About NicheMale Ogre Scaled Fist Unchained Monk VMC Ninja
Headband of Charisma +2
Cloak of Protection +1
Magic Tattoos:
Mundane Gear:
Shuriken
Soap
Super Power: Immortality:
Style Strike (Ex) At 5th level, a monk can learn one type of style strike. Whenever he makes a flurry of blows, he can designate one of his unarmed strikes as a style strike. This attack is resolved as normal, but it has an additional effect depending on the type of strike chosen. Leg Sweep: The monk attempts to sweep his foe’s leg, knocking the opponent down. If the attack hits, the monk can make a free trip attempt against the target of this strike (using the base attack bonus of the attack used to hit the foe). This trip attempt does not provoke an attack of opportunity. The monk must attack with a kick to use this style strike. Outbred Ogre:
+6 Str, +2 Dex, +2 Con, +6 Cha Large, Reach (10ft) See in Darkness Rock Throwing +10 2d6+10 120ft increments Longstrider (+5 ft move, ignore up to 20 ft non-magical difficult terrain) Darkstalker (Ignore all size penalties to Stealth checks and +2 to Stealth) Original Build: "Little Dragon"
Male Sublime Ogre Scaled Fist Unchained Monk NG Large Humanoid (Giant) Init +4; Perception +8 -------------------- -------------------- Defense -------------------- -------------------- AC 33, touch 26, flat-footed 29 (+4 Dex, +13 Cha, +7 Natural Armour, -1 Size) Immune to Magic and natural aging, Positive Energy Damage Resist Negative Energy 10, Cold 10, Electricity 10 hp 140 (5d10+115) Constitution +9, Charisma +13, Toughness +1 = d10+23/Level Fort +27, Ref +22, Will +16 (+28 vs. Mind Affecting)(+2 vs Fear, Paralysis, and Sleep) -------------------- -------------------- Offense -------------------- -------------------- Speed 50 ft. Unarmed +16 2d6+10+12(Acid) Dragon Ferocity (Style) +16 2d6+22/2d6+16 Power Attack +14 2d6+25/2d6+20 Grey Flame +1 Attack and Damage, +d6 Positive Energy Damage Stunning Fist Fort DC 25 (5 per day) Elemental Fist (Acid) 2d6 (5 per day) Draconic Fury 1d6 (Acid) 2 rounds (1/2 Class Level) (Ultimate Strike: +15 2d6+27+3d6+13(Acid)+1d6(Positive Energy)) -------------------- -------------------- Statistics -------------------- -------------------- Str 32 (30), Dex 19, Con 28, Int 16, Wis 11, Cha 36 (34) Base Atk +5; CMB +17 (+2 to disarm/trip); CMD 42 Feats Combat Reflexes, Dragon Style, Dragon Ferocity, Deft Maneuvers, Steadfast Personality, Vicious Stomp, Elemental Fist, Toughness, Endurance, Bless Equipment Traits Dangerously Curious, Illuminator, Freed Slave Skills Acrobatics +12 (5), Bluff +13, Climb +15 (1), Craft: Clothing +4 (1), Diplomacy +27 (5), Escape Artist +12 (5), Intimidate +17 (1), Knowledge (History) +7(1), Knowledge (Religion) +7(1), Perception +8(5), Perform: Flute +17 (1), Profession, Ride +4, Sense Motive +8 (5), Stealth +12 (5), Swim +11 (1), Use Magic Device +21 (4) Languages Giant, Common, Draconic, Orcish Combat Gear Amulet of Mighty Fists (Greyflame)/Natural Armour +1 Sling +9 1d6 50 ft Other Gear Headband of Charisma +2
Cloak of Protection +1 1k Wand of Lesser Restoration (10 Charges)
Magic Tattoos:
Mundane Gear:
Shuriken
Soap
Style Strike (Ex) At 5th level, a monk can learn one type of style strike. Whenever he makes a flurry of blows, he can designate one of his unarmed strikes as a style strike. This attack is resolved as normal, but it has an additional effect depending on the type of strike chosen. Leg Sweep: The monk attempts to sweep his foe’s leg, knocking the opponent down. If the attack hits, the monk can make a free trip attempt against the target of this strike (using the base attack bonus of the attack used to hit the foe). This trip attempt does not provoke an attack of opportunity. The monk must attack with a kick to use this style strike. Heartfelt Blows (Su): Whenever the bearer is involved in combat, his aura glows brighter, and the colors begin to swirl with intense energy, casting a destructive aura around any melee weapon the wearer holds. The wearer's melee weapons deal additional acid damage equal to the wearer's Charisma modifier (min +1). This bonus damage also applies to touch attacks. This fire deals no damage to the bearer of this ability or his possessions.