Fofin Sternforge's page

Sorry for my absence folks and I further apologize for the fact that I will not be able to reprise my role as the surly dwarf with a beard of gold. Work and the matters of life have taxed me both heavily recently and I cannot see a break in the clouds in my foreseeable future. Therefore, I must begrudgingly throw in the towel on this excellent story, which has been made all the more rich by its quality narrator and characters.

I wish you all the best and, if circumstances allow in the future, would be honored to play with (or under as GMs) any of you again. Thank you all for the enjoyable experience and masterful storytelling, I still see greatness in this group and hope you all have grand adventures in the future!

Runk is a great team player. If only we could take the horses with us to scare the little blighters.

*Tramples a mob of goblins to see the left scurry away in fear* "Oh look, an undefended dungeon!"

Fofin comes lumbering around the corner of the settlement, looking staggeringly tired with rings beneath his eyes. "Not drunk, sir," he says, attempting his best to cut the accent from his voice.

It had been a long night for the warrior, one filled with a constant questioning of his beliefs and all that he knew of his kin. An argument had been kindled between his pride and ambitions, eventually flowing red-hot as molten lead. The blacksmith's surly temper did little to help when he had asked his questions prior to bedding down. Eventually, he did manage to get to sleep but the morning proved hectic, as he had to rush himself to prepare.

Before gauging the situation and properly greeting the rest of his companions, the dwarf comes to a stop before Blake, eying him sternly for a moment. He then bows, his beard (surprisingly lacking of its usual bunch of tangles) sweeping the ground before him as he does. His face appears pinched as he struggles with his words, both attempting to refine them with sincerity and further purge them of the manner he had been speaking common previously. Of course, it's not perfect.

"If ye'll forgive m'manners, master Blake. I've not been spendin' much time on the surface, since this'll be the first I've set foot outside Janderhoff's walls in m'life. Honor's a strange thing t'define among the surface dwellers, compared to my own kin and I admit I wasn't much pop-yoo-lurr 'mong them either," he explains, obviously nervous to see if his apology was sufficient.

Upon rising, he appears somewhat embarrassed, awkwardly shifting as he waits for the man's response. He gives a brief look to Ethan for assurance. His rate of breathing shows the difficulty it took to swallow his pride, but he still appears to carry some measure of dignity as he sits before them all, ready to harden his resolve if needed.

The dwarf peers in a scrutinizing manner over the smith's work, taking a long while to size up nearly a dozen pieces before speaking to the man (or woman) directly. Eventually, he seems somewhat satisfied although whether this is because he has to settle for the war or not is undetermined. Fofin clears his throat to announce his presence over the clang of the hammer shaping steel.

"I'm lookin' fer some good work! Pr'haps t'look fer a sturdy support 'sides this armor," he says, indicating his shoddy-looking scale-mail. "I'd also like t'see about a sticker, prob'ly a pike or somethin' like that."

After purchasing the wares, he gingerly inquires of the professional his views on deities. Regarding his profession, Fofin wishes to know what god or goddess the blacksmith would revere and why. He seems genuinely interested, although his attempts to hide such exuberance are transparent at best.

When all is said and done, the warrior returns to the Rusty Dragon. He neglects ordering any drinks, which strikes those who have become accustomed to the dwarf's hospitality as unusual. He even retires to a room to sleep, quietly keeping to himself after retrieving the key from the host/hostess.

"I'll have'ta get m'self a sticker fer our 'venture, mate!" the dwarf grunts to the nobleman as he moves to depart.

He nods to Runk, clearly pleased by the halfling's calculations. It takes him a few moments to count through the coins before greedily swiping them into a pouch which he ties into the thick foliage of his bristling beard. After performing such a measure against thievery, the dwarf snorts at Kesten's comment before wishing his savior well. He moves to hinder the gnome for a few moments before, however.

"Say, I could use a blacksmith too, or at least a forge. Got m'steel hide an' pick a bit roughed up," he informs Zizouket, scratching furiously at his chin. "Oh, an' can...ye, uh... maybe give m'con-dole-ensee's to that pard'ner o' yers? I done figured it wouldn' make no mind 'bout the greenskin if this all go' settled," he relents, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm but new to the surface, y'ot to tell 'im."

