Lorek Bearfist/Helvet'ine/Muscle for hire

[Lorek Bearfist]

Name: Lorek Bearfist
Nicknames: Lorek the Butcher, Lorek the Heretic, Demon, Widow Maker
Age: 36
Birth date: The seventeenth day of the month Awakening Earth.
Gender: Male


Race: Human
Tribe: Helvet'ine of the Kuglimz
Occupation: Muscle for hire.
Type: Mercenary / Barbarian / Guardian / Bounty Hunter
Title: Knight Berserker

Height: Just a few nailsbreadths more than two and a half peds.
Weight: Fluctuates between five pygges and fifteen ods to five pygges and thirty-five ods.
Eye color: A shimmering combination of the colors of Mithril and frosted Ocean Blue
Hair color: A blend of Injohue, Lyth’be Pollen and Viperene Sand

Family names: Father - Kerjinn Mother - Helik Brother - Vakek
Religious faith: Armeros, God of War
Portrait: Picture.(Thank you to my friend Demacros for his excellent work. Hail my brother!)

Overview: Bred as a warrior, he comes from a long line of them. A fighter as his forefathers before him, Lorek is a vicious foe in battle; he is more than capable of making many an enemy regret crossing his path. Trained to be great in battle at the defense of others throughout his life, Lorek possesses great fighting prowess from years of practice and training.
                               
Description: Hardened pale skin wrought with battle scars and given an unnatural density from years of frigid climates is spread over a tall, heavily muscled frame. Every inch of his body is covered in a layer of dense brawn. These rippling and scarred sinews show the hardships the barbarian has put his body through over the course of his lifetime. The definition of Lorek's muscles make his large body appear as if it were carved from stone.

Long arms do nothing to thin out the layers of supreme muscle just below Lorek's skin. In unarmed combat they allow him whip up a dominating flurry that causes many opponents a state of awe at the crude force. While the brute is not exceptionally skilled at hand-to-hand fighting; the power of his upper body makes up for this.

Five blood rings clank in one braided length of shimmering locks reminiscent of the hues of sunshine. These give testament that Lorek is a powerful Helvet'ine warrior hero to be feared by all who threaten the innocent. The berserker keeps the rest of his hair loose and free of these trinkets of heritage. His golden hair hangs just slightly below massive shoulders.

Vibrant silvery blue eyes shine with a maniacal gleam and an everlasting bloodlust. They reveal much about his nature: that he is random, at times ill-tempered but mostly friendly. Should one gaze a bit deeper into them, they would find the misery he hides deep within himself. A degree of sagely wisdom can also be seen inside of him through his oculars.

Thick blonde eyebrows add to the stature of an experienced man of the military to his rugged features. Full lips blossom from his mouth and do little to soften chiseled looks. The narrow scar of a knife slash can be perceived on his lower lip. Lorek's heavily scarred hands hint at the many battles he has fought and won. His hands are large and powerful with long, thick fingers extending from them.

The knigt's hulking chest is covered in short and thick hairs. He carries several scars upon it, most notably the five scratch marks he suffered from the bear that he killed. He tells the story to any who will listen about the evening of the incident and carries the scars with honor and pride. His powerfully built legs are a mix of pure bulk and definition. The rippling muscles are so packed and dense that their raw power can be seen through his bearskin pants. They lend to a gait that appears as natural and elegant as the blowing wind. Even though he has only average agility, these muscles afford to fancy footwork in sword fighting.

Lorek's square jaw line ends at a blunt and stubble covered chin. His nose is wide and sharply angluar, but in perfect proportion with the rest of his face and body. A ring of steel is worn through the tissue on the bottom as a sign of power. His rugged face carries more than one mark of battle. Of the scars that line his visage, some are more pronounced than others. His ears are only slightly larger than usual but appear symmetrical on his massive body.

A large tattoo of a sword crossed with an axe appears high on his muscular left arm. Both weapons are dripping blood and highly detailed. The detail in which they are done makes the weapons take on a life of their own. A ring of brightly colored fire encircles the vicious armaments. A caption is in quotations directly above. It reads as follows: "Kill hard!".

Another tattoo Lorek has is the constellation of Armeros on his upper right chest. It is a group of six stars shaped like either a sword or an arrow, depending on one's perception. They are done in an exquisite light blue ink that almost shines like expensive gemstones.

The only other tattoo on his body is the tribal symbol for the Hlvet'ine. It is located on his right forearm, just above his wrist. The symbol is of a black background and a majestic gold eagle pearched on a lance. The black background is trimmed in a thick boarder of luxurious gold.

                                         Armor and Armaments:

A sheath on Lorek’s hip holds a sword of mammoth size. The overall size of the sword is just a little larger than one and one half peds and one palmspan. The edge of the sword measures one and three eighths peds in length and fourteen nailsbreadths across at its widest point. The sword is a highly polished black that has been tainted the color of vilique. Ancient combat runes the color of snow have been cut into the center of the length and are used as blood grooves. The lower quarter of each cutting edge has been filed to a fierce serration. Made by a dwarf craftsman of great renown, the sword is comprised entirely of a recondite metal. It has been rolled a total of two hundred and seventy-six times. The cross guard is similar in style to the horns of a bull. It is short, close to the blade on both sides and pointed. This allows for the easy weapon catching and disarming of opponents.
         
When gazed upon, Woe Fang inspires fear and awe at its tremendous size by the average citizen. Reminiscent of a claymore, the hulking blade is a perfect weapon for the fearless mercenary. Lorek unloosing this fearsome hunk of metal has drawn many crowds to him challenging someone to a spar.

Blood Wind is Lorek's bow. It is old, but sturdy in its make. The ancient piece of wood is a durable bit of oak wood with a plate of blackened steel over the front. The string slightly reflects the moonlight as does a spider’s web. There is etching along the steel of a few scorpions and snakes, but one would have to look very closely to see them. A steel crosshair sticks out to one side to increase accuracy.

Vicious Strike is a lance of Helvet'ine make and is thus heavier than regular lances. It is large and black with a deadly metal tip at the end. The lance measures just a little over two peds in length and is used only for open field warfare. The make of this lance ensures quality should he ever need to use it.

Lorek’s shield is a one and one half nailsbreadths thick piece of oak wood with a one and one half nailsbreadths thick plate of metal riveted to it. The kite shield measures one and a half peds wide and just as high. Lorek is rarely seen without it strapped to his body. It carries a demonic visage emblazoned over it. 

His helmet is a thick piece of ore, a deep gray color except for a faint hint of a sickly green. A large, demonic horn protrudes from either side. The face of the helmet is mostly open so as not to obstruct vision. The part that overlaps the ears is vented as not to interfere with his hearing.

Bracers of this odd hue cover his forearms from the elbow to slightly behind his wrists. A combination of spikes and studs protrudes from each of the bracers. The bracers themselves also protect from blows that Lorek can see coming and can block with his arms. He has more than once let an opponent land a punch on him only to block their next with the bracers, resulting in a very painful injury to their hand.

