Sekla Torgut's page

Armor Training (Ex) You are more maneuverable while wearing armor. Whenever you are wearing armor, you reduce the armor check penalty by 1 and increase the maximum Dexterity bonus allowed by your armor by +1
Bonus Feats At 1st level, and at every even level thereafter, a fighter gains a bonus feat in addition to those gained from normal advancement (meaning that the fighter gains a feat at every level). These bonus feats must be selected from those listed as combat feats, sometimes also called "fighter bonus feats." Upon reaching 4th level, and every four levels thereafter (8th, 12th, and so on), a fighter can choose to learn a new bonus feat in place of a bonus feat he has already learned. In effect, the fighter loses the bonus feat in exchange for the new one. The old feat cannot be one that was used as a prerequisite for another feat, prestige class, or other ability. A fighter can only change one feat at any given level and must choose whether or not to swap the feat at the time he gains a new bonus feat for the level.
Bravery (Ex) You gain a +1 bonus to Will saves against fear effects.
Darkvision (Ex) Range 60 ft.; Darkvision is the extraordinary ability to see with no light source at all, out to a range specified for the creature. Darkvision is black and white only (colors cannot be discerned). It does not allow characters to see anything that they could not see otherwise-invisible objects are still invisible, and illusions are still visible as what they seem to be. Likewise, darkvision subjects a creature to gaze attacks normally. The presence of light does not spoil darkvision.
Principled You hold yourself to a strict code of behavior that guides all of your decisions and actions. You take a -2 penalty on Bluff checks and gain a +2 trait bonus on saving throws against charm, compulsion, and emotion effects.
Sneaky (Ex) Hobgoblins gain a +4 racial bonus on Stealth checks

This game seems to be one that rewards in depth roleplay, and that's the only kind of game where I'd try to play a monstrous humanoid. The challenge: to roleplay a character who hides her desire for connection, for bonds, for friendship, behind an armored exterior, a bestial facade that keeps the gawkers and opportunists at bay. She's transitioning from a world of martial excess and dominance into a more cosmopolitan frame of mind where might does not equal right, where loneliness batters at her ingrained instincts, and where the right crew, the right group of forthright individuals could prove the key to undoing the last of her brutish personality and reserves. Her being a hobgoblin makes this challenge all the more acute, and would, I hope, be fun to explore over the course of the game.

Sekla is an intimidating sight; clad in the burnished bronze plate armor awarded to her when she won the Irorium's annual contest, she exudes a sense of martial mastery that quells all but the most thoughtless of hecklers. Yet there's no denying her goblinoid heritage; thick, oily black hair spills down her back from under her helm, while her sallow, gray-green skin gives away her hobgoblin blood.

Hers is a grim, pensive presence, one of restraint and heavy intensity. She's learned the value of caution, for the people around her are all too ready to take up arms and demand justice if she steps out of line. She knows she is a monster in the eyes of almost all the other inhabitants of the Precipace Quarter, and for that reason she clings to dignity and reserve, wielding her ferocious reputation as a shield. But like all creatures who live on the edges of society, she is watchful, careful, soft spoken and far more willing to forgive trespasses than one would imagine. Only in combat does she give vent to her fury, to her frustrations and anger. And then the warrior who won the annual Irorium contest shines forth once more, crushing all in her merciless path.

Belkzen seems a lifetime ago. The Ironfang Tribe a half-remembered dream. Raised to excel in all matters martial, Sekla's youth was one of brutal training, pain, and bitter encouragement. For excel she did, and the elders of her tribe singled her out for greatness. And for a few brief, exhilirating years, she surpassed their expectations. Raids, brief, ferocious battles against rampaging orc tribes, hiring out to warlords, leading sieges, marching through long nights to do battle at dawn.

It was glorious, and Sekla's heart was filled to the brim with savage delight.

Until her tribe was betrayed, a pawn sacrificed in a larger game, and those who survived the bloody ambush were clapped into chains and enslaved.

