| Race |
HP 14/14 | AC 19 | SAVES Dex +1 Con +1 Wis +1 | Initiative +1 | SKILLS Athletics + 4 Intimidation +3 Survival +3 Perception +2 | |
About Ispen Ironborn
Dwarf, Fighter 1
HP 14
Initiative +1, Senses: Darkvision
Proficiency Bonus: +2
AC 19 (Chainmail & Shield)
Appearance:
53 yrs old, 5’1” / 162 lbs.
Reddish-Blond / Green Eyes / Beard
Move: 25'
Abilities:
Str 15 (+2) Dex 12 (+1) Con 16 (+3) Int 10 (+0) Wis 12 (+1) Chr 10 (+1)
Ranged:
Crossbow: +1 Hit, d8+1, 80’/320'
Melee
Battleaxe: +4 Hit/+2 Damage, d8, x3
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Racial:
Darkvision: 60'
Dwarven Resilience: Advantage on poison saves and damage.
Dwarven Combat Training: Proficiency with battleaxe, handaxe, light hammer, and warhammer.
Tool Proficiency: Brewer's Supplies
Stone Cunning: Double check bonus on History regarding stonework.
Dwarven Toughness: +1 HP per level.
Class:
Proficiencies: Perception, Survival
Fighting Style: Defense (+1 AC while wearing armor)
Second Wind: 1/per short rest, may regain 1d10+1 HP
Background:
Skills: Acrobatics, Perform (Any)
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Skills:
Skills:
+1 Acrobatics
+1 Animal Handling
+0 Arcana
+4 Athletics
+0 Deception
+0 History
+1 Insight
+2 Intimidation
+0 Investigation
+1 Medicine
+0 Nature
+3 Perception
+0 Performance
+0 Persuasion
+0 Religion
+1 Slight of Hand
+1 Stealth (Disadvantage)
+3 Survival
Languages: Common, Dwarven
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Equipment:
Battleaxe, Light Crossbow and bolts,
Chainmail and Shield
Common clothes, Dice Set, Bedroll, Mess kit, 50' rope, Rations (5), Tinderbox, Torch (1), Wineskin
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BACKGROUND
Ispen comes from a long line of soldiers and smiths, his family line being one of military service and more importantly to them, weaponry production. His own skills and personality however did little to endear him to his uncles and cousins, as it was discovered early on that Ispen had no real talent at weapon making, and he still carries a small, rusty dagger that was his only small success at the forge.
The young dwarf had a reasonable aptitude with arms, as do most dwarves, but a general reluctance to fight just for fighting's sake, save in the most extreme circumstances. He preferred some diplomacy to mindless melee, and thinking before leaping. For this mindset, he was declared either lazy or a coward by his father and many of his relatives, though his great grandfather noted an inner strength in his grandson, as well as a talent for cooking that the aging dwarf thought could be encouraged into a far more useful skill...brewing*.
Hard-working and far from actually being cowardly, Ispen kept his head down and found his time in the smithy quite stifling, so when the opportunity arose for him to strike out on his own, he took it. Secretly harboring a dream of one day owning his own tavern or inn where he could brew ale and refine his process, Ispen is now determined to find and secure enough treasure to fund this goal and make a name for himself and for Ironborn Ale.
*The plan is for him to possibly grow into a skill set of brewing beer and ale, and possibly purchasing his own tavern, down the road. Mostly for roleplaying purposes than anything else. Just like the idea of it. :)
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THE SETUP
“We come all the way from Dagger Falls…got chased down by them blasted bandits dressed like wolves…and all fer Nothin.” The firey-haired dwarf growled, slamming his fist down on the rickety wooden table. The two throwing hammers laying there rattled on the surface with the impact. Several patrons of the tavern looked up, but Ispen Ironborn was livid and didn’t care who knew it. Still, the drinking house was of the type that no one seemed interested for more than the moment’s disruption. Except, that is, for his brother.
“But how ‘were I to know that the merchant would DIE of old age before we could get here?” Tralor Ironborn practically whined. “It ain’t like I knew nuthin’ of his condition or anythin. How was I ta know he were dyin'?”
“That be exactly my point! We spend all that time getting’ here, after all that time o’ makin’ them hammers with Uncle Bahln…an’ fer what?? Fer Nuthin! The merchant be dead, Tralor…dead a'fore we even left Dagger Falls, I might add...an his Kin knew he were off his horse when he sent the order to us, so they ain’t payin'! An’ now we are just plain stuck with a wagon-load of these stupid ...throwin’ hammers!” Again the dwarf’s fist met the wood, though this time fewer of the taverners seemed to notice.
“Like I said…we kin sell ‘em at th’ market…”
“The Market? Here in Zhentil Keep? Are ye daft?? Like it be possible ta sell anythin’ without the Guard’s permission and getting their cut? Bah. Throwing hammers.” Ispen reached across the table for his mug, upturned it to drink, then let out another “Bah!” when he found it near empty.
The brothers hadn’t been in Zhentil Keep long, mere hours, but what they’d seen…or at least, what Ispen had seen, wasn’t too his liking. Occupied by simply some of the foulest, most treacherous people he’d ever seen, the angry dwarf couldn’t wait to get out of the place. It practically reeked of mercenary schemes, military might, and evil thoughts. Granted, Dagger Falls was no bed of roses, but for the past 12 years it had been home. The brothers had worked with their uncle in his smithy making the usual assortment of necessities…horseshoes, wagon wheels, plow shears…but this had been their first venturing into actual weapon-making, and it seemed that it would all have been for naught.
“Well, I say that we should head out in the morning to the marketplace an’ try an sell all these…we might make a decent profit…or at least enough to pay our way back to Dagger Falls…” continued Tralor defiantly, used to his younger brother’s outbursts.
“An’ I say yer a doorknob.” Ispen harumphed. He scowled, waving again for the tavern wench to refill his mug, and when he did, he caught sight of a tattered parchment posted to the wall. He arched a massive eyebrow and slowly stood, walking over to the ale stained wall, and squinted at the letters written there. “A drinkin’ contest, eh? Possible employment with a mercenary company? And this...explorin’ the borderlands out near Phlan. Hmmm…Now THESE be interesting! Mayhaps we kin turn a profit in this after all. We'll just apply fer one of these notices.”
"Ispen. No. You know what Uncle Bahln says about 'venturin..."
"Uncle Bahln says a lot o' stuff...and HE ain't here."
"Ispen...we can't..." Tralor practically whined in the most dwarfly manner possible.
"YOU can't. Fine...go to th' marketplace...sell yer hammers, Tralor...then go back ta' Dagger Falls empty handed or rich, if'n ye can sell the blasted hardware. Me? I need me a change...I'm going huntin or sumthin..." With that, the firey-haired dwarf swept one of the hammers from the table and tucked it in his belt and adjusted his Axe in its sheath across his back.
Ispen gave his brother a nod and paused to grasp his shoulder in a rare show of affection, then walked resolutely over to the bartender seeking more information about the contest.
"Ahh, Ispen..." Tralor sighed.