Upon his commanding fists Lorek wears a pair of half-plate gloves of the same color, each are equipped with two retractable scythe-like blades that are a half fore in length. They are excellent for battle because he can slash with them and shred and opponents to bits. He can also use the blades to pierce armor or swing his sword in his left hand and punch with his right. These are not worn as often as most of his armor as they are dangerous to himself and innocents. 

His plated scalemail upper piece slips on overhead and hangs to slightly above mid-thigh. Runes have been etched into every piece of metal that he believes to be for protection and superiority in combat over one’s enemies. The plated chest pieces have several runes cut into them. The breastplate is as grey as storm clouds with a faint hint of a sickly green offsetting its smoky hue. Lorek also wears a gorget for protection from blows to his throat.

Chainmail leggings matching the color of his scalemail are often worn beneath his clothing. They are protective and yet flexible. The usual noise made by the ringlets of his leggings is hushed by his bearskin pants. Lorek often wears a set of greaves outside these pants. Each of the greaves is a dull gray color. When donning his armor, Lorek sometimes wears a suit of tanned bearskin over top of it. The only exception is that he wears his greaves outside of his pants.

Lorek mostly only wears his gauntlets, bracers, gorget, shield, helmet, greaves, a bearskin suit, sword, bow and arrows. The rest of his armor and equipment he leaves in his chariot when it is not needed. His sword and armor are made of a nearly unbreakable steel consisting of iron mined in the Troll Mountains that has been smelted vernik. These minerals were forged into equipment by a Dwarven craftsman through a contract Kula’nitriath held with both sides. The metal was glazed with either a haunting black or smoky grey hue and tinted a diseased green.

                                        Clothing:

Lorek wears nothing but bearskins, as he has no need for dressier clothing. Very rarely does he find himself in need of fine clothing and when he does he simply buys it when it is needed. The bearskins he wears are nothing short of plain. The tops of which extend to just above his elbows. Each of these has been fitted with a hood to keep his ears warm in more wintry climates. His pants extend just a few nailsbreadths above the ankle, while knee high boots of this leather are worn on his feet.

                                          Medallion:

A large silver trinket is worn on a leather string around Lorek's neck at all times. It has a portrait of the face of Armeros. The medal hangs to a perfect rest near the top of his sternum. His name has been etched onto the back of this piece. Aside from his mithril knife, this is his prize possession.

                                         Mithril knife:

When the hulking savage was a lad of but six his father gave to him a large hunting knife made of mithril. The mithril runs full tang and has a quad-riveted leather wrapped wooden handle. The knife gleams to this day and is also quite sharp for as old as it is.

Kerjinn acquired it after saving a young elven boy, named E’liath, from drowning on one of his travels. He had it for only a year and thought Lorek worthy of the item. Lorek is always careful to polish and sharpen it at least once per month. He has also been known to spend much time staring into the mirror-like blade.

Personality: His form is rather threatening; his mood can be foul at times, though he is not totally unfriendly. Although always prepared for battle, he is not simply a mindless killing machine. His thoughts are similar to those around him as he aspires at times to make friends. His efforts are no doubt in vain for the most part, as his size and structure lend great hindrance to this. Most folks Lorek comes in contact with discern him as nothing more than a threat. Somewhat kind to strangers, Lorek will never pass up an opportunity to defend an innocent party.

While he doesn't adhere to every tradition of his Kuglmz heritage, Lorek is proud to be a Helvet'ine. He keeps five blood rings braieded into a length of his golden hair in front on the left side. He also keeps in his possession a lance of Helvet'ine make. The weapon is of the finest quality available and was purchased during the mercenary's travels. He keeps these reminders of his home because he knows he can never go back. His body roams Caelereth, but his heart is in the Celeste Lowlands among his tribe.

Lorek is semi-antagonistic in the taverns and inns he frequently haunts. This has led to him being thrown out of more than one tavern for fighting. Occasionally these brawls have been good for his way of life by drawing customers from the crowds of onlookers who watched him in action. Lorek would not hesitate to silence someone he viewed as overly arrogant. Though Lorek knows that these antics are sometimes good for business, he will not kill just for the smell of blood. He is very aware that one’s life is the ultimate price to pay. However, he has never backed down from a challenge of his courage.

Lorek has lived a life of battle and is thus always prepared to fight. He also has the prowess that comes from actually having fought to the death. This has made him extremely battle hardened and many perceive him to be vicious or indifferent. While this is not entirely the case, Lorek isn't the most gregarious fellow either. He does attempt to make friends, but only if he knows he actually has a chance of being the person's friend. He doesn't just approach a woman because she's beautiful, there actually has to be something else about her to allure him.

His skills have been honed through a lifetime of practice, training, discipline and exercise. He never lets himself fall to anything below the apex of physical capability. His mindset is very military, even though he has never been involved with active military service. He is strict with discipline on himself with regards to his fitness, combat prowess and mercenary lifestyle. Lorek lives and abides completely by a code of ethics that he will never break.

Always remaining the honorable party, Lorek will justify everything he’s done with the following sentence: “Every action I’ve ever taken was the right thing to do at that time.” Regardless of what course of action he has taken in his life, he has always been careful to never bring dishonor to himself or to his clan’s name.

Though honorable, he is still a mercenary and thus practices deceit by way of concealing his intentions. This coupled with violence has earned him quite a sum of coin, most of which he has spent on equipment, ale and harlots. Fearing not what is to come, he continues on. Almost positive that he is wanted by many of the people he has practiced tyranny against, he is always watching his back. Lorek always keeps violence and treachery as part of his craft to keep justice alive in Caelereth.
 
Lorek has no problem drawing swords on a foe in a bar fight taken outside to bring them in the light of the harsh realization they are outmatched. When this does not work he will simply order one of the men to come forward, and ground him with terrible injuries. This usually leads to a fresh scar upon Lorek’s massive body from a sword slash. Lorek has ended several fights in this fashion; as who can wield any weapon when breathless or in the severe pain of one or more broken bones?

While Lorek is forthright he is not stupid. There is no need to pass up an opportunity that is lucrative unless it compromises the strict moral code that he stands adamantly to. Should an opportunity arise to make great amounts of coin and imperil his ethics, the barbaric paladin would instantly turn it down. There is nothing worth dishonoring the good name one earned for themself and Lorek lives by that to the letter.

One of Lorek's greatest beliefs is that if a man be putting his hands on a woman without cause; that the man should be beaten like a dog in the streets and hanged by the neck until dead for all to see. The only time Lorek would physically engage a woman is if she were stealing or committing a crime. Even then he would only physically restrain her and cause as little injury as possible. He could only go bladestrike for bladestrike with a woman if she threatened his life, the life of an ally, or if she challenged him to a friendly spar. He could take the life of one only if called for by a contract on her existence for an act of greater atrocity.

Though not totally unfriendly, Lorek has become accustomed to his wandering ways. He has become a bit strong-willed and realized that many of his friendships are but fleeting moments of happiness. His fits of anger are haunting demons that dance upon the edge of Lorek’s thoughts. This knowledge of the inner dwelling evils that torment him is almost too much of a burden to bear. This has caused the barbarian to become even more of a loner by moving on at times from relationships that held the promise of true love in his life. Sorrow permeates on the edge of his psyche with the understanding that he has most likely left behind sons of his own because of his life as a traveling mercenary and bounty hunter.

