Uffizi Member
We Reap What
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Due to lack of the GM's participation, I will be stepping away from this to pursue a more reliable story.
Interested.
Looking forward to your post, Magnus.
The tavern was dimly lit, and haunting. Cobwebs clung from the ceiling, even the arachnids had abandoned this forsaken village. The air was musty, the floorboards were moist and quickly becoming moldy. They creaked as Yor Amberslag strode forth, towards his brother, Gorrim. A laugh caught his attention before he reached a stool, the footfalls of a lithe creature, an elf, were masked by his own heavy steps. The elf appeared to try and sneak past the Amberslag brothers, but his subtlety was ruined by his audible enterance. Yor raised a brow and brought his attention to a mead horn sailing through the air towards him. He snatched it and guzzled its contents with a ravenous fervor.
"Brudder, what took ye so long?" questioned Gorrim.
"The damned fog was ticker' than our mudders beard!" roared Yor. The stout dwarf plopped his rump on a stool next to Gorrim, whom jumped up and followed the elf to a room in the back. Meanwhile, Yor guzzled from the mead horn, the amber liquid trickled down his black beard. He lifted his mighty hammer and splayed it on the bar in front of him, his right hand rested on its shaft. A few minutes passed and his red headed brother, Gorrim returned, muttering something about elves before he resumed his sitting. "How was yer trip into this weird little town?" asked Gorrim.
"Well, like I said, the fog was thick, ye better believe I tread with caution. Hard tellin' if a hungry giant was lurking in dem woods. He'd discover an Amberslag dwarf is hard to chew, an even harder to digest!" Yor howled again, slamming his fist on the bar, releasing a guttural laugh that shook the taverns foundation.
"So me brudder, ye expect our companions to be of any use? I say we clear Kehema ourselves! May ant and giant a like tremble at dwarven fortitude!"
Yor felt his intoxication quickly returning, along with his menacing temper. His blood boiled and memories flowed through his mind. Memories of a whore he thought he loved. Yor was a prince, but he had cheap taste. The vision of the dwarf went red, and he knew Gorrim would be wise to distance himself. A callused hand grasped the shaft of the hammer, which was easily lifted over Yor's head and smashed into the stool to his left, shattering it easily. The momentum and force of his rage brought the dwarf to the floor, falling from his own stool in a drunken stupor. Yor roared primitively, leaning on his elbow and hopping back to his feet, and charged towards a nearby table with surprising speed. It was obliterated in seconds. This would be an interesting, yet typical everyday quest for the lively Amberslag brothers.
"Brudder, what took ye so long?" questioned Gorrim.
"The damned fog was ticker' than our mudders beard!" roared Yor. The stout dwarf plopped his rump on a stool next to Gorrim, whom jumped up and followed the elf to a room in the back. Meanwhile, Yor guzzled from the mead horn, the amber liquid trickled down his black beard. He lifted his mighty hammer and splayed it on the bar in front of him, his right hand rested on its shaft. A few minutes passed and his red headed brother, Gorrim returned, muttering something about elves before he resumed his sitting. "How was yer trip into this weird little town?" asked Gorrim.
"Well, like I said, the fog was thick, ye better believe I tread with caution. Hard tellin' if a hungry giant was lurking in dem woods. He'd discover an Amberslag dwarf is hard to chew, an even harder to digest!" Yor howled again, slamming his fist on the bar, releasing a guttural laugh that shook the taverns foundation.
"So me brudder, ye expect our companions to be of any use? I say we clear Kehema ourselves! May ant and giant a like tremble at dwarven fortitude!"
Yor felt his intoxication quickly returning, along with his menacing temper. His blood boiled and memories flowed through his mind. Memories of a whore he thought he loved. Yor was a prince, but he had cheap taste. The vision of the dwarf went red, and he knew Gorrim would be wise to distance himself. A callused hand grasped the shaft of the hammer, which was easily lifted over Yor's head and smashed into the stool to his left, shattering it easily. The momentum and force of his rage brought the dwarf to the floor, falling from his own stool in a drunken stupor. Yor roared primitively, leaning on his elbow and hopping back to his feet, and charged towards a nearby table with surprising speed. It was obliterated in seconds. This would be an interesting, yet typical everyday quest for the lively Amberslag brothers.
