Roan Greyfell's page

Roan leaned over the washbowl in his quarters, his hands resting on the bench as he stared into the small steel mirror on the wall. The first rays of dawn were just starting to crack through the darkness of the horizon, casting a soft rosy-pink glow over the cityscape below. He cupped his hands, dipping them into the cool water and splashing it over his face. ”Hnh. I’d better shave.” he grunted to no one in particular as he reached into his pack to retrieve his soap and razor. Roan had retired to his quarters on the third floor of the tower not long after finishing his meal in the mess hall. Kip, ever excitable, had decided to travel into the city proper to ‘assess the nightlife’. Their farewell had been brief; Roan was not worried about losing the little troubadour. He had an uncanny knack for turning up unexpectedly whenever the half-elf returned from his forays into the wound. Roan scraped the last of the soapy foam from his jaw with a flick of the razor, and with one last splash of water he turned to check his kit.

A few hours later, Roan was striding down a hallway behind a curtly dressed military man. He wore the rank of Sergeant, and had introduced himself as such. Sergeant Boyd seemed amiable enough, though his hurried demeanour and militant sense of urgency led Roan to believe that the task ahead was of no small importance. Then, there was the woman. Her amour of glimmering scales, combined the precious stones and small bones which adorned her waist betrayed the fact that she was no run of the mill crusader. Her eyes were fierce; as soon as he saw her Roan could tell that she was no stranger to the war which ravaged these lands. They spoke little, merely exchanging nods after their introduction. Roan was relieved; he felt a certain disparity between himself and the preachy crusaders or greedy mercenary types which polluted Mendev like a cancer. This Kellid woman seemed to share his sentiment, a fact which put the half elf at ease.

Boyd stopped sharply at a large wooden door halfway down the corrider. ”Here we are. Your new companions should be inside already.” Boyd spoke curtly as he pushed the heavy door open to reveal a vacant room. ”Well…soon, I hope…” he muttered under his breath, motioning for the pair to enter. Before long, three figures entered the room through the same door. Roan glanced at them, his eyebrow ever-so-slightly raised as he inspected his soon to be squad mates. Tag here if anyone wants to throw a description of your attire and/or bleary eyed and hungover state Boyd began his introductions, until a knock at the door drew his attention momentarily. ”Call me Roach.’ Roan said in a deep, husky tone as he nodded in greeting to the others.

’…we leave at 0900, any questions?” Ilivan said, his harsh tone reminiscent of a military drill master.

”I’ve got a few. First, I need a map of the lands surrounding Portolmaeus along with any relevant reports or ledgers of activity from the last six months. Any information regarding these attacks will give us an idea of what to plan for. Second, is there a company alchemist here? I could use a few more curatives, and maybe some more trail rations come to think of it...” Roan replied to Ilivan, mentally checking off his list of supplies which needed replacing or replenishment before they departed. Tag Ilivan for a response

Roan will study any maps or reports he is give, using knowledge (planes and geography) taking 20 if able. Basically he is looking for the common types of enemy encountered, frequency or pattern of attacks, and any landmarks which may potentially be offering shelter to an enemy force. He understands that demons are random and chaotic creatures, but if the previous attacks were testing the fortress defences there may be a larger group massing nearby to overrun it. He’d also like to resupply, replenishing his rations and grapping another 2 cure light wounds potions, and a bandolier within which to store his oils and curatives.

The sun had begun its slow descent into dusk as the city gates of Nerosyan came into view. Two riders approached from the north, their mounts cantering lazily along the beaten path which ran almost parallel to the Sellen river. “Finally! It feels like we’ve been in these saddles for days!” the smaller of the two chimed, his saddle squeaking as he wriggled uncomfortably. Kip the halfling seemed out of place in Mendev; his simple minded cheerfulness, combined with a penchant for gaudy clothing, had made him something of a running joke back in Kenabres. Roan glanced over at his travelling companion, stifling a smile. Kip had managed to slip one foot from its stirrup and was slowly sliding out of his saddle. His many feathered hat was slinking down over his brow, and as he reached up (foolishly with both hands) to adjust it he slipped. CRASH.

