Statistics
Str 16, Dex 13, Con 17, Int 9, Wis 14, Cha 7
Base Attack +2, CMB +5, CMD 16
Feats Antagonize, Power Attack, Toughness
Skills Survival (3 ranks) +7, Perception (3 ranks) +7, Intimidate (3 ranks) +3, Climb (2 rank) +8, Acrobatics (1 rank) +5
Languages Common, Dwarven
Special Qualities-Slow and Steady, Darkvision, Greed, Stonecunning, Weapon Familiarity, Fast Movement
Breakdown of Special Abilities:
Slow and Steady-20ft base speed, speed is never modified by encumbrance or armor
Darkvision-60 feet
Defense Training-+4 Dodge against Giants
Greed-+2 Appraise on nonmagical precious metals and gemstones
Hatred-+1 Attack against Orcs and Goblinoids
Hardy-+2 Saves against Poison, Spells, and Spell-like Abilities
Stability-+4 CMD against Bull Rushes when both are on solid ground
Stonecunning-+2 Perception to notice unusual stonework, automatically checks when within 10ft of unusual stonework
Weapon Familiarity-proficient with Battleaxes and Warhammers, Dwarven Urgosh and Dwarven Waraxe are martial
Fast Movement-base speed increased by 10ft
Rage-9 rounds per day, +4 Str and Con, +2 Will, -2 AC, after Rage, fatigued for a number of rounds equal to twice that spent in Rage, cannot Rage when Fatigued
Lesser Beast Totem-gains 2 primary claw attacks in rage that deal 1d6 plus str damage
Uncanny Dodge-cannot be caught flat footed except by a character that has 4 more Rogue levels than Tarvelin has Barbarian levels
Trap Sense-+1 bonus to Reflex saves and AC against attacks made by traps.
Gear:
20gp, 3 sp
Greataxe
Heavy Crossbow
20 bolts
Scalemail Armor
Backpack
Waterskin
Bedroll
Sack
Flint and Steel
7 days of trail rations
Total Weight 70.5lbs.
Backstory
One of the chief, unspoken rules of dwarf society is: Never leave a comrade to die. Doing so is considered dishonorable and cause for being shunned from meaningful interaction among other dwarves.
Before the tragic day that he dishonored himself, Tarvelin was a masterful student of war. Fast on his feet and strong of arm, he was a swift hammer against the many enemies lurking in the dark tunnels preferred by his race. Proud to have been accepted into the ranks of the city guard of Arkhen, he kept his appearance pristine and his beard combed and braided. He had enlisted at just fourty years of age and never looked back.
Tarvelin found in training that he was well suited to being a warrior. After just a few months, he was prepared for real combat. Once he tasted the thrill of victory, righteous bloodlust. After that, nothing pleasured him more than fighting the enemies of the dwarves, in the name of protection of course. at least until the day he fled.
He was fighting a group of undead that had entered dwarven territory. It wasn't a terribly difficult fight. Mindless undead were a silver piece a dozen. By that reckoning, he had cleared almost a full silver of undead by himself today alone, but something unexpected happened. A roar and an explosion later, his squad was thrown into the air. Many had been killed on impact. Beora, one of the few females in the group, gasped and choked as she was pulled into the air by a tall, robed figure. The young maiden called for help, and Tarvelin gripped his axe, ready to fight. However, he saw the gleam of red eyes beneath the hood, and something lurked within the crimson stare. They promised death. He got to his feet. Then, he ran. He only ran faster when Beora screamed and choked.
Upon returning alone to Arkhen, Tarvelin told his superiors the whole story. Taken aback, they said he was a disgrace. He was discharged and thrown out of the barracks, allowed to keep only his personal affects. Out of a job and drowning in pity, Tarvelin drank his savings away in a night. The next day, he shaved his beard almost clean off. He packed his gear and left his home to seek the death he should have faced beneath that hood.
That was fifteen years ago. Now, he roams from place to place, a pale shadow. His once elegant beard has regrown, but he no longer keeps it neat. It billows around his in battle, a whirlwind of red hair. His skin is scarred and filthy, his gear dirty and worn. His nails have grown out into tiny claws. His eyes tell the story of despair and toil he has let his life become and hint at a madness growing within him. He now wanderes, battling monsters, hoping that one of them may strike true and end his life, for he cannot do it himself.
