About GwendolenAge: 22 years
Character Level: 1
Useful copies:
DEFENSE
OFFENSE
Ranged (+0 BAB, +1 dex) +1 Melee (+0 BAB, +4 str) +4
Ranseur 2d4+6 x3
Club 1d6+4 x2 STATISTICS ------------------------------------------------------- Strength: 18 (+4)
Skills:
Skills--total--ranks--class[y/n]--attribute
Acrobatics--
------------------------------------------------------- Feat Name & Description: Weapon Focus (Ranseur) [1st WP] Combat Expertese [Human] Improved Disarm [1st]
Favored Class: Warpriest
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The harrowing experience from her childhood haunts her every waking step. Only eradication of all evil will give her peace. Reactionary: +2 Init. Fate's Favored: The fates watch over you. Whenever you are under the effect of a luck bonus of any kind, that bonus increases by 1. ------------------------------------------------------- Racial and Class Skills & Abilities: Blessings(Good & War): (3 + 1/2 level) = 4. Good Blessing Holy Strike (minor): At 1st level, you can touch one weapon and bless it with the power of purity and goodness. For 1 minute, this weapon glows green, white, or yellow-gold and deals an additional 1d6 points of damage against evil creatures. During this time, it's treated as good for the purposes of overcoming damage reduction. This additional damage doesn't stack with the additional damage from the holy weapon special ability. War Blessing War Mind (minor): At 1st level, you can touch an ally and grant it a tactical advantage for 1 minute. At the start of its turn each round, it can select one of the following bonuses: +10 feet to base land speed, +1 dodge bonus to AC, +1 insight bonus on attack rolls, or a +1 luck bonus on saving throws. Each bonus selected lasts for 1 round. Sacred Weapon: d6 Spontaneous Casting ------------------------------------------------------- Equipment & Gear Breastplate (+6/+3/-4) (30 lbs)
Bandolier-R Shoulder (0 lb) Bandolier-L Shoulder (0 lb) Backpack (2 lb.) holds:
Weight of Equipment: 81lb. Spells: 3/2 0: Create Water, Guidance, Stabilize 1: Divine Favor, ------------------------------------------------------- Money: 17+538 gp, 5sp, 8 cp ------------------------------------------------------- Backstory!:
Working in Father's tavern was boring. At the ripe age of 7 Gwendolen had a full two years of scurrying around with dirty mugs and dirty trays under her belt. The patrons and the coppers they threw at her were pleasant enough, but nothing seemed to change. The tavern was the same, the patrons were the same, the whole city of Alvis seemed to stay the same. One night a band of men walked in. Loud they were and strangely dressed, with leather and steel freely scattered about their persons. They ordered much wine and meat, and throughout their debauch Liath's gaze never strayed long from he who must surely be their leader; a man with hair as yellow as her own, rich green eyes and hard, lean limbs, With stories both funny and daring he entertained the overly-muscled barbarian lout sitting next to him. Thrice she tried to talk to him, and thrice was ignored. No doubt he saw her as just another child. That would need to change. Their loud talk revealed them to be caravan guards, and they were due to be off to far lands at dawn. A plan took form in her young head. Before the first rays of sun touched the tavern's thatched roof, Gwendolen rose and dressed. She stuffed a sack full of bread and meat and padded softly out the door to the caravaners' quarter. Already were hostelers tending to wakened horses, but she found a cart of bales unguarded and stuffed herself snugly in. And promptly fell asleep. She awoke with the sun streaming strongly through the bars of the wagon as it rolled along some unknown plain. She stole a glance about her and Fortune favored her for her beloved green-eyed man walked steadily beside her wagon! Her brain raced quickly for how to make an appearance both noble and shocking. So of course she sneezed. Loudly. The blond man jumped only a little, but in a moment's time his strong arm dug her out of the bales and held her firm by the scruff of the neck. "You're a bit far from home, Cupcake," he said, a small smile growing on his lips. "Put me down! And I'm no Cupcake!" she spat back, trying to scare him, but it only made his smile broaden. "Forgive me, noble woman. I thought by your small stature you were a child a long way from home. I did not know that I was in the presence of a warrior-maiden." He made a small bow, and did finally put her down. He caught up to his lout of a companion and exchanged some words. They must have been talking about her because the muscled brute looked back in her direction, his eyes looking like blazing ice. In time her lovely man jogged back to her. "What is your name, fair lass," he said, sounding only a little condescending as the rest of the caravan slowly walked past them. "I am Gwendolen d'Cord!" she declared, trying to sound as important as possible. "Well, miss Gwendolen, my name is Subuht, and my companion