EZ_Thorac
03-29-00, 06:40 AM
I had some time at work and threw together the following narrative for my character. Its a first effort and a rough draft at that, but I'd love any feedback from anyone with enough perseverance (sp?) to get through the whole thing..
Thanks in advance!
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He was a wee lad (well, wee for a barbarian anyway) and hadn’t ever received the calling of the Tribunal. Nor had the White Wolves, in their heavy armor and huge weapons, taken special notice of him. Since the non-farming professions of Halas were rather limited, it was only natural that he fell in with the Order of the White Rose. The concept of anything seven feet tall and over 300 pounds being silent and stealthy may seem odd, but to question it openly could invite a visit from several such large, covert individuals.
The training, such as it was, consisted of bladework and shadow-skulking. All of it challenging and useful, but lacking in interest after a point. His cousin was a big, strapping, young shaman with the forces of nature at his beck and call. There were examples of wealth and status all around him in this otherwise poor, but proud land. Several seasons went by while skills were honed and rewards gleaned – and honest work scrupulously avoided. It became apparent that the way to make money was to associate with those that had money. Sure, stealing was quicker, but in a small town, marks are rare and repeat marks get wary quickly.
He began by bluffing his way into other guilds and shops pretending knowledge he did not have. It worked well for a while – so well that it became easy to keep the portions that should have rightfully gone to the Order that trained him. Once, while disguised as a young shaman, he was awarded the highest honor the Tribunal grants non-guildmasters – The Mallet of Justice – and all he’d done to deserve it was backstab ice goblins as they came back from scouting or hunting until he found something on one of them he’d never seen before. He took the neckpiece to the wise men at the Temple of Justice for advice and was nearly discovered for the fraud he was! All the while, the secret network was watching and after one too many indiscretions, he was driven from the bank with weapons drawn and forced into the icy waters to leave in disgrace. All of the friends he’d made amongst the merchants, warriors and shaman were still his, but anything owned, run or controlled by the Order of the White Rose, he’d have to avoid from now on.
The creatures and people of the frozen North had begun to seem somehow dull as he listened to fireside tails of far away places and soon, he yearned to test his skills against more of Norrath. All whom are familiar with the geography of the Northlands know that the only way into or out of the land of the barbarians passes through the infested caverns of Blackburrow. Testing the stealth of his training, he entered not only the pass above ground, but descended into the labyrinth of tunnels to quell his curiosity. His stealth was exemplary, he could work his way to the very bowels of the gnoll society un-noticed and journal their goings on. Even the greatest of the dog-men held no terror for him – even though he was assured of a quick death if discovered. His role as a scout would forever be his favorite.
After carefully documenting the tunnels and their denizens, he approached some likely-looking adventurers and sold them on the idea of raiding deep into the Blackburrow caves. He also sold them the maps and journals that he claimed were given to him by much more experience explorers. When the raid took place, he was there, in the shadows following its progress. Many a body (both gnoll and adventurer) fell during the running battle and there was much of value just laying about for the picking – and pick he did. His plans for being a scoundrel were upset when he came across a pair of dying adventurers and was moved to drag them to the surface for healing. So great was his ability to remain unseen that he got both casualties out with no harm – and considerable profit – to himself. Once again, a reluctant hero.