The dwarf's awkward apology ends abruptly as he shouts for a round of drinks and slumps back into his seat. He looks to struggle a bit with his most recent choice but soon shakes it off and winks at the approaching barmaid.

Well, I'm glad to hear such from you fellows! I'll hope to keep up and see this excellent game to its end!

Hours picked at work for me. I'm flagging on roads way out in the boonies, usually without service and by the time I get home I'm so exhausted and sun burnt it's hard to update. I'll keep trying but it's likely the weekends will be catch-up.

If it proves to be too minimal I would understand and withdraw so the place may be filled by someone who might have the privilege to play with this excellent group.

The dwarf remains in his armor and shows no inclination toward the abundant manners his friend displays. He sits down at the table and ventures to rest his feet atop it after scooting out his seat with a loud screech. Snorting loudly, Fofin coughs before nodding at the nobleman.

"N'matter 'bout countin', friend. How're we meanin' t'nab these boars? Field-knife, bare-handed, other?" he inquires before picking his teeth clean.

This group is gold! Good things in the future, boys, good things!

Fofin affords the cleric his occasional glance as he tells his tale, otherwise continuing to inspect his armor. Digesting the story, the dwarf looks up to Ethan through narrowed eyes, his head cocked somewhat to the side.

"Ye got a gift fer words, boy! I'd suggest shuttin' up only when it's cost ye a few teeth and only rarely even then," he advises in a tone somewhat reminiscent of a feisty grandfather goading a young one with a black eye back into the fray.

Continuing to follow the rest of the company at a distance, he inquires of the cleric once more, "And d'ya think a godly callin's always through another or do some take on th'mantle themselves? I mean, how might a feller know he's got that deity's blessin'?"

As Fofin walks beside the cleric, his demeanor is still one of stubborn rigidity. However, at Ethan's words and gestures, the dwarf's attitude softens somewhat. Indeed, by the time Erastil's follower has finished his speech, it has left the dwarf deep in thought. He tugs on his tangle of a beard, mulling over what his friend has spoken.

He's about right, I'd wager. That fellow would stick a picked dogslicer in my guts and keep moving if he'd have the chance, at this rate. Besides, I owe the boy, he found me near dead on the road.

The warrior peers down at his scalemail, seemingly absorbed in thought. His rough, thick fingers turn the links this way and that as he nods, more to himself than to Ethan. Inhaling sharply again, his features are drawn as if the dwarf were battling internally over some great matter, much more than the simple spat with the magus.

At last, he turn to look up at his only friend on the surface, "I s'pose yer right." He then scowls at the man, "But ye don't have t'be so damn good at it!" The dwarf chuckles and rubs a tear from the corner of his eye, "I'll look to amend a'fore our journey, but I ain't rushin' it. In the meantime, I want t'know how ye came to yer god, boy. What struck ye int'his service s'well?"

I can't...even...what?

I don't even think Fofin can argue with thse majestic words of peace. Everybody, please welcome Golarion's Henry Kissinger! He defuses the hate between dwarf and man alike!

Then, the look on his face would be twice as humorous...not to mention the string of bragging to follow. Ethan might have to keep Blake from driving Fofin back into the ground! xD

It's great! I can't wait to see Fofin's face when he's wrong, though. That will be priceless, especially since he's so damn sure.

During the whole affair, Fofin stands by with a look of indignation. He rolls his eyes at the attempts to get some useful information from the goblins and scowls in their direction any time they happened to look toward his.

Interrogating goblins is like questioning a week-dead possum. Where will it end?

Perking up suddenly at one's mention of a "half-breed" amid the long-shanks in their midst, the dwarf turns cautiously to hear more. Despite having little else to go on, his features display a look of smug satisfaction.

"Well, let's be makin' sure we get out a'fore the sun so's we ken get t'the bottom o' this! I got a damn good feelin', as if the stone itself were singin' t'me!" he said, with a wink in Blake's direction and a boisterous laugh.

My bet is that far down the road after a myriad of trials and tribulations, blood and sweat we'll all be level 20 standing victorious over a field of broken rune giants and fallen rune lords. Exhausted and battered we'll be catching our breath after the epic battle when Blake turns to Fofin and says "See I told you it wasn't Gorham!".