While the merc almost never goes out of his way to do someone a favor for no reason, he will help almost anyone, for a price. There are only a very select few exceptions outside of fellow worshipers of Armeros, whom he would aid without price. He has never charged his religious brethren a single san for his services, provided they give proper thanks to the War God in exchange. Entirely devout to Armeros, he spends at least one hour per day of uninterrupted prayer in the name of his chosen deity.

Lorek’s service to Armeros is proudly proclaimed. Any who disagree with it are usually left scorned with injuries. He often gazes at the sky and smiles thinking of Injera as the ever-watchful right eye of his savior. Lorek sees Armeros as responsible for his still being around to draw breath into his lungs.

His travel pack contains the following:
Two animal skin firkins.
A flint, steel, a torch and tinder.
A week and a half worth of rations, entirely consisting of dried beef, rice, nuts and beans.
Five sets of clothing all made of bearskin.
His armor and shield.
Woe Fang.
Vicious Strike.
Three extra bowstrings.
Enough oats for his chariot horses to last them a week and a half.
Blood Wind.
A pack of fifty arrows.
A tent of accommodating size.
Two blankets.
A bedroll.
A coin sack containing a confidential amount of sans gathered from his line of work.
A small amount of paste mixed with sand that he applies to wounds.
The mithril hunting knife his father gave him.
A sharpening stone, a large vial of polish, a vial of oil and two black rags, both emblazoned with the Helvet’ine tribe symbol.
Five poultice rags with healing herbs rubbed into them constantly, these herbs are mixed with paste and ground stone. He applies these rags to wounds. He never leaves these rags unprepared.
A black leather knapsack to carry most of his possessions. The only things it will not hold are his armor, shield, arrows, Blood Wind, Vicious Strike and Woe Fang.

Strengths:

Hulking strength: Lorek’s colossal strength grants him abilities beyond most humans and orcs. He is able to accomplish feats of immense physical power without exhausting himself. Lorek’s unarmed blows come like a rain of hammers as he swings his powerful fists. His might is to date unchecked.

Exercises, such as the carrying of poles with large water buckets full to the brim, rock throwing, push ups, pull ups, lifting the stumps of young trees, wood chopping, extended periods of hammer swinging, running great distances with heavy loads, sit down stand ups,  pushing heavy objects and various other muscle building regimens have all lent a great deal to his physical strength. These exertions have also packed his entire body with dense layers of well-defined sinews.
 
Master swordsman: Easily on par with most temple knights, Lorek swings his chosen weapon with masterful expertise. His skill comes from decades of training with this lethal edged weapon. The barbarian’s prowess has been refined with excellent results. Whilst Lorek has been wounded, none have bested him in crossing blades since his prowess has had the whet put to it. 
 
Barbaric fury: The destructive killing machine can enter an enraged state and feel absolutely no pain from his wounds during these times. Lorek could be mortally wounded and not realize the severity of the injuries dealt to him. He has learned to recognize the rages coming on. He can sometimes fight them off if they are not needed but he often revels in the marvels this savage vexation can bring about. 

High endurance: Lorek’s endurance well exceeds that of many. This comes from years of sprinting vast distances with heavy loads placed upon his back, continually pushing himself during exercise periods, air punching and several other activities to build his stamina. He has done this because of the lost hours of sleep due to the screams off his kills. While the others in the caravan he traveled with slept, Lorek spent most nights training his battle prowess, strength, endurance, will and religious faith.

Bow skill: Lorek knows his way around a bow. He can accurately strike a target near sixty-two peds away unless they are moving. In this case, his accuracy only suffers moderately. His chances of striking are slightly over half. Should the target be coming towards him, he is a much better shot. Also able to nock an arrow and aim simultaneously, this comes from near a score's years of practice in the art of archery.

Weaknesses:

Periodic alcoholic: Lorek is the thirsty breed of warrior who occasionally spends many hours in the local taverns chasing ales as well as women. Often times spending every bit of money not set aside for food and shelter. The after effects from these nights out are often noted much of the following day. Severe headaches, chills and stomach pains are amongst the most common ill effects, as well as bad temperament. His foul mood on these days after has only enhanced his problems with making friends.

Being a binge drinker, he can sometimes overcome the temptation of booze and focus properly. Although he has much fun drinking, he usually does not know when to call it quits to save a few coins in his spending pouch. He has more than once awoke with little to no recollection of the evening before, sometimes even waking in strange places; like the lawns of some unhappy townsfolk, alleys and in a one instance, lying nude in horse stables. Simply put; he’s a lush.

Arv addiction: When sleepless nights strike, Lorek turns to Arv seeds. His only real dependency, Lorek always keeps in a large supply of these plants. They help him to at least be able to function properly on days when he couldn’t find good sleep the night before. They are a flaw because these little seeds are driving the barbarian to insanity due to the fact Lorek sleeps even rarer than he would if he just tolerated the nightmares.

Voice of justice: Lorek will not tolerate injustices being done to any degree. If corruption be found in a city, he will tackle the unfairness by any means necessary. His reasoning is that when injustice becomes law, rebellion becomes duty. In matters such as these, he always uses his own notion of justice and integrity.

Fury side effects: The actions he takes under direction of his barbaric fury have a hefty price to pay. They are driving him to madness in short order. Often plagued by blackouts, Lorek will roar and growl at the top of his lungs during these times. It could truthfully be stated he is gambling on loaded dice.

Lorek also suffers greater injury when he comes out of his rages. The aches of his wounds become more severe and require him to invest in painkillers. He has since become mildly addicted to the beans of the Miyu plant for their effects. When these can not be found, however, he must live with the pain.

Miyu fixation: The barbarian has become slightly addicted to the beans of the Miyu plant. He prefers to chew two or three of the beans rather than apply them as a paste. He even sometimes uses them when not in pain to prevent injuries from causing ache.
 
Tears of the dead: During his hours of rest, Lorek can hear the screams of those he has slain as if they were in the same room. Loud as bells they ring in his psyche on a nightly basis whilst he tries to rest. The violence of his past visits him every night as his gruesome acts are relived every sleeping hour. Only on occasion does he find the comfort of a full and restful night of sleep.

Lack of Fear: Due to his years as a defender of caravans and a city guard, Lorek is completely unable to show fear to any degree. This is doubtlessly a weakness for the simple fact there is no easier target than one that knows no dread. It is a severe hindrance because he will never run away from any challenge of his mettle.

Religious zealot: Lorek has on more than one occasion gone into drunken fits of screaming Armeros’ name in taverns and degrading other deities. The merc has even been insulting toward worshipers of all other Gods, calling them cowards and the like. This has started more than one bar fight, resulting in several life bans from taverns in many cities. When this happens, he simply goes to the next nearest tavern.

Size problems: Let’s just face it; the world wasn’t made for big men. With great size comes the fear of others. Many view him as a monstrosity and profoundly steer clear of him, forcing him to approach them first and be gentle in ways with them at the beginning if he wishes to have friends of any degree. He is much aware that his size is intimidating but can do nothing about it. His size has also caused him to become shy to an extreme when in new crowds.

