Garvid Krein's page

At 1st level, an urban barbarian gains a +1 bonus on attack rolls and a +1 dodge bonus to AC when adjacent to two or more enemies. In addition, her movement is not impeded by crowds, and she gains a bonus equal to 1/2 her barbarian level on Intimidate checks to influence crowds.

This ability replaces fast movement.

"Name?"
The bulky man grinned at the person asking the questions. "Abrogail Thrune the Second, Queen of Cheliax. Listen, Carlin, I've been working with you for seven bloody years, you can fill that f##*ing paper by yourself."

The jailor couldn't help but smile a bit, at which point his face tried to go back to normal. "Alright, Garvid. Let's start filling it in. You know they need it in court."

"You are an a**+#+!, Carlin.", replied Garvin, grinning at the questioner. Heh. Bastard likes procedure, but he's a good soul inside. Must be all the time with Zenderholm.

"Alright, officer, let's do it your way. Name's Garvid Krein, I'm from Old Korvosa. You can't find my next of kin, since my folks been dead for years now. Mom passed at my birth, since she was way too old to have a kid at these days, and my old man was usually sitting half asleep in the exact same spot you're sitting right now, until the prison escape a decade ago. Although your fat arse is straining the chair. Right, names are, actually Abrogail, heard my grandmother was quite the nationalist back in Cheliax, and Vasil Krein. Spell that with a 'v', you illiterate prick."

"Woah, Garvid, I sense some hostility in your voice!", grinned Carlin, writing stuff down.

"You two, get a room!", a drunken voice groaned from the next cell, rising from the dirty hay, just behind the water bucket. Garvid turned to the man, responding with a gutteral voice, "Tenro, you either shut your face, or I'll shove it so deep up your other hole, you're going to have the s@*&tiest thoughts for the rest of your life. Carlin, get him out of here, he's sober enough now." The guard left the quill and parchment on the filthy desk, grabbed his keys. As soon as the only other listener was out of the door, a friendly kick in the hindquarters as a parting present, Carlin sat down again, sighing. "Tell you what, Garvy, I'll fill the rest later. If I need help, I'll ask Papadopolo. He still tells stories of you growing up in the garrison."

"And he better, the ancient arse." Garvid lay down on the hay, taking the coat and putting it under his head. "So. I've been working here for almost a decade and a half, and the Marshall wants to kick me out because some arsewagon said I killed that Lord Touchy-Feely? She can shove the political pressure right up her fine back alley."

"Look, Garvy, we all know it wasn't you. But, Lord Touchy-Feely's been messing around with the Lambs for a long time, and some of them shanked him. You've brought him in, personally, three times in the dungeon, never with the same number of teeth he went out the night with, and when the bastard was found beaten to death in a gutter, with his junk out in the open, House Arkona want blood.", explained Carlin, pulling out a pipe and staring to fill it up. "Lamm must be f$~~ing ecstatic. Two of his problems out with one move."

"Good thinking, Carlin. Let's all be happy for the arse that abuses kids, kills nobles and ruins sterling reputations like mine.", smiling sadly at the smoking jailor. "So, now that that fisher is dead, I'm guessing I'll be out." Garvid stared in the distance. "Out, but not scot free, Garvy. Marshall's been saying that the nobles have been looking for some punishment, even though it wasn't you. I've just filled the papers for termination of duty. Although, she also said to tell you two things. Mercenaries are always welcome to help the Guard, and that the quartermaster's lost a set of standard patrol equipment to rust. And that she's sorry she couldn't do more, but we'll be seeing you again, Garvy."

Garvid stared at the distance. Just like that, fifteen years down the river. Because of this one little guttershite who can't resist not having child slaves. Dad would be f%@+ing proud. "Was that a threat or hope in your voice? With you guards, I can never tell.", Garvid forced a smile on his face. "But yeah, I'll be seeing you, Carlin, and when I see you again, you'll pay...the bartender.", a demonic glare in his eyes. "Come on, man, your bartabs are notoriously horrifying!" Putting his hand on the man's shoulder, Carlin unlocked the door, muttering, "We'll miss you around here, buddy. Stay out of trouble, for my sake."

"No promises."

The broad-shouldered man sipped his ale quietly, his eyes staring at the shelf stacked with bottles in front of him. In all my days coming here, I've never seen anyone actually ask for anything that's not a beer or a lager. Must be there for ambiance, I guess.

In the corner of his eye a grinning young man, about fourteen (judging by the impressive amount of acne on his face), placed his hand in his pocket and began walking out of the tavern, whistling a happy tune. Before a meaty hand grabbed his raven-coloured long greasy hair and twisted his left arm, slamming the head on the bar, sending a flagon flying. A couple of sad ale drops fell on the ground.

"Now you did it, son, you spilled my drink. Don't worry, your nose ain't even broken, it's just bleeding a bit. Now, you're working for Lamm, aren't you? Don't say anything, whimper once for yes and twice for no."

The kid, nose filled with beer, snot and blood, began whimpering intensively, before a tuft of hair was torn from his head, crying out once and then, remembering the question, cried once more, before feeling the tight grip on his head soften. Whoops. Didn't mean to do that. Ah, hell, gives him something to brag about.

"Now, listen, son, I want you to run back to wherever the hell the old s@+! stain's staying now, and tell him this one thing. Quote for quote, if you know what it means. He hasn't broken Garvid Krein. He just broke his chains." Pulling the hair backwards, Garvid grabbed the kid's dirty shirt, wiped the cocktail of fluids from the bar with it, and pushed the kid out the door. A pouch mysteriously appearing in his hand, he tossed it at a young lady in the crowd. "Mind your purse better next time, sweetheart.", before turning to the bartender raising an eyebrow at him. "Gaston, turn your judgemental Galtan face away. I was being nice to the kid. If a Hellknight patrol had seen him pick pockets, off with the hand. If he's lucky." Sighing and staring at his flagon and the setting sun outside, the big man looked at the wall once again. Ah, hell, it's not like I've got anything better to do. "Pass me that bottle, the one with the elvish stuff on it. That's the one. Good man.", before dropping a couple of coins on the bar, right next to a puddle of beer. "I'll be taking it home." Stuffing the bottle in a pocket in his massive leather coat, Garvid stood up from the chair. Walking out of the door, closing his eyes at the sun, he stopped. I really need to stop forgetting it., before reaching into the pub's door, and grabbing a well-worn halberd, the sigil of two swords crossed behind a tower, grafted on the blade, almost gone, but still visible. "Let's go home."

Garvid is an aging man, slowly getting past his prime. He's growing a bit of bulk around the edges, but he's still as fast as he once was. Which, in his case, wasn't terribly much. Stocky, rather than large, he's had many an experience taking a haymaker from a rampaging Shoanti, cracking his neck and grabbing the culprit to be dragged for small 'instruction' behind the bar before putting them in the dungeon. His hair is always cropped short, and despite his advanced age (as far as mercenaries go), he's still not balding. His hair is almost completely mice-gray at this stage, and he begrudgingly shaves every other day as Korvosan Guard protocol dictates. He's usually dressed in an overcoat, one of the pockets containing a set of brass knuckles. If expecting trouble, he carries his old halberd, which has a surprisingly unblemished blade, compensated by a handle with conspicuously heavy end.