About ReknarokReknarok
Reknarok Raging Stats:
AC 24, touch 10, flat-footed 21 (+11 armor, +3 Dex, +3 natural, +2 deflection, +5 dodge) hp 149 (10d12+1d10+55) Fort +15 (+4 vs. hot or cold environments and to resist damage from suffocation), Ref +7, Will +6; +7 morale bonus vs. spells, supernatural abilities, and spell-like abilities (for a total +13) but must resist all spells, even allies'. DR 11/lethal, 16/nonlethal; 5/epic; Resist cold 2, extreme endurancecold Melee +20/+15/+10 (1d12+29/x2) and
Mechanics note:
Background:
Reknar was born on a Red Moon Night in Sarinaar,a hunter gatherer village many miles north of Kalsgard - Ulfen legends say that the Fire Moon is the signal that an hero has born - taking on that color because a huge ceremonial fire is started in Arcadia, roaring as high as the skies for one day only, reflecting on the moon's pale face. This fire is kept alit until the day comes when the hero will arrive in Valenhall, taking his place amongst the most honorable of Ulfen, besides the fire in his honor. The child was born oblivious to all this, and even the Red Fire moon is no more than a lost legend that not many remember anymore in the Vast North. Raised a strong and resilient child, he never got sick though, was never ailed by any malady, and seemed to shake away any weakness by sheer resolve and loud rage - many times his parents observed as Reknar would stubbornly dive into the half frozen waters of the nearby lake, whenever it would seem he was starting to show symptoms of fever, or any other sickness - in the end it was never understood if he actually was never sick, or if he simply refused to admit it. As early as 12, there was no doubt that he would prove to be a fine warrior - not for the one time he hunted an albino mountain lion alone, or for another when he took out 4 ambushing goblins as a child only, but because of his stern posture and attitude - it would seem that when others would gladly give in to the abandon of fury and mayhem, Reknar was somehow in control of it, as if more focused, seemingly able to pierce the veils of rage to maintain enough margin of control to allow him intelligent decisions, and quick thinking in the heat of battle. His early age was full of success and victories, whether in frequent hunts, or in the defense of his peoples' lands against hostile tribes of monstrous humanoids. He took on an unusual role in combat, calling himself a "Defender" - his abnormal self control allowed him to observe tactics and combat movements with an attentive eye, and he always seemed to be in the right place, at the right time, be it advancing through orc bodyguards to single handedly take down their foul magic wielding shaman, seemingly impervious to his defiling spells, or left standing alone to defend wounded comrades against an uncanny dog-riding goblin charge, fighting even more ferociously and dangerously when left alone to fend for himself. He found honor however, in guaranteeing the safety of his people, and in making sure that, whenever his raid group would be out in the wild, fighting with abandon, taking upon himself the role of seeing that that would return to their home alive. His mettle and huge success as a warrior, made him known throughout the Northern Reaches, perhaps too much, to the point that he decided to embark on the Spirit Cleansing - a ritual customary voyage, fallen into oblivion many centuries ago, that would take the most brave and valued warriors of the tribe to the Worldwound, to test their mettle against the horrors therein for a one year campaign - those that returned would be honored as the tribes' greatest warriors, and entitled to proheminent positions in their society. The custom had not been followed for uncounted years, after the regular death of many of the tribe's warriors - embarking lightly on this venture without truly being prepared, blinded by an ever boiling inner rage and unmeasured pride the very existence of their community found itself threatened by the ever dwindling number of able bodied combatants and breeders. The elders decided it was enough, and banned all verbal or written recounts of the Spirit Cleansing - Reknar had accidentaly stumbled across the old tales on one of his frequent trips to Kalsgard, as part of his formal teachings, enforced by his father - "Rage is useless without focus my son, learn from what others have said and done before, so that you can outthink and out maneuver them" - he would repeatedly say, whenever faced with Reknar's unwillingness to take himself away from the outdoors, from the hunt and from the fray. If arguments were not enough, a good smack in the face from his father huge arms always did it.... His decision made, Reknar left his village two years ago, with twenty of their most promising warriors, the will set in his mind to bring back glories of older days, and what legends are written about. He left his mother with tears running down her stern face, his father silent encouragement while he offered him his weapon - a huge battle worn, but amazingly well kept hammer, and the village quiet contemplation. In his head he took the memories of what he had read about