[*/spoiler][spoiler=Tattoos]Before leaving the Realm of Kunlun Mountain, Niche was gifted with a series of ritual tattoos. Should he ever cease being a Lawful Alignment, the tattoos will cease to function: Ouroboros: A tattoo of a scaled black dragon, eating its own tail, wraps around the middle finger of Niche's left hand. It provides the benefits of a Ring of Sustenance. The Scaled Serpent: A large, languorous scaled black dragon adorns Niche's back. Each individual scale is painstakingly rendered, and is somewhat iridescent, appearing black when viewed head on, but green, yellow, or purple from other angles. The tattoo provides the benefits of the Corset of the Vishkanya. The Dragon's Wings: A leathery wing is depicted on the back of each of Niche's calves. Together, they provide the effect of Boots of the Cat[/*spoiler][spoiler=Scaled Fist]Draconic Might (su) Any of the scaled fist’s class abilities that make calculations based on her Wisdom (including bonus feats with DCs or uses per day, such as Stunning Fist, but not Wisdom-based skills or Will saving throws) are instead based on her Charisma. Draconic Mettle (Su) At 3rd level, a scaled fist gains a +2 bonus on saving throws attempted against all fear, paralysis, and sleep effects. Draconic Fury (Su) The scaled fist can expend 1 point from her ki pool as a swift action to imbue her natural attacks with energy, causing them to deal an extra 1d6 points of damage of the chosen energy type for a number of rounds equal to 1/2 her monk level.[/*spoiler][spoiler=Long Walk]Long Walk (Ex) At 3rd level, the wanderer gains Endurance as a bonus feat, and the feat bonus doubles when he makes Constitution checks because of a forced march. In addition, a wanderer gains a +2 bonus on saving throws against spells and effects that cause exhaustion and fatigue.
A sublime creature is the epitome of health and beauty, being more comely than other members of its race. Creating a Sublime Creature
A sublime creature uses all of the base creature’s statistics and special abilities, except as noted here. CR: +2 Armor Class: Increase natural armor by +2. Speed: Increase all the base creature’s natural speeds by 10 ft. Special Defenses: fast healing (equal to Charisma bonus); Immune magic aging, disease, positive energy damage; Resist Negative Energy 10, increase the base creature’s Cold and Electricity resistance by 10. Special Abilities: The sublime creature gains the following special abilities. Ageless: Though the sublime creature is not truly immortal, it does not suffer the ravages or negative affects of old age. Upon reaching maturity, sublime creatures gain Intelligence, Wisdom and Charisma as normal for a member of their species, but are otherwise unaffected by the passing of time. Sublime creatures never die of old age and they are immune to any spells or effects which cause aging. Channel Positive Energy: The sublime creature may channel positive energy as a cleric. Substitute the creature’s racial HD (minimum 1 for creatures with no racial HD) for cleric level to determine how effectively the creature can channel. If the creature has actual cleric levels (or other class levels which grant the ability), the creature’s racial HD and relevant class levels stack when determining the effect of the channeling. Positive Energy Affinity: The sublime creature’s affinity for positive energy is such that it is immune to any damage caused by positive energy effects or attacks. Additionally, any healing spells, or other effects, derived from positive energy are doubly effective when applied to the sublime creature (roll as normal for the effect, adding any bonuses such as those derived from class level, and then multiply the result by two). Strong Life-force: In addition to its Constitution modifier, the sublime creature also adds its Charisma modifier each of its HD when determining hit points. Abilities: Increase from the base creature as follows: Strength +2; Dexterity +2; Constitution +8; Intelligence +4; Charisma +8. Feats: Gain Toughness as a bonus feat. Skills: +4 racial bonus to Diplomacy.[/*spoiler][spoiler=Wishlist]
Niche's Story: Part I: ”I am the Ogre, Niche.”