is...," he shot a look behind him, and seemed to dismiss his first thought, "...very glad to meet you. It will do us no good to start back now, so you can remain in your hiding spot until the caravan stops for the night. Then in the morning I'll politely borrow a horse and see you returned, safe and sound. How does that sound?" It was clear this was not a question. "So, I get to stay?" she said, having only heard that part. "Well, um, yes, but only for the night." "I get to stay with you? All night long?" "In a matter of speaking...yes." "Excellent!" she said, already satisfied that her plan had worked. With a wry grin on his face Subuht picked her up and jogged back to her wagon, placing her snugly back in her spot. She got out a small loaf of bread and snacked happily, wondering what a man and woman might do during the night. She had not the faintest idea. In time night came and the caravan stopped. True to his word Subuht gathered Gwendolen up and allowed her to sit next to him. Her eyes never blinked as she sat around the guards' fire, eating up their stories and sampling their bowls of spicy meat stew. Over Subuht's insistence she even snuck a sip of wine from the skin they were passing around, marvelling at it's heady flavor. As the moon marched on her lids grew heavy and Subuht carried her dozing form to a small tent he had set up just for her. As he laid her down among soft sheets she came half awake. "Will you stay with me?" "I will be right outside, little Cupcake. Sleep now." And she did. Until the raiders came. The moon hung high as a hundred turbaned fighters on brown warhorses crashed upon the caravan, shouting ululating cries and brandishing shining tulwars. A dozen guards were cut down in their first rush and the camp buzzed like an anthill with every body running in a different direction. Liath woke with a start and rushed to put on cloak and boots. She ran outside to see Subuht and the his companion trading sword blows with the mounted bandits. Subuht's rapier slid quickly into the belly of one horseman, while the straight-bladed broadsword of his barbarian friend shore the leg from another. "There! She has the Mark!" Gwendolen heard the cry and turned to see where it came from just as a horseman raced by and grabbed her, firmly depositing her in front of him as he galloped off, screaming, "I have her! Retreat!" As the bandits turned and executed a withdrawal, their running forms were chased by a mighty yell. "Cowardly dogs! By Mitra come back and die!" For many days and nights she endured transport, laying across the horse like a sack of meal as her stomach was beaten into a solid bruise from the gyrations of the horse. Both cries and questions were answered with stony silence, and in her panic she realized that this was not how she thought her plan would go. After one fitful bout of sleep she woke, naked and trussed on some stone alter. Her eyes, wide with freight, looked about her. The room was a dull brown stone dome, with a single great staircase along one side. She saw others, children all, in likewise condition, and surrounding them were some dozen figures in robes the color of mottled blood. One such figure noticed her wakefulness. "The Mark has wakened. Finish with the Godwin Angel and prepare her." The speaker came and stood over her, putting back the cowl of his robe as he did so. Now she saw what surrounded her. These were not men at nefarious purpose, nor some race of demi-human preparing a mere meal. The man-like creature above her had horns. Horns of a demon. Several infernal companions joined him and began anointing her with salves and paints, chanting long-forgotten tongues. But one sound they repeated many times, until, whether she willed it or no, she memorized it. And would never forget it again. The sound was "Khorramzedah." And always above her a demon with curly horns and pointed teeth held a wicked dagger. Her eyes focused on it. Memorized it. Bonded with it. This was the weapon that would kill her. At long last her entire body, and the body of every child there, was covered in runes and characters of unholy power. The chanting had gone on so long that when at last it stopped it horrified her, and she wished as hard as she could that it would not stop. "She is to be first. Do it now." The dagger rose. "By Mitra's great teats what goes here?" All in the room were startled by the booming pronouncement. The one above Gwendolen, the one with the dagger, the leader, answer back the speaker. "Who are you to so foolishly interrupt us?" For reply a new form strode down the stair. It was the lout. His mane of black hair seemed to flow with rage, and his blue eyes burned with fury. "You may know it was Amra the Lion that stopped your infernal rites!" "Fool! We are beyond such mortal threats! Forces greater than you are at work here!" "We shall see how great your forces are with a yard of steel in your guts!" Without another word he drew his straight-edged broadsword and laid about them. The demons smote and clawed