Alchemist’s Fire (7gp)
Sunrod (.6 gp)
AC: 28 (+8 Int, +4 Armour, +1 Buckler, +1 Natural, +4 Insight)
Elven Thinblade (+1 Keen) +13 Melee 1d8+9 (Crit 15-20/x2)
Studded Darkleaf Armour (Light) +4 AC, Check Penalty 0, spell failure 0%
Elorgs are Ardherin's children. Perhaps not the children of his body, but certainly children of his mind. He created them in his breading pits using his foul magics to enable cross-breeding of orcs and captured Erunsil females. His goal was to create a race of near-elves skilled in magic and loyal only to him. His secrecy was his undoing. A raiding party of Dire Beasts and Erunsil wildlanders discovered the hidden breeding grounds and destroyed it, recovering the children and surviving mothers. They were surprised by the children's eyes, but said nothing - deciding to ultimately let the queen decide on their fate. She has taken the children under her wing and started to train them. They are one of the rare few who know the truth about the Ardherin. They consider him their father and hate him like only children can hate their unloving parent.
[poiler=Channeler Class Abilities
Channeler Tradition: Hermetic
Spellcasting: Lesser Evocation
Spellcasting: Greater Evocation
Innate Magic: 11/Day
This spell charges your blood with arcane power. Whenever you take damage, some of that power is released in a flash of force. A creature that damages you in melee combat immediately suffers 1d6 points of force damage in return as an arc of magical force travels back among the offending weapon from your wound to it. Bleed power is discharged after it has damaged a number of attackers equal to your caster level.
This spell allows you to restore minor and lesser charms, making them available for use again. When the spell is cast, the charm is restored and may be used as normal. No charm may be repaired more than once.
When this spell is cast, the channeler touches the earth. This immediately opens a small hole in the ground, into which Small or Medium creatures can slither. The hole leads to a small but warm and cozy burrow that is 5 feet beneath ground level. The burrow will hold one Small creature per caster level; for purposes of this spell, Medium creatures take up the space of two Small creatures. Large creatures count as eight Small creatures, and must make DC 30 Escape Artist checks to even fit through the hole.
The caster of the spell can open or close the hole leading to the burrow at will with a simple touch of the hand, but no one else can open or close the hole. The earh can be dug through as normal, however. The interior of the burrow is comfortable and warm, protecting those within from any extreme weather conditions and providing them with the equivalent of an endure elements spell against extreme temperatures. There is no food, water, or light in the burrow, however, and those who intend to stay inside for any length of time will want to bring their own supplies. Finding the hole from outside is very difficult, requiring a Survival or Search check of DC 30.
A side effect of the halfling burrow is its ability to make those inside comfortable. Provided they bring enough food with them, creatures who spend at least four hours inside the burrow emerge as if they had had a full night's rest, up to and including recovery of spell energy and natural healing.
You change the weapon type of the object touched, but the weapon's appearance does not change. Thus, a sword may become a bludgeoning weapon or a makeshift club may deal slashing damage. You decide what the weapon's new type will be for the duration of the spell when you cast phantom edge.
A weapon with its type changed is only effective when used as part of an attack action. An unaffected club has no actual edge on which someone could accidentally cut himself, for example, and cannot be used for precision cutting work, such as for Craft checks and the like.
This useful spell allows a stone to absorb the nutrients of the earth and transform them into an edible, appetizing form. When the spell is cast, the stone it is cast upon must be immediately buried in the earth. After one hour, when the spell expires, the stone is pushed back up from the earth.
If this stone is boiled within the next day in at least one gallon of water, it creates a nourishing broth that meets the daily food requirements for one Medium creature (or two Small creatures) per caster level. The broth can be stored for up to one week, in any container, but becomes stale water after that point.
[poiler=Fighter Class Abilities
Incredible Resilience: The ironborn's HD type for all character classes is increased by one step (d4 becomes d6 becomes d8, and so on). If the character already had a d12 for HD, he gains one additional hit point per level.
Elemental Resistance: The ironborn gains the listed resistance against acid, cold, electricty, and fire.
Improved Healing: The ironborn recovers from damage much more quickly than others. At 4th level, he regains hit points equal to one-half his character level every hour (this is in addition to any hit points regained from bedrest or a full night's sleep). At 14th level, he recovers ability score damage at a rate of 1 point per hour.
Indefatigable: At 9th level, the ironborn is immune to effects that would cause him to be fatigued, and effects that would cause him to be exhausted instead cuase him to be fatigued. At 19th level, the ironborn becomes immune to effects that would cause him to be exhausted.
He is standing, examining the child, as was his habit. He did not just inspect the body, for that was just a host to what he was truly looking for. No, he inspected the mind. Every nuance of potential, drive, ambitions, and weakness. That was the issue here. He sensed weakness. Not a physical one, nor necessarily a mental one, but one of spirit. This one lacked the drive he sought, that he needed in his offspring. Only the most driven, the most dedicated would fulfil their intended purpose and be able to become that which they were intended.