At that point Ethan is gonna completely lose it.

:)

This.

Also, I agree with Blake. This is a great group with so much potential in character building. I would advise, however, Blake not leave his waterskin unattended while Fofin has a few casks of brew in his system. Haha!

Fofin crosses his arms and glowers at the pair of filthy vermin inhabiting the cell. His gaze seems to drip with the seething hatred he has reserved for their kind. He grumbles incoherently to himself before muttering in dwarven.

"Infernal, fatherless, little scum! There is no sense in taking rats prisoner, even cats know that!" he spits out, eying the miniatures monstrosities with a feverish stare.

Rain won out on the job today. As long as it continues to poor I won't know whether to work until I get a call in the morning.

On another note, it's interesting to see this conflict. Hopefully Fofin's xenophobia doesn't really wedge up the party, hehe! I could see a good inner-struggle playing out where he fights with his own stubbornness vs the need for the group.

Glowering at the magus, Fofin directs a finger at him. His face grows red with a stubborn fury as he raises his voice in reprisal, "Listen here', bud! I don't know much of a damn thing 'bout this place, I'll admit t'that, but I does know m'goblins an' orcs! I damn well ain't apologizin' until some solid proof comes up, so y'ken shove that in yer nearest hole! O'course I might find m'self wrong, but only then will I be tendin' ye with soothin' words!"

With a *harumph!* he turns to wait for things to proceed, unless more words were to be slung.

Damned if I don't find myself ousted from surfacers as well. I'm not sure if this situation is any better than Janderhoff. At least father was familiar enough to argue with.

Listening to the mild discussion buzzing about him, the dwarf spent his time compiling the evidence. No doubt, he surmised the half-orc to be the culprit. Viewing his companions, he rolls his eyes at their bafflement.

"Greenskins always stick t'gether! Tha' feller ye were with worked magics, aye? Necromancy, a missin' body, a careful distraction. Pah! It's all spelled out fer us!" he points out the others, his arms crossed in a show of decisiveness. "All's I know is we should find the bugger a'fore he summons up somethin' worse'n tha' hairball he had!"

It's construction work but once the project's over I should have more free time. Both a plus and a negative, of course.

Hey folks, letting you all know that I started a new job and the current project requires 12 hour days. Awesome for pay but b%@&#!#s for PbP. I'll try my best to keep up posts but I thought I should forewarn you.

"Blast it!" the dwarf exclaimes, rearing much too slow for any good to come of it.

It was times like these that the dwarf wondered whether or not his people's animosity for elves stemmed from jealousy over their lithe forms and quick reflexes.

Good for nothing elves!

Improved Initiative is looking like a mighty fine feat to acquire in the future...

At first, Fofin peers after the halfling, irritated. Soon, however, he gets the gist of his actions and when Runk moves back from the door he nods approvingly.

"Right then! Weapons an' flashy magics at th' ready boys! If a tide'o basilisks or Asmodeus 'imself comes barrelin' outta there I don' want none'o ye surprised!" he says, hefting his pick with a boisterous laugh.

The dwarf marches at the head, making great strides to keep himself before everyone else. A few times, he looks back unsure toward the sheriff to confirm that his course is true. Along the way, he reflects to himself, looks of sincere contemplation evident at times that his face is visible.

So many wishing to be buried near to their place of worship. What involvement did their deities have for them? What about Torag? I don't feel as if he was ever truly involved in my life. All those times I came to clash with kin and clan, where was the Dwarf Father then?

"Hmph!" he says aloud, his mind still turned to the troubles of the past.

"Always be prepared, m'boy! What if'n that meetin' were an ambush? What if'n there was goblins beneath the drapes, kobolds beneath th'desk, an' a dragon on th'roof? Why, y'd be chewed on, poked full'a holes, and cooked like a pig on'a spit!" the dwarf gives off a rowdy chuckle, holding his quivering belly as he does so. He then winks once more at Ethan to show it was all in good fun.