I was sitting in a bar, as one does, across from a rather dazed looking captain of the city guard. He'd charged in, armed for owlbear, with a squad at his back, and a very nervous looking owner hanging back just outside the door. The man was balding, and thick about the middle, as every tavern keep seemed required to be, as if by some unspoken rule. He was obviously concerned about what kind of altercation might be about to go down in his establishment. I think he'd been expecting something a little different than what was happening now. The Captain had eventually been coaxed into taking a seat, and while his men were still gathered thick inside the vestibule, violence no longer felt so imminent. I poured myself another drink, having cracked open a smaller keg, as the place had emptied out, management included, mere moments after I'd ducked through the doorway, and there was no one about to serve me. I was using a pitcher for a tankard, and even then it still felt a little dainty in my hand to be a proper mug. I'd poured a flagon for the Captain as well, without spilling a drop mind you, but it still sat untouched before him. I looked the man over where he sat across from me. He was tallish, for a manling, perhaps a bit over 6 feet. He was fit, and his hands sported the kind of calluses you'd expect on a man that practiced with his sword every day, and not the ink stains you might see on a functionary. This man considered himself a fighter still. He was probably in his middle years, as humans measured them, a slight bit of grey at the edges of his beard, but his hair was full, and his green eyes sharp. I considered myself for a moment, and how I must look to him. I look not that much different than a man, I suppose, the only exceptions being proportions. While this man was tall at his 6 foot and a quarter, at full height i stood better than nine and a half, and near off ten! In colouring, we weren't that different, though he was blonde, and when I let my hair grow it was closer to chestnut. Thinking of hair, I ran a hand over my scalp, still shaved smooth, though mostly out of habit. I had thought of letting it grow again, but after even just a couple of days it had started to itch and just feel, well, foreign. The motion of my free hand brought focus back to the guard, and he was half out of his seat with his hand on his sword hilt before his eyes registered that the motion on my part had not been hostile. As he caught himself, he looked slightly abashed for a moment, as though his assumption I was going to attack at any moment made him seem both green at the gills, and a poor host. However, he then seemed to remember that he was in fact sitting at a table with an ogre, half again his height, and with arms as long as he was tall. His face lost the embarrassed look, and as he slid back into the seat, his eyes took on that cautious wary look again. The soldiers at the door seemed intent on every move made in the tavern. I suspected that however this turned out, having the balls to merely sit at the table with me would win him admiration from these men that would not quickly fade. That kind of fear would have made me happy, once… ”So, you're wondering what I am doing here, in your fair city, and what has brought me to this particular pub, on this particular evening for a beer?” The man stared back consideringly, seeming to have trouble figuring not just what to say, but marveling that I seemed to have as good a command of the common tongue as he, or perhaps even a bit more polished. ”Um, you could say that,” he said, in a hesitant tone, but his voice was steady and clear. ”The reports I got were a little rushed, but news of some sort of giant in the city, and this far into the city, made us eager to get here as soon as possible to find out. Can I ask how you even got here? We're near thirty blocks from the nearest gatehouse, and I've heard nothing of them being overrun.” ”Oh, you can ask, and I'll answer, but first I'd like the pleasure of your name. After all, I've given my name goodman, you could do me the honour of hearing yours.” He tensed a little, that global reservation in his eyes tempered only slightly, and diffusing throughout the rest of his frame. ”Petrard Grey; Captain of the Duke's watch.” I smiled, and lifted my pitcher to him in salute before taking another long drink. The beer was good. A pale, cloudy amber, with sharp, crisp bubbles, and fruity tones throughout. Not at all bad, and perhaps almost as good as that made by the brothers I'd left so recently. It was definitely the closest I'd found since leaving. The good captain still hadn't touch the goblet I'd poured for him. No matter. I sighed with satisfaction, ”That… is a good beer.” The captain couldnt help but raise an eyebrow, which made me laugh. ”I came to this tavern because I man I met on a road to the north told me about it. Said if I was looking for a good ale, this was the place to come; that the owner here is the only man in a hundred leagues to have worked out an agreement with the Order of Clouds to sell the monk's beer, and that it was some of the best to be found. As for how I got here, I walked. Well there may have been a little climbing a jumping at the beginning. I didn't want to cause a scene coming in the gate, so I hopped the wall. No offense, but city guards can be rather uptight when it comes to letting travelers into cities when even the slightest thing is amiss.” The captain looked incredulous, and his face was reddening, ”You… hopped the wall? It's thirty feet at the lowest point, and manned by men of MY guard at every post!” He was starting to get emotional, so I changed gears a little to try and set him back at ease. Well, at least a little less apoplectic, ”Oh, don't be too hard on your men, Captain; I can move quite quietly when I need to. Besides, it was dark, and I see much better at night than they do.” I took another drink and pushed his goblet a bit closer to him with my other hand. ”So, I've answered your question, and offered you