About Radok MokakStatistics:
Male Half-Orc Brawler (Constructed Pugilist) 1
N Medium Humanoid (Human, Orc) Init +2; Senses Perception +6 ------------------------------ DEFENSE ------------------------------ AC 17, touch 12, flat-footed 13 (+3 armor, +2 dex, +2 shield) hp 23 ([10+6]+4+3) Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +1 ------------------------------ OFFENSE ------------------------------ Speed 30 ft. Melee Unarmed Strike +6 (1d6+4) or Brawler's Flurry +4/+4 (1d6+4) or mwk Battleaxe +7 (1d8+4/x3) Ranged Light Crossbow +4 (1d8)
*ACP applies to these skills Languages Common, Orc Special Abilities:
------------------------------ SPECIAL ABILITIES ------------------------------ Intimidating Orc Ferocity Weapon Familiarity Darkvision Orc Blood Brawler’s Cunning Constructed Limb Limb Modification(Shielding Limb) Martial Training Unarmed Strike 1d6 (+¼ FCB: 2 Level) Brawler's Flurry(Two-Weapon Fighting) Gear/Possessions:
------------------------------ GEAR/POSSESSIONS ------------------------------ Stone Constructed Right Arm, mwk Battleaxe Light Crossbow, Bolts(20) Hide Shirt, Carrying Capacity Light 0-33 lb. Medium 34-67 lb. Heavy 68-100 lb. Current Load Carried 0 lb. Money 48 GP 0 SP 0 CP
Background:
Never be an object of pity. If Radok ever learned a lesson from his father, that was it. To be admired was glorious. To be feared, to be something to fear. But pity was a poor beast. It was to be in the view of the world and receive nothing but gifts that showed nothing but your own weakness. To never attain, and only live by the day of the gracious charity of others. His father always repeated that whenever the two ever passed by a beggar. It always seemed hypocritical, as the two would pass a coin to the starving man. But the words hung with Radok. To live, one had to work. When one was sick or weary, you had to bare twice the brunt the next dawn. The last years were ones of shame, in which you had to watch your sons and theirs work while you wasted away. While his father never said such things, Radok felt them silently whispered, words trickling truth under the wind. Rodak’s family wasn’t large - merely him, his human mother, his aforementioned father, and his brother, six years his elder. Their farm was a five miles and a half - perhaps six, according to the gasps of his brother who would run the distance to test his speed - from Phaendar. It was an open secret it was because of the family’s orcish heritage, under them to even complain and too far above the villagers to reject the notion. As such, it was a small yet notable distance to go every season when the harvest required the wagons to be pulled and the horses put to burden. Their profits were always meager, but they paid well enough. What couldn’t be sold was eaten, even if it was in poor shape or taste. When Radok was beginning to show some ideas of adulthood, his father would send him with his brother to move the crops to the village, while he and his wife stayed at home. Radok gingerly approved of being of assistance, but rarely let it show as to not bother his brother, who found the task tiring and unpleasant. When Radok was 16 and his brother at the age of 22, the pair was sent to the village to buy a some medicine for their father, who had come down with a cold. As the early face of winter had peeked his head that day, the roads were mostly empty and the wind strong. The medicine was expensive - the potion seller was a greedy runt - but the matter was settled quickly. But, perhaps, if they were a bit faster, the tragedy would never have happened. Or slower, if only to alleviate a part. While the boys were on their small journey, a pair of bandits sneaked onto the farm. Smelling food and a bit of coin to be had from the home, the two began to snoop the place. Rodak’s father, hearing the noise, moved to investigate. When he saw the thieves, he gave a shout, rushing at them with his fists. While he was a large and hardy man, and could certainly have removed the bandits with his hands alone, his disease had left his mind dazed and his muscles weak. The bandits, with some fear, stabbed at him with their baldes, burying them in his chest. The theft had transformed to murder. While they had missed the death of their father, Radok and his brother certainly heard the screams of their mother, as they saw the farm from along the trail. Entering the home with great haste, they saw their parents face-down in their own blood, their killers standing above them. Radok’s brother lept at them, managing to steal one’s weapon. Killing the same one with his own blade, the brother fell to the other, slicing him along the back. Radok, the only one left, was paralyzed between action and flight. His reactions barely saved his life, as the bandit swung his weapon once more. The bandit’s sword flashed through the air, drawing crimson as the blade connected with Radok’s elbow as he raised it in defense. The arm was given away, falling to the floor. Radok’s face contorted in pain, blurring his vision and thought. And suddenly, the room was awash in light, Radok’s last sights the bandit falling to his knees. Then, the shadow of unconsciousness overcame him. When Radok awoke again, he found himself in the village, the aftermath already settled. His wounds were bandaged, his family buried. Most peculiar, perhaps, was the appendage replacing his arm. It was something considerably alchemical, perhaps with a pinch of magic. It seemed dwarven in design, the stonework only belonging to their craftsman (as a villager would later note). It was never clear who made it, only assumed it was some passing magician who had saved Radok and given him the arm. The villagers looked upon Radok with the feelings he hated most - pity. The villagers offered him a home in town, and encouraged him to sell the farm to pay for it. The home was worth well more than what he paid for, but Radok felt he had to, for he could never maintain the farm in his condition. But it seemed that everyone expected Radok to simply sit in the home and waste away, as they passed rumors of the tragedy that had taken place. But Radok refused to simply live such a shallow life. No, Radok had to live, live with the heavy stone arm of his. Each day, he tried to lift it, becoming more and more successful as the weeks went on. By the next year, Radok could work, helping at the local smithy, a dwarf by the name of Edgrin, to lift heavy goods and work the bellows. In return, Radok was paid and allowed upkeep on his arm which would sometimes be cracked. It isn’t the best life, nor what Radok truly wanted. People still stared at him with sorrowful eyes. His arm was still heavy and hard to move. But it was better than nothing. And yet, Radok always wanted to be something more.
Appearance and Personality:
Radok has two easily seen traits - the massive stone arm plain in view, and the chip on one of his tusks. Both, he hates. His face is gruff, his hazel eyes peeking through passively clenched eyes. His stare feels that of disgust, but to those he calls friends (which are far and between) they are those of strict admiration. Radok considers himself a survivor, not a winner of any contest. The best he has done is live, and for that, he resents himself. He does the same to others, rejecting those that believe themselves best where they are, never to improve.
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