The child's body is naked, mewling and crying; he is tuning it out. The crying is normal and tells him nothing. What he wants to know comes from the blood covering its body. The blood of it's mother was wiped clean at first, and then carefully reapplied. The arcane symbols skittering across his body now are intricate, delicate, and known only to him. The entire cycle of being for this creature is laid out before him; everything he is, and all he has the potential to ever become. The child will be brilliant; more so than even most of his children. And yet their is that flaw.
The host, the child's mother, still lays upon the table where she was left after the harvest. Harvesting a bit early always helped to ensure the child was born without complications. Channels in the table still divert away rivulets of blood, though now they are beginning to slow, and clumps and clots can be seen forming. The flesh laid back from her abdomen is neatly pinned in place, despite her struggles. He can still remember when this host was implanted; she was... vigorous in her resistance, spirited even. The man the child will become remembers that as well, the images of it, the entirety, even though he wasn't, by definition could not have been, alive when it happened. Another gift from his father. All struggles have ended now and his mother lies still.
His mind convinced, his standards left wanting, his mind is made up. Another failure. There have been more successes lately, but failure is still so disappointing. If only these women would breed faster... it takes near a year to see the results of each pairing...
He carries the child across the open expanse of the spacious laboratory, shifting its weight to the other arm to pull open a large, heavy bound door. It leads outside the walls, where the lab buts up against them, and allows for the easy disposal of the unwanted. Walking out a few steps into the rain, he cocks his ear to listen for the tell sounds of the fell. Maelgral are ever present here, and help to keep the curious away. He drops the child without ceremony on the cold ground, and turns back into the relative warmth of the building without looking back. A wave of his hand sends the door slamming shut with a boom. Whether it is the cold or the Fell that end the child is immaterial; the Fell will dispose of what remains either way.
Morning comes, and a frenzy of movement appears as goblins and other pests arrive to clean the laboritory, and prepare it for the next time a procedure is needed. The move the body of the host, now grey and slack, from the table and to a cart, to take it off to... the kitchens, or wherever the things go when he is done with them.
The nears time to see to business. A new crop of hosts has recently arrived. Each will need to be examined; their every potential measured and compared with his notes before a sire is chosen to complement her features. He opens the gate, striding out toward the pens. However, something is not right out there... the rain has stopped, and the morning is cool and grey, but something is moving in the stillness. The child! It's still alive?
Curious, he advances and picks it up. The skin is cold and bare, most of the intricate arcane symbols have washed away. How did it survive? even if he survived the cold, the fell should have been drawn... He takes note of the stillness again and then notices, Ah, he's not crying. They never heard him. Curious. Images flit through his mind; he has done this before, a dozen or more times, the images are hard to count, but none has survived a night unprotected before. His curiousity is enough to entice him to bring the child back inside.
He places the child back on his arcane table, a massive black onyx affair, carved with arcane symbols, many ancient, some derived on his own, and some bestowed by the blessings of Izrador. He painstakingly recrafts the symbols covering the child, his cold body nearly blue with the chill, and his movements slow. His task complete, he opens himself up to the magic, and looks again into the child's future, his potential laid bare. No. There was no mistake. The flaw remains. The Orcish blood is too strong. While his mind will be strong, he will be drawn to far from study to be the perfect being he is looking for.
Pain flashes through the memory, and white hot searing agony replaces all other thoughts. The vision becomes obscured, darker, depthless, as though viewed through only one eye. My eye! The little whelp scratched my eye! Rage, as hot as the agony that provoked it wells up. With a hand, he grabs the child by a limb and hurls him across the room, across rough, uneven flagstones. Soft whumps are the only sound as the tiny body bounces and breaks. The man grabs for a mirror, looking for what has happened to his eye. Only the surface is scratched... the vision is gone, but it is repairable, if I am willing to pay the price... Dimly he becomes aware of the wailing; the babe is crying fiercely. Anger is replaced by shock and silence within the man's mind. Still...?
A goblin looks up at him, an unspoken question in his eyes. For the first and only time in the memory, the man speaks. "Take him to the nursery. If he survives, put him with the others. We'll see how strong his will to live really is."[/poiler]
While most of his kin were kept under close watch, he was given more freedom, with little explanation as to why. He was drawn to the Erunsil who came to court, perhaps by the simple fact that they looked more like him than any of the other elves, though his eyes would continue to draw stares even from them, few among them ever commented on them.
His talent as a spellsword and war mage became evident quickly to those who knew him, and before long, he convinced a Erunsil captain to beseech the queen for permission to bring him along when they returned to the Varadeen. For reasons of her own, she agreed. Vikturian spent the following years fighting in the north, and learning how to pu his magic to best effect against Orcs, and the other agents of the shadow.
Periodically, he was summoned back to court, or would receive a visit from one of the queen's eyes. Somehow, she always seemed to know where he was, and what he had been doing and involved with. She was never surprised by any of his reports. Vikturiun suspects that she uses some magic, or informers nearby him to keep herself apprised. Either way, he does not much care. He knows that he, and likely most of his kin, are merely tools to her, but as long as he gets to commit himself to his purpose, he'll play her game. One day he will get to meet his father, and return the favour of the lovely memories he gifted to his son.[/poiler]