a drink. Have I broken any laws?” Captain Grey picked up the goblet and swirled around the drink, not yet taking a sip. ”No, not exactly. As long as you intend to pay for the cask you opened, then I can’t cite any particular crime. Jumping the wall could be considered trespass, and you will have ducked the Head Tax for entering the gate as well, but those are minor points. Pay the toll and allow us to escort you to the gate, and you can go on your way.” I regarded the Captain. He was looking into his goblet again, and this time took a swig. The cup was nearly down to the table again before he stopped the motion, and brought it up for a second taste. ”Hmm, this is good.” I smiled and refilled his cup. He took a few more swallows before turning his eyes on me again. I could see the questions burning there, so a quirked an eyebrow in an unspoken invitation for him to ask. Even so, we sat in silence for some few minutes before he spoke. “I am sorry for the presumption, but I feel I must ask, how is it you are so different from any ogre I've met before? Huh, I say ‘met’ but to be fair, I'm some certain I've never exchanged words with one before. There were exchanges, but they involved more ‘steel and blood than conversation.” I thought on that for a moment; how much of the story to go into? What might he want to hear, and how much of the truth might he believe even if he heard it. ”It… is a long story. However, I would say that things were not always thus. A long time ago, I would not have been remarked that much different from the ogres you had your exchanges with. Things change, and i was forced to change as well.” ”Things change? So you just decided to be move on and learn to appreciate the finer things," he responded, his voice getting animated. ”You've said your an ogre, but aside from the size, you've the countenance of a man. Saw I you from a distance and no sense of scale, I'd think you a fine catch for my sister, or that you'd be the kind of face I'd warn my men not to leave alone with their wives or daughters. I have seen ogres! Felt their breath on my face as the crossguard on my spear was the only thing keeping them from crushing me, from slaughtering the men with me on either side! Wide mouths with stone slab teeth; rolls of flabby skin tougher than shoe leather; misshapen, deformed and inbred brutish creatures. And yet here you sit, ready to ‘by your leave’ and ‘prost’ my health. I think I see your game. What are you? A witless bard who thinks frightening folk with a simple spell on his size counts for entertainment? You spin a wild tale and dishonor all the men that have fallen to that brutish kind! I've a mind to drub you senseless and leave you aching till your spell wears off, then leave you in the pillory for a fortnight!” He was near complete red in the face now, and as he spoke, his men moved into the room, a semicircle about our table. The captain was standing at the table now, one hand on the surface the other wresting a truncheon from his belt. I moved slowly, deliberately, and plucked the truncheon from his hand before he could pull it away. It was a cubit long, and about as thick as a man's wrist, made of some heavy, dark hardwood, polished smooth by years of wear upon a belt, and in the hand. I doubted anyone here could have broken it with a twenty pound sledge. I squeezed my hand right slowly, until the sound of creaking wood could be heard, ending in a sudden pop. I opened my hand to reveal the truncheon broken cleanly in two. I then took each half, and one after the other, held it in my two hands and snapped the pieces in half again. I set the four pieces down on the table in front of the captain, none now longer than four or five inches. I took up the cask again in my hand, and refilled my pitcher, and then the captain's goblet. His rage was gone, and his face was pale. He never lost that look of determination though. Even if he thought he would die without doubt, this was a man that would do his duty. Of the soldiers around the bar, none was moving now, and swords had fallen from raised guards to haphazardly point at the floor, forgotten in the moment. I took another long drink. ”I am an ogre. I am called Niche. Though I wager there is no other like me in the world, I tell the truth. I was born a brute, and only by the measure of my travels have I learned my manners. To your fallen comrades. Prost!” I took a long pull from the pitcher, and then poured the rest upon the floor. A drink for the dead; the men of the soil. By the time I had refilled my pitcher from the cask, the captain was sitting again. He reached for his cup and took a long drink without thinking, emptying it. I poured him another. Another minute passed in silence before he spoke, ”A long story you say? I think I'd like to hear it.” I raised my pitcher. ”Prost.” Niche's Story Part II:
The bartender brought out a fresh cask and set it on the table. He stepped back towards the bar to fetch the mallet he used for breaking the lids, but I waved him to a stop with one hand. Taking the cask in hand, I pressed down on the top with a thumb, and it punched open neatly.
