Lorilon Minkmasher's page

Crashing into the wall and landing heavily onto the sand-filled ground, a small gnome held one hand on his side while using his other to regain his balance – assisted by his legs to push himself back on his feet. A smirk manifested on his face, his battered body barely holding him up.

They never told me I'd be fighting a Shoanti, the bastards. About time they took me seriously.

He wiped his chin with his leather bracer, the blood soaked well into the fabric and the stain would probably not come out for a while.

"Ok, long-shanks – my turn."

On the other side of the arena stood a tower of a man, his muscles tightened to their brink and set in a solid stance that made him appear rooted to the ground. He bore markings, or tattoos, well-painted on his body; depicting skulls and death. Roaring valiantly to the crowd, his booming voice was rewarded with heavy cheers and a chant of his name. "Roragor, Roragor!"

Calmly, the gnome assumed a fighting stance – his body unwilling to give in to the pain. A shuffle followed, feet versus sand, and before long the gnome was within range of the Shoanti.

That's right, momentum. Use his momentum, gain the advantage.

A controlled fist pierced the air, aiming straight for the gnome's head – but was evaded, and the blow returned. A small fist hit true and fractured the human's chin. A wild hay maker tried to return the favor, but a side-step and another small fist again battered against his body and his footing began to dwindle.

Come on.

The Shoanti's muscled feet managed to find themselves in the sand once more, and as a third small fist struck his abdomen – the Shoanti's head met the gnome's. Crashing into the sand once, the gnome ate a mouthful of sand before he could react, as a foot pushed his head further into the ground.

An entertainer's voice rang across the stadium, as the crowd went completely mad.

"Another victory for our champion, Roragor! Besting no less than three adversaries at once!"

Fresh feet shuffled the sand, arms and hands lifting the fallen combatants – light turned to darkness, flesh met straw. The scent of sweat and testosterone reeked throughout the filthy room.

An older human approached through the darkness, his coins and golden chains easily revealing his steps.

"That's the last fight I'm sponsoring, Lorilon. You've lost three in a row, and with the fracture your ribs received you'll be out for at least two weeks."

The gnome lay heavily on the straw bed, his breath revealing the toll his body had taken from the fight.

"I keep telling you, Andaster – give me a blade and I'll show you what I can do. These fist-fights aren't doing me any favo-"

"These fights aren't doing any of us any favors – period. Enough. It's time you packed your stuff and got out of here. I promised you ONE fight, and gave you three – and the only thing I've earned from these.. Escapades.. is a lighter coin purse and an even worse reputation. We're done - get out."

Get out. Lorilon had heard those words before. They just wouldn't take him seriously. Not the guard, not the merchants – and now not even the brawler sponsors.

Emerging from the stadium, Lorilon stood smack dab in the center of Sandpoint. The Swallowtail festival had begun, he hadn't even noticed beforehand. The townsfolk were gathering at a large podium and by the looks of it, the Mayor was about to make his speech.

The bulky, brown haired gnome let loose a sorrowful sigh, threw his bastard sword over his back and set course for the podium.

Never did experience the Mayor's speech, I guess it's about time.

Lorilon grew up with human varisian parents, and as such - carries himself, comically to some people, taller and straighter than most gnomes. He sports pride and self-confidence natural to humans, and as such tends to get into trouble more often than not. Different from most humans though, and especially barbarians, Lorilon usually keeps his head cool - even when working his body to it's limits.

Not a particularly religious man, Lorilon is faithful to Gorum - but hardly ever speaks to anyone about his faith. "Everyone is entitled to their own opinion and faith, leave the preaching to the preachers."

In combat, Lorilon favors his Shortbow - but happily unsheathes and wields his Bastard Sword should enemies stray to close.

His quick wit, intimidating prowess with both sword and bow - in addition to a sneaky nature - allows Lorilon the abilities to act as scout, front-liner and diplomat, depending on the situation and task at hand.

He carries a deep hatred for Reptilian humanoids, but even more so for Goblins - as a band of the foul creatures where to blame for his biological parents respective deaths.

His long-term goal is to become a respected man in Varisia, hopefully by proving his worth on the battlefield or through a respected establishment, like the city guard or even a pathfinder lodge.

Lorilon is of average height and weight for a gnome of his rather young age, though more muscular and nimble than most gnomes. He carries his deep brown hair long, braided and unkempt. A quiver of arrows hangs casually on his left hip, a sheathe for his Bastard Sword on his back and his Shortbow usually carried on his body, with the bowstring on his front. His eyes are clear blue, and he is rather handsome, especially for a gnome.

Dressed in dark brown, Lamellar leather armor - strung together with various types of material with fine, beige cords. He wears no helmet nor cloak, but matching leather gloves and boots, with bracers and guards of the same lamellar leather over both.