Halfling Hunter/Charismatic Troublemaker
|Cha||20||22||Will||8||+ 2 vrs Fear|
|BAB||+ 9 /+ 4|
Allow me to introduce myself. A short halfling steps forward pulling a wide-brimmed green felt hat from his bald head with a flurish. I am Garrett Greenbottle. In typical muskateer fashion one leg in front of the other he bows at the waist placing his nose to his knee, before snapping back up. The appearance of this tiny creature is slightly unnerving. Young for his kind, you can already see the laugh lines forming from the corner of one eye. The other is covered with a patch of green silk. He is wearing the ruffled collared shirt of a dilettante of soft green linen. Over which he is wearing a patchwork leather vest of various shades of forest green. He has a pair of thick brown leather knee-high boots tucked into the back of his four inch wide black leather belt. The buckle, emblazoned with an enameled green glass bottle pouring a golden liquid into a green tankard,is nearly the size of both his hands held flat side by side. The boots have obviously not seen much wear as the only crease in them is the one from folding them over his belt. Below he is garbed in a green on green on brown plaid kilt, that hangs to just below his knee cap. And lastly are his unshod feet with their typical overly hairy nature common for his kind. There are no weapons visible on this odd creature, but with a purse that size and the battlescars so obviously visible on his soul, you know that they must be nearby.
And this is my Desh’iriai (his language slips perfectly into a dialect of ancient elven, and had you not been listening closely, you would have missed it, but the word could only mean one thing if it translates the same, beloved sister) Varra Dummik. He indicates the halforc standing stoicly behind him, who merely rolls her eyes and goes back to glaring at what ever walks by.
So who/what is it we are hunting this day, as there is no time like the present?
Journal Entry 1
Well sis, looks like we are surrounded again… Do you remember that one time? Never mind. Of course you do. How could you forget..? How could either of us forget..? My mind did not take me back to that incident however in my well fed state. It took me much earlier…
The world was on fire. The whole world. The all too familiar smell of chard flesh seared my nostrils and made my toes curl. A huge giant of a man stood in front of me, all I remember of this horrific bastard was the blackness and how the fire glimmered in his stark green eyes. I heard him cackle, a sound that will resonate in my skull for all time, and then everything went black as a bag was thrown over me…
Then I was in a dark room, lit by a single candle. I was trapped inside a wooden prison; there were thousands of these prisons in the walls of this room. This is where I met my sister. Many times a day the man would parade couples down into our dank dungeon. I would cry, like so many of the others, but not my proud sister. She stood at the center of our cage, stone faced, and immovable. Every day the same thing, the man would parade the human couples behind him and they would stop and pick a small human or more commonly an elf. They would take the child, gold would change hands and everything would go dark again. One day something different happened… The man approached our prison and lifted open the door. His black clad hand reached out to grab my hair, and he began to pull me out. Instinct took over. I did not want to go with him. I knew what was here. I didn’t know what was on the outside. It hurt when he snatched my hair. It hurt more as I twisted in his grasp. The pain was well worth it as I grabbed his arm and brought it to my mouth. I tasted the warmth of the red fluid that burst in my mouth. I heard him for the first and last time scream. With his other hand he wrenched me free and threw me to the back of my cage, I took a mouthful of his flesh with me. Then my sister moved. She was faster than any toddler should be. Faster than a wild cat she grabbed our prison door and slammed it down. The awesome sound of bones crunching sounded as the man was too slow pulling his hands free…
From that day forward I stood in my rightful place whenever the man came to call. Both of us stone faced and passive stood at the center of our cell eyeing him. Daring him to sell us to one of the human couples…
I know I should not remember any of this as I could not have been more than six months old. I also am glad that I do, for it is why I do not trust humans. It’s the reason the sight of the soaring towers flying unnaturally in the sky always brings the harsh taste of vomit to the back of my throat, but it is quickly followed by the sickeningly sweet taste of his red blood, and a brief fantasy of watching the human infested city scream as all the buildings plummet from their perch…
Then once again our world changed. A band of five elves, the most beautiful creatures I think I have ever seen, burst into our world. As the man was ascending the stairs to leave our dungeon the door burst open, completely removed from its hinges. The large flying plank of wood took the man by complete surprise. Unconscious he tumbled backwards down the stairs fighting with the door as to who would land on top. He lost. The elves descended into the room and looked around in shock and horror. A woman and flour males began opening cages in the wall. They removed all of those with any hint of elven blood, and those that could fend for themselves. They told the older children that they must take care of those left behind. Our father walked over to our hold finally. He could see the ire boiling up with-in us. Could feel the heat of our bloodlust.
“Come on Carantea, the city guard has already been called.”
He stood, staring at our souls. He cocked an eyebrow then turned to see the object of our vexation. The body lay in a jumble under the large plank door. He slowly turned back to us fully understanding our entire being.
He looked us both in the eye in turn. He then asked us a question. Neither of us at that point understood the elven language, but we both knew he cared for us.
“Welcome home my children,” I later learned what he had said.
He opened our cage and carried us from the room. He stepped his full weight on the door as he took to the stairs. A slight crunch and a groan was the pleasing response…
Father never returned to his people. Our presence would never allow for such a thing. Instead he did what any good, society hating ranger would do. He retreated into the wilds of Cyre. There he trained us, each in our own right. As soon as we could lift them we each had weapons in hand, and armor in place. I never learned where he learned his weapon skills, but he was a master with anything. Since we were alone in the wilds he would pit us against one another and we would fight until we were no longer able to lift our arms. When we were too exhausted to stand he would teach us about the wilds around us, and how they used to look before the human infection…
When war got too close to our home fathers attitude and teachings changed. “If the roaches went to fight and squabble, I say let them. It gives me an opportunity to earn some money, and help them on their way to self destruction.” We enlisted. The oddest trio of mercenaries anyone had ever seen. Nothing was taboo, the price was right, we would get it done. House Jarasco and House Tharashk quickly became interested in our feats…
Startling me from my reverie, Varra touched my shoulder… in orcish, “Time for sleep,” elvish, “little one,” one of the few elvish words she knows, and has always been her name for me. We go below deck and I find something soft, Varra’s arm, to snuggle up to. Almost immediately dreams come…