 About GbajiGbaji, Half-Giant Brawler 5 STR 18 (+4) (14 base + 4 racial)
AC 18 (DEX +1, Armour +5, Dodge +2)
HP 64 (10 [lvl 1 max] + 6 + 6 + 6 + 6 [lvls 2-5] + 5 [favoured class] + 5 [Toughness] + 20 [CON])
Alignment: Neutral
Skill ranks 3 (4 - 1 [INT]) x 5 = 15 (*class skills)
Racial Features
Favoured Class: Brawler (+5hp)
Psionic Talent: Conceal Thoughts Unarmed Strike / +10 to hit / 2d6+5 damage
Equipment: Hide Shirt +2 (4,190cp), *Amulet of Mighty Fists +1 (5,000cp), *Healing Fruit (Cure Serious Wounds) (750cp), Masterwork Heavy Crossbow (400cp), 20 Bolts (4cp), Handaxe (12cp), Dagger (4cp), Staff, Bandolier (1cp), Backpack (4cp), Waterskin x2 (4cp), Trail Rations x5 (5sp), Bedroll (1cp), Blanket (1cp), *Torches x5, Hot Weather Clothing
Money: 120cp ************************************************************************ Gbaji was just growing into manhood when the slavers raided the desert village where he lived with his family. Although he and the others fought desperately, they were swiftly overwhelmed by the better equipped raiders. The village elders, including his father Haraz, were killed before his eyes. He, his mother Yrgit and sister Trnti, and those others of saleable age and strength, were marched out of the only home he had ever known and into captivity. On the long march to the slave pits of Tyr many died, their bodies left for the scavengers. But Gbaji stayed strong, to spite the men who had taken him and to honour his father by protecting his family. But when they reached the stink and clamour of the city he was sold off to a gladiator school. His mother and sister were sent elsewhere - he never saw them again. The school was owned by a templar of Kalak named Creshed. He was pitiless, and the training under his supervision was hard and brutal. Creshed would call instructions from his covered balcony, sipping sweet wines and munching on dates, while the trainers would see that his whims were carried out. Many buckled under the regimen, or rebelled against the cruelty. But for these there was only one punishment - to fight Creshed's unbeaten champion, a blood-crazed mul named Bor - and only one result - death. Although far from being a thinker, Gbaji took well to the training. He was very strong and reasonably agile, and his size and reach were also advantageous. So he was taught to fight with his hands rather than weapons. While resentment burned in his heart, he kept that locked away. Instead of rebelling, it simply spurred him on to apply himself to the training and excel. He survived and, in time, became one of Creshed's prized stable of top gladiators, fighting before the baying crowds. Then came the revolution. In the upheaval that accompanied Kalak's overthrow Gbaji sought out Creshed where he cowered in his palace from the angry rebels. He strangled the templar to death with his bare hands - vengeance for the cruelty of his training, vengeance for the life and family he lost, and vengeance for his father's blood. But life after the revolution was complicated. Gbaji was used to the gladiator school and being told what to do and where to go. He wasn't used to thinking for himself. His only real skill was the ability to twist a man's head off with ease, but he refused to return to the arena. Instead, through his own gullibility, he ended up falling in with the criminal gangs which surged up in the chaos following Kalak's fall. For a while he earned good money scaring shopkeepers to hand over protection money to a Toothcutter enforcer, an elf called Glik. At first he felt little pity, for these were the same people who had cheered with bloodlust while Gbaji risked his life on the arena sands. But in the he began to resent the job - it was not warrior's work to prey on the weak. He also noticed he didn't seem to receive much of the proceeds anyway, but Glik just brushed off his complaints with clever words and future promises. Meanwhile, he tried to find out what had happened to his mother and sister, but discovered that all the records in the slave market had gone up in smoke during the riots and no one seemed to know of them. Then events took a turn. As a gang turf war broke out in the Warrens Gbaji found himself caught in the middle. Betrayed, not sure who to trust and who to fight, he found himself surrounded. Alone at night in the maze of cut-throughs and passages, hooded figures stabbed and cut at him like a mekillot at bay. There were just too many - even as one went down under his fists, another sprang up. As he began to wonder if this was the end - surviving the gladiatorial bouts only to die in some nameless alley - someone uttered a word of power. Half of his assailants promptly fell to the ground, insensible. Another word, and crackling lightning chased the rest away, yelling in fear and pain as they fled through the darkened streets. Of course, Gbaji had heard of defilers before. But he just couldn't match the mental image of utter evil with the kind-faced old gentleman who helped him to his feet. He tried to thank his rescuer but the man just it waved away, simply smiling and saying, "One day I will have need of your help. I hope you will be able to return the favour." Then, just before he left, he added, "Your father would be proud." Before Gbaji could reply or ask how he knew his father, the man disappeared as if swallowed by the night. Gbaji didn't have to wait too long. A few month later he had found honest work, carrying heavy loads of bricks and wood in the building sites that had sprung up to repair the city after revolution and war. Then he received a message - he was needed in Urik. He grabbed his gear, the small amount of money he had saved, and set off with the next out-bound caravan. ************************************************************************ Gbaji isn't too bright. He's usually the last one to get a joke. Problems that can't be fixed with fists tend to confuse him. However, he is good at taking instruction and finds it easier to let others do the thinking while he does the physical stuff. He tends to keep quiet and not make a fuss, something he learnt to avoid drawing unwelcome attention to himself in the gladiator school, and also because he prefers to wait for someone else to come up with the ideas. As a result Gbaji comes across as taciturn. He prefers simple solutions and direct action. He is stoical - he's survived bad times, he expects more to follow, and expects to survive those too. He is also single-minded and stubborn - adversity only makes him try harder to win. He has lost much: his old life in the desert, his family, his freedom. He tends to hold what he does have dear. He is keen to trace his mother and sister, but has no real idea of how to start. He takes a long time to trust new people - he's been let down a lot in the past, and he realises he isn't a good judge of character. His experience with the Toothcutters has left him somewhat jaded about elves. But he also wants something, and someone, to believe in. He is a warrior and believes that he should do something worthy of his skills. The problem is, he can't really think of what that is... ************************************************************************ Gbaji is a typical hulking half-giant. Just shy of eight feet tall, the arms and shoulders that project from his finely-tooled but well-worn leather jerkin bulge with muscles. His face is battered and scarred, his nose a bent blob from multiple fractures, and his dark eyes gaze warily out from beneath heavy brows. He keeps his hair short so it can't be grabbed by an enemy combatant and it forms a dark brown fuzz across his scalp. A leather cord circles his thick neck, whatever dangles from it securely tucked inside his armour. A huge crossbow, its wood carefully oiled and polished, is attached to a harness on his back so it can easily be brought to bear. Just below is a capacious backpack. Slotted into a belt diagonally running across his chest are a handaxe, a big knife and a healing fruit wrapped in dried leaves, while a quiver holding the bolts for his crossbow hangs by his hip. He leans idly on a staff almost ten feet long, idly cracking the knuckles on his spade-like fingers. |
