The Farmer is a big ol fellow. An even six foot four, with a wingspan beyond that. He has dark, self-cut hair, a sloping brow over squinty, flinty eyes. His equipment is a mish-mash of stuff picked up from fallen foes over time, but all of it is very well-kept, especially his signature Scythe, The People's Harvest. He is naturally pale but ruddy-faced from wind, war, and wear. He is not much for words, but sees their use at the hands of better speakers than himself. The powers-that-be of Greyhawk at first didn't noticed this powerful fighter who came from nowhere. His travels took him across countries, and everywhere he went there was a fight to be fought, evil to be stopped. He refuses reward, and helps with chores where ever he stays over. (This lack of need to be paid makes him especially attractive to some of said powers above. A human war machine who fights for the cause, not money, but isn't a ...complicated paladin.) The fact is, if there's an evil force threatening the common people, he will be there to fight it whether he's asked or not.
Death-Lok wrote:
On it.
The Farmer's Story: Presumably, the Farmer had a more personal name at some point in time. It, like the village he grew up in, has been lost to time, battle, and the general attrition of entropy. Survival was more important than labels or memories. He survived his first encounter with the evil that men do before he could read. Some say it was a death cult that first attacked his village; some say it was simple bandits who lost control of themselves; others say it was orcs or kobolds or even just a Large Amount of Goblins.
It doesn’t really matter what happened first. All of them more happened and somehow the man known as the Farmer survived them all. When he was finally the last one standing, he took the gear from all those battles and slaughters and left the dead village, hoping to use the deadly skills life had taught him to make sure others never suffer like he did. He has little care for nobility or any wealthy bastards who send others to kill the little people, his people. He fights not for king or country or treasure or glory, but for these common people. Gods help anything that gets in his way. The Farmer is a large, hulking man most often seen in his magical plate mail armor. Like everything but the scythe he’s had by his side (that over time became a powerful magic weapon), it is taken from some evil fool he out-survived. His brow is heavy, his eyes both squinty and flinty. He is not a friendly-looking man, nor is he in fact a friendly man. He harbors a secret soft spot for children (except rich children, the brats), but otherwise his face is fixed in a tired snarl. He’s not one for talking, but he says what he means and he means what he says. The Farmer isn’t here to win treasure or friends. He is here to Do Work.
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