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Going to chalk this one up as a loss, I think. 1-3 posts is a bit steep for my usual frequencies anyhow. If I'm absolutely positively required to keep it going, I can try to stick it out, but I've since joined a different game (after Spooky's absence).
Yeah. Already throwing my hat into other games as we speak.
"Agreed," Hrodlan offers to Quinn. "Our being stranded below the city is taxing enough. Being outmaneuvered and flanked by unknowns more familiar with these tunnels would be troublesome, indeed."
Hrodlan affords a moment's consideration towards removing the snake's head as they pass by, but thinks better of it. Given the creature's state, it is likely merely a more distant victim of the madness that transpired above. There is likely yet much danger ahead, so he attempts to dispel any lingering thoughts of paranoia regarding the serpent, instead turning his eyes and ears to the path ahead. He worries their dwarf-scout might get in over his head, while hoping it is not the case.
"For all we know, the serpent is familiar to some vile cultists further in. Better to put the thing down and be done with it. Should the worst be realized, it might provide sustenance in desperate hours. There may be others trapped down here elsewhere, too, who are not so well armed and trained as we," Hrodlan considers aloud. Best to take no chances down here until we get our bearings. Stopping for a moment to regard the infirm of their number, Hrodlan takes visual stock of what manner of weapons are available to them before asking formally, "Are any others without means of self defense? I've a spare hammer myself, as well as a shortbow and full quiver. I favor my blades, and would not miss my other armaments overmuch, so long as it is a temporary affair."
Hrodlan attempts to break the feeling of unease following the campsite rummaging with a just as awkward attempt at small talk. He has a somewhat irritating habit of swiveling the torch in his left hand to whomever does the speaking. "If I might risk intrusion, might I ask what brought each of you to Kenabres? Your professions?" His eyes gleam with curiosity, though the fact that the discussion is a means of distraction from their grim surroundings is worn plainly elsewhere on his face.
As attention is turned to the matter of the campsite and the recovered backpack, Hrodlan suddenly reacts as if enduring an epiphany. He fishes around in his own pouch, withdrawing the dislodged scales of Terendelev he had discovered only moments prior in the rubble mound. "Such is our state that I had nearly forgotten a discovery of my own—I discovered these strange boons in the chamber we awoke in." Hrodlan circuits the motley crew arrayed around him, pressing a scale each into the hands of those he deems combat ready. "I know not why, but they seem to have retained some measure of righteous will from whom these once belonged to. Surely, it is Iomedae's will that they came to be placed in our own possession, yes?"
Hrodlan begins rummaging through the old campsite with practiced ease, sifting detritus aside as his eyes turn over the place for anything of practical use or inherent value. It is a task to which he is accustomed to. Tracking something down meant recognizing clues. Traveling light meant not always having everything you needed on hand—finds such as this filled in the gaps. They're not prepared for this. Hrodlan surveys everyone in the room quickly once more, particularly those carrying an aloofness about them. Heavens, I'm not even sure if I am. "With the exception of perhaps the dwarves numbered among us, it appears that we are sorely lacking in experience with the environs we find ourselves in. The extent of these tunnels and what lives within them is unknown. Getting out of here is important, but rushing headlong through a labyrinth of caverns and tunnels is tantamount to suicide. I've been beneath Kenabres before. It is an awful, foul place. We must be prepared to accept what few boons luck affords us, or we won't last long enough to feel the sun's embrace again. In this, we must be as the roaches: scavengers." Despite every effort to avoid such, Hrodlan's tone comes across as an admonishment. He understands the value of working together, but trapped here with so many strangers of unknown scruples is taxing his patience. His training had not prepared him for this sort of thing. He had always thought to be working alone, in the shadows. It would seem he got the shadows part right, at least.
Shifting his weight from one foot to another, Hrodlan visits a couple of mocking blows against the enormous cockroach that now bears the gift of his first attack. Seeing that the thing is focused on him, he does not immediately press the assault overmuch. The young Kellid notices that the other two vermin have been dealt with quickly, so he waits for everyone to encircle the beast and put it down as well. "To me now! Slay this pest and let us be done with the lot." ________________________________
Momentarily taken aback by the emergence of the grotesque vermin, Hrodlan quickly steels himself and steps forward to fight the creatures back before they bring harm to the injured among their number. The torch that had been secured in his left hand is discarded as he approaches, replaced by his smaller sword with an accompanying hiss of metal as it slides free from its sheath. "Pen them in and strike true before they can skitter around to our wounded!" Sword raised before him, Hrodlan steps forward nimbly to deliver a vicious arc with his longsword; his shortsword remains poised to deflect any retaliation the creatures might offer.