You can do that when you’re nine and half feet tall and stronger than most horses. After the other trick I’d pulled earlier, no one seemed too surprised at this. A few of the newcomers leaned in closer to get a look at what I was doing. The bartender had come back in once it seemed apparent no violence was going to occur. Some of the soldiers that had accompanied the Captain in his rush to meet me had taken seats, either at the table with us, or around the bar. Captain Grey had sent the rest back to duty, but gave the others leave to stay. It was obvious that he didn’t yet fully trust me, and wanted at least a few guards on hand throughout my visit, but since it was at least somewhat courteous for him not to say as much outright, I did not press the issue. A few brave patrons had come back in too; some to fetch belongings left in haste when I’d first arrived, and some new ones as well - gaulkers and curiosity seekers most likely. The Captain of the Guard, this Petrard Grey, seemed a decent sort; over earnest perhaps, but he had a way of interacting with his men that said he trusted them, and the way they followed orders without question indicated that they did the same. That spoke well of him; not everyone knows how to lead. He received a fresh tankard of beer, this one a richer amber than the last, and after a sip spoke briefly, with suds in his mustache, ”So, Ogre. What brought you here tonight?’ I mulled it over for a moment, trying to decide where to start. How much was significant? I swirled the amber beer in the pitcher, giving it a little air. After another swallow, I decided the easiest way to start was probably at the beginning. ”I’m from the North; from a region in the Kodar mountains, a part you’d say was near the border or Irrisen; I'm not really sure which side. In reality, it doesn’t belong to anyone. It’s all wild territory up there, and I doubt a royal surveyor has been within 10 leagues of the border. This country or that is just lines on a map as far as those kind of hinterlands are concerned.” ”In my earliest memories, I was a slave to a clan of Mountain Giants. Those are basically Hill Giants, but a little rougher round the edges and without the same genteel manners Hill Giants bear on account of their exposure to fine society. A lot of giant’s keep ogre slaves, the same way some ogres keep orcs, and orcs sometimes keep goblins or other creatures. They are somebody smaller than themselves that they can force to obey, but will never individually be a threat. Now, however cruel you think Ogres might be, I doubt they hold a candle to the giants. I… was not well treated.” ”Most of the slaves I knew when I was young died within a short time of my meeting them. I learned not to get attached, that anyone around now could only be counted on to be around now. Tomorrow they might be dead, or might betray you to the giants in hopes of a little extra bread, or a bone without all the marrow sucked out. It was a bit of a nightmare, living each day, knowing you might be beaten, abused, killed for spite or hunted for sport.” ”Hard to think of someone my size being sport for something bigger, isn’t it? Ten feet tall may seem big to you, but it doesn’t feel that big when you at the mercy of something 15 feet tall or more.” ”Something happened within the giant’s tribe, I don’t remember what exactly, I was still pretty young, but they ended up weakened, running after a big fight with something, and we suddenly realized there was more of us than there were of them. Like most bullies, they spend so much time putting the fear into you that you can forget that you might actually be able to hurt them back. Well, all of a sudden, we remembered. There was one of us, a boy named Hraugh; he was probably about 12 - I was probably 7-8. Keep in mind, ogres mature faster than humans; an ogre can gather children by about age 7, and has finished his final growth by 13. So by human standards, you could think of him as about 18, while I was a young teen.” Anyway, he was one of the biggest and strongest of us. Once we did for the giants, he was kind of our go to leader. Course, everything he learned about keeping a group motivated and in line, he learned from the giants, so you could say he was not exactly loved by the rest of us. We respected him though, or he made sure you did. He did good for us, by and by. Kept us away from the giants, led us down into the foothills, down on this side of the mountains, I think.” ”Eventually, we ran into another group of ogres, and they let us join up. Ogres tend to travel in families. They’re kind of like packs, but not nearly as complicated as a clan. 20-30 members to a band was average.” ”You asked why I look different that most of them? Getting into that gets a little complicated, but I have always looked more or less as I do now, though I didn't cut my hair back then. I mean, as a given, there was a time when I’d never even heard of bathing, and I only owned one pair of clothes, so maybe I wasn’t quite as well put together. Add a few layers of dirt, a dark weathered tan, torn clothes, and hair that has never seen a comb and has gone to matted clumps, and you might see me in an altogether different light. and that is not even considering the smell!” “However, the reason you tend to see so many deformed looking ogres is pretty predictable. Now, it’s no accident we all look somewhat alike, you, the giants, and we the ogres in between. Now I don’t know if it’s true or not, but its a common told story to us. We were what happened when the giants mingled with men. I don’t know who started that congress, but considering the behaviour of most giants, I’m going to wager that romantic connections were the exception, as opposed to the rule. Like any half-breeds, what resulted wasn’t much welcome with either group. Giant and monsterous to one, and puny and weak to the other. Over time, we’re told they started forming their own groups.” ”Now, when it comes to the… more distinctive nature of ogres, and why we don’t all look human, there is a reason for that too. When you said ‘Inbred’ you weren’t wrong. Ogre’s will generally mate with anything, and don’t much care for whether it’s right or propper. Since they travel in bands, pretty much everything you’ve got to mate with is generally going to be a close relative. Even if it’s not, you were probably the product of inbreeding, and whomever you’re mating with is probably inbred as well. Children might be sired by brothers, fathers, or even sons. When I started learning common, I found it strange how few words there were to describe relationships. How could you tell the difference between the father that had also sired your mother, and a father that had the same mother as yours, when you only have one word for Father? In case you were wondering, we basically called the first your father-grand-sire and the second your funcle.” ”Now, I have no idea who my parents