Varryk Swiftshot's page

64 posts. Alias of ElegantlyWasted.

Full Name

Varryk Swiftshot


Male Half-Orc Ranger (Infiltrator) 1


HP 11 | AC 18 Touch 14 FF 14 | Fort +5 Ref +8 Will +4 | Orcish Hornbow +5 (2d6/x3/80 feet) | Greatsword +2 (2d6+1/19-20)


Init +4 Perception +7










Common, Orc, Necril

Strength 13
Dexterity 18
Constitution 12
Intelligence 10
Wisdom 14
Charisma 10

About Varryk Swiftshot


Ranger (Infiltrator) 1
NG Half-Orc (Human, Orc)
Init +4; Perception +7
AC 18, touch 14, flat-footed 14
hp 11 (1d10+1)
Saves Fort +5, Ref +8, Will +4;
Speed 30 ft.
Melee Greatsword +2 (2d6+1/19-20)
Ranged Orc Hornbow +5 (2d6/x3)

Str 14, Dex 18, Con 12, Int 10, Wis 16, Cha 10
Base Atk +1; CMB +3; CMD 17
Feats Precise Shot, Shake it Off
Traits Fate's Favored, Magical Knack, The Reclaimer
Drawbacks Mark of Slavery- Effect: Whenever you fail a skill check, you take a –2 penalty on any skill check or attack roll you attempt before the end of your next turn unless it is a part of retrying the failed skill check.
Skills Climb 5 (1), Craft Bows 4 (1), Knowledge Geography 4 (1), Knowledge Nature 4 (1)Knowledge Religion 1 (1), Linguistics 1 (1), Perception 7 (1), Profession Hunter 7 (1), Stealth 8 (1), Survival 6 (1), Swim 5 (1)
Other Gear Chain Shirt (100 GP), Orcish Hornbow (100 GP), 40 Arrows (4 GP), Greatsword (50 GP), Bedroll, Blanket, Soap, Silk Rope (50 ft), Small Steel Mirror, Trail Rations x5, Chalk, Backpack, Waterskin, Belt Pouch, Waterproof Bag, Flint and Steel, Charcoal, Parchment x3, Caltrops (30 GP 9 SP 2 CP Total)
15 GP 8 CP Remaining

Special Abilities

Darkvision: Half-orcs can see in the dark up to 60 feet.

Orc Blood: Half-orcs count as both humans and orcs for any effect related to race.

Sacred Tattoo: Many half-orcs decorate themselves with tattoos, piercings, and ritual scarification, which they consider sacred markings. Half-orcs with this racial trait gain a +1 luck bonus on all saving throws. This racial trait replaces orc ferocity.

Unflinching Valor: Half-orcs with this racial trait gain a +2 racial bonus on saving throws against fear effects, and a +1 racial bonus to CMD to avoid being grappled. This replaces intimidating.

Weapon Familiarity: Half-orcs are proficient with greataxes and falchions and treat any weapon with the word “orc” in its name as a martial weapon.

Varryk is a man that believes he is on borrowed time.

He doesn't much care about that.

Varryk doesn't court death like a lover, flirting and stealing glances until at last the whole affair is consummated. He simply does not feel that he has much to live for, and would happily give his life to save others.

Varryk began life as many did; a relatively normal, happy child. He had loving parents. His father, Dominic, was a human, and his mother, Boddika, was an Orc. Both were devotees of Erastil, who helped build the community of Roslar's Coffer. Even though he was a Half-Orc, he found the community welcoming, a group of good, decent folk that were dedicated to making a life together. He grew, proving insightful and skilled, and it was clear that a bright future was in front of him. He had friends. His mother taught him how to hunt, how to move quietly in the woods, what plants and herbs were safe to eat, how to navigate. his father taught him to read, to be kind and considerate, that the greatest joy was a loving family, and that family did not end at those related to you by blood. His life was good.

Then, the Whispering Way found him.

Whatever else Varryk might have been, what works of art he might otherwise have wrought, whatever lives he had touched, his life was set on one path that day. Minions of the Whispering Way found him, and several other children, using the aggression of the Twisted Nail as a cover for their actions.

On that day, Varryk became a slave.

For two years, Varryk was beaten, tormented, made to serve dark masters. He was not compliant... and he still has the scars earned by his defiance. He was kept apart from the other children that were taken... he never knew what happened to them. Varryk doubts it was anything good.

But no matter how badly he was beaten or burned, no matter the threats of maiming, Varryk was unbowed. Varryk was defiant. And one day, the opportunity he had long been awaiting fell into his lap.

It was supposed to be a simple task for a troublesome slave. Transporting heavy crates... menial labor. But one of the crates that Varryk was moving happened to be just a little bit open... just enough for Varryk to look in, and see the hornbow inside.

At that moment, Varryk felt suffused with energy, felt a connection to a primal power that he had never felt before.