Realizing he had much to learn in the outside world, he followed a particularly spectacular archer (actually, archeress, but that’s a different story) to the secluded groves of the Surefall Glade where he studied archery and the arts of boyering and fletching from some of the masters themselves. He even made a tidy profit from the larger bows he’d made until the life of a near-merchant got to him and he bade farewell to that period of his life (actually, the real end here is in that ‘other story’ and had more to do with the archeress…)
Qeynos was a huge city teeming with all forms of human and humanoid life. He felt like a farmboy come to market for the first time for weeks. He drank, he ate, he gambled, he wenched and he assisted guards, merchants and itinerant adventurers both earn and lose their coin. He got roaring drunk with a dwarf on honey mead in a pub near the harbor and when he awoke he found himself underground in a strange place surrounded by strange people – ones that spoke with their hands in the manner of the Order of the White Rose! After making sure he’d completely regained his sense, he signaled a greeting to one of them only to find out they were a society very like his old Order – but with a greater need for secrecy in the more ‘civilized’ place. So he was inducted into the Circle of Unseen Hands and once again was taught things not always considered polite… As part of his new affiliation, he was sent to the Western Plains of Karana to keep tabs on Circle investments there – and to deal with any threats to those investments. A barbarian on the plains was not a rare sight, so his cover was shallow at best. It was a fine time and while he was ‘collecting’ from an innkeep and practicing a new, double-handed fighting technique, a traveler offered to sell him a most intriguing weapon. It was a hollowed dirk the traveler claimed it was actually the stinging organ of a giant, magical wasp on the far-off continent of Faydwer. When used, it caused the target to become violently ill – the wasp’s poison according to the traveler. Well, poison was not a thing for polite company and to prove his affront and being asked to wield so base a weapon, he left his well-worn snake fangs embedded deeply in the travelers back – and took his fine steel spear and the wondrous poisoning dagger to replace them.
While reporting into the guild once, he overheard a rumor of a fine item lost in the sewers by an inept mage (he was sure there was no other kind) and the loss of a little girl. In his mind, these two seemed related, so he invaded the domain of the Bloodsabres through a secret passage at the back of the guild tunnels and tracked a creature known to adventurers as Cubert. Gelatinous cubes were common enough in the dank sewers under the city, but to have one that was identifiable from the rest was unusual. After a gruesome search and a more gruesome confrontation, he was able to provide only comfort to the little girl’s family as she was no more. But the family’s gratitude was great and they would hear no argument to his accepting of a medal of merit from the city guard – in addition to the mage’s item he’d found wrapped in the little girl’s dress…
A wandering wizard took an interest in the item and offered a deal to the wanderlusting adventurer: 25 pieces of platinum and two teleports to anywhere on Norrath – and the two teleports were good any time word could be gotten to the wizard! 25 pieces of platinum was more than he’d ever gotten on a single score! Even more than he’d sold the worthless Mallet of Justice for! His choice for the first teleport was Freeport – the other large, human city on the East coast. With letters of recommendation from the Circle. he quickly found friends under the Eastern slums of Freeport and began terrorizing a whole new form of enemy – Orcs! Deathfists learned to fear and loathe him quickly! And he became a fixture with the militia guards of his new home.
Once, while tracking orcs near to the border of the Nektulos forest, he overheard voices working out arrangements for a sale. The rougher voice mentioned having a magical stiletto that cast strong poison magically when inserted deep enough. This was appealing as a mate to the stinger he was still carrying. The lesser voice could not meet the price of the greater, so he followed the lesser voice’s owner out of the glade and hailed him to sell a lesser magical knife that he had garnered from a quick trip to another gnoll place called split paw or somesuch. Once the transaction was complete – HE had the asking price for the magical poison knife. When he entered the glade, he was taken aback by the sight of the first ogre he’d ever met… The ogre thought it odd that a ‘man’ of such stature would take interest in such a small weapon, but sold it to him none-the-less before mentioning that he might have a set of darkened leggings too small for himself, but that might fit a barbarian. He rummaged through his packs until he produced a set of the legendary Ravenscale leggings and proceeded to tell a weak story of having them handed down… Years of gambling had honed the ability to hide emotions and this was an ultimate test – lots of negotiating and the loss of all his remaining coin saw the new, half-dark clad barbarian with two poison-casting blades call for his wizard to transport him one last time…
To Crushbone! Where orcs rule and orc-hunters prosper! The wizard was happy to comply finally quitting his debt to the barbarian. And now, towering over the natives of the lesser continent, he moved through Crushbone like a whirling-dervish-of-orc-death. The screams of the dying and poisoned orcs calling out others of their ilk to also die upon the blades! There was an evil in the castle of Crushbone that he could feel, but not place. He avoided the castle and picked off any patrols or wanderers until one day a great shout went up and rushing to see what the commotion was about, he was struck to the ground but a Dark Elven Dragoon! When he regained his feet with the aid of a nearby shaman, he saw the Dragoon harassing and slaying other adventurers in a bloody swath. He reached into a black bag he’d acquired in the sewers of Freeport and brought out a black vial. He emptied the contents of the black vial onto his favorite blade and crept up behind the foul, corrupt elf and drove both magically poisoned and now mundanely poisoned blades into the abomination and watched as he convulsed in agony and died at his feet. The battle was raging all around and it was a disastrous one for the orcs. Not only was their dark elven ambassador slain, the emperor Crush himself was destroyed along with his entire court. Once the carnage was sorted out, he was able to loot, er appropriate and very noisy mace that was obviously magical and the most wondrous tunic he’d ever seen! It was obviously too small for him to wear, but the craftsmanship was not to be believed and he felt, rightly so, that it would bring a great price to the right wearer.