Another hindrance Lorek has experienced with his size is that in fights, he is often the first target that many opponents go after. This has more than once left him to fight alone as most have no wish to dive into three on one odds, and they mostly think he needs little or no aid in any physical confrontation, true as this may be; Lorek is still only one man.

Demeanor: He is very disciplined and strict on himself and others; this aura resonates from him and makes him seem unfriendly. Most people will ignore or avoid him to the best of their ability unless they must interact with him. He is rarely approached by someone other than a waiter.
             
Fighting Style: When unarmed, Lorek uses motions of ruthless power to dispatch foes easily. These destructive movements often result in grievous and bloody injuries. Many arena fighters fear going blow-for-blow with Lorek Bearfist; as he is famed among them for his unrelenting blows and vicious might.

When using Woe Fang, Lorek fights with an unequaled ferocity. The berserk guardian charges foes with a bloodlust rarely seen by mortal eyes. His devastating combat prowess rapidly overcomes foes and leaves them dead on the ground. He moves as a walking blade, skillfully committing acts of horrific violence in a storm of screaming bloodshed that leaves his enemies firmly grasped by death’s icy claws.

Let this not fool you into believing the hero is a one dimensional warrior. Able to use a bow to a degree, Lorek can pierce vital areas of enemies then charge in to finish the deed. He also uses this devastating art of combat to hunt by putting an arrow through the leg of a bit of game so it can’t run away, and then ends its life by decapitation.

His style of open field fighting against groups is to fire a few arrows into the crowd with Blood Wind, then charge directly from his chariot. Grinding and crushing nearby foes to death, he also uses Vicious Strike to end many lives. Lastly, he will switch up to Woe Fang and bury it into any enemy close enough. This style of fighting has not yet been tested, but the equipment is in his possession should the need arise.

Favored Prayer for Lorek Ares Bearfist: Master of battle, I pledge my service unending. Polaris, guide me to the battlefield where I shall faithfully fight in the name of Armeros. See me coming, enemies o’ mine, you will wish you had the option to flee. I take an oath to stand my ground and fight with honor, none shall chase me away. Opposing forces will be slaughtered like cattle by way of my mighty hand. Lord Armeros, should I fall I shall hail thee with my dying breath.

Skills of note: Knowledge of law in the city Cruor where he worked as a guard, also in the laws and punishments of his homeland, able to charge into battle with a lance, strong will, used to performing many tasks with some of his armor and shield equipped, hunting, trapping, tracking and giving good advice.

Moral Code:

Justice: To always serve the purpose of integrity and fairness, regardless of the means. The end result will always justify them.

Treachery: Only to be practiced if needed to prevent a greater evil from taking place.

Discipline: Remain disciplined and in the best possible condition. Always enforce strict standards on yourself.

Betrayal: Never betray a friend who has proven they are worthy of trust. Give them the same confidence in you.

Innocence: Always look for the good in everyone; even the dregs of society. Set out to fight and to destroy all who persecute the pure.

Freedom: Fight to the death for your freedom. Let no one accuse you unjustly. If you should commit an infraction, own up to the mistake. Defend the freedom of others with the same zeal if they should be innocent.

Life: Respect life; know that one’s life is the ultimate price to pay. Take only the lives of the wicked.

Honor: Never compromise your honor. Commit no action that would have you questioning your own integrity.

Suspicion: Trust no one until they continuously prove worthy of it. Anyone can prove themselves once, only one of honor can do it time and again. Always keep up your guard against treachery and deceit.

Fear: Show no trepidation. If you are to die, do it with honor. Never cower from a confrontation. Should an individual test your mettle, prove them the weaker or die trying.

Friendship: Always test the allegiance of those around you with strategy. Stay on your guard to catch them in lies and tyranny. Remember that alliances are both a strength and a weakness. Trust and respect are to be earned and not freely given.

[Lorek Bearfist]

History: Born the seventeenth day of Awakening Earth to Kerjinn and Helik Bearfist, his father knew of something special about the boy. Unknown what it would be, Kerjinn took his first-born son into his arms and gazed into sapphire eyes. “Lorek”, Kerjinn proudly proclaimed. “Lorek Ares.” He whispered as he held the boy out. “Look at him, Helik. He has a warrior spirit, just like his old man.” A bright smile that even his thick beard and normally cold demeanor could not hide crept across the face of the copper haired barbarian.

At the age of five Lorek was watching his father practice combat skills in front of their home when he ran to his father. “Papa, could you teach me to use a blade as good as you?” The intense curiosity in these words seemed to cut the air as an axe cuts a foe’s flesh. “That depends solely on you, my boy. How do you think you would do in a sword fight?”

“I don’t know, but I do want to try. It looks fun.” The young Lorek stated with great zeal. He ran to the back of the house and returned only a few moments later with two sticks of near equal length, one clenched tightly in each of his hands. Lorek smiled at his father and handed him one of the sticks. The young warrior waited impatiently for the spar to commence.

Immediately after Kerjinn’s first threatening move, Lorek leapt into action. Though he showed great effort, Kerjinn’s master skill soon devastated him. The young hero came back from blow after blow with the stick. They increased in force until Kerjinn realized that Lorek simply would not surrender. The proud father stared in shock at his son. Lorek gazed upon the surprised expression of his father with an almost apologetic, wide-eyed grin. “Is what I did good, father?” It was in this instant Kerjinn knew what was special about his first-born son; that Lorek would grow into a great warrior.

Throughout the following months, they spent every free moment training together every day. In almost no time at all Lorek was gaining in skill. This left Kerjinn in a state of surprise. “What do I do with this boy?” Kerjinn often said to himself.

Only days after their last spar, Lorek saw his father drunk for the first time that he could remember. One of Kerjinn’s friend’s sons had been married that day and it was known all through the city that the men would engage in a bout of drinking at a nearby tavern after the wedding. Kerjinn did not return home from the festive evening until well past firstlight. Upon his return he was loud and belligerent with Helik over the fact there was none of the previous evening’s supper remaining for him. She pled with him to lower his voice as not to wake Lorek or baby Vakek and he simply ignored her request. Lorek heard his father’s obnoxious voice and rushed to the kitchen to see what was wrong.

As Lorek stormed into the kitchen, Kerjinn began screaming at young Lorek about eating too much.  Tears ran down his face after the barrage of insults and he rushed back into his bedroom. A storm of fear and anger overcame him and he spent much of the day crying over his father’s abuse.

Merely days after Kerjinn’s exhibition he and Lorek resumed their ritualistic training habits. Afterward, Kerjinn called Lorek aside and knelt beside the eager boy. “I have something for you, son. Something more valuable than many lives.” With those words, Kerjinn reached behind his back and pulled a shimmering hunting knife from his belt. “This is made of mithril, son. The rarest and hardest metal of our time. An elf father named Linstra gave it to me after I saved his son from drowning last summer. Linstra told me he had no money to speak of and gave me this instead as a reward. I now give it to you, Lorek.”

