About Wictor LugaulleStatistics:
Male Human Wizard (Necromancer) 1
LN Medium Humanoid (Human) Init +7; Senses Perception +1 ------------------------------ DEFENSE ------------------------------ AC 12, touch 12, flat-footed 10 (+0 armor, +0 dex, +0 shield) hp 10 Fort +1, Ref +2, Will +2 ------------------------------ OFFENSE ------------------------------ Speed 30 ft. (but he's disabled-ish, so more like 20 ft.) Melee
Ranged
Traits
Feats
Skills (7 points; 2 class, 3 INT, 1 Human, 1 FCB)
Background Skills: (2 points) Knowledge (History): 9 (1 Rank; Trained, +2 Trait Bonus)
Languages Common, Varisian, Dwarven, Halfling Special Abilities:
------------------------------ SPECIAL ABILITIES ------------------------------ HUMAN RACIAL TRAITS Extra Feat, Skilled, HOOMAN! NECROMANCER WIZARD CLASS FEATURES
Spells:
------------------------------ Spells ------------------------------ ('*' Denotes being currently prepared) 0th (3 Slots) DC 13 All known, save Abjuration and Evocation Detect Magic* Prestidigitation* Mage Hand* 1st (2+1 Slots) DC 14
Gear/Possessions:
------------------------------ GEAR/POSSESSIONS ------------------------------ Donkey with Saddlebags Torch Inkwell 3 Waterskins 2 Daggers Light Crossbow Sling Flint and Steel 2 Flasks of Oil Sack 2 Candles 2 Soaps 2 Bear Traps 2 Animal Glue Compass Hemp Rope (50 ft) Twine, (50 ft) Journal 11gp 16sp 9cp
The Bewitching Hare:
Tiny animal Init +3; Senses low-light vision; Perception +1 DEFENSE
OFFENSE
STATISTICS
SAGE FAMILIAR ABILIITES Gives +4 Initiative Bonus to Wictor. Improved Evasion (Ex): When subjected to an attack that normally allows a Reflex saving throw for half damage, a familiar takes no damage if it makes a successful saving throw and half damage even if the saving throw fails. Share Spells: The wizard may cast a spell with a target of “You” on his familiar (as a touch spell) instead of on himself. A wizard may cast spells on his familiar even if the spells do not normally affect creatures of the familiar's type (magical beast). Empathic Link (Su): The master has an empathic link with his familiar to a 1 mile distance. The master can communicate empathically with the familiar, but cannot see through its eyes. Because of the link's limited nature, only general emotions can be shared. The master has the same connection to an item or place that his familiar does. Class Skills: A sage treats all Knowledge skills as class skills. Dazzling Intellect (Ex) :A sage's Intelligence score is always equal to 5 + its level, but the sage gains the additional natural armor increases of a familiar only half its level. This ability alters the familiar's Intelligence score and natural armor adjustment. Sage's Knowledge (Ex): A sage stores information on every topic and is happy to lecture its master on the finer points. A sage can attempt all Knowledge checks untrained and receives a bonus on all Knowledge checks equal to 1/2 its level. Additionally, a sage gains 2 skill ranks at each level.
Background:
Wictor Lugaulle was once a driven young bachelor, bright and daring. He was literate, well-groomed and well-read. The breadth of the words he knew and the deeds of dead kings and fantastic beasts of farlands was so authoritative that he could match and usurp learned men from the lands of the tales' origins. Such was his orative skill that he could spin stories to both woo the most sober maidens and fascinate even the most upset children. A tradesman by birth, his father taught him how to get by through the fur-trade, trapping various weasels, hares, and even sometimes larger quarry. He didn't care for the messiness or the grueling routine of the work, but he was overjoyed whenever he could go to larger cities. When he had the time to, he would go to libraries and temples and spend hours just reading. When nobody was looking, Wictor would lift several tomes from their homes and stow them in the back of his cart, and journey back to the woodlands, whistling and smoking all the way. He would buy proper volumes, out of respect for their content and make, but a surplus in the fur market was more than uncommon- the market was so aggressive, especially in the urban areas. Over time, Wictor's father died, and he married the lass which he found most suitable to his manic preferences. He carried on the fur work, but focused on his life's unspoken dream: To open for almost solely his own glory a library inside his little town. He was now freed from the burden of his father's expectations. So, he pursued to open his library. A place in which he'd be able to tell his vibrant epics, and cause all eyes present to twinkle with that inviolable child's wonder. The task of funding was quite a span, but the resources and labor needed came after a long enough time. Wictor had his day, and opened the library for all. He was finally able to leave his traps in the shed to rust. Several months after the establishment was founded however, there came to its' founder a disturbance: Miscreants. Vagabonds. Thieves. Some unforgivable sod began stealing books from Wictor's wings! He mentioned it not publicly, but over time began to ponder and obsess over his regular and moreso even his nominal patrons- in his heart he meant to destroy them, whoever they were. His