Villamar Koth

Thorgar the Childeater's page

140 posts. Alias of Byden.

Full Name

Thorgar the Childeater




Barbarian (Invulnerable Rager) 1: AC 18, FF 16, touch 12; HP 28/28; Init +8; Fort +5, Ref+2, Will +1; Perception +5, SM +1







Special Abilities

Fast Movement, Rage, DR/- 1


Chaotic Good





Strength 20
Dexterity 14
Constitution 14
Intelligence 10
Wisdom 12
Charisma 7

About Thorgar the Childeater

Male Human Barbarian (Invulnerable Rager) 2
CG Medium Humanoid
Init +8 ; Senses Perception +4
(Init: +2 dex, +2 trait, +4 feat)

AC 18, touch 12, flat-footed 16 (+2 dex, +6 armor)
hp 28 (2d12+4 con)
Fort +5, Ref +2, Will +1 (+2 Fort and Will when raging, and +3 when raging vs spells, supernatural abilities, and spell-like abilities)

Spd 30 ft
Melee MW Cold Iron Greatsword +8 2d6+7/19-20 or +10 2d6+10 in rage
Melee Club +7 2d6+7 or +9 2d6+10 in rage
Ranged Club +4 2d6+5 or +4 2d6+7 in rage

Str 20, Dex 14, Con 14, Int 10, Wis 12, Cha 7
Base Atk +2, Cmb +7 Cmd 19

Feats Power Attack, Improved Initiative

Skills Acrobatics +3, Intimidate +2, Perception +5, Survival +5

Languages Common, Skald

Favored Class Barbarian
Favored Class Bonuses
1 +1/3 Superstition Bonus
2 +1/3 Superstition Bonus

Traits: Reactionary, Berserker of the Society, Northern Ancestry

MW Breastplate 350gp 25lbs
Cold Weather Outfit 7lbs
MW Cold Iron Greatsword 400gp 8lbs
Javelin x2 2gp 2lbs
Club 3lbs
Backpack 2gp 2lb
Bedroll 1sp 5lb
Silk Rope 50ft. 10gp 5lbs
Hemp Rope 50ft. 1gp 10lbs
Grappling Hook 1gp 1lb
Piton x 5 5sp 2.5lbs
Cleats 5gp
Waterskin 1gp 4lbs
Wandermeal x10 1sp 5lbs
Whetstone 1cp 1lb
Potion of Enlarge Person x 2 100gp
Potion of Protection vs Evil 50gp
Potion of Cure Light Wounds 50gp

Total Weight = 81.5lbs

Appearance: A muscular man, not tall, nor short, but somehow larger than himself. He bears a ragged gray brown stubble just shy of a beard that fails to cover a puckered scar that runs from the corner of his mouth to the jawline beneath his right ear. His heavy brow is furrowed dark eyes cloaked in simmering wrath. Broken nose, missing teeth, hard.

His arms are covered in great burns whose uniform shapes suggest they once sported ink. He moves as if holding himself in check.


Born in Jol to a miner and a tavern wench Thorgar ran away from home after cutting his fathers throat after the old man smashed his mother's teeth in. At the tender age of thirteen he became a terror of the streets until Opir Eightfingers men forcibly conscripted him to stop his muggings.

He served as one of Opir's men for nine years before nearly being killed by a frost troll and deciding he wanted to see the world. He made his way to Absalom working as a mercenary and ended up joining the Pathfinder Society, where he caught noble aspirations like crabs.

Working with a party of society friends he was ensorcelled into a state of confusion while in a close battle with a group of cultists. When he came back to his senses he had slaughtered two of his friends as well as the last cultists. Unable to face the Society again he fled back home.

He signed up with Opir Eightfingers again and was sent with Opir's son, the twelve year old Hadrolf Dauntless and a small force to reinforce the garrison at the Frostfell Fort in the Halgan Pass. They arrived there just in time to face the vanguard of Karzoug's the Claimer's giant forces.

Though the giants were able to get around the fort they could not conquer it and open the pass for easy troop movement. The fort itself was giant built and able to withstand their assaults leading to a protracted siege. That lasted for months. Already poorly provisioned the defenders of Frostfell Fort became bleak hungry ghosts of men, grimly launching arrow after arrow at the besiegers while their stomachs growled protest.