A smile almost as bright as the mithril blade he now held danced across his face. His aqua eyes started to glisten in the summer sun. “Thank you, papa. I’ll care for it as best I can through my life.” The words spoken like an oath of honor that a full-grown man would make. The knife’s blade reflected the golden rays of Injera to near blinding levels. It almost seemed as if the blade were glowing in young Lorek’s clenched right hand.

Two months later Kerjinn went to a clansman’s hall for a bout of ale consuming and a wrestling match. When he returned home, shortly before sunrise, Helik inquired why he had stayed out so late. He began shouting at her and using abusive language. She broke down in tears and he merely continued belittling her in every way he could. After hours of this behavior, he again started acting rationally.

Throughout the years, despite Kerjinn’s ill temper and abusive ways, he and Lorek became as close as father and son could be. They spent every free second training together. As the years wore on, Lorek grew to be better and better. At the age of fourteen, his father entered him into a tournament of hand-to-hand combat. When they arrived where the tournament would be held, the pen reeked of sweat and blood. They went to the registration area and Lorek signed up. The winner was to receive the sum of seventy thousand sans, enough to set any family in money for an extensive period. Kerjinn entered Lorek in this tournament not for greed, but as a test of his eldest son’s skill.

They took a night’s rest at a local tavern and inn until the competition began early the following morn. That night, they indulged in ale and Lorek took a few harlots to his bed. When the harlots left his room, Lorek went to visit his father to discuss strategy and technique in the tournament. In Kerjinn’s drunken state, he started screaming at his son for no apparent reason. This time, Lorek shouted back and unleashed on his father. In only moments, Lorek’s voice was louder than thunder and Kerjinn went silent like a scolded dog. “I’m sorry, Ares. Your retaliation has taught me the error of my ways. I love you, my boy; and I’m very proud of you.”

Lorek looked at his father inquisitively and just shook his head. That moment he swore an oath to himself and his father. “If you ever, in a drunken state shout at me or mom again, I’ll never speak another word to you. I’m tired of the abuse at home. We’re kin and there is no need for it. It should be us against the world, dad. Not us against each other.” These words came as a shock to Kerjinn. The fact that Lorek was so boldly standing up for himself filled Kerjinn with pride.

The next day the tournament commenced, and Lorek learned of his opponent. A Kasumarii named Injakvo. Lorek climbed the wooden fence into the gladiatorial pen and the referee rang a cowbell, which began the contest. Syan flew at Lorek with every bit of speed he could muster and this proved to be his undoing. Lorek easily absorbed the opening blows, almost laughing at their childlike force. Before Injakvo could manage another burst, Lorek punched him with everything he had in the nose. Much blood and tears fell into the mud beneath their feet before Syan could clasp his broken nose. Lorek balled up his left fist and thrusted it outward as a devastating uppercut to the Kasumarii’s chin which most likely broke a jaw and loosened a few teeth. Seconds later, Syan humbled himself and submitted to Lorek’s superior force.

One by one opponents came, one by one Lorek pummeled them like hounds. In the final round of the tournament, Lorek had to face a man named Martin Blackhand. A man famed for brutish power and great hand-to-hand skill. The fight commenced and raged on for slightly over an hour.  The first moments of twilight came with neither fighter showing signs of backing down. It appeared that even though Lorek knew he was outmatched, his force of will would not allow him to give up. Finally, Lorek landed the deciding blow by mustering every bit of his remaining strength and energy to punch Martin in the side of the head. The hit rendered his opponent unconscious in the mud. The officials recognized Lorek as the winner of the competition and awarded him his prize money. He smiled at the crowd and hunted for his father’s face but could not find him. It was as though Kerjinn abandoned his son. Then, out of the shadows Lorek’s father appeared and opened a beaming smile of pride. “What you have done is very noble, Lorek. You have brought honor to the family name.”

Lorek’s eyes narrowed in anger at his father. “Lying dog! You only say that because I won. You say it out of selfish reasons. Would you have been so eager to praise me had I lost?” Lorek’s words carrying an icy tone toward his father. “All you care about is the damned money. You didn’t enter me into this tournament to test my skill. You did it because you knew I’d win and bring home the sans. As for a way home, you can find your own.” Lorek stormed off into the tavern for another night of rest at the inn. 

Kerjinn chased Lorek with a heavy heart. “My son, all that matters to me is that you did your best. Even had you lost I would be pleased with your doings if you had put in all of your effort. Why do you think I trained you so intensely? I did it to build up your will to fight. I did it to give you inner steel. I love you, my boy.” As the final words danced through Kerjinn’s lips, tears fell to the hardwood floor.

“Do you mean all of what you just said?” The words of the young mercenary harsh as the winters of the north. His eyes met with his father’s and pierced into the one thing that every man tries to hide, what is in his heart. Lorek saw the truth in his father’s eyes and apologized for the outburst. “Since we have reconciled, let fine ale, great steaks and beautiful harlots be ours all the evening, father.” The next day they returned home with many bragging rights and were congratulated by all of their tribe folk.

During the month of Passing Clouds the year following the tournament, Kerjinn came home with a belly full of ales. The shouting he did while entering awoke everyone inside. Helik asked him where he had been and he began beating her. His fists flew like horizontal rains of flesh and bone. Lorek had tolerated enough of his father’s abuse and ran to his mother’s aid. Lorek stepped between his parents and absorbed some of his father’s punches, grinding his teeth to fight through the pain. He then balled up his own fists and savagely beat his father with no remorse. Suddenly, waves of darkness crashed against the shores of his mind as sanity lapsed from him.

Upon returning to a normal state, he was crouched over his father, still pummeling him in the head. Lorek’s fists were soaked in cruor as he looked down at his dead father. He roamed the house to find his mother and baby brother. He found them in his mother’s bedroom, huddling in a corner and scared to death of him. “Mother, Vakek, be not afraid. I will not hurt you, and father will bother you never again. I must go; when the authorities of our people come, tell them what happened and that a beast is responsible. I love you, but I can never return.” With that, young Lorek washed the blood from himself, packed a few possessions and left home never to return. He spent the next five long days and sleepless nights looking for a friendly sight, when he stumbled upon a traveling merchant caravan. “Halt! I need assistance.”

The one working the reins was an elf named Kula’nitriath. Upon seeing Lorek he stopped the wagon and hopped down from his pedestal to introduce himself. “I am Kula’nitriath, a merchant by trade. Who might you be, young one?” The words carried a friendly tone and were accompanied by a smile. “My name is Lorek, and I fled from my home with the Helvet’ine.” Kula’nitriath’s soft violet eyes met with Lorek’s and could see all of the pain he had been through in his life. “If you’d like, you may join us.” With those words came the promise of new hope for Lorek and he gladly hopped aboard. That day he also met Narkijus; a skilled swordsman and one of the caravan’s defenders, Bliktra; a cleric, Modjunis; a very gifted archer, Dornist; a powerful fire mage, Taljerak; a swordsman as well and Volnar; another talented archer. Shortly after all the formalities had been handled, Lorek collapsed from exhaustion.