obsession grew and grew with each passing day. At one such point he even cracked open his forgotten shed- the mouths he abhorred before were now to him his last bastion of defense. At dusk, Wictor would lock up the library and unlock his secret chest. Meticuluously he would place each set of metal teeth aside every window, every door: wherever a moonbeam would crack through the boards. At twilight each night, he would rise from his bed, silent as sin, candlestick in hand, and check each trap in his library. Every morn when he'd open up shop, he'd stow away all the traps in his chest, and open up the doors to his most welcomed criminals. He'd devised shrewd tests- sleights, if you're of the wary kind- to see if a certain guest was his thief. He had done so with all precision and stealth, looking only for his weighty rectangles. It was all he ever wanted. It was during these days that his lovely blonde wife noticed the first of his balding. ON THE FATEFUL EVE, Wictor arose to make his nightly rounds. He expected nothing different from the many rounds prior, even in a doubtful fear that he may never find his thief. He unlocked the door to find a scrawny child, bleeding and yelping, foot caught in a bear trap. "HERE YOU ARE! HERE YOU ARE! I'VE FOUND YOU, MY SON!!" There was no mercy in Wictors' faux greeting, or in his acts proceeding.
The candle was also strewn on the floor. It rolled amidst the scuff towards the mortal duo, and its' licking tongue caught on one precious page, setting the rest to flame, and the rest was naught but history and squalor. The library burned to the posts. All the books were lost. One survivor limped from the scene, the charred Wictor victorious, bear trap clamped tightly on his left knee. In the morning, the village ran to see what happened. There was no body to be found, only burnt floorboards strewn with gleaming furtraps. To explain the occurence, and cover his sin, Lugaulle did what he did best; spun a blubbering tale. The brokenness of his mourning was so authoritative that the villa noticed not the absence of one of their youths until a day or so later. Even after these eighteen years, not one of the townsfolk ever put it all together. They all just moved on, including Wictor. With his library burned his dreams, and he consigned himself to the drudgery of his fathers' ways. He loved his wife, sired two daughters and a son, and told them the best of bedtime stories a child within all the lands could have ever heard. Every night he kissed them on their foreheads, and told them that whatever they do, to never become thieves. He worked hard to make a life for them, his new precious ones. The years had not left him unscathed either. Where he once was dashing now he was grizzled and balding. Where once his wit was pointed and pernicious, now lay mellowed and patient. He had two chins, a beer belly, and didn't have the luxury of the colognes of the cities of his youth. He loved his family, but he was truly dead alive- a dull and dusty tome he himself had now become. His gimp leg didn't help his trade work any, so he had to work his son harder than he wanted to- at times, even harder than his father had worked him. He had come to a point of understanding of necessity and cycles that doom had lingered in his heart in a more present presence. He had begun to give himself harder drinks, and more often. He had seen himself become just like every other man in his town. Nothing like the idolized heroes of his youth. Nothing even resembling the cunning rogue his youth once was. One rounds he saw something he thought might be magical- a golden hare with a giant black spot on its' leg was caught in the last trap of his lines. Deep in the woods, he was bewildered by this beast. It revived in his mind countless tales of his old life- he was sure he had read of a rabbit of this design somewhere. The impression was strong enough that the resigned man let the whelp free, fancying to himself that some mythological deity of old might give him boon or aid for his act of mercy upon their golden servant. Recently, one renowned teacher Wictor had traded tales with had passed on. He was bewildered to find that he recieved a letter at all for the funeral. Lorrimor was one of the keenest-edged pens Wictor knew. He laughed when he got the letter. Wictor remembered the only time he ever got caught stealing a book- by the late professor, in his study. Lorrimor gave him the book, after a stern talking to of virtues and ideals. Wictor didn't for one second juxtapose that memory with the one that left his left ear marred and his knee obselete. He hadn't been to a city so big in years; travel wasn't as easy for him as it once was. Nonetheless, Wictor showed the letter to his kind wife and left almost immediately. He didn't think he'd be gone for more than a fortnight. Appearance and Personality:
You see before you a mildly overweight man with a great mustache. He has a fur hat, and is garbed in humble mourning attire. Fair complexioned, golden brown hair, azure eyes. He walks on a cain with a swagger that's almost fun to watch. His mannerisms and talk exude laughter and comradery. He talks a lot, but not out of turn. |
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