A druid that he’s met during his time in Surefall was making ready to leave now that the power was broken in Crushbone and mentioned that strength was needed to break similar strength in the corrupt Highhold Keep. Without 3 more words, the druid and he were teleported to that very city! Afterwards, the druids then vanished as well!
The sounds of a battle were nearby and, upon investigation, it appeared that a small band of marauding gnolls had gotten caught raiding too close to the keep. His old hatred of the dog-men spurred him to action (action in his case was to slip into the shadows…) and when he reappeared it was to place both knives deeply into the gnoll leader’s neck – effectively ending the raid. The guards and those raided were so happy for his intervention, they gave him the gnoll leader’s weapon – a marvelous little tomahawk that when swung turned the wielder into a ravening killing machine! The small stinger was nearly out of its enchantment of poison anyway…
Overhearing conversations amongst the guards of the keep, he found out about a near-daily invasion that took place from the Shralok clan of orcs near the Northern border of the Highpass realm. He decided more dead orcs would be a good thing and followed the winding canyons North. The days and weeks and even months lost count while he hunted and haunted the area known as ‘Orc Alley’. Always there and always lethal, he slaughtered hundreds, if not thousands of orcs. Then one day there was a sense of something big looming. The Shraloks were sending their last and best warriors in one final push to take the North pass. Nowhere was the battle more fierce than within arms reach of the barbarian the guards had nicknamed Iceblood, The Cold-Hearted Killer of Halas. The outcome of the battle was never in any doubt and in addition to finding an interesting sack that help much more that it should have and a glowing halberd, he decided that since he had no family name, he would take the one given him by the guards of Highpass. He was thereafter known as Iceblood.
Not being one to sit idle for long, he looked for further adventures and while changing in smaller coins for larger in the basement bank of the Keep, he was assaulted by the largest and fiercest goblin he’d ever encountered! In fact, if there hadn’t been multiple guards there, it would have been his end! As he stood panting and bleeding over the dead body, he was approached by a group of mercenaries hired by the lords of the keep to clear the Pickclaw Goblins from the tunnels below. He had never heard of Pickclaws, but the seemed worthy enough targets for his growing skills. He spent several weeks in the upper areas of the tunnels repeatedly clearing the scouts and guards the pickclaws let get to close, but eventually grew bored of the underground setting and the poor-looted goblins and their ilk. He bid farewell, but never goodbye to another chapter in his life and made the run back to Qeynos.