Aye, the Christmas -> New Years -> Birthday train is in full swing for me. Should clear out soon, I figger.
I certainly won't complain about having align weapon.
Hrodlan spends a moment in silent anguish atop the mound, but quickly admits to himself the pointlessness of defying what is a blatant dead end. After shuffling his way back down to the ground with the rest, he gives his gear a quick once over before retrieving his torch and unsheathing his longsword. "The sooner we are afforded the surface, the sooner we will know the extent of this... carnage. Let us away, then."
Memories come flooding back to fill what had previously been vacant. Hrodlan suddenly finds himself wishing very hard that their current predicament had been as simple as an abduction by a cultist cell. The reality is far harder to stomach. With Terendelev laid low so easily, his heart and mind reel as one as they turn to thoughts of Hulrun. Had he survived? Against a foe so overwhelming with no warning. . . Eyes wide and the sweat of panic beginning to form along his brow, Hrodlan begins foolishly attempting to claw his way to the top of the mountain of rubble. Reason and discipline abandon him, and there is only the abject fear for his surrogate uncle's well being. What of his Fellowship? All of their number had been accounted for at the Plaza. Were they decimated in the attack as well? Inheritor preserve them. Please let them be well! Cascades of rock and dirt slough and slide beneath Hrodlan as his futile climb continues, his torch lying discarded at the bottom where his ascent began.
"Whatever our means or state of being, we don't have time to dawdle about. To remain here is to delay a means of effecting a return home. Judging from the nature of this mound of stone and ruined windows behind us, things do not fare well. Those too injured or infirm to contribute should remain at the rear while those capable of yet lifting their weapons to competent effect position themselves at the fore. The deeps beneath Kenabres are dangerous, and we should regard it as such lest we fall to our own ignorance." Hrodlan turns to directly regard the motley crew of survivors he is now stranded with. "Do any among us possess the means to conjure illumination? I've only enough torches to last a day, if that."
Hrodlan calmly reshoulders his backpack with his torch held before him. He raises the light source higher and casts illumination out over the massive mounds of rubble before turning it to get a better look at the pair of planetouched offering assistance to the woman with an injured leg. The tiefling is the same he had encountered in Clydwell Plaza—the same that the dwarf had been talking with before bumping into Hrodlan. Despite his initial assessment, he finds himself questioning the tiefling's strength of character. What if he's not a guardsman at all? Why would he be isolated in here with the rest of us, then? Inheritor's blade! What is going on here? Torch extended before him, the Kellid silently affords himself a moment to appraise Quinn as they begin to discuss the demon-spawned guardsman's moniker. Despite his ferocious appearance, Hrodlan gleans a measure of immutable moral fiber—a noble bearing that belies the true personage beneath the Abyssal countenance that mars his appearance. Resolving to give the tiefling the benefit of the doubt for now, Hrodlan turns his gaze back to the debris-wall behind. He offers it a more thorough scrutiny for any that might yet live pinned beneath stone and wreckage. He retrieves a handful of sizable broken glass shards from what remains of the Cathedral's formerly breathtaking windows. "Apologies, Lady, but I might find better use for these than contributors to a mound." Laying the shards on the ground, he grabs a fist sized rock off of the pile and begins crushing the glass into smaller shards before scooping them up into his beltpouch and cinching the strap tight. When others in the room begin to stir awake, he places the torch his left hand, then secures the familiar grip of his longsword with his right. By way of assistance, Hrodlan at least approaches those within the chamber with his torchlight, that all in the room might be able to see one another clearly. His overcurious eyes seize the form of the tiefling once again, though the glare of condemnation is thankfully absent from his gaze. "Quinn Inktooth, was it? I am Hrodlan Gurnwold. I remember seeing you and the dwarf at Clydwell Plaza. Then... nothing. Do any recall what brought us here?" __________________________________________________