were; I don’t remember them, but if patterns hold true they were as likely brother and sister as they were mother and son. In reality it doesn’t matter. Either whatever it is that makes the inbred turn out they way they do just didn’t add up in me, or maybe my parents were pulled from far ends of the mountains, and just had the fortune of fresh blood. Either way, I was fit. More than fit, really. It became apparent pretty quickly that I was stronger than most, faster, and smarter as well. Hraugh, that boy that led us out of the mountains, didn’t live long after we joined the new troop. He and I were close, well as close as you could be with someone you knew deep down you might have to kill one day if he became a threat to you.” ”Our new Father, as ogre troop leaders are known, didn't care for us. He was an older ogre called Frugar, in his early thirties perhaps, which is positively ancient for an ogre. The fact that he was still alive, let alone still in charge should have been a clue at how cunning he could be. The females in our party of refugees made us too attractive to cast out, even though Hrough and I were an obvious threat to his rule. He couldn't accept the women and the young without us, as they wouldn't have left us at that point. But if he waited too long, we would be a threat to his status, especially if we worked together.” ”We were wary of him, and kept a lookout for each other, but we were expecting an obvious attack, not a subtle one. He waited for the perfect time, when he could take out the bigger threat without interference. He placed Hraugh as rear guard while we were on the move. When the opportunity presented itself, he pushed a few boulders, and crushed him under a landslide. As soon as I heard about the accident, I knew exactly what had happened, and confronted him. I was a boy, so he thrashed me easily, and I was lucky to escape alive. With Hraugh dead, none of the other young we’d brought with us, nor any in the family stood up for me. The ones I turned to for help impeded my escape, and tried to hold me until Frugar or those loyal to him could arrive. I fled.” ”So, there I was, alone for the first time in life, in a range of mountains alive with giants, drakes, owl-bears, and who knows what else. I was angry, and that hatred fueled me. I swore I would see Frugar dead.” ”So I hung back, and I waited. I lived of the land, and dogged Frugar’s group. I discovered I had other talents; one’s not common to my kind. I could talk, and I could reason. I was able to find allies, to trade with other groups where an ogre would have just taken. And I discovered that brute force is not always the best strategy. Every time the ogres attacked a group and killed everyone they could find, they only found the obvious treasures. Every group generally hid their most prized valuables at the first sign of trouble. The ogres would smash in, take anything useful they could see, and leave behind anything they couldn’t. This meant I could find allies. And people willing to trade, since with the deaths of their kin, they had more than enough of value to trade, but few enough of the essentials.” ”About two years I did this; following Frugar, caring for his victims and making allies among them, hunting for them and bringing them food that they would trade for with items of magic and power. When I was ready to strike, they stood no chance. Frugar’s band was some 50 members strong at that point, which is larger than most for an ogre clan. My allies and I maneuvered the troop into an indefensible position, and trapped them there.” ”I called out Frugar, to make him face me. There was no threat in it, they could see they were at our mercy, and so I appealed to his cowardice. I told him that if he would come out and meet my challenge, he would not share the fate of his troop. If he could beat me again, he could go free. I had extracted such a promise from my allies, though I don’t know for certain if they would have kept it after I was dead. As far as they were concerned though, Frugar’s band had to be destroyed. In the years since the Mountain Giants had fallen, his band had been the terror of those hills. Once it was gone, the alliance would dissolve, and the former allies would go their separate ways, and an uneasy balance of power would keep the relative peace.” ”Frugar was a cunning creature. He probably figured all of this out in as short a time as it takes me to retell it. However, he could also see that this was likely his only chance to escape, and the bastard that he was, he took it. He faced me directly this time, no tricks, no ambushes, just a fair fight. I had grown a lot in that time, not only in size, but in skill and resources as well. It was a short fight.” ”When it was done, I took his head and tossed it into the waiting troop. I heard a few calling for me to be the new Father; to take over and lead them. They had sold me out to Frugar before, and I knew they would do the same to the next challenger. They would follow whomever could give []i]them[/i] the best spoils. I had no interest in sleeping in a nest of vipers. As the shouted and raise cheers for me, I spat upon the path, turned my back, and left.” I lapsed into silence for a time while I refilled by cup. I offered to refill the captain’s, but he had forgotten in, and it was still full. ”What happened?” There was a new speaker. Looking around, I could see now that the tavern had filled back in, with a reasonable sized group within; about equal to the number present when I’d first arrived. That kind of surprised me. The soldiers were still here, of course, but most were seated, helmets doffed, and drinks in hand. A few had meals. ”To the ogres?” I responded. ”I don’t know. I never looked back. I suspect they learned that the wild creatures of those hills were tired of their raids. That alliance dissolved after that day, and over the next few years, that uneasy balance of power between groups sprung up again, so I suspect the ogres were no longer an issue.” ”So what did