Ingle Farwen's page

Level 1:
Bomber's Eye
Comprehend Languages
Cure Light Wounds
Disguise Self
Enlarge Person
True Strike

Even as a child Ingle saw himself as single-mindedly ambitious. His father, however, saw him as enthusiastically rudderless. The half-elven boy had a knack for letting his mouth run a few paces ahead of his brain. Indeed, some days it seemed to his beleagured patron that the boys mind hadn't even entered the race. Yet there was no denying the child's intellect. Nor his curiousity.

Growing up in northern Issia near the mouth of the Choral river, Ingle found life both exciting and wonder-filled as well as immensely dull. This latter he owed mainly to the other children of Edmuth, who found his constant hair-brained schemes tiresome. As the boy reached his teens it was not uncommon for him to return home in the late afternoon bruised or bleeding from his playmates attempts to "settle him down a bit". Though he eventually did learn to talk himself out of these "helpful" corrections, he failed to learn the art of avoiding the need for them. Fearing more for the boys mental well being than any real concern for his physical, his father, Menion, sent the 14 year old off to apprentice under the village mage. He hoped that this would provide an outlet for the boys uncontrolled imagination.

It proved... well, quite disasterous, to put a kindly spin on it.

After only 10 months Ingle was sent home with the gentle admonishment to "never so much as think of setting foot in this school again. Not even in the yard, if you please." His aptitude for magic was not entirely non-existant however. While he never was able to cast a single spell or conjure so much as a draft of luke-warm air, he did grasp a certain amount of the workings of spellcraft. And he discovered a new ambition. He would learn to cast those idiotic incantations on his own. No need for the waving about of hands and all that mumbling nonsense; not when he had alchemy to do the work for him. (And this is not to even mention his newfound disdain for the clergy. Sure, a cleric can cast spells. But who wants to be at the whim of some sodding god or another. They're liable to hold back that one spell you really need, right when you really need it, just for the fun of it. Well, that's what he would do if he were a god...)

To this purpose he dedicated the next 10 years of his life. HIs father, it may be noted, was not only pleased at his sons propensity for the art of alchemical invention, but also for the fact that the boy seemed a little less rudderless than he had. And there was money to be made in the selling of tindertwigs and the like. Not that Ingle had much interest in tindertwigs... He had bigger plans. Much bigger plans.

At only 175 pounds, Ingle's 6' 5" frame gives him an oddly teetering appearance, though he is in truth fairly nimble. This effect is accentuated by the fact that the half-elf rarely seems to actually be looking where he's walking.

Despite his awkward height, Ingle is not a bad looking male. His tawny hair, though perhaps not fashionable, is at least stylish in it's own way; shoulder length, thick and clean. His light brown eyes are expressive. He's quick to smile, even though it often feels ungainly to him.

He wears inexpensive leather armor beneath a relatively clean travelling cloak of muted yellow. His trousers and boots, both brown, are nondecript but well made and functional for life on the road.

There are no weapons apparent on the man, though he does carry upon his belt several odd flasks and leather pouches. On his back is balanced an unusually old backpack.

• Party Selected
  
• Kragath Lightbringer - Human Paladin
  
• Peregrin Fetch - Human Wizard
  
• Ingle Farwen - Half-Elven Alchemist
  
• Jonas Medvyed - Human Cavalier
  
• Gathien Toran - Halfling Barbarian
  
• And one more, to be met upon the road at Oleg's Trading Post

• The party retired for the night to the Golden Arrow Inn, with promises of horse and gear to arrive in the morning courtesy of the Swordlords.