Gasping for air, choking on dust and debris, Hrodlan's mind races to a place of panic. Memories of his capture by Deskari cultists flood his thoughts and his lungs begin working frantically. A heavy weight presses down against his chest and arms, and he fears himself captured and restrained once more. They had come to finish their ritual after so many years. No. Muscles thick from years of brutal training, Hrodlan manages to shift the thick mounds of rubble and rock that pin him. The scrape of rock against rock resounds around him as the debris is discarded to either side. Surging forward, coughing heavily, his hands scramble across his person to verify for himself what his eyes cannot in total darkness. He appears to be intact and relatively unharmed. The dull ache within his skull wanes, but yet clouds his senses. He finds himself desperately wanting to understand where he is and what brought him here. A dwarf had bumped into him—that much he remembers. That same dwarf had shared a brief exchange with the tiefling who stood nearby. Hrodlan had thought the demon-tainted man of no threat or importance. Had he been mistaken? No point bemoaning mistakes now. Gather your wits and bearings and figure out where to go from there. Pressing himself with some difficulty onto all fours, and then to a kneeling position, Hrodlan fishes through his backpack for one of the near-dozen torches secured in a tight bundle within its depths. Securing his flint and steel, he begins setting to the task of lighting it. With any luck, his situation was not as bleak as it seemed so far. The shifting of rubble and squirming of persons other than himself lend a need for haste to his task. It is comforting to hear a woman's voice calling out in the common tongue. He had nearly expected to be greeted by the chattering of Abyssal speech. "Aye! Hold fast, friend. I'll see about illuminating our predicament."
Hah, thanks! I'm still surprised at how many Tricksters were piling on so quickly.
"Our enemy does not rest, and neither shall you." Prelate Huldrun's chiding was as unnecessary as it was seething. Though none of their teachers had made mention of what Armasse meant for their Fellowship, those on the cusp of graduating into their order's first full members had already accepted long ago what their duties would entail for the approaching festivities: vigilance. The most opportune strikes are those delivered against a relaxed opponent. Comfort breeds laziness and allows lapses in duty. That the Fifth Crusade's morale desperately needed an injection of hope and reprieve such as that afforded by Armasse could not be questioned. But not all who called Kenabres home would suspend their duties. The Fellowship of the Forsworn Blade would now serve as auxiliary to the guardsmen and soldiers granted leave; silent watchers in the throngs of people hoping to lose themselves in a tide of celebrations and frivolous jousts however brief such distractions might be. It was necessary. Hrodlan would not let down his benefactor. He would show Hulrun that he had not placed poorly his faith in the young Kellid. Rising before the sun as he has done for many years, Hrodlan encountered no difficulty in securing himself a commanding vantage of Clydwell Plaza. Deep within what would become the center of the mob pressing every closer to gain a decent view of the spectacles to come, the young Gurnwold keeps out a watchful eye utilizing the same strategies that dictate the strategies of the Fellowship in general. It is from within that the forces of corruption seek to take hold, and so it is from within that their culling should be directed. A guard on the perimeter might spy a disturbance as it happens, but a watchful eye within might prevent the deed altogether. Cultists and demonic servants infested Kenabres like a plague—a sickness as profound and grotesque as the very Worldwound itself. Through his feigned interest in the festivities all around him, his eyes continually sweep the gatherings of citizen and crusader alike, occasionally noting the location of his brothers and sisters of The Fellowship should their help be necessary in subduing a threat emergent. His garments and bearing do little to betray his true purpose, much as his superiors intended. Shrouded in drab shades of grays, browns, and blacks with no heraldric symbolism or badges of station to speak of, Hrodlan looks more like a brigand or woodsman than a staunch ally to the crusade. The weapons that hang from his belt—sturdy blades forged by Mendevian hands belying any allusions to a life of banditry—vouch plainly for his allegiance for any keen eyed enough to take note. Presently, a thick gray linen cloak conceals the majority of his features, long tufts of black, braided hair hanging loose from behind both ears. Lady of Valor, cast your gaze over those gathered in the sight of your Cathedral—reveal to your faithful servants those who would do harm to our noble cause. Again, the young man's eyes begin surveying the ever expanding crowd of people around him. He is ready to prove his worth.