He looked around. There were only two bored looking guards... they weren't even paying attention to him. Quietly, carefully, so slowly that he was sure he would be caught, Varryk pried open the crate.

Among several other weapons, there was a hornbow, a string for it... and arrows.

The second he touched the bow, it was as if he entered a trance. He hadn't shot a bow in years, not since his mother had taught him how to hunt, but there was no hesitation, and a more supremely skilled hand than his was at work. Without thinking, Varryk nocked, drew, and fired, then repeated the process. In the space of five heartbeats, both guards lay dead, skewered by arrows the size of Varryk's arms.

And then he was gone.

Varryk relied on the teachings of his mother, and there was likely some divine providence at work as well, but he managed to elude any pursuit. He did not know where he had been taken, and it took him the better part of a year to reach anything resembling civilization. When he found a settlement, he was dirty, ragged, thin from subsisting from foraging more than hunting. He spent a week simply recovering, amazed to have simple luxuries like regular bathing and hot meals that didn't require a fire built himself in a stone pit. It took him even longer to not flinch away from other people, to not have his instant reaction to a loud noise be to begin to run towards the nearest exit.

That reflex is still present, to some degree. But after a month of recuperation, of repairing his gear, and working for the settlement to build up enough money, Varryk set out for Lastwall... the place where he had learned the survivors of Roslar's Coffer had fled to.

Varryk arrived and asked if anyone knew of his parents. To his delight, and trepidation, they did, and he was able to find them. His parents were overwhelmed to learn that their son was alive. Their reunion was joyous... at least at first.

Varryk's parents love him dearly, but it soon became clear that there was a darkness in him that they could not fix. Varryk, for his part, returned that love... but for the last several years, he has felt hollow. As if everything that had been inside of him as a child had been... scooped out. Replaced by a damaged, fearful being that could barely qualify as a person.

Then he started killing the undead.

The first time was a fluke. He was out hunting, and came across some shambling zombies. Without even thinking, he peppered them with arrows. As he removed the undead from this world, sending them to their final rest, for the first time since he had been a child... Varryk felt at peace.

Since that day, Varryk became a bane to the undead whenever he encountered them, and through his personal war with them, he has achieved a measure of peace. Varryk has been able to reclaim some semblance of his past self, and reconnect with his parents... even make some new friends.

As part of this recovery, Varryk and his mother Boddika began working on tattooing him. She explained that, to her people, these tattoos helped them connect to the divine. Different beings, of course, had different idea of what the divine was, but Varryk felt a stirring of connection when they spoke of it. Beyond that... he hated his scars. He hated that they marred him. He hated that they marked him, that they branded him a slave.

And so their work began.

It was not easy. It was painful. But over the better part of a year, Boddika tattooed her son, transforming his slave's scars into a vast tattoo that covered his entire torso and back and extended a bit onto his neck, arms, and legs.

The night he slept after it was completed, he received his first vision.

Varryk does not remember it well. How could he? Varryk is a mortal being. But the vision showed him what could have been, had he not been taken. How many more others might have been hurt. He knew that, foul as his slavery had been, it was not purposeless. It had been to prepare him, to mold him... to forge him into a weapon.

And he knew, form that day forth, that Erastil favored him.

So when Varryk learned that some had resettled Roslar's Coffer, Varryk, on the road to recovery, knew that his next step must be to return to the place that he could now only associate with the beginning of his pain.

Varryk is no fool. He knows that the Whispering Way is still out there. That the outreaches of Lastwall are full of danger from the ravenous dead, as well as other foul forces. Varryk wants to return to his home, to reclaim the parts of himself that were torn away long ago, and do whatever he can to protect those strong enough to try to rebuild a community in that dark place.

Varryk tends to be soft-spoken, and lacks some understanding of social niceties, given the trauma he experienced. He is often blunt and sometimes can give offense without meaning to. He is, however, always looking for new people to connect with, and treasures those connections above any imaginable material wealth.

Varryk does not drink, unless others around him do so. He looks to others for social cues. His eyes are always active, darting around and looking for threats. He sleeps and steps lightly, and is usually a bit late to laugh at a joke, but he is steadfast, and would die to save others from the things he has endured.

Varryk hates the Whispering Way, and the undead, with a consuming passion. It would take something truly epic to move him to mercy for such beings.

Varryk stands six feet and two inches tall, and weighs two hundred and forty eight pounds. He is powerfully built, possessing lean, rippling muscle. His face might have been handsome, but it possesses a great deal of lines and is prematurely careworn. He also rarely smiles.

A large, intricate, sacred tattoo covers most of his body and is visible on his neck. Varrky generally favors darker colors, the better to move quietly in. He does not own any truly fine clothes, favoring comfortable, sensible clothing over fashion. His hair is black, as are his eyes. His hair is straight, and is clipped short.