“Ow!” he muttered, rubbing the lump which had started to show on his forehead as Roan brought his steed to a halt. “We have been in these saddles for days my friend, but could you not have waited just an hour longer before dismounting?” the half elf laughed as helped his battered friend up. Quite contrary to Kip, Roan looked as though he was purpose built for the crusades. His powerful frame was accentuated by a heavy studded leather coat of brown and forest green, and two swords hung loosely at either side of his belt. “Thanks, Roach! Dunno what happened there; too much saddle oil probably. Or maybe this pony has it in for me…yeah that must be it! That gives me an idea for a song, I could call it ‘the ballad of the painful pony’…” Kip muttered as he produced a journal seemingly out of nowhere and began scribbling furiously. Kip had shadowed Roan for years, ever since the half elf first limped into Kenabres six years ago. A group of old-timers took pity on the disheveled and terrified Roan when he stumbled into the tavern, and bought him a drink in return for his story.Upon hearing that he had not only survived an attack but crossed half the wound alone they called him “Roach”; an honorific which he had carried ever since. Kip was awed by his tale, and vowed to turn his past and future exploits into glorious songs for the ages. At first, Roan hated the attention but as time passed he came to value the small one’s friendship and humorously awful songs. It was Kip who had found the missive from Captain Jaspar, and persuaded Roan to apply. Truthfully, he didn’t take much convincing; any opportunity to spend more time in the wound was another chance to find his missing half-brother. “Come, Kip; the song can wait. We’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.”

Hours later, the pair finally sat down in the mess hall of Battle tower. Between the arduously lengthy process of obtaining entry to the city, and the mistaken directions given to Egelsee tower, the night had well and truly set in. “Seems we’re more than a little late for dinner.” Kip scoffed as he inspected his mess tray; the feast of bland boiled potatoes, stale bread and salted beef had gone cold. Roan glanced around the room as he ate, taking in the macabre and unusual decorations. Writings from journals and ledgers of those who had obviously spent their fair share of time out in the wound lined the walls, one in particular grabbed his attention. A piece of charred vellum, held in the hands of a stuffed impish corpse which was pinned to the wall by a long wicked dagger through the forehead. It’s stomach was split, it’s magically preserved innards spilling out and hanging down to it’s clawed feet. “That’s a first; a gutted quasit for a picture frame” Roan thought to himself, staring at the twisted look of pain permanently etched on its face. Scanning the text, he felt his pulse begin to race as he was reminded of his first visit to this scarred land.

We came upon the remains of the missing scouts in the early hours of the morning. Njall and Kedis were torn through the midsection, their entrails dragged out about forty feet from their bodies and draped over the low hanging branches of a barren tree. Harmus and Bander were still breathing, but I still don’t know if that was a blessing or a curse. Truthfully, my first thought was to put the poor bastards out of their misery. Bander was barely recognisable, his skin was flayed and filleted expertly enough to preserve the muscle beneath. Harmus was pinned to the ground, his own spear set through his shoulder and a foot into the dirt beneath. He was stark naked, his legs gone but the wounds were cauterized. I’ll never forget the sight of the crows; so many crows! Feasting on their eyes, their groins, snapping up the rank guts that were strewn all over the ground. Truly, a demon’s mercy is a cruel joke.
-Excerpt of Ledger #4498, Report compiled by Vanguard Frederick Carroway

“Durin, I swear if the same fate has befallen you I’ll close the wound myself.” Roan clenched his teeth at the thought. Kip, seeing his friend lost in dark thoughts, unslung the lute from his back and began plucking the strings in an attempt to tune it. The sound snapped Roan back to the present, and as he noticed his companion preparing his instrument he shook his head. “No. Not now. Not here.” He spoke firmly. Kip, ignorant of his friend, stepped up onto the table with a flourish and a grin. Spinning to face an imaginary audience, he began his well-practiced lines. “Have ye heard, dear friends, of the one they call The Roach?” he asked the empty room with an off-key strum of his lute. “Tall as an oak; With arms just as wide; On a horse black as midnight through the wound he does ride!...” he began, his voice squeaking as he attempted the higher notes of his ballad. Roan knew this one; Kip called it Reckless Roach and the dozen dretches. He stood and snatched the lute from the halfing in a single fluid motion. His expression of anger melted as he saw the goofy smile on the halfling’s face and realised it had all been a jest, a light hearted attempt at rousing Roan from the dark thoughts which plagued him often. He smiled in return, tousling his companions hair as he sat down. ”He’s a painful little bastard, but he means well" Roan thought to himself as he returned his attention to the bland meal.

Kip has no intention of joining the recon patrols advertised by Captain Jaspar, he has merely accompanied Roan on the journey. He is a dear friend to the half elf, and even though his songs are terrible he has a knack for making the otherwise dark and brooding slayer laugh. He intends to stay in Nerosyan, hopefully getting work ad a bard of barhand at a local inn where he can await his friend’s return. I put him in to create a contrast in mood for Roan; I imagine that the treks out into the wound will be horrible and depressing, so Kip is here as an NPC ‘back home’ for comic relief during downtime in Nerosyan.