A year of ignomy and shame followed, as she was sold and sold again. Sekla made a terrible slave. She refused to bow to the lash, and proved too hard to control in battle. Time and again she was sold, until at last an enterprising slaver took her for a pittance and took her and a dozen others down the length of the Mindspin Mountains, through Nidal and into Cheliax.

Sekla ceased to care where she was taken or what happened to her. She withdrew into herself, brooded, ignored the lash. Only when a weapon was placed in her hand and she was let loose in a subterranean arena to slaughter a half-dozen other slaves to the amusement of Chelaxian noblemen did she come alive. Over and over again she destroyed her foes, earning her new master ever more money as he bet on her outcomes.

She was pampered, given silks to wear, lavish quarters. Her world became strange, perverse; she ignored it, refused to be cajoled into accepting her situation. Finally her master grew tired of her rejections, and had her cast into a cell.

Often she was paired with another; a human, a wicked fighter, white-haired and brutally scarred. They spoke the same language, and together they defeated all comers.

Living in her cell was better. That matched her temperment. She had lost everything. To accept anything, to be grateful for any show of favor would mean coming back to life. Better this half-life of violence and pain, to fight alongside Garthas, the white-haired fighter, and await death.

And then, chaos. Her master was attacked by a rival, fire swept the halls, and shadowy figures struck the locks from the cells.

She emerged, wary, expecting a trap, but took up a blade embedded in a former guard's chest and with the other combatants stalked forth from the ruined arena complex, to emerge deep in a dark forest and there flee into the night.

Confusion. Anger. Resentment. She wandered with a half-dozen others for a few weeks, unsure as to where to go, what to do. Begin raiding? But Garthas, the white-haired fighter, convinced her to do otherwise. With what little trust he'd earned from her he persuaded her to accompany him to Absalom. Together, he swore, they could win the annual competition at the Irorium. Together they could win riches, and then live as they wished, without masters.

Sekla agreed. Cautious, unsure, she followed him to Westcrown, and there they booked passage to Absalom with what little money they stole along the way. The Inner Sea terrified her with its immensity, its chaotic beauty, but it was nothing to the great, vibrant, overwhelming nature of Absalom itself.

The competition was about to begin. Garthas enrolled them, found quarters, coached her, kept her from panicking and fleeing into the night.

Then the days of wonder, of violence, of blood. The screaming crowds. The hot sands. The fights weren't to the death, which confused Sekla, but in the end it didn't matter. Together they fought through seven rounds, winning each fight with the same combination of ferocity and trust they'd developed in the Chelaxian arenas.

The last fight, however, was rigged. The enemy had live weapons, and Garthas was stabbed deep in the gut. Sekla, seeing the wound, was filled with rage and horror; she battered their foes to the ground, not caring how she was cut, and then held cradled Garthas' head in her lap as he died before the screaming crowds.

What followed was a blur. She was awarded a suit of bronze plate armor complete with shield and blade, given riches, feted for all of Absalom to see.

But Garthas' death stole the savor from it all. She allowed the money to slip through her fingers, and three surreal, drunken months later, she awoke to find herself alone in a ruined building in the Precipace Quarter. The gold was gone. All that remained was bitterness and her magnificent armor.

Sekla considered casting herself into the ocean. The arena no longer appealed to her, for she'd never forget the crowd screaming its approval as Garthas died. She knew herself too changed to return to Belkzen. The wide world beckoned, but after so many years of being dragged across its face in chains, she had no urge to travel.

So instead she contacted the local temple of Abadar and let it be known she was available for guard duty. In the fast moving world of Absalom, her reputation was already almost forgotten, but enough renown remained to her that she was hired, then hired again, and then a third and fourth time.

She completed each contract with diligence and professionalism. Far easier to excel and show no emotion than to do otherwise. Her feelings, her bitterness, her loneliness, she bottled up and hid away. She knew she'd never find another companion like Garthas who'd understand her, so why hope?

Until a new offer was extended to her: a contract to defend a Talienda Blackhorn. Indifferent, she suited up, set her gleaming helm atop her oily locks, and set out into the Precipace District to meet her new charge, unaware as to how this final job would change absolutely everything for her forevermore.