![]()
About Hjálmarr MagnussonHjálmarr Magnusson
Defense
Offense
Melee - 2H n/a
Stats
Combat-Relevant Gear
Mundane:
Active Effects on me
Casting stats
Bard Spells Known
Special Combat Abilities -
Fiend template abilities
Special Non-combat Abilities -
Traits
Languages (s) are starting languages:
Common (s) Dwarven (s) Feats:
Armor Proficiency (Light/Medium/Heavy) (Antipaladin starter) Martial/Simple Weapon Proficiency (Antipaladin starter) Deadly Aim (DM Bonus) Power Attack (DM Bonus) Combat Expertise (DM Bonus) Improved Shield Bash (L1) Two Weapon Fighting (L2) Adventuring Skills:
Acrobatics +2 (0 ranks + 2 DEX) Bluff +3 (0 rank + 3 CHA) Climb +7 (1 rank + 3 STR + 3 class) Diplomacy +8 (2 ranks + 3 CHA + 3 class) Intimidate +7 (1 rank + 3 CHA + 3 class) Knowledge(Arcana) n/a (0 ranks + 0 INT) Knowledge(Dungeon) n/a (0 rank + 0 INT) Knowledge(Local) +4 (1 rank + 0 INT + 3 class) Knowledge(Nature) n/a (0 ranks + 0 INT) Knowledge(Planes) n/a (0 ranks + 0 INT) Knowledge(Religion) n/a (0 ranks + 0 INT) Perception +5 (2 ranks + 0 WIS + 3 class) Ride +2 (0 ranks + 2 Dex) Sense Motive +5 (2 ranks + 0 WIS + 3 class) Stealth +6 (1 rank + 2 DEX + 3 class) Survival 0 (0 ranks + 0 WIS) Swim +3 (0 ranks + 3 STR) Use Magic Device +8 (2 ranks + 3 CHA + 3 class) Background Skills:
Appraise +0 (0 ranks + 0 INT) [+2 for certain conditions as Dwarf] Knowledge(Engineering) +4 (1 rank + 0 INT + 3 class) Knowledge(Geography) +4 (1 rank + 0 INT + 3 class) Perform(oratory) +8 (2 ranks + 3 CHA + 3 class) Profession(Soldier) +5 (2 ranks + 0 WIS + 3 class) [ranks from Desertion trait] Detailed Gear:
Cash: 0 gp 0 sp 0 cp Carried with Hjálmarr
Mundane(carried) -
Hjálmarr Encumbrance: Light (0 lbs) (light to 86 lbs; medium to 173 lbs and heavy to 260 lbs) Mundane (Left in a 'safe' location)
------------------------ Background:
The wagon's creaking and jolting no longer registered to the slumped, mute figure in its barred carriage. Stocky and muscular, the dwarf set his head in his hands ignoring the miserable scenery passing by. The dismal surroundings of the road to Brandescar matched Hjálmarr's mood perfectly. This is what comes of staying true to your principles in this thrice damned human kingdom. Raising his head to look around, a young dwarf with red braided beard and unkempt hair gazes out into the world. With heavy brow, strong nose, and grim mouth, it is a stern gaze that looks back into a world gone mad. "Well, look at me now father. Do I bring honor to our family? I did all I was told and still this is where I land. Hjálmarr spits some of the dust from road out, using a little of his remaining (and rationed) supply for want of drink. Seeing nothing worth watching, his head sinks back into his hands as he considers the long road that led him hear. The curse, aye. It had to be the curse that started this road. Laid the groundworks and started the workers of fate to building this travesty. The whispered rumors in his clan, of a dark ritual and a mad patriarch and a reckoning to come, sprang to mind. It looks like the reckoning had finally arrived. Nothing to be done about it. I am what I am. The gods have forsaken me, so why should I serve them? Bitterness and anger, always simmering beneath the surface, rise like a tide to overwhelm conscious thought. "Damn-fool righteous Mitrans riding roughshod over all and no worries about the collateral damage. My people's history and pride - washed away and barely tolerated. The law? A fabrication to serve the Church's ends." The blasphemous thoughts deserved another spit, as if ridding himself of something foul tasting. "BLOODY LOT OF GOOD SERVING THEM DID ME THOUGH, EH?" His outburst earned a banging on the roof of the wagon and a shouted, "Shut up back there, you! Got a long road to Brandescar. Save your energy for the short drop." A hateful glance -brown eyes suddenly glowing fiery red- is cast, but Hjálmarr subsides into silence. It wasn't worth arguing with whatever puling rat-spawn they'd found to drive the wagon. There were the good times. When I was young and naïve and full of grand thoughts. 