and bit him, but he wove before him a web of steel that their forms could not penetrate enough for a mortal wound. During the blood-filled chaos, Subuht appeared at her side and with four strong strokes he cut her bonds. "Run girl! We've not yet finished our dance, but you may make it to safety!" Gwendolen hopped down and crouched by the alter, but an egress was not yet for her. She snatched at the closest weapon she saw, a long spear with a half-moon sprouting along it's blade. She pried it from the dead hands of the demon who had owned it and looked about. Subuht was now hard pressed by a trio of demons who had him pinned against the wall. Naked, starving, and festooned with sigils, she stole up behind them and thrust. The blow was true and the speartip sprouted from the other side of the cultist. His sudden death shocked the other two demons, giving Subuht enough of an opening to cleave their heads from their neck. The black-haired lout finished the last of the foes, and quickly cut the bonds of the other the children, who in their own turn ran out of the passage, where local authorities waited for them with blankets and warm cups. Subuht scooped her up, and, still clutching her spear, she hugged him fiercely. But as she was carried out of the dome, she only had eyes for the hulking form of Amra. The Lion. The only man she could ever love. A day's ride out of the city, she and Subuht made camp. As she supped on dried meat and fruit Subuht asked her her thoughts. She realized she'd not spoken for a day, and decided now was a good time. "I can't go back there," she said, meaning Alvis. She finished her sparse meal and Subuht handed her a whetstone. She spat upon it and started working on her spear's blade. Sharpening blades was her first job at the tavern, and this seemed no different. Subuht nodded in understanding. It was clear that the demons would try again, and a tavern was less secure than even a caravan camp. "And I must strike back. Even dead, their faces swim before me." She continued working on the blade. "There is a city where you would be safe. It is called Mendev, and it is an armed camp against the looming demon tide. There you would be safe, and taught how to strike back. "You will take me there," she said. It was not a question. "I will," he answered. "But first I'll teach you a thing or too about that weapon you have bonded with. For starters, it's not a 'spear'. It's called a 'ranseur'. And you don't just thrust with it. You thrust...and twist!" The afternoon sun shined down on an odd site. And for Mendev, Home of the Crusades, to see an odd sight was a rare thing indeed. A tall man and a short girl rode up to the city's gates. The girl hugged the man fiercely, then dismounted and strode her way up to the guard, trailing a long spear behind her. The man waited for her not. He called out "I promise to tell them!" and rode away. "This is no place for girls," said a guard. He was called Fertch, and his shift was nearly up. He had thoughts of warm mugs of ale and warmer company. A child with a spear was something he did not need. "You are too young for the Great Crusade and too old to be accepted into training. Mount thy horse and spurn fast to catch up with your father." "He is not my father, thought he carries a message for him. That message is that I am to join the Great Crusade. And I'll best any swordsman you put against me." This was met by hearty chuckles from the guards. It has been a long day and the humor was welcome, but the joke had been had. "Fair 'nuff," said Fertch. He drew sword and the girl answered with a battle-stance of her own. The stance was solid enough, but she'd turn heel fast enough with a few smacks with the flat of the blade on her backside. He advanced toward her. She thrust...and twisted. Fertch's sword went flying four feet and landed in the dirt, greeted by honest laughter from his corp of guards. Fertch shook his head to clear out whatever dream this was. Yes, he'd had almost a full jug last night, but he couldn't still be drunk. Could he? He retrieved his sword and took a firmer grip on it. He advanced again, setting his jaw to end this game. This time the girl sent his sword five feet away. Thrice again he advanced on the girl, the final two times charging at a dead run, the sword held in battle-grip, only barely remembered that he was going to use the flat and not the edge. Each time the blade left his hand, and the last time the girl cracked him on the head for his trouble. One of the guards stopped laughing long enough to catch his breath. "Please, friend Fertch, stay thy hand. The ground cries with the beating your mighty sword is giving it! I will get the Master." In time the Blademaster Publius Varus came before Gwendolen, and accepted her into the Order of Iomedae. Fifteen years have past since that day. At last she is no longer called "Acolyte" but now "Warpriest". At last she will carry the fight to the demons. At last she will walk her road. The road to slay Khorramzedah the Storm Lord. |