rising, but she stopped struggling after a dozen seconds or so. Then, she was butchered before my eyes. The love my life was butchered before my eyes!” Dvalin finished in a full throated scream.
After his breathing becomes more regular, the dwarf turns to stare at the giantess. ”That is the last pretty tale, that I know. So do what you will of me, I have been dead for years already. My body just doesn’t know it.”
The strange fellow smiles broadly as he takes a seat across the table from you. The bustle of the tavern thrums all around as excited conversations crescendo and wain, only to be replaced by another. His flaxen hair, pale skin, and burly frame mark him as unmistakeably Ulfen. Judging by his garb—and lack of any noteworthy weaponry—he is likely a merchant of some stripe. Without being prompted, he slides one of the two horns of mead he carries across the table to you, raising his own in a toast.
After a modest mouthful of his own drink, he speaks, "Rumors flit about this place like a bee to the flowers. But all seem to agree that your. . . skills are worth every copper and more. Tell me then, friend: what brings you here and how can Ingmund convince you to allow him the honor of employing one such as yourself?"
Dvalin looks up from his lonely drink. This Ingmund must be new, because residents know Dvalin is not a conversationalist. The dwarf looks side to side if a youth has put the merchant up for a joke, because his skills are well known. Unfortunately, Dvalin fails to see anyone and the Ulfen continues to sit in front of him. He loses track of time and replies only in silence and neglect.
Ingmund dejectedly getting up from his seat wakes Dvalin from his maddening reverie. The dwarf growls, ”Kill orcs.”
”What’s that you say?” Ingmund pauses turning toward the scarred dwarf.
”Kill orcs. Let me kill Mindspin orcs!” Dvalin repeats accentuated with spittle spraying the Ulfen. After a pause, he finishes with, ”killing giants a bonus.”
Ingmund sits expectantly waiting for the dwarf to persuade him of skills or haggle over wage as others have done. But after a few minutes, the Ulfen realizes that this scarred, orc-hating dwarf has nothing further to say. The potential employer says, ”very well friend, I will consider your eloquent words.” His leaving doesn’t appear to interest the dwarf at all.
Behind you, the tomb's double-doors slam shut. Try as you might, you are unable to pry them open by any means. A disembodied voice laughs unnervingly as soft blue flames begin to dance to life along myriad braziers lining either side of the room.
"Arlanghar the Brave and Bold; the Wise and Learned; the Sly and Cunning. All truth and lies. Dead and alive, a tomb and a mansion." Another peal of laughter emerges before the voice trails off into silence.
At the center of the square room stands a three-armed gargoyle, each hand grasping a different weapon: a sword, a staff, and a bow. The far wall is dominated by a mural depicting what appears to be three versions of the same hero, each wielding weapons that correspond to those held by the statue.
After several minutes of holding his breath and waiting for the ceiling to start steadily lower, Dvalin takes out his hip flask and sits. After a few swigs of liquid life, he puts his flask away and grabs some jerky. He sits for an hour expecting to wake up. Finally, he gets up and surveys the room in minute detail. The gargoyle is immobile. The mural is smooth. Both are without any triggers. The locked stone doors sealed dwarf tight. And annoyingly this Arlanghar did not continue to talk and provide any more clues, so he pulls out his bedroll and takes a nap.
Fully expecting to awake somewhere else, Dvalin starts to get concerned, but first he needs to relieve himself. After finishing in the corner, he oddly realizes that he is near the spot where the sword in the mural aligns with the sword in the hand of the gargoyle. Inspecting the wall, he finds the same sword shape traced in the stone, which clicks with a little pressure. He smiles and repacks his gear. He shoulders his backpack and gets ready to quickly move when the need arises. Searching two other sections of the wall, he finds a staff shape and bow shape traced in the stone that are completely aligned with the mural and gargoyle. When he clicks the last trigger into place, the tomb’s double doors crack open. He hustles over to push them open finding the back of the cave where he had been sheltering from an instant shift in the Mindspin Mountain weather. As soon as he crosses the threshold again, the tomb doors slam shut. He imagines that he can hear Arlanghar issue his welcome, but the stone is too thick.
2nd – Sidestep? from one of those Faithful Combat lists
3rd – Furious Focus
4th – Str +1
5th – Boon Companion
6th – Whirlwind Attack? from one of those Faithful Combat lists
7th – Lunge
10th - Spring Attack? from one of those Faithful Combat lists