Once back in familiar territory, he wasted no time in brushing up on anything new anyone could teach him at the circle. He did have one secret errand to run, however. While he had been hunting in Crushbone, he had made the acquaintance of a dwarf from Kaladim that acted as both fence and friend to him during his time there. He lamented an episode of tainted honor between his sister and a rogue dwarf named Trumpy Irontoe. At first the name merely sounded familiar to Iceblood, but later he realized where it was familiar from… Standing in the shadows near the harbor in Qeynos, he watched the dwarf that had introduced him to the Circle turn a dark corner to relieve himself. He opened up to fresh holes in his kidneys to assist him and explained the reason for his actions while the pained dwarf bled out. (once again, the unwitting hero – much later, when returning the head of the miscreant to Kaladim, he was awarded the family heirloom Hammer of the Bloodforge for avenging a debt of honor…)
Realizing there were still large, unexplored areas of Norrath that he couldn’t yet call the world his own, he set out in search of an items that he’d only heard rumors of. His research took him several places (taverns and hospitals, not libraries, but such is the life of a rogue) and took several weeks until he had the desired information. There was a magical mask that could make anyone look like a dark elf. Now, looking like a dark elf, in and of itself, was not terribly appealing after his ordeal with D’Vinn, but the ability to skulk about in areas that were normally not safe for him appealed to the scout in him. The side effects (in his mind) of improved relationships and seeing in the dark were icing on the cake. Making final preparations in Freeport, he set out across the desert of Ro into the swamps of Innothule and approached the citadel of the Frogloks. There were a couple of guards outside, but they seemed unafraid and unhostile towards him so he slipped inside. Using an old map he’s won (arm-wrestling – and just barely) from an old, one-armed dwarf, he found his way into the haunted tunnels beneath the citadel. The sights in that place were indescribable – centuries’ dead Froglok knights, wizards and warriors. Gargoyles of living rock, giant bats and skeletons of all descriptions. There were more close calls on this adventure than any he’d been on before. Many was the time he’d wake up at the hands (or in the arms) of some more experience adventurer that had saved his butt – again. After weeks of fruitless searching, he was beginning to despair when he over-heard someone discussing a pretty mask that they couldn’t make use of stuck to the corpse of a long-dead assassin… This had to be it! As quickly as he could and remain safe, he followed the voices and saw the corpse – and the mask. It lifted easily at his touch and, overcoming the revulsion of where it had been, fit perfectly when he put it on. The ones that had vanquished the ghoul cheered at his fortune and asked if he could control the magic – he wasn’t sure, but when he envisioned himself as a drow, he became one!
Having had plenty of exposure to undead in the catacombs of Guk, he was somewhat numbed to the fear they used to instill. After a brief visit back to Halas with his shaman friend, he decided to go practice some of his forgotten skills and perhaps retrieve a present or two for his friend. One of their favorite hunting grounds was the Western half of the region known as the Commonlands. There was a dark place in the mountains just south of there known as Befallen. Once a temple, now a place of undead and necromancy. He had heard rumors of magical armor worn by shadow knights in the temple. There were stories of riches hidden in areas that only expert engineers and locksmiths could gain access to and little danger to ones cautious – so the rumors said. He had spent several days in the darkness killing the live and destroying the undead whilst improving his understanding of ancient locking mechanisms (intentionally) and necromancy (Unintentionally). He had, in fact, retrieved several pieces of armor from various shadow knights and slain several young necromancers until there came a chilling sound… The remaining shadow knights and young necromancers, while no match for him one-on-one, had banded together and cast various spells of detection and with their foul animations were coming to do away with him in what would prove to be a most unpleasant fashion…
It is said that just before a potentially fatal moment, images of a person’s life will pass before their eyes. Sometimes it’s a reflective look back, sometimes a fearful vision of what was missed. In this case it was just warm memories which began just after his mad, headlong rush towards the entrance to the tomb – no longer was it a temple, it was about to be his tomb.. Even with his various protections, he could feel spell after spell grip him as he ran. He felt the poison course in his veins, felt the chill of horrible disease and felt his own blood heat to nearly the boiling point as he ran. He was gasping as he rounded the last corner before the great doors. Would he be safe once he was though? Would he make it that far? His flight was more of a desperate crawl at this point, delirium setting in at the very end. With one last effort, he rose to his full height and slammed into the closed doors…
…As he began to regain consciousness he was aware of several things all at once. First, that he was still, somehow, alive. Second, that he was laying on sun-warmed stone just barely clear of the entrance to the crypt. And three, that the images of his life that had just played out in his mind would not be the last ones. Still very near death, but realizing that when the sun went down, the darkness from below would seek to complete what it had started, he slipped into the nearest shadows and crawled to what looked like a reasonably safe refuge and pulled out assorted bandages, ointments, poultices and potions and set to the task of healing his body. His spirit was doing just fine.