those that returned with tales of heroic combats, excellence in the battlefield, and wonders and terrors never seen anywhere else - Velisaar, Ragamart, and the last - Telioron. At the time, the fact that such heroic returns had ceased for over two centuries before the Spirit Cleansing was banned, did not register as important to him. He has not seen his family or his village since that day. After having traversed the whole of the northern mountain range, from the Lands of the Linnorn Kings, Irrisen, and the Realm of the Mammoth Lords, fighting for every day travelled in that hostile environment, their arrival first at Tolguth and then finnally at Gundrun was one filled with emotions of success and willing to take up victorious fray to the face of their opponents. None of the proud warriors were prepared by what expected them... The very nature of things was "wrong" in the whole area surrounding the Worldwound, feeling at times as if up was down and hot was cold, their natural sense of orientation became blurry and confused and the very navigation of the landscape became taxing. It got even worse when they encountered their first group of enemies, a huge pack of roving wights in the Ashen plains quickly made shortwork of the small compact group - their life draining abilities lending horror to the strong spirited tribesmen, as the strngth left their arms, robbing them of everything that made them what they were - strength and courage. None died that day but they found themselves quite far away from the "victorious punishment" they intended to inflict upon the foul creatures spawning from the Worldwound. The next six months were spent running from one hole to the other, barely able to act proactively, but simply reacting to all the threats they faced in that desperate land, hiding constantly, barely making it alive almost every day. But it was a learning process, and they grew with it - a compact force of twenty warriors, returning to Gundrun every so often to rest and recover - By the 7th month they felt much more adapted, they were able to pull some small victories, and already had recovered a few magic items that enhanced their abilities in combat - they were starting to feel themselves again. The worse of it all was the horrible sense of not making any progress - it did not matter how many monsters they killed, they started feeling they would not be able to make a diffeence AT ALL - this, in conjunction with a conversatioin Reknar had with what remained of a returning adventure group - a severely wounded wizard, babbling recounts about an abandoned crypt, supposedly dedicated to a grand warrior of days past whose name they never uncovered, forced his hand into a decision he regrets to this day - they would take their crypt and uncover its secrets - this was surely an accomplishment to crown their now 8 month ongoing campaign. They departed on the next morning, with whatever scribbles of directions the half-mad adventurer provided them - travelling the expanse was becoming less hard, as they learned to adapt to the ever changing terrain, and they eventually reached the crypt - half buried in a chasm wall, it clearly sported about its broken down stony entrance the symbol of Telioron, one of the great heroes he had read about during his studies, that supposedly had returned with amazing wealth and glory to the Linnorn Lands - a broken skull hung there, right in front of him, contradicting the popular belief of the heroes' return... If he had return, why would there be a crypt here with his symbol? There was no time for doubts then, the symbol of one of their best known warriors was there - it could only be a good omen - so they entered, but never left... This was indee a crypt - and a complex one at that, the rotting stench and decay permeated the place completely - after 5 grueling days of underground travel through mazes of monstrosities, traps and the unliving they understood where they were - this was indeed the tomb of their hero, and he himself had given himself to the immortal unlife. As the wretched creature itself recounted, this had been a choice, after all the despair and the horror he had seen in the Worldwound, he had crawled in a hole to die, but instead found a new existence as he now considered to be true glory, as a non living - Reknar does not know enough about undead to understand what manner of undead they were facing, and it wouldn't have mattered if he did know - he ordered their comrades to take him down, but as soon as he attempted to take his first step a casual gesture from the former hero caused him to freeze in place - he could only watch as, through spell and blade, each of his companions was taken down amidst blood and tears, some screaming for his help while their very life was sucked away from them until only a husk remained, while others, mortally wounded and weakened by the monster's blade, managed to crawl up to his frozen form, begging his assistance, and dying at his feet. He never moved a muscle, he never made a sound, the only sign that he was alive were the tears running freely down his face...
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