Peering at the gnome's comment, Fofin runs a hand through his bristly, untamed beard. "Some'un leadin' them, eh? Pr'haps like...say, an orc? Mind ye, most of'em are dumb...but once theys gets a shot o' manling blood in 'em, they ken smarten up pretty fast, I reckon. Would explain th'disappearance o' tha' fella what was here yesterday, aye?" he continues to suggest that Gorhan might have some connection, refusing to back down from his suspicions.

Oh, there's another dwarf in one of my games whose dialect is baffling every post. It's hilarious but I thought I'd make Fofin a bit easier to understand. Although I'd like to drag him away from the dwarf stereotype, since this is the first PbP I actually got to play one in, I supposed it wouldn't hurt to go that path for now.

The dwarf smirks at Ethan as he sets off to get his equipment, tugging a bit at the hem of his mail shirt. Also, he gives a barking laugh at Runk's sharp reply to the human's comment. He nods somewhat approvingly at the halfling before looking back to Kesten with a grin.

As the group filters out of the estate, Fofin inhales fresh air from the gulf nearby, exhaling with an approving twinkle in his eye. Certainly doesn't hold the air of home. No smoke, nor ash...the only earth is that beneath one's feet. Was this the right choice? he wonders to himself.

The dwarf tugs at his beard, deep in thought. Perhaps we might find more of those damned, filth-ridden, scabs. We might even pick up on their trail. Besides, a bit of prestige never hurt anyone, especially in a small town like this.

"I'm settled!" the dwarf informs the sheriff along with the rest of the group. "Y'have m'pick on yer side an' I'll be glad with dealin' out s'more pain to any dirty lil' monsters we find!"

Fofin frowns deeply at the thought of one of the vermin caught inside a tomb, "Like as not, if'n this priest feller were fresh, one'o those grubby lil' terrors fed 'imself full'o carrion! Let's hope tha' ain't th'sich-e-ashun'!" the dwarf embellishes by pointing his thick finger toward the sheriff in an informative manner.

While the day before happened to be the first day he had ever met face-to-face with a goblin, his people had made sure he knew all about them. Granted, some of the dwarven knowledge about the diminutive monstrosities ranged into the territory of exaggeration, much of it proved true. So far as he was concerned, the dwarf was the group's goblin expert and was damn proud of the fact!

The dwarf simply quirks a brow at the situation, muttering beneath his breath, "And tha' green skin done left by th'mornin'...curious."

Rolling his shoulders and adjusting his armor, he looks up expectantly at the sheriff. Seeing the man's composure and not wanting to be outdone, the warrior puffs out his chest and sucks in his gut. Hiking his thumbs into his belt, he nods to the lawman and grunts his approval.

Huzzah, he hath returned as the prophecy stateth!

Fofin snorts in a derisive manner over the thought of one with orc blood being brave. More like bloodthirsty or too dumb to know the situation, he thinks to himself. With the mention of the half-orc, the dwarf's muse has certainly all but vanished. Frustrated, he tosses the chip of tone he had been examining to the wayside before looking up to the group with a furrowed brow.

"Well? Let's get goin' in! I done had enough rootin' about in the tavern last night. Enough cavortin'!" he suggests bluntly, motioning for one of the more locally knowledgeable fellows to take the head of the group.

Following quietly (for once) after the rest of the group, it appears as if Fofin is engaged with a chip of blueish stone. He holds the piece up, looking at it this way and that. Every now and again, he mutters something to himself. Otherwise, the dwarf agrees distractedly with his companions as he plods along behind them.

You speak to me stone, but I cannot hear you. It appears you are all that's left from my people to me. What will become of us? What shall we be chipped into?

Fofin grunts after being set down and sequentially draining down the remnants of his morning pint thereafter. "Don't give no damn what silk shirts an' ribboned caps he might be expectin' us t'wear. I'm goin' in m'mail and if he don't like that than I hope he prefers the sight o' my hairy arse!" he informed the tavern quite loudly, giving a belch for emphasis.

By the way Fofin I like your jingle. I'm picturing the dwarf precariously balanced with one leg on the table and the other on a chair belting it out somewhere around 2 in the morning. :)

Oh! I wish it were mine, alas - Merry and Pippin sang such a tune at the Prancing Pony during the Fellowship, although it was celebrating the -Green- Dragon in Hobbiton.