Many thanks for the selection. Given the strength of the other submissions, I know settling on choices was likely a difficult undertaking. Redneck reporting in; located in West Virginia, EST.
Just as an added note, I opted for Trickster because Champion is usually dogpiled in most of the threads I've seen. If the opposite turns out to be the case, I have no reservations about switching it back to Champ.
Think I got everything squared away, here. All information is tucked away in the profile; Backstory and the like located at the bottom. Specific notes/explanations for the GM: On the Fellowship: As you'll notice, one of the more prominent tenets of Fellowship of the Forsworn Blade is a disregard for manmade laws when it suits them. While this may seem counter-intuitive to Hrodlan's designation as Lawful Good, I intended it to manifest more in the sense of following a strict code. The Fellowship needed strong willed and tempered members to avoid going off the rails much like Hulrun's inquisitors had done in Kenabres' past. So while the organization's guidelines itself sometimes forces its members to tread dangerously close to the realm of Chaotic Good, the strict adherence to predetermined guidelines and binding oaths carries a very Lawful Good weight. That, coupled with Hrodlan's own personal misgivings about the things he's being asked to do regularly. Charisma Dump: I know many balk at stat dumping, but I intend it to show through strongly in the character's presentation. While Hrodlan serves a higher cause, he is not a nice person. He is relentless and unforgiving, especially where demons and their servants are concerned. Having been shaped into cultist-chasing weapon of righteousness, the subtleties of diplomacy and intrigue can be lost on his oft times infuriatingly singular purpose: rooting out demonic perversion within Kenabres. One final caveat: I envision Hrodlan beginning as very set in his ways with an unshakeable core of beliefs—his order is right and necessary for the Crusade to thrive. As things progress, I would like to explore the breaking down of such narrow-minded persecutions. I am aware that redemption plays a strong role in the narrative of this AP, and would like Hrodlan to eventually work towards embracing that philosophy over his beginning mantra of "root them out; salt the earth" zealotry.
Retrieving his stein and allowing himself the indulgence of another modest swig after sharing in the toast he did not think to inspire, Grommuk's eyes meet with those of Jokum's as the fellow approaches and offers both praise and question. The half-orc nods an ascent to Kimroth's interjection. "I can speak for neither Crusader nor Inquisitor, though I think you'll find their disposition does little to dissuade or discourage any in possession of stout heart or sturdy blade from lending their own weight to the cause." Grommuk's eyes seem to light up a bit as his own perspective on the matter is given words. He pauses briefly in consideration, ultimately deciding to append a further suggestion to his answer. "Abadar's faithful seldom turn away one in search of sanctuary or answers. I can vouch firsthand in this, as to the substance of their wisdom and the necessity of The Judge's tenets. It is to they and to He that I owe my thanks for shaping me into the man I am today. I know little of your own troubles or travails, but whatever the price demanded of you, I have no doubt that the counsel and guidance of those given to the service of Abadar might steer your course to providence."
Neither balking nor blanching at the remark uttered just beside him, Grommuk instead calmly offers a quick appraisal of the older gentleman beside him. He flips the lid on his stein closed quietly and sets the drink atop the bar, then turns to politely regard the fellow who has chosen to speak of him if not at him. Drawing a heavily scarred forearm across the creamy foam that has collected on his upper lip, he clears his throat to formally announce both his presence and intention to speak. "It has been my experience that slaying old prejudices yields more reward than the staunchest of enemies." Grommuk inclines his head in a slight nod, a polite gesture by way of greeting to the Lastwall man. His posture remains upright, but decidedly nonthreatening. Eyes continue to peer out from the caverns of a thick, prominent brow in study of the warrior before him. "I am Grommuk Doomscowl. Faithful servant of Abadar; citizen of Kenabres; would-be soldier of the Fifth Crusade; bastard-spawn of the wastes of Belkzen." The half-orc adjusts the slightly skewed position of his thick belt and straightens out his well kept tabard before speaking further. "We unite here in common purpose, despite our many handicaps; be they the curse of questionable heritage, a tarnished soul, or stubborn prejudice. Such is our foe that it unites so disparate an assembly. I should hope that those willing to lay down their very souls in the name of so righteous a cause deserve more than a grudge borne of tradition."