you do next? You didn’t trust the ogres, and who could blame you?” The speaker was one of the soldiers; a younger one with the look of someone yet to see a real fight. He also seemed to forget he was speaking to an ogre, which by some of his comrades nervous looks, they had not. ”I had gotten used to being alone, to depending on no one but myself. When you cannot trust others to guard your back, you must do it yourself. Now, in the wilds, this is a dangerous attitude; there are a lot of creatures in those hinterlands that are a challenge for even an ogre - and monsters for whom an ogre would be no challenge at all. I decided that what I wanted was not to be a warlord, or raise an army, or rule my own family of ogres; no, what I wanted was to be as powerful an individual that had ever been seen. Look at humans, elves, dwarves, and the lot. Even the little folk…” I gestured at a halfling, and he raised his mug in response. ”Some of them set out to learn and gain experience and power, and there are endless tales of their deeds.” A lighthearted, somewhat scoffing voice chimed in, ”You’d be the hero of tales, ogre? That would be an interesting story to be sure. ’The Heroic Giant…’” I looked over at the speaker. He was a brash looking young man dressed all in red, strumming absently at a harp in his hands, and a long pointy sword at his hip. I smiled. [b]”I cared little for stories, but I was fascinated by the deeds described within them. I decided I would become powerful; a warrior that could not be defeated.” ”A lofty goal to be sure, and likely an impossible one, as every warrior can be defeated eventually by something. A monster on a scale greater than himself; an army all against one; a brigand that finds you weak and wounded after you have defeated some greater threat; poison in the glass. It doesn’t matter. But for me, to be undefeatable, through any fault of mine... no that I could do. I’d need trust no one, answer to no one, be beholden to no one. To me, that was what it meant to be free. I was born a slave. When I escaped the giants, I became a slave to fear, and then finally, a slave to vengeance. My vengeance accomplished, I would be a slave to nothing ever again.” Dozens of eyes watched me as I spoke, all glittering in pairs in the light of the hearth’s fire. The crowd had grown since my last glance, and small groups now stood between tables for lack of places to stand. Other than the scrape of dishes, and the commotion of cooking in the back, the bar was silent. Even the owner was standing by, next to the hearth, the edge of his apron smoking from his proximity to the heat. ”So… did you accomplish this goal? Did you become great? Is that why you were able to come here, fearless, into the heart of a city of men?” Captain Grey was assessing me with even, contemplative eyes. There was no hostility in his voice, but there was a measuring quality to it. I looked into the fire for a few moments, watching the coals crackle, and the occasional spark to leap out, only to be swept back in by the barkeep, still standing close. ”I suppose you could say I did. Or that I am. One of the things I discovered is that you can never stop becoming greater, for the moment you do, you become less.” ”Is that poetry, or philosophy?” the captain asked. ”A bit of each I guess. I roamed across those mountains, seeking out challenges to try myself against, for treasures that would make me stronger, and for warriors that might teach me a few of their tricks. Along the way, I discovered a legend. Deep in the mountains, there was said to be a secret place, a lost city that could only be found by those that had been there before, and those guided by a pureness of purpose. Within this place, there was a power. If you could claim it, you would become nigh unstoppable. However, there was a catch, as there always is. Once you entered, you could not leave again… unless you mastered it. Take the chance, and should you be incapable of taming that power, you would yourself be tamed by it, and never set foot outside that city again.” ”Pureness of purpose. Give yourself over to the mastery of a single goal, knowing that if you fail, you will never leave.” ”So did you go? Did you get the power? Are you a god now like Cayden Cailean?” This speaker was a boy, probably about 9 or 10, who had been sitting up until now hidden from view under a table. The barkeep jumped at the voice and grabbed a broom to shoe the kid out. ”No, nothing like that. But yes, I did go, and I did learn; a great many things. The men that lived there were monks, men who strived to be the pinnacle of personal perfection, somewhat like the tradition of Irori, though they weren’t specifically religious. The city wasn’t just hidden, as though in a hard to find valley, but more like within a spiritual plane that could only be accessed from the most remote parts of the mountains.” ”You are speaking of Shambhala.” This from the scarlet draped bard. ”A mythical city that cannot be found, except for some small chosen few. Once every twenty or thirty years or so someone will wander out of the mountains and say they were lost, and saved only by being invited to rest and heal within the lost city. No reliable account of it has ever been established, and every documented expedition to locate the place has always come up fruitless or disappeared. This is the place you claim to have seen?” ”Shambhala? That isn’t what they called it, but I’ve heard that story, and the details are close enough.” The bard raised a skeptical eyebrow, ”So, if you’ve been there, did you master their secrets? The stories of the place always come from a friend of a friend, who heard it from someone that has since moved on. And even within those tales, they were blessed only with a single night’s lodgings. Seems odd that if someone who sought out the place actually found it, and was granted its secrets that they’d choose someone with your… shall we say, unique background?” I looked at the fellow, getting the sense that little would satisfy