Three days later, they encountered an attack on the caravan by a group of Hands of Glory bandits. Everyone jumped into the fray to stop them from stealing whatever they could get their greedy mitts on. Lorek grabbed a sword from the back and charged the wretches of society with great anger. As he rushed them; all thoughts in his mind were overcome by a swarm of shadow. When he awoke, he was soaked in blood and in terrible pain from suffered wounds. All but one of the bandits lay slain in a pile. The only survivor was being bound by Narkijus for later interrogation. He approached the members of the party and asked what happened.
                     
“I’ll tell you what happened, Lorek. You used that massive sword as though it were nothing but an extension of your hand. You wielded it with skill nearly unmatched by any other. From this day forth, that sword is yours if you’ll have it. Scabbard and all.” These words from Kula’nitriath forever changed the destiny of Lorek Ares Bearfist. “But I’m too small for this sword.” The words mellowed with melancholy, he seemed almost humble by the fact he had just stated. “I neglected to mention one tiny detail; you used that blade with one hand. You killed with it, rather well I might add. Then, after they were all dead or fleeing, you began to stack the carcasses.”

Lorek’s jaw stood open and he dropped the sword to the grass beneath. He was simply in shock by what Kula’nitriath had just said.  A few moments later, the bandit was being loaded aboard the wagon and shrieking in fear as he saw Lorek standing amidst his dead friends. “Are you coming with us, young warrior?” This was the question posed by Taljerak. “Only if you answer me a question.” Lorek replied. “Are you and the others as afraid of me as that man?” Lorek questioned of his friend. “Why would we be? You don’t plan on doing that to us, do you?” Taljerak responded. “No.” Replied the young hero. “Then it’s settled, you’ll come with us.”

Lorek grabbed his sword and jumped onboard the wagon. He asked for healing to be done to him to cure the wounds. As soon as the lone bandit laid eyes on the youthful barbarian he began screaming in a mad fit. “Don’t let Demon near me! Please! He’ll kill me just like all the others. I beg you! Please, have mercy!” Lorek’s expression turned to one of awe. “Who is this demon you speak of?” The man didn’t answer, but rather just stared at him. At the mere thought of being called this by the lowest of life, his eyes welled up with tears of pride. “Why would he call me a demon?” Lorek inquired of his friends. “The only reason I can give is that you slaughtered the group with brutal efficiency. One of them you cut in two just above the hips. Another you removed his sword arm, then decapitated him. I’ll leave off there, as I guess you can figure out the rest.”

“But I don’t remember doing any of that. Is what you say true?” “Yes, Lorek. Every word of it is true. Your lack of recollection of those events can only mean one thing. You’re a berserker. A special breed of warrior who can enter a state of no pain or remorse, one who is nearly unstoppable in combat.” After this conversation they interrogated the lone survivor but gathered little information. Since he would not volunteer anything, rather than torture him further, they simply bound the man to a tree and left him to rot in the woods alone.

The following night they had stopped to set up camp and rest. Lorek was fast asleep when he heard blood chilling cries for mercy and saw visions of ghastly acts. He awoke, dripping with sweat and looked around but saw nothing. His eyes were wide open and hard as he tried, he could not go back to sleep. Lorek spent the rest of the evening training his muscles and sword abilities. Whilst Lorek trained, Volnar awoke and approached the youthful fighter. “Have you got a name for your blade, young warrior?” “No, sir, I do not; judging by what you said I did with it, I was thinking Woe Fang.” Volnar grinned with an insane happiness. “I think that would make an excellent name for that blade.”
 
A few short days later their route was complete and Lorek was given his job’s orders. “You will guard the merchandise during hours of operation. If you catch anyone stealing, you know what to do.” “Kill them?” Lorek replied. “Only if you feel you must. Remember, there are other ways of stopping people besides killing them. Mindless slaughter is not the only thing a protector must do. He must know when to kill. Come, help us set up shop.”

Two days later, Lorek and Dornist were sharing laughs and conversation over apples and ales in a tavern known as The Rainbow Beer Inn. The tavern had recently gained a slight degree of fame for the special dyes they place in their grogs to give them a tint to the drinker’s liking. “Just a small question out of curiosity, Lorek. What deity do you serve?” Asked Dornist of his new ally. “None, I guess. My family was never very religious.” Dornist being shocked by the response turned to Lorek and said the following: “Why don’t you turn to the service of the War God Armeros, as he has always been a great ally during times of battle and strain to me.” Lorek smiled at the thought of having an unseen presence around him to aid in times of conflict and agony. All throughout their stay at the inn, Lorek asked many questions of worship to Armeros and learned much. Since, neither he nor his chosen deity has forsaken each other regardless of the amount of strain in Lorek’s life.

Five months after, they were traveling about their normal passes when they encountered another attack by the Hands of Glory. “Filthy vermin, I’ll slaughter you all!” Lorek yelled as he charged them. Woe Fang in hand, all senses became distorted until only a dense obsidian fog remained. The last thing he heard was one of the thieves calling out “The Demon comes for us. Kill him first!” At this moment he knew the bandit they left to rot had survived his ordeal and was found by his guild mates. Rage swirled around the barbaric knight's mind and soon overtook every thought.

When all things were again right with the world, Lorek was laying in the back of the wagon in the most agonizing pain he’d ever known. Soaked in blood, both his own and that of the Hands of Glory thieves he was. His pupils dilated and his mouth stood open in shock with a thick layer of froth dripping out of the hole. It was too great of a burden to sit up, so he simply spoke mundane words. “What the ... what in the name of Truth Splitter happened? Where ... where am I?” Bliktra looked down at her friend in both terror and relief. “Thank the gods you’re all right. Those hounds wounded you severely; we thought you were dead. We’ve had to pull three arrows from you and patch an axe wound. I’ll pray for Queprur’s grip on you to loosen. Dornist has already cast Burning Regeneration on you. We’ve all taken an oath not to speak of the events that took place only a few hours ago, for fear Queprur would take you to the Void with her.” “I fear not the Rat Wench. The only offerings I give her are those of bile and blasphemous words.” They all looked at him with admiration of his great bravery. They all knew a lesser fighter would have fallen slain, but done so with honor. It was after this event that they began calling him Lorek the Butcher.     

Six days later, the wounds began to enter intermediate stages of healing. “Thank you all, I would have died. I owe you all my life, I am forever in your debts.” Lorek spoke these words with pride and glowing eyes. Ever since this day, his eyes have sparkled with an everlasting hope for battle. Unfortunately, during the night hours his rest was perturbed by the vile deeds he used to defeat the Hands of Glory thieves. Lorek came out of his dreams in a fit of mad screaming and spent the rest of the night in prayer to Armeros.   

Four months later, their route was complete and everything in the shop was sold. They had made great profit this run, and on their way back to pick up more merchandise, they encountered the Hands of Glory yet again. This time the Hands of Glory were more organized than ever before. It mattered not, the forces of good easily overpowered the thieves.

That very night whilst they were resting, Lorek awoke in a fit of sweaty screams. His eyes wide open, he awoke Modjunis for company. The archer smiled at Lorek and posed to him the question of taking up the art of the bow. The hero grinned widely at the thought of proficiency in another instrument of death. Lorek responded positively and Modjunis began training him that very evening. Before daybreak, Lorek had learned much from his friend but was still a far cry away from Modjunis’ expertise. To this day he still practices the use of a longbow with his sword and hand-to-hand fighting. Lorek can be greatly effective with a bow. He still uses the original bow given to him by his friend.