'Hjállmar' the glorious Paladin, Savior of the Watch Wall, slayer of thousands of evil, and all that tripe. He sighs, recalling days of hard training among family and clan. With his born aptitude, there was none in his family who thought he couldn't rise high in the defense of the land and bring the Gromung clan -most pious of all Dwarf clans- honor and glory. The curse, and the lies of an entire people, saw that it didn't hold true. I was born to be a leader. A shining paragon for all to 'ooo' and 'ahhhhh' over like some shiny bauble. And I bought it hook, line, and sinker. More the fool, I. With nothing else to occupy his mind, it wandered for a time flitting from random thought to random thought. Here now on the training in leadership and battlefield order. Then and there on his service in the Clan militia and then later among the Knights of Alerion. I was so excited. So eager to be one. A surge of bitterness is quickly quelled, lest his thoughts turn instantly dark. Better to walk the whole road that led me here. Won't have long to 'savor' it. He remembered the persecution of the village. Supposedly Asmodeans, but peaceful ones if so. Their herding up -the raw brutality and fierce hatred of the knights- ran counter to everything he thought he knew. He had been present in the trials, if they could be called that. It had the feel of a bureaucrat rubberstamping import papers, not the reality of destroyed lives; peaceful if misguided lives. That earned another spit. And maybe that's the great secret. Their vaunted Mitra the tyrant instead of the force for good I was led to believe. Honor and righteousness lost on the wayside. Shaking his head, he toyed with thoughts of the end of his sordid tail. Flitting around it but never committing to the pain of thinking of it. With a resigned sigh, he thought of the end. Yea, I abandoned my post. Led my men off to preserve their lives never mind my orders. The Knights, they deserved what they got at the hands of those barbarians from beyond the Wall. Ignore my protestations will you? Well fine, but don't expect my help. He glossed over the pain of the trial. The disbelieving eyes of his family and clan as he was excoriated before the court. Coward. Fool. Traitor. Deserter. This is how I'll die. He casts his eyes in the direction the wagon was travelling, imagining the looming castle that might even now be visible beyond the wooden wall of his travelling cell. "Bah, no time for anything to be put right in this place. A short drop awaits. If I'm to die, why bother in prayer? The gods have abandoned me. Many are the regrets, but nothing to be done. No... nothing at all." Fury, hot and thick, bubbles up past his resignation. A trickle of blood runs down his leg as his hands morph into razor-sharp claws. Razorsharp fangs, as if his teeth had been filed to points, are bared as he grimaces. Blood-red eyes, blazingly bright in the dim carriage, snap open and narrow in anger. "Well damn you all to Hell then, you rotten bastards! TORAG! MITRA! All of you. Damn you all to hell!" The curse of Clan Dormung, road to his death.
Appearance:
Disheveled and dirty as he might appear, Hjálmarr could be thought of as a handsome dwarf. With stern features and heavy brow, he has an imposing seriousness about him. His braided beard is dirty and fraying, but was the envy of many in his clan when it could be kept clean and neat. His close cropped warriors hair has gone to mess under Mitran neglect. It's inhuman how they treat prisoners. I'd never have known. One more reason to be glad my name isn't associated with them. Always under the assumption that he would be a soldier and officer, Hjálmarr had kept a neat, tidy, and conservative appearance. His present circumstances in prison rags didn't allow him that comfort. Ah well, it'll be over soon. Face it with dignity, soldier. And then, in the moments of anger, the devil within is revealed. Claws grow where hands should be. Eyes burn hellfire bright. Horns burst from among neatly combed hair. Teeth become fangs and utter blasphemies against those who've done him so much wrong.
Personality:
To Hjálmarr, his word is his bond. To serve and protect the people of his Clan and adoptive country were his primary motivations. To see the ideals of charity, honor, and mercy cast down has left him adrift and unsure of what is right and wrong. The awakening of the curse of Clan Dormung in him in his moments of anger has done nothing to ease his miserable uncertainty. With his world turned on its head, he has to relearn who Hjálmarr Magnusson is. |