Wheatbeard's page

No ripples appeared though, for the lake was frozen. A short man waddled out onto the ice, his low center of gravity and shuffling stride keeping balance. Wheatbeard had heard of the Overchief's concerns, and they echoed of his past.

When he was a boy in his clan's city beneath the earth, life was easy - much moreso than now. So simple it was, his people squabbled about the petty. Eventually, this bickering grew more severe, and minor issues wedged Dwarves apart, schisms forming. One year, two families vying for a bride from a third could not resolve their differences by words, so they chose weapons. The ensuing civil war left their city a mere husk of what it was. Among rare few opting out of the conflict entirely, the adolescent (by Dwarf standards) abandoned the clans. A few he knew left with him, but over the weeks, they went their own ways.

As he approached a crude lean-to over a hole in the ice, he wondered if he would need to trade for some new leathers; the ragged strips forming the covers of the rickety structure wouldn't do for much longer. Given the stars, it had been about a month since he'd make his last exchange with the human tribes, but it felt longer. It could be the overcast skies most days, or perhaps it was the omens of battle the Overchief proclaimed. Wheatbeard thought the man to be wise, though emotional at heart. He meant well, but no head-on assault would work against the Orcs. This he knew well; his closest clansman, Sordan, was slain by one of the brutes. They were hungry and cold soon after their exodus, and – new to the surface – they kept their fire going through the night for warmth. This beacon only seemed to attract the monstrous race, four in total. Fighting for their lives, Sordan rendered a valiant defense with his axe – iron – in his armor – studded with it. The blades of the marauders were sharp though, and their arms strong. Not as skilled in combat as his friend, Wheatbeard only had a bone spear, so he fled after seeing Sordan felled. If honor and bravery ran in his family, he was every ounce the bastard they claimed.

His cave near the lake had some fungus and moss within which the fish found appetizing. Fashioning it to the end of a wolf’s claw on the end of his twine, he wrapped the string around his hand twice, then lowered the bait into the freezing water. It was cold today – much colder than when Sordan died. As Wheatbeard fled, the Orcs chased him across the lake. The short man’s legs were a curse, but the warmth that day was a blessing. Heavy his pursuers were, and thin was the ice. Even as Wheatbeard’s muscles burned as he sprinted, he heard a crack beneath him as his foot fell particularly hard, him sliding and losing his balance. Not quite falling over, he wobbled around to steady himself and renew his run – but he saw there was no need; behind him, the Orcs accelerated the breakage with their massive forms, falling into the water below. As the ice broke, what seemed to at first be a burst of ... smoke ... arose from the water. Initially, he knew not what to make of it and was distracted by his enemies, but the puff coalesced into an image. A ghostly human woman's face stared back at him, smiling in an off-putting way. The face began to slowly blow, but the breath was no image - a gale force blast buffeted him. Wheatbeard even slid back slowly on the ice, so powerful was the gust. Then he inhaled.

For a moment, it was as if a knife had cut into him, but this dagger was made of ice, digging into his lungs. The pain may have been caused by cold, but it was white hot in his body. Whitebeard, in agony, toppled onto the ice, his head smacking against the frozen lake's top. In a daze, he gazed over at the woman's face - once again smiling. He would have been ready to take a thrust of his spear at the wench were he not near-paralyzed on the ground!

Her face was soon eclipsed by a much uglier image though; an Orc had grabbed onto the edge of the ice and was managing to pull himself out. As he made himself prone to pull his legs out in full, the woman again made a blowing motion, but softer, and repeatedly. No air came, and the Orc - fully on the ice now - hefted his axe for the kill. Swinging down with brute force, the fallen Dwarf figured he would at least mock the woman which gave him this death sentence - so he blew. Though not nearly as strong as the woman's gust, a jet of air and cold did shoot towards the Orc, causing his strike to err; the blade of his axe caused yet another rift in the ice, and he fell in once more. The Dwarf rolled away from the edge, almost in disbelief of his good fortune.

The Orc hands continued to grasp for the edges, but they could not find a hold; what ice their palms did grasp came into the water with them. Their axes proved useless, the blades slicing away at the beasts’ last hope. Wheatbeard couldn’t understand the curses uttered at him, but he tepidly smiled; they were finished. A few minutes passed, and they stopped treading water, motionless at the sides. One had his torso slumped over the side, but the cold did its work and took him to slumber.

A snag on the line and a pull of his hand rendered a flopping fish on the icy surface of the lake. The Orc didn’t flop that day though. Something shining caught his eye – Wheatbeard snatched the charm off the raider’s neck. That bright metallic luster was worth many days in meals, he knew. After putting the fish out of its misery, he skewered his trophy. This would only be one meal, but it came at much less of a cost. Many years later, the quiet Dwarf missed his friend, but the rusty bauble hanging from his neck was a swift reminder. For the lack of speed his legs provided, the little man was quite sharp of mind. Wandering into a human camp one day, he recollected enough common from the trademeets to explain himself, and he took advantage of the humans' awe of the necklace - they assumed he had done away with the Orcs. In a way, he had ... but he kept those details to himself. He did not need to be ostracized as a coward or an abomination. There was a wise woman in the tribe though, and her eyes seemed to see right through him. She had a different face from the apparition, yet the eyes were somehow the same. The crone never said anything, but somehow, he knew she knew.

Thus began the relationship with Wheatbeard and the humans. This Overchief he had heard before, but his new course of action was dangerous. As he took his fish back to the cave, waddling steadily back across the ice, he steeled his resolve to speak with the woman. Perhaps her weirding ways could shed some light to avert the coming storm...

AC:10 + Armor + DEX + Dodge + Deflect + Natural + Size = 10 + 4 + 2 + 1 = 17
Touch: 12
FF: 15

CMD: 10 + STR + DEX + BAB = 10 + 1 + 2 + 1 = 14 (+4 vs bull rush/trip)

Domain (Storm): 1: Obscuring mist

Prepared: 0th: Light, Create Water, Mending
1st: CLW**, Endure Elements*

Ironhide: +1 natural AC

Hide armor
Bone spear
Rusted iron amulet
11 gold pieces