Slightly over four years later, Lorek was traveling with them when he spotted a set of armor that looked like it would fit him perfectly. He expressed great interest in the set to Kula’nitriath and smiled at the thought of wearing it into battle. He asked for permission to try it on and it was so granted. Upon wearing it Lorek felt like the suit was made for him. “I’ll offer you a full month’s worth of salary for this.” Kula’nitriath smiled at the thought that Lorek had such strong honor and shook his head. “I can’t accept such a great sum for it from you, my friend. Take it; every bit, helm, shield, breastplate, boots, greaves, bracers and gauntlets. All I ask is that you always keep that same sense of honor.”

Over the coming years the Hands of Glory relentlessly attacked the caravan, not once in any of their attacks were they successful in stealing a single object or killing a party member. All they could do was bring terrible injuries that now cover Lorek’s body as scars. It seemed to the party that having Lorek with them was good luck and brought the favor of Armeros’ mighty will to their side. Before his joining, they had been pillaged many times by the filthy thieves. Since his arrival with the group, they had stopped them every time. They even began to joke that Lorek carried the favor of the Sword Lord with him everywhere on his extensive travels with them. He has since seen this fact after leaving the group.
                             
One night during his ninth cycle of seasons traveling with the caravan, all but Lorek had found the comfort to sleep that chilled eve in Frozen Rivers. Whilst he was exercising the sound of fearful whinnying disturbed him. He gaited into the night to see what the matter was and to his shock he saw a brown Cartashian bear mauling one of the horses to death. The beast stepped forward with the intent to attack and make prey of him as well.  As the bear charged Lorek, the merc’s mind faded into a cloud of blackened rage. His last memory of sanity was the feeling of Woe Fang’s icy hilt gripped firmly in his powerful fist.

When his senses returned to him he stood with his booted feet spread wide in the knee-deep snow. His massive hand clenched firmly upon the blood-saturated grip of Woe Fang. The blade of it now buried between the bear’s eyes, splitting its skull near in half. The carnage from the wound now staining the snow the color of fresh flowing blood as the silvery rays of the moon shone upon the gruesome scene. Once the process of blade removal was complete, large chunks of brain matter remained caught in the finely serrated filings of the gargantuan blade. Lorek also took notice of a pattern of scratches across his chest from the bear's claws. The wounds were terrible and aching. The berserking knight applied a poultice and fought through the pain until daybreak. When the other party members awoke, he asked for healing practices to be done to him. Three weeks later, the claw marks were just scars. He since carries these marks upon his flesh with great esteem.

Two nights after the battle with the bear they had made rest in a city and the group was drinking in a tavern. Lorek began shouting belligerent remarks about Foiros and Queprur in the seedy bar and was confronted by four men. When ordered to apologize, he stood up and spit in one of their faces. “I’ll apologize not to yur or the Rat Whore.” A fight erupted and Lorek slowly gained the upper hand. His friends merely watched this brawl and figured because of his size advantage, they could provide no assistance.

They looked on realizing their friend might actually be in danger but not wanting to feel as though they were compromising his honor. Lorek fought well and finally downed the last of the men. His mind overcome with a storm of anger and Lorek growled like a ravenous beast. This went on for a few minutes before his anger subsided. “Why didn’t any of you help me? Are you cowards?” The party just stared at him in awe. “I thought we were allies, why did you leave me to fight those men alone?” The barbarian demanded.

“We thought you had everything under control” responded Dornist in a fearful tone. “Any man could have seen that help would have been appreciated. You all sit like cats stalking a mouse.” “We are sorry, friend. We just didn’t want you to feel as though we were intruding.” “Then let it be that all is forgiven between us.” Though victorious this day, Lorek sustained several injuries. Mostly minor cuts and bruises, although a bleeding wound was nicked out of his skin just below his right eye. This mark has remained with him ever since.

Three months after the bear attack, the Hands of Glory made another attempt to rob the caravan. Although the barbaric hero did much of the work, including cleaning the mess, they all celebrated with ales, song and laughter at the nearest tavern where Lorek managed to drink away every san in his purse. Following is a description of the events as forever burned into the minds of the party and the Kuglim warrior:
 
They had been traveling down a familiar route, when a man leapt in the dirt road, begging for assistance. Volnar and Taljerak hopped from the back of the wagon to see what the issue was. Simultaneously they noticed the Hands of Glory tattoo on his left forearm and called for aid from the rest of the party. A well-prepared Lorek came to the scene to join in the fray. All of the Hands of Glory members present locked in fear for a moment at his appearance. The first word uttered by one of them was “Demon!” Lorek smiled at this fact, knowing that his name amongst them was well earned for reducing their influence to near extinction.

A dense fog of ruby shaded vexation beat upon his mind until he succumbed to the will of total fury. With no wasted motion he unsheathed his blade and attacked the group of rogues. His trained hand slid forward and impaled the tip in one of the men’s throats, it was then was ripped out to leave a painful, yet quickly fatal wound. Blood sprayed the barbarian in the face as he spun on his heels, swinging his blade with his bodyweight. As the sword traveled the circular course, it decapitated two of these would be thieves. The next thing anyone knew, five bodies fell out of nowhere and were engulfed in flame. Lorek howled like a wolf and whipped his sword arm to one of the men. The edge made a long and very fine slash into his chest, spilling vital areas upon the ground.

A sword struck the berserker in the side, spilling blood on the field of battle. Ignoring the wound, Lorek fought on. Fire, screams, the crashing of steel and the spray of blood could all be heard simultaneously in a choir of battle should one be paying attention closely enough to the happenings. The carnage continued for several more minutes before the tide was completely in the favor of Lorek and the rest of the crew.

At the end of the fight, a few arrows could be heard going over the shoulder of Lorek like a swarm of angry bees; he grinned sadistically as two of them landed in the leg of a single target, crippling him instantly. The rest turned and ran as Lorek approached their fallen comrade with malicious intent. He jerked the bandit to his feet by the hair and dragged him to a nearby tree then repeatedly bashed his skull into the bark until it was saturated with blood. As the red liquid gathered into a pool on the ground, Lorek smiled proudly at his violent handiwork. He then bent the barely living man backwards at a right angle and removed the enemy's head. With pride Lorek held it toward the sky with a feral cry. Without warning, the bestial fury subsided inside of him and he howled in near crippling agony. The wound was quickly patched and healed in only a few weeks. This incident brought on Lorek's addiction to the Miyu plant.

It was during these times Lorek discovered that Arv could also be of use to him. This addicton has been a great burden as one can't always find them. When they can be found, the barbarian buys as much as he can afford to stay in supply. He has since established friendship with a seller of these and Miyu and regularly visits the man. Lorek uses the Arv plant to stay awake and be able to function. Especially on nights the screams of those he has killed invade his hours of rest.

