Little Rukk's page

What can best be described as a "goblin" sits perched on a stool, idly kicking his legs as he a hums limerick. Haphazard tufts of burnt fur dot his body and his visible skin is littered with scars. Both his left ear and eye are missing, and a metal plate appears to have been grafted over what must have been a gaping headwound. Noticing your stare he turns and speaks.

Can I help you, a*$hole?

He turns and listens to your response with his remaining ear

Oh, you're a Pathfinder too? Cool, cool. I'm Little Rukk. I'll be going on this mission thing too. Don't know what to expect out there, so I bring a little bit of anything. Wands, scrolls, an allosaurus: *$#&ing everything, man.

He rifles through one of his many satchels and retrieves a strip of dried meat. After a gluttonous bite, he rips it half and extends some toward you.

Fey jerky? No? Pfft, whatever. More for me. Oh, and if the VC asks, we don't know what happened to his poodle. But between you and me--

He leans over and whispers:

Ally might have had herself a bit of a "midnight snack."

Don't let it get to you, big guy. These geniuses are talking about crap way above our pay grade. Just hang back and break what needs breaking--that's what I do whenever the plot becomes too murky to follow.

I CANNOT CONDONE THIS SORT OF CREATURE TRAIPSING THE HALLS, ITS STENCH OF FERMENTED OFFAL STAINING THE HALLS AS IT STAINS OUR REPUTATION. I CANNOT ALLOW YOU TO— I, AH… The voice trails off before a shadow-shrouded figure kicks Little Rukk from the balcony and extinguishes the goblin's arson torch.

After his tumble from the balcony, the goblin stands, dusts himself off, and shambles to an open table, muttering something about 'racism in the Society.' His sullen mood fades as soon as he notices the vast quantities of alcohol being distributed by the gilded aasimar. Racing to Angethel's side, he holds a clay tankard up expectantly.

"Fill me up, boss!"

This is an outrage and I feel your pain, longshanks. Surely you should be able to tame the cutest of all dogs--the trollhound--and claim one as your boon companion. Clearly this "society" of ours is being punitive and prejudiced against us animal inclined gentlemen.

Anyway, you've got my support if you wanna torch the Grand Lodge or whatever.

You don't really need 14 WIS on this hunter. You can bump it with a stat headband by the time you'd get to level 4 spells and you're obviously not targeting save or sucks.

"Hah! Wisdom?! What a worthless ability score!"

A nasally and abrasive voice shouts at your from across the room. Looking over, you see what can best be described as a goblin. Covered in patches of fur and dozens of scars, the little gremlin makes eye contact with you before continuing

"As I was saying, I dumped the s**t out of that stat and never looked back. You sound like that guy who tried to convince me I needed Charisma if I was going to be a skald. Proved him wrong too!"

The off-putting creature leans back and laughs heartily, generating a surprising amount of noise for such a small thing.

The patrons nearest to the 'goblin' find other seats quickly thereafter.