As luck would have it I just put together this level 2 character for a Carrion Crown game last week that didn't get chosen. I present Ivan Sarkov, Human Monk. Stats are in the profile and here is background stuff for easy perusal:
Calistril 4710
On the road through Canterwall province, Ustalav
It is near the end of winter, but the spring thaw has not yet come to Ustalav. A thick fog hangs in the air as evening approaches and a lone figure trudges through the recently fallen snow on the pathway northward. The man is wrapped tightly in a well-traveled grey cloak with his hood up, obscuring his features. His name is Ivan Sarkov.
The air is still, but the fog is thick. It isn't until Ivan is nearly on top of the gathering in the middle of the road that he realizes he isn't alone out here. From what he judges to be approximately 60 feet away, Ivan can make out the outline of four figures standing ahead of him. A rough voice makes its way through the fog, Listen old man, either you give us the pack now or we'll pry it from your corpse. Seems like a easy choice to me.
Bandits weren't uncommon on these roads, especially during the winter months when food was scarce. They usually left Ivan alone due to his size, but the more desparate or foolish of the lot had judged him young enough to be inexperienced in a fight and had been dealt with in turn. Ivan was young, but he had spent most of his life studying the martial arts and was deadly with his blade. He didn't relish killing, but he knew how to defend himself and didn't hesitate to finish a battle with lethal force if it was called for. In a way, he did feel a certain satisfaction at ridding the land of lawless killers and theives that the government of Ustalav was unable to control. In his mind, those who made their way in life through preying on the weak were among the lowest of the low and deserved what they got. As such, Ivan does not hesitate to step forward and speak up, I think you had better leave that old man alone.
Stepping out of the fog, Ivan turns down his hood, clenches his fists and takes in the scene: There are three bandits surrounding the old man, who is clutching a leather satchel close to his chest. At the sight of the newcomer, the three turn towards Ivan and draw their swords. And who do you think you are, boy? one of them calls out.
Reaching his hand into his cloak and drawing forth a crescent shaped blade, Ivan replies, My name is Ivan Sarkov and this is my last warning. Leave. Now.
In answer, the bandits rush up to Ivan with their shortswords drawn and attack! Ivan easily ducks under the first swing, but the second bandit circles around behind and cuts a gash accross his right shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he still manages to easily step aside to avoid a clumsy strike from the third.
The pain in his shoulder setting him momentarily off balance, Ivan wildly swings his sword at the bandits and they dodge away. The bandits circle around Ivan, striking quickly with their blades. He is able to dodge most of them, but he misses a step and one of the strikes stabs deep into his ribcage, causing him to stagger back a step and cough up a bit of blood onto the snow underfoot.
Turning to the bandit who stabbed him, Ivan bares his bloody teeth in a grimace. Raising one leg in the air and bringing his arms up to his sides, he leaps forward, cutting the man once accross the chest and a second time accross the throat, causing the surprised bandit to drop to the ground amidst a fountain of blood.
If the bandits are galled by the loss of their comrade, they don't show it. They press the attack, but Ivan is ready for them and, still maintaining the stance of the crane, casually dodges out of the way. Letting his foot fall to the ground, Ivan assumes an offensive stance and spins about, slashing another of the bandits across the face and finishing him with a deep stab into the chest. Kicking the body off his blade, he turns to face the remaining bandit.
Glancing from one of his fallen friends to the other, the remaining bandit takes a step back and then turns and breaks into a full run away from the road. Watching him disappear into the fog, Ivan takes a step forward to follow, but is brought up short as the pain in his torso shoots through him all at once. He coughs up another gout of blood and drops to one knee, his vision momentarily blurred.
When his eyes come back into focus, he sees the old man kneeling before him rummaging through his pack. Holding out a blue-tinted vial, the old man speaks in a gentle tone, Here, drink this. It will heal you. Ivan reaches out and unstoppers the vial, tilting his head back and swallowing the contents. As the potion enters his bloodstream, he can feel his wounds knitting themselves back together. Thank you, old man.
A wry smile plays accross the old man's face and he replies, I think it is I who owe you the thanks, young fellow. Those brigands caught me quite unprepared. But come now, let us be introduced, my name is Professor Petros Lorrimor. It is with the deepest gratitude that I make your acquaintance.