Leave. It was always such a foreign idea to him these days. Armasse carries with it purpose, to be sure, and Grommuk understands the need to uplift and provide pronounced respite to those who have witnessed too long the atrocities of the front lines—the Abyss spawned horrors and corruptions of the World Wound. But Grommuk? He can no longer rationalize the frivolity of meandering aimlessly about the city, directed by baser desires and instinct alone; free to pursue whatever vice presents itself in the name of celebration and distraction. Nevertheless, he would stand to be seen among the masses. He would do as he was bid by those of the Abadaran faith to whom he owed his very soul. At the very least, the absence of his armor and blade were a refreshing change of pace, though the throngs and delegations of visitors to Kenabres made getting around the city no less taxing an enterprise. His musings are cut short as his foots carry him finally to what is to be his room and board for the week: The Defender's Heart. Light from without floods into the inn's common room, only to be just as quickly blocked out by the obstruction of the ogre of a half-orc that fills its frame. He stands tall enough to crane an Ulfen's neck and wears plainly the garb of an Abadaran—tabard, cloak and other richly appointed garments of all whites, golds, and black accents. Thick black strands of hair are pulled back in a bevy of braids, kept firmly secured away from the bestial profile of his face. His knife-like ears and chrysochlorous skin coloration tell all too plainly the tale of his heritage: a bastard spawn of Belkzen. And yet, despite his questionable origins, the young half-orc is able to manage a dignified bearing—a countenance softened by sympathetic eyes that belie more intelligence and humanity than his ferocious facade might otherwise indicate. His eyes make a steady sweep of the room that sprawls out before him. It seemed a room at odds with itself. Partly seeming jovial and lost in a tide of revelry, while beneath the surface a tension teemed, ready to rear its head if afforded such an opportunity. You are not on duty, Grommuk. The inn is not yours to police. His mental reprimand accomplished, Grommuk approaches the bar, each long stride accompanied by the deep thump of thick soled boots as he finds his destination. Waiting patiently and immobile for the barkeep to acknowledge his presence, he barks out in a voice that, while eloquent, is all gravel and bass, "A stein of Nerosyan Imperial Stout, if you please." After offering thanks and payment, Grommuk begins to search the room for suitable seating or standing room.
Alright, here's this guy. Decided on the Champion path (Stolen Fury).
Barbarian (Invulnerable Rager) and proud of it - won't be doing any sort of level dipping or what-have-you. Firmly a Martial character. The profile is pretty much fully fleshed out; I'm in the process of reworking the gear, but that should be done momentarily. There's way more information in the profile than you're asking for, but I'll just summarize and post the answers to your specific questions here directly. Heldren is Home:
Garak arrived in Heldren nearly five years ago, stone-faced and seemingly intent on drowning himself in booze. Brünwald's arrival and intervention on Garak's behalf has set him on the path of smithing and redemption. He now works as a weaponsmith and apprentice under Heldren's blacksmith. Traits and Training:
Garak is a tower of a man from the Linnorm Kingdoms who wears his distant frost giant ancestry plainly. Though he is new to smithing and Torag's teachings, fighting and the harsh climates of the north are longtime friends of his - the brain forgets, but the muscles remember. Garak's Gear:
Though the bare essentials are still the remnants of his former days, Garak has long since pawned, sold, or lost the vast majority of what his adventuring afforded him. What gear he has now was either wrought by his own hands or purchased. Massive Morality: In his younger days, he was every bit one of the wild reavers the Linnorm Kingdoms are famous for, plundering both tomb and town. These days, he generally tries to protect those who cannot protect themselves without getting tangled up in politics or crime.
Barbaric Proportions!: Did some more poking around on some stats for real life half-giants. Conan Stevens probably undershoots the mark (upon some further reading; not to imply he isn't a huge dude or anything) only slightly. Leaning more towards a comparison to Nathan Jones circa Troy I think, except paler, hairier, and beardier. Which would have me settling more around 380 for Garak (in "prime" condition) and closer to a current 395ish (until he discards the last vestiges his previous sedentary lifestyle afforded him - over a year working the forge has got him most of the way there).
Went ahead and consolidated everything into this profile. If you'd still prefer to keep everything as an in-thread spoilered post, I can easily oblige. I have yet to work on his gear, but that can be remedied soon. |
