Legacy of the Ages
6'5'' male grey-skinned half-orc fighter with black hair great axe. Often keeps his face and skin covered and wears chain mail armor. However, he posed topless for this rendering...
Race: Half-Orc (Cavedweller)
Class: Fighter (Weapon Master)
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Appearance: Dignified like a human, but visibly half orc, with a rugged face and black hair. One eye is grey and one is black. Generally rather imposing, blessed with sizable member
Languages: Goblin, Common, Necidian
*Money on Hand: 30
|Strength:||17||Intelligence:||13||Maximum Hit Points:||31||Fortitude:||5/stabilize 11|
|Constitution:||14||Charisma:||11||Base Attack Bonus:||+4||Will:||3|
|Armor Worn||Chainmail||Shield Worn||None|
Power Attack, Cleave, Weapon Focus (Great Axe), Toughness, Weapon Specialization (Great Axe)
Weapon Guard, Weapon Training+1
|Skill Name||Key Ability||Ability Mod||Ranks||Total Modifier|
|Sleight of Hand||DEX|
|Use Magic Device||CHA|
|Great Axe +1||+10||1d12+8||x3||M||S|
|Throwing Axe||+6 or +5 rgd||1d6+3||x2||10ft||S||3 axes|
Great Axe, 2 Throwing Axes, Chain Mail, 5 Potions of Cure Light Wounds, Backpack, Bedroll, Artisan Tools, Explorer Outfit, Silk Rope (100ft), Rations (2 days), Soap (1 bars), Waterskin, Healing Kit
Henchmen, Familiars, Animal Companions, Pets
| Name | Race/Species | Class/Profession |
| Justice | Dog | Guard Dog |
| Titan | Dog | Guard Dog |DEAD
Daily Progression: | | | | | | | | | | |
Bonus Spells: | | | | | | | | | |
Spell DCs: | | | | | | | | | | |
I’m a grey-skinned murderer like rest of my ilk. You don’t believe me? Consider that my first victim was the mother I killed as I came out of her. She was human. My birth father, whoever he may have been, was a marauding orc who raped a human woman during a raid. That’s all true if I believe the short, grey, gnarled, talkative a&&holes that raised me. They were Clan Dark Bone, and led by an old woman who called herself Hu’garth. I was a big twelve year-old, and they needed defenders; it was match made in a sh*thole. Five other boys were dubbed Dark Bone defenders, but they were full-bloods: their parents had never even seen surface, or smelled the air outside. That was our job, and we scouted for food sources, bartered for the tribe, looted bodies and murdered our aggressors proudly. It seems that I was a frightening f$ck even then; three heads taller than the other defenders, and only twelve years old, by Hu’garth’s count. There were even rumors that Hu’garth was grooming me for the position of Captain while we waited for our senile dog-faced Captain Marrok to finally drop dead.
It happened one night when an unstoppable wind howled outside. The other boys and I were on patrol for most of the evening and between us, we’d slaughtered 2 boars. We stuck our chests out like little tools, as if we’d won a war or saved a city. We returned in our usual raging f$ckhead banter to Hu’garth, who was now even more tiny and bent over. Marrok had died while preparing for a lone patrol, and he lay stinking in his own filth in the armory. The fact taht he hadn’t done a patrol in decades, or that he couldn’t even lift the thorniest of clubs was not important, I guess. Dark Bone had to bury its dead, and the two boars would have to stored in the cold caves for a solemn funerary feast. None of that was unusual. But the thing that was outrageous and unthinkable was that Hu’garth had chosen a half-blood as Captain, to succeed the most hard-bitten, prestigious and fiercely pure-blooded Dark Bone in our history. Most of the goblins didn’t object, because they pissed themselves as I came by and they knew that fear and ugliness were valuable tools in our world. The other elders of tribe hollered and hooted, and fought furiously to change Hu-garth’s mind. But she had known that I was a weapon from birth, or should I say, since she found me as a child, naked in the snow, my baby d#ck frozen to my thigh.
Days passed before I could be named Captain officially, but I would never live as Captain. As the caves grew quiet, time came for patrol. The six of us exited the saves as usual, three covering one direction and three the other. When my two cohorts and I were far enough from the cave, all five ambushed me. I fell, at first, and landed in the mud. But I got angry; bare-handed ball-crushing angry. I heel-kicked the largest one in the junk, and crushed his head in with a club before he could object. The other four stood stunned for a moment. A##holes. I demolished them, leaving only pieces of their skulls around their tiny brains. They bled like cattle. I should have taken their tiny peckers as trophies, but my knife would never have been sharp enough. I didn’t stay long enough to see any of them put themselves back together. I may be a d$ck, but I know my limits.
I fled, and knew that life without the Dark Bone would be sh*tier than life with them. My first days on the surface proved me right. The sun burned me, the shop-keepers shunned me, the kids threw stones. Even the dogs growled. But most of them were dinner in the end. I was already in Necidia by the time I found a ‘hospitable’ place. I knew simple weapons and brutality, took some commissions and pocketed some gold. I went to all parts of Lyannus-Fey to get paid and laid. When I finally turned sixteen, I faked seventeen and found myself with the Necidian military: I was an official murderer; it didn’t feel much different than being a defender, except that weapons weren’t made of sticks and my chest wasn’t naked when I fought. I stayed for ten years, and probably would have for life…if it had paid enough. So, I got into the business of selling murder, fear and skill to the highest bidder. I made no friends; but I made no enemies. It was the first time I was able to exist without attracting contempt, stares or questions. As long as I could wield my weapon, win pissing contests with the rest of the men and deliver my target to my employer, no one gave a stone sh#t that I was a half-blood.
Until we had to fight a local and powerful guild of thieves in a country I will not name. They called themselves the Marnar, and they ruled most of the stinking underbelly of Lyannus-Fey’s many nations. I was easy to spot, stubborn enough never to relent, and finally faced a choice when I killed a man who ranked very high with them: he was a kid-toucher, and a magister. I could stay visible and probably meet a brutal, loin-crushing death…or I could leave that nation, cover my grey skin and live where ever and however I wanted. Even a d#ck-eating idiot could see the best way out.
My thirtieth year was when I met a Necidian sargeant named Isard at the Alewatch tavern. I can’t say I cared about what he thought of me. But I can say that the disappearance of antire Necidian military outpost did give me a disaster-boner.
I’m still sell murder. Looks like Isard’s buying for awhile.