About GrayfaceStats
Special Abilities, Invulnerable Rager:
Traits: Indomitable Faith (+1 Will), Armor Expert (1 less ACP)
Gear
Weight Loads 306/612/920 (153/306/460 without belt) Skills:
31 ranks total [+5 Levels 1-5 (fighter), +12 Levels 6-9 (barbarian), +9 human, +5 FCB) -Armor Check Penalty reduced by 1 from trait Armor Expert- -Armor Check Penalty reduced by 1 from Fighter: Armor Training 1- *****************ACP reduced by 2***************** Total ACP: -1 [MW Breastplate(-3)] Skills
Resources:
-Arrows x35 -Oil x2 -Alchemist's Fire x1 -Caltrops x2 -Sunrod x1 -Torch x2 -Trail Rations x4 -Potion of Cure Moderate Wounds x1 -2 doses of Greenblood oil(poison) -Potion of Enlarge Person CL1 x2 Story:
Anger... it had become a companion. The man now known as Grayface was orphaned too young to even remember the name his mother gave him, or even the date of his nameday. All he remembers of his youth was fear, hardship, and exhaustion. The lordmasters that he grew to know as his providers probably killed his parents, but he was always too busy working to ask questions, and wise enough to know what kind of answer he would receive if he dared ask. ...don't look up, don't look at them, keep your head down and they won't pick you today... It was a daily mantra. Whatever the task...be it working the fields, splitting stones in the quarry, mucking out the stables, washing the blood from the tiles...it was always best to keep your head down, don't draw attention to yourself. The wailing of the unlucky ones dragged away were more than enough reason to learn that lesson. Despite his best efforts, sooner or later nearly everyone was dragged off for one reason or another. He managed to avoid being "chosen" until somewhere in his thirteenth year, if his arithmetic was still accurate. It was a blazing humid day when they came for him. Though his eyes were averted, he could feel their gaze as they approached, nearly as heavy as the summer heat bearing down on him. If he was lucky he would spend the evening in one of the lordmaster's bedchambers, serving as a plaything, a mockery, a disgrace. At least by the end he would be given a hot lord's meal and a featherbed for a night. Bereft of luck he might not survive the night. At the very least he would first be flailed and chastised, though not for any specific wrongdoing or admonishment; he would be punished for the benefit of everyone in ear-shot of his screams. Had he grown up away from this hell hole, he surely would someday have caught the eye of fair maidens. His blue-gray eyes conjured the image of an icy lake, though with an underlying warmth that dispelled the cold.
"You there. Yes you. Rise and approach." The whipmaster was never questioned. He was to be obeyed. The youth had seen what had become of the disobedient. The young man received his share of lashings that afternoon, at least fifty licks from a cat-o-nine tails. After a saltwater rinse, he was given a respite... a cool drink and an hour to rest under a shade tree to recover before he would be brought to his lordmaster.
When his hour of respite was up he was hauled bodily by the arms, his dragging feet leaving trails in the dirt on his way to the Lordkeep. In the haze of the trip he couldn't have predicted just how far he had traversed. He was eventually put in a room, left alone on a featherbed. He managed the sit up and saw he was in a room more luxurious than he could have imagined; a four-poster bed with gold trim and relief-carved angels and demons dancing up and down its columns, a white-lacquered chest of drawers with a silver-lined piece of glass that showed a perfect reflection of himself, wood and leather chairs, red velvet couches, a bowl filled to overflowing with fresh fruit sitting next to a cutting board with a wheel of cheese and fresh baked bread. He immediately stuffed his cheeks with delicious cheese and bread. this is where the lordmaster's live? He walked to an open window and gasped at his apparent height-- he must have been carried all the way to the Hightower, the home of Lordmaster Trenmair himself. He went back over to the table to slice the skin off of a rare fruit when suddenly two large whipmasters entered the room and grappled the young man, pinning him to the ground. They beat him into submission and bound his hands. The act aggravated his lash wounds, and he lay there holding back tears as he heard the heavy footfalls of the men leave the vicinity. He either cried himself to sleep or passed out from the pain, because sometime later he awoke to a commanding voice who ordered him to stand. With his hands still bound the youth crawled to his knees and mustered his courage to face what he believed would happen next.
"You will never forget my face, boy. Let it invoke nightmares for the rest of your worthless life!" Before he could react, the lordmaster's hand thrust toward the youth, a dark liquid erupted from a vial toward his face. The acid sizzled and popped as it burned his face with a pain worse than the salt water had burned his back only hours before. He could feel his eyeball come apart, melting down his face along with what must be curdled bits of flesh.
The lordmaster proclaimed "Now you know what it is to be like me. Now you will know what---" In a fluid motion he flung his cut bindings at the lordmaster and thrust the table knife deep into the captor's neck. A gurgling attempt at crying out was all the lord could manage. He was dead in seconds. The next several days of the young man's life were a red-tinged blur. The number of would-be slavers that he left in his wake, he would never know. After he took the Lordmaster's bastard sword in hand, he felt like an army of one. All he needed was to stoke his hate a little longer. He would make it to safety. He had to. Over the following years he grew to become a man. A scarred, grizzled man, but man nonetheless. His hate became his faith. He honed his skill with his large sword, and soon discovered that in this hard world there will always been a need for a strong arm. He found caravan guard duties and mercenary work far and wide. The scars that destroyed his right eye and much of his face earned him the title of Grayface. Not particularly creative, but accurate. He never knew his true name anyway. Grayface it will be then. Before long he had his emotions under restraint and a pouch full of gold. He developed a sense of duty to those not strong enough to defend themselves, and a driving ambition to snuff out those who preyed on them. There was nothing wrong with making a little coin while you're at it though.
His dreams often led him back to those days in his youth; they led him to one day in particular.
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