After the first month men began to die, and the Forts Wizard Keneer the Longsighted began to go mad. Fights became common place, and Hadrolf given charge by his father earned his men's ire by staying conspicuously fat and sleek as they were forced to endure hunger and privation. They ate anything and everything they could, chewing boiled leather, and even trying to roast a giant that was slain on the walls - though its meat proved foul.

After three months, with more than half their number perished, Hadrolf tried to raise the men's spirits with a rousing speech. But the pompous fat little boy received only stoney silence and cold stares from the emaciated specters before him. Dark words began to be spoken about the Pig Prince and the men's hostility was a palpable force. Thorgar charged with Hadrolf's protection, though he to despised the spoiled Princeling, had shared the men's hunger though Hadrolf offered his bodyguard the quadruple ration he was taking for himself.

Then the men mutinied, seeking to slaughter Hadrolf like a pig and raid the stores they imagined he had set aside. Some few of the contingent, who had enjoyed their Pricelings largess to an extent, and owed loyalty to, or feared the reprisals of his father, remained loyal. The battles were bloody and furious, and raged for nine terrible hours. With Thorgar stalking the corridors like a blood drenched demon, the blubbering Hadrolf in tow slaying his skeletal brethren until silence reigned.

Only Hadrolf, Thorgar, and the mad Mage remained. Everyone else had been slain fighting against their kin. They had failed and the Fort would soon be lost. And then Hadrolf in terror frustration and bitter anger at his men's betrayal slapped Thorgar, demanding to know why they would repay his kindness so.

When the red veil lifted, Hadrolf was a wet mess and he was covered head to toe in warm sticky gore. A terrible madness of hunger, grief, and fury overtook him, and he driven sanity from him. And in his animal state, as Keneer laughed and laughed dancing amidst the corpses. He walked out of the Keep and past the enemy, red from head to toe, wanting them, needing them, to kill him. But they let him pass, the giants watching expressionless as he walked away. And he earned his name.

For a year he became a monster, plagued by nightmares, killing Karzoug's forces, and men sent after him by Opir, indiscriminately and carving a red legend. Then he caught a fever and paid a young widow, named Ilsa, to take him in until it broke. She salved his fever and his pain, they fell in love and married, and for years he could almost forget. He sold his weapons for a herd and home. But as the winter's became longer and harder they struggled more and more. Until finally his love took ill and passed away.

Now he is going back to the blade. Without Ilsa he sees little point in trying to be a better man, he may as well be himself, and do it hard. He sold his herds and found a tavern where he could drown his sorrows while pretending to look for mercenary work.

And there reeking of his own stale vomit and sweat that Alissar Talve, now Pathfinder Venture Captain found him. Alissar had been one of his companions long ago, one of the few that escaped him blade when he was turned against his friends. He offered a chance at redemption, for Andoran was assembling a task force to stave off eternal winter, they would need strength and someone who knew the north. And if ever redemption were to be gained then saving the world would surely be it.


I was a name once. Killed me a gods cursed troll, gutted Iljnor Thunderlust at the battle of Breyd Fell, only survivor of the siege at Frosthaven. They used to soil their breeches at the sound of my name!

Now what am I? Some old drunk? That failed farmer, old Thori too s*#*ting stupid to keep his herd alive. Not stupid, just uncaring, he gave up the bloody life for love - no stupid was right afterall - and then she died giving birth to a tiny bundle of lifeless blood and bones. Maybe he deserved it, that is what they all thought, damned. Thorgar the Childeater hardly deserved to be happy.

When the serving girl passed near he asked her what there was to eat, of course it was pork. Anything but pork, too many memories, too close, too pale, too weak to stop his great hands snapping their necks like...

He laughed, eliciting a few strange looks from his fellow patrons which he stared down with bloodshot eyes, fingers caressing the hilt of his cleaver-like greatsword. Only wife a man needed, a steel wife wasn't like to die.

He had sold the remenants of his pitiful herd, his hands were made for killing not milking. He bought a greatsword, solid and plain, heavy as a blackened soul and waited, pissing away his coin until someone needed something made dead.