Male Human in Jungle

"The Wanderer"'s page

50 posts. Alias of psionichamster.




Pistolero 1







Special Abilities

Wrathful - Interrogation 1/day




Sovereign Host




Revenge Driven Gunslinger

Strength 12
Dexterity 18
Constitution 13
Intelligence 12
Wisdom 16
Charisma 8

About "The Wanderer"

==Mittean’s Homebrew==
“Wanderer” (real name unrevealed for now)
Male Aundarian Gunslinger (pistolero) 1
CN Medium Human
Init +4 Senses: Perception +6
Destiny points 1 Action points 5 Hero points Luck points 4
Defense 14 Touch 14 FF 10
(Dex +4)
Maxdex +4 ACP -2
DR (4/large)
HP 33 Vigor 33 Wound points 23
FRW 3/6/4
Special defenses: Gunslinger’s Dodge
Spd 30 ft/x4
Melee Rapier +2 (1d6+1 18-20/x2) or Dagger +2 (1d4+1 19-20/x2)
Ranged Pistol +5 (1d8 20/x4) vs. Touch AC.Range 20’, Misfire 1, Capacity 1, 4lbs
Space 5 ft. Reach 5 ft.
Special Attacks: Grit (Max 3); Up Close & Deadly +1d6, Gunslinger’s Dodge, Quick Clear
Str 12 Dex 18 Con 13 Int 12 Wis 16 Cha 8
Bab 1 CMB 2 CMD 16
Feats: Point Blank Shot, Precise Shot, Deadly Aim [-1/+2], Gunsmithing(B)
Skills: Craft (Gunsmithing) +5, Diplomacy +0, Intimidate +3, Knowledge (Engineering) +5, Knowledge (Local) +5, Perception +6, Profession (Engineer) +5, Sense Motive +5, Sleight of Hand +8, Survival +7
Traits: Law Enforcer [+2 Sense Motive to gather hunch], Carefully Hidden [+1 Will, +2 on saves vs Divination effects], Conspiracy Hunter [Diplomacy +1 & class skill]
Special qualities: Skilled, Favored class: Gunslinger (Skills)
Languages: Common
Carrying capacity: 43/86/130; Lift 260, Drag 650
Encumbrance: 69 lbs (weapons & armor: 33.5lbs, backpack: 35.5lbs)
Combat Gear: Smoke Pellet (Belt Pouch)  
Gear carried:
-Rapier (20gp, 2llbs)
-Dagger (2gp, 1lb)
-Battered Pistol (4d10gp, 4lbs)
-Belt Pouch (1gp, .5lbs)
-Waterproof Bag (5gp, .5lbs) - powder horn (3gp, 1lb) with 8 doses black powder (80gp), bullets (10; 10gp)
-Backpack (4 lbs.) - Masterwork Manacles (2lbs; DC 35 Escape Artist, DC 28 Str, Hardness 10, HP 10), simple lock (20gp, 1lb; DC 20), bedroll (1sp, 5lbs), winter blanket (5sp, 3lbs), 50’ silk rope (10gp, 5lbs), 100’ twine (2cp, 1lb), hammer (5sp, 2lbs), iron spikes (6; 3sp, 6lbs), gunsmith kit (15gp, 2lbs), waterskin (1gp, 4lb)
Gear worn: Traveller’s Clothing, Chainshirt (25lbs)
CP: 8 SP: 5 GP: 5 PP:


