Ngogh'gnish the Unknowable's page

Weapons

Armor

Other Gear

Money

0-level Spells Known (Cantrips)
Acid splash
Daze
Message
Open/close

1st-level Spells Known (2/day)
Lesser rejuvenate eidolon
Ventriloquism

Half-Orc Racial Features
Dimdweller: +2 racial bonus to Intimidate, Perception, and Stealth when benefitting from concealment or full concealment from dim light or darkness (replaces weapon familiarity)
Orc Blood: Count as human and orc
Sacred Tattoo: +1 luck bonus to saving throws (replaces orc ferocity)
Shaman's Apprentice: Endurance bonus feat (replaces intimidating)
Skilled: +1 skill rank per level (replaces darkvision)

Summoner (Blood God Disciple/Synthesist) Class Features
Blood Feast: Eidolon can feed on living, corporeal creature knocked unconscious or killed by it within past minute as standard action; deals damage as if with a natural attack, and summoner manifests one 1-point evolution for 1 minute. Creature must have at least 1/2 HD of the summoner. Usable 3+Cha times per day. (replaces summon monster)
Fused Eidolon: Eidolon is worn as a "skin suit," uses its senses and voice; uses eidolon's physical ability scores and summoner's mental ability scores. Eidolon's hit points treated as temporary hit points. Use eidolon's armor, natural armor, special abilities, evolutions, natural attacks, and so on. Eidolon has no skills or feats of its own, must have limbs to cast somatic spells. (replaces eidolon, bond senses, and life bond)
Fused Link: Summoner can sacrifice hit points to prevent damage when temporary hit points from eidolon would be reduced to 0 at 1-for-1 basis. (replaces life link)

Eidolon Features
Base Form: Biped
Subtype: Aberrant
Darkvision: 60 feet
Link: Shared mental link for communication, shared magic item slots
Share Spells: Summoner can cast self-targeting summoner spells on eidolon, regardless of type

Eidolon Evolutions
Limbs (Arms): Self-explanatory
Limbs (Legs): Self-explanatory
Slam: Primary natural attack, 1d8 damage
Tentacle Mass: Primary natural attack, 1d8 damage; special rules if grab is applied

Berthold Steel wasn't born to do what he did with his life. He was born well within the borders of Talingarde, in a small but growing town of respectable, if traditional and somewhat insular, rural folk. His father was a second-generation half-orc, born and raised in Holmesford, and worked as their smith. Bert's mother was a first-generation half-orc, serving as the midwife and healer-woman of the town; she combined prayers to Mitra with old remedies, using herbs and practices she'd learned before escaping her brutal early life beyond the northern wall. Both his parents liked Talingarde, liked their town--certainly, there were old prejudices and suspicions, but Garrett Steel had proved a respectable smith, like his father before him. Rarely did bigotry, when it reared its head, go beyond tasteless jokes, off-handed insults, and half-meant comments from drunkards in the tavern. The couple raised their son to be a citizen of Talingarde and a worshiper of Mitra, first and foremost. He only learned scraps of Orcish in the forms of the odd curse from his father working the forge, and the occasional prayer, phrase, or plant name from his mother.

Bert, however, hated every moment. He wanted to be more than what they planned, or at least different; what he wanted to be was an orc. He saw his father's silent acceptance of ill-mannered jokes as weak groveling; every comment on his ancestry seemed to him a biting accusation, bitter cruelty and oppression by a hostile nation he never asked to join. When he heard the rare tale of orcs beyond the border, he pictured strong, dangerous, proud peoples, who would never grovel before fools--everything the skinny youth dreamed of being, everything he wasn't. When he asked his mother what life was like out there, her remembered horrors spoke to him of great and terrible power; her lingering hatred of the shamans she had been meant to join only further spurred Bert to think that this was his destiny. In his dreams he imagined a way to greatness, a life far from his quaint town. And in his dreams, a plan not quite his own was hatched.

So by the time he neared adolescence, Bert absconded in the night, taking meager supplies and making for the border wall. Just how he reached the other side isn't clear, but there is more prejudice in that place, and a cursing and hostile youth of orcish blood may well have been abandoned to the hostile frontier. However he managed it, joining an orc tribe was more difficult; they are not keen to take another mouth to feed, especially an unproven outsider. But he found favor with a tribe, and so began his true trials: apprenticing to a shaman.

It was Rot-Bones of the Dead Hands tribe who took him, seeing in this whelp of a half-breed cunning and tenacity beyond that of true-blooded candidates. Rot-Bones pushed his apprentice hard and far, liberal with his beatings and quick with the rituals of proving that would either maim or kill. Bert took it all, growing hardened and tough, and he happily sported the ritual scars and tribal tattooing blessed by the old gods of the Orcs, as well as the Dark Lord Asmodeus who Rot-Bones paid some service to. But he never grew strong, keeping his small and weak frame, and after a handful of years, Rot-Bones declared that his apprentice--now called Scar-Taker--would never be a war-shaman. He would remain a shaman of the camp, respected and influential, but not the revered and fearsome leader of raiding parties who would exemplify the orcs' strength.

Scar-Taker was filled with rage and self-hatred, and in his heart he refused to accept this fate. His sleep became restless, filled with nightmares where he cried into the dark void. His primal anger screamed for the power to fight back against the senseless injustice of his existence. And once more, something not entirely of himself answered, but more powerfully. He called to the void, and something called back.

Once more, Bert stole away in the night, this time to an ancient and haunted place, shunned even by the most savage of orc shamans for its cursed aspect and the cyclopean altar which stood there from time immemorial. In his mind he felt the touch once more of whatever had spoken to him in his dark dreams, felt sure it was what had called him north of Talingarde to begin with. It spoke of strength and terror, of changing his weak form to one capable of breaking and crushing all who would stand against him. It offered to take form in this world, using Bert as the connection, if only he would perform the profane ritual it whispered into his mind.

Scar-Taker might have shown surprising force of will to his master, but Bert wanted recognition and power, damn the costs. He completed that archaic, horrific ritual, and at its zenith, he had a single moment to realize his mistake. Then his mind was torn asunder, his vitality stolen away, his very being consumed by the new entity which used him as a host for its arrival in this plane.

Ngogh'gnish the Unknowable rent the half-orc's feeble form and subsumed it with its presence. It stalked away, gleeful in its alien way, making for Talingarde. At the wall it slew a few guards before being captured and sent to Branderscar. Its seeming acceptance, even appreciation, of this turn of events is unsettling to say the least, but the guards get their fitful rest believing that the bizarre creature will be thrown to the pits and be slain.