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Twigs here. Dotting. I've done a little writing for him, but not a hell of a lot at this stage. I gave a lot of thought to the kind of roleplay role I wanted in the party, particularly alongside a grizzled, hard-liner Paladin, the likes of which I'm sure we'll see. Harrol is a character I cooked up in a Pathfinder Society PBP a few months ago. I dont think he was particularly good for the format and I was going to shelve him until I found a game with higher moral stakes, so hopefully this is that game! Good luck to everybody. My thoughts so far.: Harrol is an unassuming, humble pilgrim. A halfling with little to his name than the leather-bound copy of the Acts of Iomedae and the robe on his back. I want to inject as much of my Irish-Catholic Grandmother into the way he talks and acts, and make him as simple and unassuming as possible to make his victories over the demons all the more sweet. To further play up his "David and Goliath" vibe, his weapon of choice will be the magic stone spell, for as long as possible that I won't be holding the party back. He'll also focus heavily on his spellcasting, support options and the ocassional summon. Eventually he'll be able to don heavy armour and a shield, but he's a ranged cleric, through and through.
To speak in tropes, he's a Wide-Eyed Idealist, a Naïve Newcomer... "The Heart". In terms of the humours, I'd say he'd be closest to Phlegmatic, as Phlegmatic as one can be when worshipping a god of crusading and butt-kicking anyway. I'll try to quote scripture passages and stories from the Acts of Iomedae, but also try to integrate his faith into the little things. Saying grace. Things like that. I'll probably need a bit of research before I can convincingly play a true believer, but it's stuff like this that makes clerics fun. and also a bit of boondock saints though i should probably leave that to the paladins What do you think so far, boss?
None for me, either. I've yet to go into my local game shop since it opened and have more than enough PbP's to keep me busy... Although I might give Harrol the Reign of Winter credit if we ever get around to doing that. If that necessitates a new character, I'm sure I'll think of something. How many scenarios is it expected to take to level up?
Harrol glances fearfully toward the donkey. "Well, I'm not going near that thing. A donkey once kicked all of my cousin's teeth out!" he says, folding his arms. "Gallant crusader of the Shining Sword I may be, but there's nothing in the Acts about Iomedae fighting a great fiendish bloody mule." "What?"
When their business for the day is included, Harrol will take a walk around the pilgramage district with the glee of an excited tourist, spending the evening in prayer at the temple to Iomedae, and nearly being conned out of his coin in the Godsmarket. He'll try to see as much of Absalom as he can in one afternoon (which is precious little from his height in a crowd), before retiring to the society halls.
Young Harrol will sit in the wagon, using two charges of his wand of magic stone as they embark.
Harrol scratches his head at Thorel's remark, ignoring the proceedings as he furrows his brow and attempts to sound out several words that were probably never meant to be pronounced by halflings. "That's right!" the halfling pipes up as he snaps back to attention, punctuating the grim half-orc's command with a broad grin and a waggle of his finger. "And don't even think about running again, Inheritor help you if you do, you, you... ruffian." Harrol seems suitably pleased with himself as he lets his threat hang in the air, grinning somewhat dopily at Barnel in what he hopes is the vigilant gaze of the hardest of Iomedae's paladins, towering above him with all three feet of height.
Harrol manages a terrified nod before somehow finding his way out onto the street. "Inheritor save me, everything my mother said about city girls..." he says, dizzily. "I mean, they don't teach us how to... how to deal with that in the cloister! I'm... I mean... oof" he says, running face-first into the belly of the enormous month. "You!" he shouts, pointing an accusatory finger and eager to be changing the subject. "You're Friar Horace!"
"Oh. That's quite sad, that is." Harrol sighs, thinking it's expected of him. Not sure of what else to say he scratches his disheveled hair and manages to return a sheepish smile to Rialla. Pleased with his progress, he spends another several minutes examining the floorboards, clutching his holy symbol for comfort as his ears burn bright red. He clears his throat, trying (and failing) to mask his country drawl. "I wouldn't know nothing of no bachelors, miss. Least, I suppose I am..." he says, pausing as he examines the unfamiliar thought from some dusty corner of his consciousness. "-ahem-, er... Excuse me a moment, miss." he says, trailing off and hurriedly pulls the others aside. ** "Let's examine what we know, shall we? I'm getting terribly confused." the Halfling says, sitting on a nearby stool and joining in the huddle. "This courier fellow was mugged, poisoned, and left to die. The Greycloaks chased the bandits off and recovered the Holy Shard of Iomedae's Lance. Though given that it was sold by that tight-lipped crook Jarid, I think we can write that one off..." he says, trailing off. "These same bandits made another mugging, and then they attacked us in the streets. So... how do we find the bastards? We've one more witness to talk to, with nothing else to go on. I suppose there's nothing for it..." **
He teeters up toward the counter again. "Miss... Miss Barleyhusk? We're looking for a Friar Horace. Do you know him?"
Harrol wrings his hands, turns on his heel and leaves the tent in a huff; an act that would be much more theatrical if he were not almost entirely dwarfed by the merchant's counter. He turns to the others, fuming, but breathes deep and lets a calm wash over him. "The Inheritor would have us vanquish worse evils than crooked merchants. Let's try elsewhere, shall we?" "Excuse me?" he says, tugging on a passerby's sleeve. "Perhaps you could help us. We're trying to find..."
Uncertain what to make of the elf, Harrol gives her a blank look, unable to process such an outlandish figure into the worldview of a small-town-pilgrim, he simply gawks. He spends much of the journey staring at her, opening and closing his mouth as though he has a thousand questions to ask but can't seem to find where to start. Thoroughly bewildered, he decides to focus on the task at hand. "Excuse me. Could you tell me where I might find...?"
Young Harrol steps off the ship, his face barely containing his excitement as he sees Absalom for the first time. You endure his eager chattering all the way to the Grand Lodge, and hear a little squeak of excitement at their assignment in the God's Market, so close to the Starstone Cathedral itself, despite the graveness of the news. He at least has the decency to look embarrassed.
The halfling grits his teeth, but doesnt manage to suppress a loud, ferret-like yelp. "Gods breath..." he says, swaying on his feet somewhat. He smiles sheepishly at the praise, and his stunned expression is washed away by the healing magics. "I'll be right as rain once I no longer have whiskers!" he says, running his hands along his chin and pleased to find it almost clean-shaven. "By the Inheritor am I glad that's over... Where to next?"
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