A New Hope
Mountain Dwarf Paladin of Vengeance
Bond: Bring wrath upon those who prey on the innocent
Flaw: No Mercy for those who prey on the innocent
Ideals: Redemption through work
Skills: Intimidation, Persuasion, Survival, Stonecunning.
Equipment: Chain mail, shield, chain flail, shrunken orc heads, bear trap
In the grey of almost-dawn, the small rattling sound of tiny pebble avalanches is just loud enough to cause the bull-moose to look up from his grazing and hurry the cows and calves back into the woods. As more debris is forced away from slide, a grey hand appears…bruised and missing a fingernail or two. It is joined by a second, as the dust-ridden figure pulls its way out of a small slide of rocks, dirt, and the remainder of a small plot of mountain iris. The figure straightens, coughs a loud barking cough filled with phlegm and dust, and looks back at what was likely to have been the mouth of a cave.
He stands, shoulders hunched, in quiet deliberation of his once-home…now a tomb to his family. He mentally probes the hole that the loss of his wife and children has left and recoils from threat of pain intruding on his numbness. He drops to his knees amongst the wreckage of the entrance to his home and quietly straightens the purple blossoms of the irises that she had loved so much…tracks form in the dust on his face as he quietly locks the loss away…buries it deep to allow it to transform into resolve…purpose…vengeance.
Later that night the pounding rain hides any noise of his approach to the guttering campfire. The orcs had made camp in a small clearing and have clearly drunk heavily of the stolen Granite liquor. The psychotic giggles of a pair of foul smelling orcs go uninterrupted, as the rain cloaks the sound of a small boulder crushing the skull and its contents of one of their sleeping partner’s grotesque heads. Likewise the faint drumming of leather wrapped heels on a muddy ground, goes unheeded, as the windpipe of another of the band is crushed under a hobnailed Dwarven boot.
The first take notice of their nocturnal visitor from the rage induced scream uttered only a few feet behind them. They are still frozen as the dark and bloody figure hurls out of the darkness and bears them down into the embers of their own fire. A quick dirk movement and the fire sizzles with the entrails of the orc still holding half a bottle of single batch Granite. The left orc rolls free and springs unsteadily to his feet wiping the rain and ash out of his eyes… looking frantically for his attacker. As lightning splits the sky, the last thing he sees is the hollow eyes of a dwarf with no family or home.
The mid-afternoon sun shines down on a disturbing scene… blood… orc parts… and the snores of a half-naked dwarf sleeping in the ashes of a foul campfire. His slow ascendance to consciousness turns into a race and he rolls to his knees and ejects the last of the Dwarven spirits he had bottled last summer. Looking down into the mess of blood, ash, and the ruins of his past…the ghost of a resolution begins to form. He would harden himself.. body, mind and soul… and then he would seek out those who would prey on the weak and mete out justice.
He spits once and then climbs to feet before beginning the slow trudge from the glade turned abattoir. There was a Droskar monastery only a few leagues north. Surely if anyone could provide guidance on the work in front of him, they could….