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Thorac Iceblood
Cold-hearted Killer of Halas
23rd Whatchimacallit on Tribunal
Plan? You want a plan? We go in, I start hitting people hard in the face; we see where that takes us.
Thanks in advance!
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He was a wee lad (well, wee for a barbarian anyway) and hadn’t ever received the calling of the Tribunal. Nor had the White Wolves, in their heavy armor and huge weapons, taken special notice of him. Since the non-farming professions of Halas were rather limited, it was only natural that he fell in with the Order of the White Rose. The concept of anything seven feet tall and over 300 pounds being silent and stealthy may seem odd, but to question it openly could invite a visit from several such large, covert individuals.
The training, such as it was, consisted of bladework and shadow-skulking. All of it challenging and useful, but lacking in interest after a point. His cousin was a big, strapping, young shaman with the forces of nature at his beck and call. There were examples of wealth and status all around him in this otherwise poor, but proud land. Several seasons went by while skills were honed and rewards gleaned – and honest work scrupulously avoided. It became apparent that the way to make money was to associate with those that had money. Sure, stealing was quicker, but in a small town, marks are rare and repeat marks get wary quickly.
He began by bluffing his way into other guilds and shops pretending knowledge he did not have. It worked well for a while – so well that it became easy to keep the portions that should have rightfully gone to the Order that trained him. Once, while disguised as a young shaman, he was awarded the highest honor the Tribunal grants non-guildmasters – The Mallet of Justice – and all he’d done to deserve it was backstab ice goblins as they came back from scouting or hunting until he found something on one of them he’d never seen before. He took the neckpiece to the wise men at the Temple of Justice for advice and was nearly discovered for the fraud he was! All the while, the secret network was watching and after one too many indiscretions, he was driven from the bank with weapons drawn and forced into the icy waters to leave in disgrace. All of the friends he’d made amongst the merchants, warriors and shaman were still his, but anything owned, run or controlled by the Order of the White Rose, he’d have to avoid from now on.
The creatures and people of the frozen North had begun to seem somehow dull as he listened to fireside tails of far away places and soon, he yearned to test his skills against more of Norrath. All whom are familiar with the geography of the Northlands know that the only way into or out of the land of the barbarians passes through the infested caverns of Blackburrow. Testing the stealth of his training, he entered not only the pass above ground, but descended into the labyrinth of tunnels to quell his curiosity. His stealth was exemplary, he could work his way to the very bowels of the gnoll society un-noticed and journal their goings on. Even the greatest of the dog-men held no terror for him – even though he was assured of a quick death if discovered. His role as a scout would forever be his favorite.
After carefully documenting the tunnels and their denizens, he approached some likely-looking adventurers and sold them on the idea of raiding deep into the Blackburrow caves. He also sold them the maps and journals that he claimed were given to him by much more experience explorers. When the raid took place, he was there, in the shadows following its progress. Many a body (both gnoll and adventurer) fell during the running battle and there was much of value just laying about for the picking – and pick he did. His plans for being a scoundrel were upset when he came across a pair of dying adventurers and was moved to drag them to the surface for healing. So great was his ability to remain unseen that he got both casualties out with no harm – and considerable profit – to himself. Once again, a reluctant hero.
Realizing he had much to learn in the outside world, he followed a particularly spectacular archer (actually, archeress, but that’s a different story) to the secluded groves of the Surefall Glade where he studied archery and the arts of boyering and fletching from some of the masters themselves. He even made a tidy profit from the larger bows he’d made until the life of a near-merchant got to him and he bade farewell to that period of his life (actually, the real end here is in that ‘other story’ and had more to do with the archeress…)
Qeynos was a huge city teeming with all forms of human and humanoid life. He felt like a farmboy come to market for the first time for weeks. He drank, he ate, he gambled, he wenched and he assisted guards, merchants and itinerant adventurers both earn and lose their coin. He got roaring drunk with a dwarf on honey mead in a pub near the harbor and when he awoke he found himself underground in a strange place surrounded by strange people – ones that spoke with their hands in the manner of the Order of the White Rose! After making sure he’d completely regained his sense, he signaled a greeting to one of them only to find out they were a society very like his old Order – but with a greater need for secrecy in the more ‘civilized’ place. So he was inducted into the Circle of Unseen Hands and once again was taught things not always considered polite… As part of his new affiliation, he was sent to the Western Plains of Karana to keep tabs on Circle investments there – and to deal with any threats to those investments. A barbarian on the plains was not a rare sight, so his cover was shallow at best. It was a fine time and while he was ‘collecting’ from an innkeep and practicing a new, double-handed fighting technique, a traveler offered to sell him a most intriguing weapon. It was a hollowed dirk the traveler claimed it was actually the stinging organ of a giant, magical wasp on the far-off continent of Faydwer. When used, it caused the target to become violently ill – the wasp’s poison according to the traveler. Well, poison was not a thing for polite company and to prove his affront and being asked to wield so base a weapon, he left his well-worn snake fangs embedded deeply in the travelers back – and took his fine steel spear and the wondrous poisoning dagger to replace them.