Swallowing down a mouthful of greasy goodness that all dwarves love, he smiles at Ethan. "Damn fine night to make up for any pains o' the mornin'! Sure enough, I slept like the mountains themselves," he assures the cleric, brandishing the end of a sausage link before taking a chomp out of it.

Never one for waste, Fofin finishes off his breakfast down to the last bite. With the sobering (literally) task finished, he adjusts his armor and looks grimly over toward Ethan.

"Seems we're gonna be the errand boys for Sandpoint! Much as I figured, considerin' the mayor now wants t'see us. I don't really see the problem considerin' there's bound t'be more balloon-headed, bug-eyed little monsters out there ready fer a whippin'!" he exclaims, taking his first drink for the day.

Oh, awesome! Annnnd thank you good sir!

The aches of a night spent resting beneath a table and without the comfort of a straw-filled bed ravaged the dwarf as well. Rubbing his bleary eyes and cringing at the blast of light issuing from a nearby unshuttered window, Fofin nodded at the accommodations the man offered.

"Oi, was he the fella that done the Nine Stones dance on the table in a kilt or was it the name o' his donkey?" he asks, ordering a large greasy breakfast for himself as well.

He waves away Runk when the halfling goes on his way. He then takes the time after filling his belly to push off the befuddlement that several casks of mead and more than a few bottles of Old Law had brought the previous evening.

As a side note we're in the Rusty Dragon :)

Y'can drink your fancy ales,

The warrior's lack of an answer is about as clear as the look of disparagement he reserves for the piece of work laid before him. Giving Runk a short but adequate farewell as the halfling moves to leave, he turns his attention to the newcomer.

Raising a drink to his cheer, the dwarf gladly accommodates him, "Aye and aye! I've done managed to get hit by one'a the vermin. T'be honest, I was plannin' to drink it off!" he states, motioning to the place where a dogslicer had found a chink in his chainmail.

The warrior from Janderhoff peers it over, his hairy face showing clear signs of disgust at its use by the goblins. Tugging at his beard, the dwarf recalls his martial training and points out the weapon as a guisarme.

"S'far as I ken guess, o'course. We stout folk don't have use fer such weapons in the tunnels and halls beneath the mountains. But it does appear t'be in fine shape, considering it were in the grubby mits o'them little terrors," he relates. Giving it a closer inspection, "Now, pr'haps there's some sorta maker's mark on this thing..."

Appraise: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (11) + 1 = 12+3 if made of precious metals.

Taking full advantage of the noble's generosity, Fofin bursts through the door of the well-loved local ale house with a joyous shout. He hails his fellow companions that have gathered there as well and cheerily demands a full cask of their fine Winterdrop mead.

"Damned if I ain't glad fer escapin' the toils of deep mountain caverns and the grim dispositions o' my damned dear da'!" he exclaims, sitting with his new found motley crew.

Rolling his eyes, the dwarf takes the blowhard's offer if for nothing more than to procure at least another gallon of mead. "Say, my fine fella'! I'd be glad to take ye up on that offer, s'long as you know what you're buyin'! Considerin' we saved yer neck, I'd say a few casks o' that genuinely delicious Winterdrop mead shouldn't be a problem, eh?" he prods, grinning up at the man.

Diplomacy?: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6

This. Is. BRILLIANT!

I gotta say, this is probably my favorite game running right now. I see so much potential for it and I'm excited!

With his thirst for goblin blood far from slaked and the need to prove himself still propelling him ever forward, Fofin winds back his pick once again as he steps closer to the goblin menacing Blake. With the fury of his people, the dwarf sends the end of his pick down with the strength of both arms, hurtling toward it's bulbous head.

Ye'll never know how wrong ye were, father!

Attack: 1d20 + 5 + 1 ⇒ (16) + 5 + 1 = 22
Damage: 1d6 + 4 + 1 ⇒ (6) + 4 + 1 = 11

Forgot to add the Hatred bonus on damage last time. Oh well!

So, Fofin's attack would be a charge and I suppose I'll tack on the -2 AC next round! Those poor stubby legs...

Thanks, I was quite relieved when I finally got word.

And that would be just fine, I think. Thanks, Runk!