his doubts, ”Yes, I learned their secrets. Enough to face the challenges one must meet to make it back to this world.” I sat in silence, remembering for a moment the sensation of pulling myself out of a place of infinite life; a place where death itself could not touch, and back into a mortal world, where the inexorable march of time ground down on every living thing. I remembered the shock of looking at things, and feeling that for the first time in a hundred years, I could see things dying all around me. The pain of that, the sacrifice of the comfort and constancy of the enveloping life that suffused everything there. It had not been the challenge I had been expecting. The Bard’s sarcastic voice cut through my memories, ”I find it hard to believe that one of your kind could summon the discipline to be a monk, let alone master secret arts lost to all but a select few. Can you do anything to prove it?” I felt my irritation rising, but then there is no good way to convince a doubter. Confront him with proof, and he will merely try to see through the deception. Of course, if there was one thing I had mastered in the past hundred years, it was patience. What was something that no one could fake? Just then, the barkeep shouted, something crashed, and someone screamed. And that someone kept screaming. By the firepit, the barkeep was sitting on his ass, tearing frantically at his clothes and growling, while someone hidden behind him just kept on screaming. A few people dashed up and after a few moments, the situation became clear. The barkeep had been getting a large pot of stew down from the fire. That boy was back, whether the bartender had chased him out and he'd snuck back in, or whether he'd never left wasn't evident. Something had happened by the firepit. The barkeep had slipped and spilled the pot of boiling liquid across his own lap, the boy, and the legs of half a dozen patrons. While the barkeep scrambled to rip off his apron, some onlookers rushed to help the boy. Someone ran in with a basin of water, and doused it over the boy. The apron had protected the barkeep from the worst of of it, though both of his arms were red, and blisters were starting to bubble up along the skin. The boy looked terrible. The cold water had stopped most of the burning, and they had pulled off his shirt, but his skin looked sickly white, and his screaming hadn't stopped. The bartender was looking at the boy and his own blistering hands with distant eyes, and not doing anything else. The Captain was quick to seize control, ”Talbot! Run, fetch a cleric, now! You, Bard!” The bard looked as stunned as the barkeep, ”Huh, oh, a ‘Tormadon,’ your honour, of Elidor” ”That's great, now, can you cure?” ”What, Cure Wounds? No, I don't know the spell…” ”Dammit...” ”It’s ok,” I put a reassuring hand on the Captain's shoulder as I knelt next to them. ”Are you one of those monks that can heal? The Order of the Healing Hand, or something like that?” I gave him a sad smile, ”Not exactly. I concentrated for a moment, relaxing the borders of my being, allowing the Sublime essence of life that filled me deep out into the world around me. A soft white light filled me for a moment, making me look like a luminous figure for a split second, before the warm light bled out of my body, into the surrounding air and people around me. The boy's screams slowly died out, turning instead to soft sobbing. The barkeep flexed his fingers, the blisters and redness suddenly gone. A few of the patrons gasped in relief as well, the burns on their legs or feet now healed. Captain Grey turned and looked at me, ”How did you… I've only ever seen a Cleric heal like that, but you didn’t even say a prayer, or use holy symbol; I didn't know that was possible. And I've never heard of a Monk that could do that…” ”I studied for more than a hundred years with the mythical monks of Kunlun Mountain; I would hope I've learned a few secrets in that time. How to break a few rules is one the best secrets of all.” ”A hundred years? How long do ogres live?” ”Three decades, give or take.” Tormadon the Bard supplied. ”As I said, some rules are just begging to be broken.” The spell of silence over the crowd seemed to break, and now that I was no longer behind a table, I was suddenly a lot more real. Some of them reached out and touc8hed me, placing a hand on my shoulder or back[“”. Kneeling as I was, I was still the tallest thing in the room. The barkeep came up to me, grabbing my hand with both of his and shaking it vigorously, ”Thank you Mister Ogre! The boy's a pest, but I'd die of shame if my clumsiness had blinded him. I don't know how to thank you enough, what you did was amazing! I'll have to do something, I could rename the place after you! The Ogre Monk! Or maybe the Healing Giant…” ”Please, the effort cost me nothing; I came just for the drink.” ”Well, it's on the house! That was generous; I'd done in two full casks of good ale, ”Thank you. You favour me.” The bard was staring at me in bewilderment, looking almost as though he might believe me now, ”You are an unusual fellow, ogre. How were you called? Neesh?” ”Niche. A place for everything, and everything in its place.” The Captain extended a hand, and I took it, his disappearing in mine, ”Do you want an escort back to the gate?” ”If it makes you more comfortable. To be honest, it would probably cause less disruption if I left the same way I came in.” ”As you day. Good journey, friend.” ”And good fortune to you, Captain.” I slipped out the way I'd come in crouching through the exit, near kneeling, the door was so small. A few people on the street turned and stared. I smiled at them and nodded in greeting, and disappeared into an alley. By the time anyone chased after, I'd silently hopped up the side of a stone building. Jumping from one to the next, I moved silently to the city's outer wall. Keeping an eye on the guards atop the wall, I timed my move and hopped over. The taste of good ale still on my tongue, I started moving cross country once again. |