While reporting into the guild once, he overheard a rumor of a fine item lost in the sewers by an inept mage (he was sure there was no other kind) and the loss of a little girl. In his mind, these two seemed related, so he invaded the domain of the Bloodsabres through a secret passage at the back of the guild tunnels and tracked a creature known to adventurers as Cubert. Gelatinous cubes were common enough in the dank sewers under the city, but to have one that was identifiable from the rest was unusual. After a gruesome search and a more gruesome confrontation, he was able to provide only comfort to the little girl’s family as she was no more. But the family’s gratitude was great and they would hear no argument to his accepting of a medal of merit from the city guard – in addition to the mage’s item he’d found wrapped in the little girl’s dress…
A wandering wizard took an interest in the item and offered a deal to the wanderlusting adventurer: 25 pieces of platinum and two teleports to anywhere on Norrath – and the two teleports were good any time word could be gotten to the wizard! 25 pieces of platinum was more than he’d ever gotten on a single score! Even more than he’d sold the worthless Mallet of Justice for! His choice for the first teleport was Freeport – the other large, human city on the East coast. With letters of recommendation from the Circle. he quickly found friends under the Eastern slums of Freeport and began terrorizing a whole new form of enemy – Orcs! Deathfists learned to fear and loathe him quickly! And he became a fixture with the militia guards of his new home.
Once, while tracking orcs near to the border of the Nektulos forest, he overheard voices working out arrangements for a sale. The rougher voice mentioned having a magical stiletto that cast strong poison magically when inserted deep enough. This was appealing as a mate to the stinger he was still carrying. The lesser voice could not meet the price of the greater, so he followed the lesser voice’s owner out of the glade and hailed him to sell a lesser magical knife that he had garnered from a quick trip to another gnoll place called split paw or somesuch. Once the transaction was complete – HE had the asking price for the magical poison knife. When he entered the glade, he was taken aback by the sight of the first ogre he’d ever met… The ogre thought it odd that a ‘man’ of such stature would take interest in such a small weapon, but sold it to him none-the-less before mentioning that he might have a set of darkened leggings too small for himself, but that might fit a barbarian. He rummaged through his packs until he produced a set of the legendary Ravenscale leggings and proceeded to tell a weak story of having them handed down… Years of gambling had honed the ability to hide emotions and this was an ultimate test – lots of negotiating and the loss of all his remaining coin saw the new, half-dark clad barbarian with two poison-casting blades call for his wizard to transport him one last time…
To Crushbone! Where orcs rule and orc-hunters prosper! The wizard was happy to comply finally quitting his debt to the barbarian. And now, towering over the natives of the lesser continent, he moved through Crushbone like a whirling-dervish-of-orc-death. The screams of the dying and poisoned orcs calling out others of their ilk to also die upon the blades! There was an evil in the castle of Crushbone that he could feel, but not place. He avoided the castle and picked off any patrols or wanderers until one day a great shout went up and rushing to see what the commotion was about, he was struck to the ground but a Dark Elven Dragoon! When he regained his feet with the aid of a nearby shaman, he saw the Dragoon harassing and slaying other adventurers in a bloody swath. He reached into a black bag he’d acquired in the sewers of Freeport and brought out a black vial. He emptied the contents of the black vial onto his favorite blade and crept up behind the foul, corrupt elf and drove both magically poisoned and now mundanely poisoned blades into the abomination and watched as he convulsed in agony and died at his feet. The battle was raging all around and it was a disastrous one for the orcs. Not only was their dark elven ambassador slain, the emperor Crush himself was destroyed along with his entire court. Once the carnage was sorted out, he was able to loot, er appropriate and very noisy mace that was obviously magical and the most wondrous tunic he’d ever seen! It was obviously too small for him to wear, but the craftsmanship was not to be believed and he felt, rightly so, that it would bring a great price to the right wearer.