Yor Amberslag was up before the dawn. He sniffled and brought a finger to close one nostril, forcefully projecting a snot rocket to the forest floor--it happened to splat quite grotesquely. His head was pounding from last nights festivities, which involved Gorrim and himself destroying three days worth of mead in a single sitting, and he did not regret that decision. He was a dwarf after all. The stout dwarf rolled his dirty sleeping bag, and slung the strings over each of his boulder-like shoulders, prepared to move on. He noted that his brother, Gorrim, had apparently left before him, towards the quaint village known as Saqqar. Yor gripped his hammer, his callused mitts made a unique noise as he squeezed on the leather that was wrapped among the hilt. So he was off, fully equipped, with everything in his possession, including a lingering hangover.
The road was cobblestone, and appeared to not be used frequently. Yor figured this was due to the village being raided by giants, those towering behemoths were only spoke of in legends, as their numbers were thought to only be miniscule. Something had urged them to put Saqqar to its doom. Something vile indeed. The air even had a lingering stench of foe and misfortune, among the moisture of the ominous mist that poured from the mountains. A slight chill bit at Yor, one he welcomed as he was a mighty dwarf, hardened against the elements of heat and cold. The mist was over his head, and quite dense, which alarmed the seasoned warrior to unseen threats. Yor raised his hammer, his right hand sliding just beneath the head, his left hand clasped at the base of the hilt, he tipped the weapon horizontally in front of him, forming a defensive posture.
The mist was thick for many footsteps, a hundred or more, and Yor was relieved to see dim torchlight in the distance. "About damned time", the dwarf spat. As he approached, a melancholy feeling blanketed his senses. A figure in a tattered cloak rested outside the gates, trembling in an eternal fear. A sound pierced through the early morning, a moan, like a witch with cancer in her belly. Saqqar was nearly a ghost town; it was a ghost town. Ransacked by giants no doubt, as several buildings were crumbled and ruined. Rats scurried a cross the cobblestone road, which snaked through the dreeary town. A small urchin boy ran from the shadows, instantly Yor pivoted on his heels, planting his feet firmly down, his thighs solid as a mighty oak. The boy, undaunted by the menacing dwarf, scooped up a rat, wincing as it bit him, and ran into the shadows, securing his meal for the night. Yor lowered his hammer, the gravity of this unfortunate villages situation bearing hard upon his heart.
King Yuri Amberslag, son of Wohrik, had chosen his two of his three sons to partake on this perilious journey, knowing Yor was more seasoned in combat and a tactician, he was chose first. Gorrim was a mighty warrior along side Yor, but was more level-headed, a better talker. He knew Yor would need his brother by his side to secure his safety, no matter how seasoned of a warrior he was. The youngest prince remained, as security, if Yor and Gorrim were lost..
Pounding footsteps signaled the arrival of Yor Amberslag to the tavern (of course that would be a dwarves first stop), and he gave a slight nod to a human standing outside the entrance, a gritted smile surfaced through his thick, black beard. The door swung open forcefully, nearly tearing from its hinges as the dwarf barreled in, a grin on his visage. "Ah! Me brudder!" he howled.
The road was cobblestone, and appeared to not be used frequently. Yor figured this was due to the village being raided by giants, those towering behemoths were only spoke of in legends, as their numbers were thought to only be miniscule. Something had urged them to put Saqqar to its doom. Something vile indeed. The air even had a lingering stench of foe and misfortune, among the moisture of the ominous mist that poured from the mountains. A slight chill bit at Yor, one he welcomed as he was a mighty dwarf, hardened against the elements of heat and cold. The mist was over his head, and quite dense, which alarmed the seasoned warrior to unseen threats. Yor raised his hammer, his right hand sliding just beneath the head, his left hand clasped at the base of the hilt, he tipped the weapon horizontally in front of him, forming a defensive posture.
The mist was thick for many footsteps, a hundred or more, and Yor was relieved to see dim torchlight in the distance. "About damned time", the dwarf spat. As he approached, a melancholy feeling blanketed his senses. A figure in a tattered cloak rested outside the gates, trembling in an eternal fear. A sound pierced through the early morning, a moan, like a witch with cancer in her belly. Saqqar was nearly a ghost town; it was a ghost town. Ransacked by giants no doubt, as several buildings were crumbled and ruined. Rats scurried a cross the cobblestone road, which snaked through the dreeary town. A small urchin boy ran from the shadows, instantly Yor pivoted on his heels, planting his feet firmly down, his thighs solid as a mighty oak. The boy, undaunted by the menacing dwarf, scooped up a rat, wincing as it bit him, and ran into the shadows, securing his meal for the night. Yor lowered his hammer, the gravity of this unfortunate villages situation bearing hard upon his heart.