The man now known only as “The Wanderer” originally hailed from a small rural community in eastern Aundair. Thaliost, the closest large city, provided them protection and trade opportunities for the majority of the Last War. That is, it did, until Thaliost fell to Trane. From that point on, the small village of Somerset, along with countless other communities, were left to fend for themselves.
Luckily, the soldiers of Thrane operated on a high level of decorum. For the most part. Stories of pillage, rape, and murder were the exception, rather than the norm. That is not to say there were not the occasional tragedies, however. “The Wanderer” was born from just such an occurrence.
An ordinary soldier, the man would forsake his name, showed remarkable aptitude for the more delicate and intricate functions of warfare. Siege defenses, reinforced structures, and well-designed machinery seemed to come naturally, and he eventually attracted the attention of his superiors. Attached to a newly designated group of “Aundarian Irregulars,” “The Wanderer” soon saw more of Khorvaire than he ever thought he would. His unit specialized in sapping, siege breaking, and behind-enemy-lines raids, designed to disrupt the morale and crush the spirit of their enemies. During that time, one of those “occasional tragedies” struck very close to his heart.
Wanderer’s wife, her family, and the majority of the citizens left in Somerset were rounded up and questioned as to their menfolks’ location. The leader of the Thranish force did not believe in the niceties of “civilized warfare,” and began summarily executing Aundarians. He fully expected the citizens to cave, but his brutality only served to strengthen their resolve. After a few hours of this, the commander realized the futility of his actions, and ordered the town razed. His soldiers complied, locking the remaining townsfolk (mostly women, children, and the very old by now) into the townhall before setting it ablaze.
The Wanderer was away from home all this time, and knew nothing of his family and friends’ fate. When he finally returned after years of deployment, he nearly snapped under the strain. Everything he looked forward to, everyone he had known, his whole world was gone. The military had essentially “closed up shop” with regards to his particular division, so he didn’t even have that to go back to. He was a man adrift.
The only thing that brought him out of his depression was the thought of revenge. The burning desire to find and punish the man responsible for his wife’s death, for the theft of his entire past life, is what drives him on. He has sought the comfort of the bottle, only to feel lessened and ashamed. He has tried to live a life of joy and laughter, deliberately hiding the pain and guilt he feels, only to have it resurface in his most vulnerable moments. For the past year, he has travelled the kingdoms, seeking clues as to the identity of the Thranish Colonel who gave the order. So far, most details have eluded The Wanderer, but at least he’s learned the rank of the commanding officer.
Along the way, he met many different people. Most he simply passed by, and left no impression on either way. One young girl, however, proved quite different. Near the borders of Thrane, Aundair, and Breland, The Wanderer came across a veritable lynch-mob. They claimed the poor girl they’d cornered was some kind of witch, a demon-spawn capable of hexing men’s eyes and casting doom upon the livestock. Typical nonsense and gibberish from the local rabble, but this time it struck him. She looked so very similar to his dead wife, and the thought of her being persecuted in such a manner incensed him. With a shot of his old military pistol and a flourish of his rapier, The Wanderer dispersed the mob long enough to effect their escape.
From that day on, the pair travelled together. They sought work as they could get it, watched one another’s backs, with The Wanderer always on the lookout for clues. And so it came to pass they ended up in Sandpoint, a podunk little coastal Brelish town, just in time for the Swallowtail Festival. Free food, happy company, and the prospect of work kept his attention.

Tall, thin, and extremely focused, The Wanderer nearly always wears a military style duster jacket and wide-brimmed hat over his armor. He wears his pistol high on his right hip, opposite his plain wire-wrapped rapier. His knife he carries horizontally across the small of his back.

Toting a heavy canvas and leather backpack, with several smaller pouches and bags tied to his belt, he strikes an intimidating figure to many, especially if they are unfamiliar with his weaponry. Travelling light, he eschews many comforts in favor of simple, durable, and relatively inexpensive gear.

Fight in Sandpoint

Why are those two always arguing? Anyone with half a brain can see they're crazy about one another, are they daft or just too damn stubborn to see it themselves?

Sandra Mayne and Paul Gentry have lived as close neighbors for years. Both in the late 30's, they lost their spouses in separate incidents within the past 2 years. Since then, they've grown closer than ever, but recently have taken to arguing constantly. Little things set them off, like whether Paul left rubbish in the back garden, or Sandra returned a borrowed book. Neither one wants to admit just how lonely and sad they feel, or own up to the guilt they feel about starting to care for another person.

If they don't simmer down and start acting their age, I'm gonna lock em up in the sheriff's cells, shut all the doors, and let 'em work it out. I can't take all the bickering no more.

Stolen Item:

Old Man Bertrand will never miss his third best fishing pole. It was sitting down by the old docks for almost a week before I grabbed it. If he were up for activity like walking down to the docks and actually casting a line, sure I'd give it back. But he ain't, and it ain't like its going to waste right now.

Last relations:

I miss my wife. I miss her laugh, her voice, and just being around her. Hell, what normal man wouldn't miss his wife?

Just 'cuz I visited the Kitten a couple times, and worked off some stress with the nice redhead up there, that don't mean nothing. That was physical, nothing more.