A druid that he’s met during his time in Surefall was making ready to leave now that the power was broken in Crushbone and mentioned that strength was needed to break similar strength in the corrupt Highhold Keep. Without 3 more words, the druid and he were teleported to that very city! Afterwards, the druids then vanished as well!
The sounds of a battle were nearby and, upon investigation, it appeared that a small band of marauding gnolls had gotten caught raiding too close to the keep. His old hatred of the dog-men spurred him to action (action in his case was to slip into the shadows…) and when he reappeared it was to place both knives deeply into the gnoll leader’s neck – effectively ending the raid. The guards and those raided were so happy for his intervention, they gave him the gnoll leader’s weapon – a marvelous little tomahawk that when swung turned the wielder into a ravening killing machine! The small stinger was nearly out of its enchantment of poison anyway…
Overhearing conversations amongst the guards of the keep, he found out about a near-daily invasion that took place from the Shralok clan of orcs near the Northern border of the Highpass realm. He decided more dead orcs would be a good thing and followed the winding canyons North. The days and weeks and even months lost count while he hunted and haunted the area known as ‘Orc Alley’. Always there and always lethal, he slaughtered hundreds, if not thousands of orcs. Then one day there was a sense of something big looming. The Shraloks were sending their last and best warriors in one final push to take the North pass. Nowhere was the battle more fierce than within arms reach of the barbarian the guards had nicknamed Iceblood, The Cold-Hearted Killer of Halas. The outcome of the battle was never in any doubt and in addition to finding an interesting sack that help much more that it should have and a glowing halberd, he decided that since he had no family name, he would take the one given him by the guards of Highpass. He was thereafter known as Iceblood.
Not being one to sit idle for long, he looked for further adventures and while changing in smaller coins for larger in the basement bank of the Keep, he was assaulted by the largest and fiercest goblin he’d ever encountered! In fact, if there hadn’t been multiple guards there, it would have been his end! As he stood panting and bleeding over the dead body, he was approached by a group of mercenaries hired by the lords of the keep to clear the Pickclaw Goblins from the tunnels below. He had never heard of Pickclaws, but the seemed worthy enough targets for his growing skills. He spent several weeks in the upper areas of the tunnels repeatedly clearing the scouts and guards the pickclaws let get to close, but eventually grew bored of the underground setting and the poor-looted goblins and their ilk. He bid farewell, but never goodbye to another chapter in his life and made the run back to Qeynos.