King Yuri Amberslag, son of Wohrik, had chosen his two of his three sons to partake on this perilious journey, knowing Yor was more seasoned in combat and a tactician, he was chose first. Gorrim was a mighty warrior along side Yor, but was more level-headed, a better talker. He knew Yor would need his brother by his side to secure his safety, no matter how seasoned of a warrior he was. The youngest prince remained, as security, if Yor and Gorrim were lost..
Pounding footsteps signaled the arrival of Yor Amberslag to the tavern (of course that would be a dwarves first stop), and he gave a slight nod to a human standing outside the entrance, a gritted smile surfaced through his thick, black beard. The door swung open forcefully, nearly tearing from its hinges as the dwarf barreled in, a grin on his visage. "Ah! Me brudder!" he howled.
An' I'll be sure to smash'o ton of orc noggins' along side ye lad! Fer the Amberslag brothers come fer one reason: to smash.
When shall ye get this shindig underway, laddie?
A little blood and guts never hurt anyone. :)
Name: Yor Amberslag
Gender: Male
Age: 255
Race: Dwarf
Class: Warrior
Appearance: Stout and robust, Yor Amberslag is your typical seasoned dwarf. He is carved with corded and knotted muscle, from upper to lower body, all four foot five inches of it. A solid gullet formed on the dwarf, which brings his weight to two-hundred fifty pounds, which is the result of many years indulging in ale-- but it certainly does not appear to hinder the ferocious-looking creature. A dark beard, black as coal covers the grim visage of Yor, and twists into two knotted braids that rest on his belly. Much like his beard, his hair is black as coal, and is pulled back into a ponytail that rests in the center of his back. A sinister hammer named Force of Amberslag is an extension of Yor's wrath. A well-tailored leather tunic bearing his clan's sigil, and leather trousers protect him from the elements. Obviously, a mead horn hangs at his side. A small, spidersilk pouch hangs at his opposite side, within is various dried meats, cheese, and bread.
Personality: Yor is temperamental, even for a dwarf. But, despite his temper, he is an expert tactician and seasoned warrior. Usually, he is stinking drunk, unless in battle; but maintains his inebriation quite well. He is foul-mouthed, and stubborn, if it does not appease his interest expect him to argue against it.
Background: Yor is the son of Yuri, son of Wohrik, brother to Gorrim of the clan Amberslag. Yor is a prince of clan Amberslag, one of seven clans in Errondur. Yor is the eldest of his brethren, Gorrim second eldest, and Graugen being the youngest. Two of the three princes of Amberslag were chosen by King Yuri, whom heard whispers of Kehema's revivial, to undertake a quest to cleanse the damned metropolis, and discover the secrets buried within.
Gender: Male
Age: 255
Race: Dwarf
Class: Warrior
Appearance: Stout and robust, Yor Amberslag is your typical seasoned dwarf. He is carved with corded and knotted muscle, from upper to lower body, all four foot five inches of it. A solid gullet formed on the dwarf, which brings his weight to two-hundred fifty pounds, which is the result of many years indulging in ale-- but it certainly does not appear to hinder the ferocious-looking creature. A dark beard, black as coal covers the grim visage of Yor, and twists into two knotted braids that rest on his belly. Much like his beard, his hair is black as coal, and is pulled back into a ponytail that rests in the center of his back. A sinister hammer named Force of Amberslag is an extension of Yor's wrath. A well-tailored leather tunic bearing his clan's sigil, and leather trousers protect him from the elements. Obviously, a mead horn hangs at his side. A small, spidersilk pouch hangs at his opposite side, within is various dried meats, cheese, and bread.
Personality: Yor is temperamental, even for a dwarf. But, despite his temper, he is an expert tactician and seasoned warrior. Usually, he is stinking drunk, unless in battle; but maintains his inebriation quite well. He is foul-mouthed, and stubborn, if it does not appease his interest expect him to argue against it.
Background: Yor is the son of Yuri, son of Wohrik, brother to Gorrim of the clan Amberslag. Yor is a prince of clan Amberslag, one of seven clans in Errondur. Yor is the eldest of his brethren, Gorrim second eldest, and Graugen being the youngest. Two of the three princes of Amberslag were chosen by King Yuri, whom heard whispers of Kehema's revivial, to undertake a quest to cleanse the damned metropolis, and discover the secrets buried within.
Should we assume any items/possessions we have be put in appearance?
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