Once back in familiar territory, he wasted no time in brushing up on anything new anyone could teach him at the circle. He did have one secret errand to run, however. While he had been hunting in Crushbone, he had made the acquaintance of a dwarf from Kaladim that acted as both fence and friend to him during his time there. He lamented an episode of tainted honor between his sister and a rogue dwarf named Trumpy Irontoe. At first the name merely sounded familiar to Iceblood, but later he realized where it was familiar from… Standing in the shadows near the harbor in Qeynos, he watched the dwarf that had introduced him to the Circle turn a dark corner to relieve himself. He opened up to fresh holes in his kidneys to assist him and explained the reason for his actions while the pained dwarf bled out. (once again, the unwitting hero – much later, when returning the head of the miscreant to Kaladim, he was awarded the family heirloom Hammer of the Bloodforge for avenging a debt of honor…)
Realizing there were still large, unexplored areas of Norrath that he couldn’t yet call the world his own, he set out in search of an items that he’d only heard rumors of. His research took him several places (taverns and hospitals, not libraries, but such is the life of a rogue) and took several weeks until he had the desired information. There was a magical mask that could make anyone look like a dark elf. Now, looking like a dark elf, in and of itself, was not terribly appealing after his ordeal with D’Vinn, but the ability to skulk about in areas that were normally not safe for him appealed to the scout in him. The side effects (in his mind) of improved relationships and seeing in the dark were icing on the cake. Making final preparations in Freeport, he set out across the desert of Ro into the swamps of Innothule and approached the citadel of the Frogloks. There were a couple of guards outside, but they seemed unafraid and unhostile towards him so he slipped inside. Using an old map he’s won (arm-wrestling – and just barely) from an old, one-armed dwarf, he found his way into the haunted tunnels beneath the citadel. The sights in that place were indescribable – centuries’ dead Froglok knights, wizards and warriors. Gargoyles of living rock, giant bats and skeletons of all descriptions. There were more close calls on this adventure than any he’d been on before. Many was the time he’d wake up at the hands (or in the arms) of some more experience adventurer that had saved his butt – again. After weeks of fruitless searching, he was beginning to despair when he over-heard someone discussing a pretty mask that they couldn’t make use of stuck to the corpse of a long-dead assassin… This had to be it! As quickly as he could and remain safe, he followed the voices and saw the corpse – and the mask. It lifted easily at his touch and, overcoming the revulsion of where it had been, fit perfectly when he put it on. The ones that had vanquished the ghoul cheered at his fortune and asked if he could control the magic – he wasn’t sure, but when he envisioned himself as a drow, he became one!
Having had plenty of exposure to undead in the catacombs of Guk, he was somewhat numbed to the fear they used to instill. After a brief visit back to Halas with his shaman friend, he decided to go practice some of his forgotten skills and perhaps retrieve a present or two for his friend. One of their favorite hunting grounds was the Western half of the region known as the Commonlands. There was a dark place in the mountains just south of there known as Befallen. Once a temple, now a place of undead and necromancy. He had heard rumors of magical armor worn by shadow knights in the temple. There were stories of riches hidden in areas that only expert engineers and locksmiths could gain access to and little danger to ones cautious – so the rumors said. He had spent several days in the darkness killing the live and destroying the undead whilst improving his understanding of ancient locking mechanisms (intentionally) and necromancy (Unintentionally). He had, in fact, retrieved several pieces of armor from various shadow knights and slain several young necromancers until there came a chilling sound… The remaining shadow knights and young necromancers, while no match for him one-on-one, had banded together and cast various spells of detection and with their foul animations were coming to do away with him in what would prove to be a most unpleasant fashion…
It is said that just before a potentially fatal moment, images of a person’s life will pass before their eyes. Sometimes it’s a reflective look back, sometimes a fearful vision of what was missed. In this case it was just warm memories which began just after his mad, headlong rush towards the entrance to the tomb – no longer was it a temple, it was about to be his tomb.. Even with his various protections, he could feel spell after spell grip him as he ran. He felt the poison course in his veins, felt the chill of horrible disease and felt his own blood heat to nearly the boiling point as he ran. He was gasping as he rounded the last corner before the great doors. Would he be safe once he was though? Would he make it that far? His flight was more of a desperate crawl at this point, delirium setting in at the very end. With one last effort, he rose to his full height and slammed into the closed doors…
…As he began to regain consciousness he was aware of several things all at once. First, that he was still, somehow, alive. Second, that he was laying on sun-warmed stone just barely clear of the entrance to the crypt. And three, that the images of his life that had just played out in his mind would not be the last ones. Still very near death, but realizing that when the sun went down, the darkness from below would seek to complete what it had started, he slipped into the nearest shadows and crawled to what looked like a reasonably safe refuge and pulled out assorted bandages, ointments, poultices and potions and set to the task of healing his body. His spirit was doing just fine.
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Thorac Iceblood
Cold-hearted Killer of Halas
23rd Whatchimacallit on Tribunal
Plan? You want a plan? We go in, I start hitting people hard in the face; we see where that takes us.