Three months after this incident, Lorek took a job as a city guard with a town just off the eastern coast of the Liben River. He and the group parted ways on excellent terms and with heavy hearts. The grief of leaving his friends was great, yet he knew he had to be on his own. With purest sorrow, he wished them all the best of luck and waved goodbye as they disappeared into Injera’s bright light.

Guards were needed for this city, as orc raiders were a great threat there. They were often coming at night, killing innocent citizens, robbing them, and then fleeing into the darkness. Orcs had no desire to do this in the hours of daylight. Upon hiring, Lorek was informed of the danger and that his lifespan wasn’t going to be very long. Lorek the Heretic sneered at this fact and laughed heartily. “If those filthy beasts think they can kill me, let them come in the millions. I’ll kill as many as I can and there will be no after for them. I have removed the threat of the Hands of Glory from much of this place.” The next words spoken by the Captain of the Guard were “Would you like the night shift? The pay sum is greater by a full Hak a week.” It was all Lorek could do not to burst out in laughter at this question. “That sounds great, we have a deal.”

Lorek grinned broadly and took the job to start that evening. "Finally I can support my drinking habit." The  thought to himself. That night, all seemed quiet by the rays of the moon until just slightly past the witching hour; they came. Riding upon the backs of Wargs came Ashz-Oc by the many. “All available swords to the north wall! Orcs, dozens of them!” Almost instantaneously Woe Fang was pulled from its scabbard and his thoughts slipped away to unknown places of darkness. Shortly after the attack, Lorek’s thoughts became clear once more and the carnage told the tale of what happened. Five of his fellow guardsman lay dead upon the field of battle.

With a groan strained by gritted teeth, he laid eyes upon the gore. “It looks like a war took place here. What happened?” He asked, but no replies were eagerly spoken. “Someone, speak!” Finally a voice piped up from one of the guards. “We came when we heard the call, and you were already in the fray. We rushed the orcs, but they were many. As they fell four to seven at a time, it was as if you were a walking blade. We were all fighting, but none as efficiently as you.” Lorek’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Silence, I know what happened now.” A heavy sigh darted through his lips like a well-aimed arrow. He knew what was coming and was sure it would all be seen during his rest time.

As he went to walk away from the spilled field of gore, he felt a sharp pain in his left leg. His eyes fell upon a puncture wound to his well-muscled thigh. A growl of rage manifested itself for all to hear as he went to patch the bloody hole. Before he could storm off though, one of his fellow guardsmen stopped him with a hand upon his shoulder. “Something else, while we were fighting them, your eyes ... they took on a freakish glow. Like that seen in the eyes of a madman.” Now the battle raging warrior had no question of the events. He already started muttering prayers to Armeros for solace when he was interrupted by one of the other guards. “What do you want? I’m trying to pray.” “Forgive me, Lorek. There is something you MUST know. There was a mage among them, I don’t know his level of study; however, he seemed rather strong. He was trying to cast Grip of the Malefic on you, and it had little effect. I could tell because my son just graduated Ximax, but it was as if you were trying to fight the effects by pitting your will against his. He succeeded in the casting but it was if its effects had been minimalized by your sheer force of will.” Lorek’s eyes grew wide and immediately darted to the sky. “Filthy cowards that other men and many elves alike call Gods, bah! The only one that exists is Armeros, Master of Blades.” Lorek said with a choked tone and received no argument from his comrade.

The following day, during what would have been his rest time, he was in a tavern called Shoreside Inn chasing ales, mugs of Mil’no fire and harlots as he had done in countless occurrences in his past when he got drunk and began making derogatory remarks of all other deities but Armeros. This did not go unnoticed by the other patrons and it was not well received. Lorek knew what was coming; he had been through it many times before. Someone would eventually call him out for a fight. This time, it was an elf, one of great skill with twin short swords who called him outside for a brawl. Lorek happily obliged in his drunken state and wandered out of the door. He and the elf commenced the fight and in only moments, the elf was proven that he was indeed no match for Lorek’s might.

“Okay, big boy; you like playing rough.” Said the arrogant elf with a smile as he drew two short swords from their scabbards. “This is what you call a fair fight?! One dual wielding short swords against an opponent using only his fists?! You honorless coward, I spit on you! If it is bloodshed you want; then you’ll have it, point ears!” Lorek’s words were heavily slurred but their meaning was not opaque by any means. He drew Woe Fang and watched the elf’s eyes widen in the purest terror. “Come on, coward! Let’s do it to the death like true warriors! We shall honor Armeros this day! Let’s have at it!” The elf apologized for his actions and offered a pitcher of ale to Lorek to make amends. “Nevermind that now, you want to kill, let’s take life. Make you a fair deal, I won’t move until you do.” With that the elf dropped his swords and fled in horror.

Without a thought he resheathed Woe Fang and gave chase to the elf, who proved to be unnaturally fast. In minutes, however, the elf fatigued and stopped running for a few moments. This was all Lorek needed to catch him because of his natural stamina. As soon as the elf again came into view, the crazed barbarian grabbed the man by the back of his neck and hoisted him overhead with great ease. Lorek then slammed him to the ground, face first, with all of his might, much to the elf’s dismay. “Still want to go to the death?” Lorek asked with malice in his voice. He could feel his mind go numb and fought off the coming fury. He glared down at the elf with nothing short of hate; Lorek then rolled him with his boot and palmed him by the face. Using only raw physical strength, the warrior slung his foe, back first, into a wall. The breathless elf managed to speak in a halted tone. “Please, don’t kill me. I have children at home. That is the reason I ran. I knew I was outmatched, I was just hoping that drawing my blades would force you to back down. I really don’t want to die, please spare me my life.”

Lorek glared in crude anger and bared his teeth. “You’re not worth killing, filth. You are not an orc, woman beater or thief. You just needed to learn this lesson: Think before you draw your blades. I should sell them at the market, but I’ll return them to you on only one condition. You go home to your children and never return to Shoreside Inn whilst I’m there. Next time, I won’t be this merciful. You’ll survive the ordeal, but you won’t want to. Do we understand each other?” “Yes. We have an agreement.” These words came from the elf broken by tears and lack of breath. “I’m a city guard here; look for me tomorrow if you want your swords back, point ears. I’m going back to put more ale in my belly.” Upon his return to the beer joint, the patrons began cheering and clapping for Lorek. One even said “I hope you pummeled him good. That man owes me money.” Lorek shook this remark off. He then continued his fun.

The next day, when the elf saw Lorek about getting his blades back, Lorek had him arrested, beaten and imprisoned; not necessarily in that order. The elf was charged with and convicted of assault on a city guard and given ten days imprisonment, ten lashings per day and bread and water diet. Lorek smiled at this thought, let us not forget the fact he is a born mercenary. With tears in his eyes, the elf was dragged from the courtroom and tossed into a cell. “You betrayed me” said the elf. “I did not. I kept my word of honor and gave you back your swords, but I never said you wouldn’t be arrested.” These words were accompanied with a hearty chuckle at the man’s expense. “As I told you last night, think before you release your blades.”
                       
Several years later, after several more encounters with Ashz-Oc raiders, thieves, other criminals and battle scars; a thought danced into his mind. Why don’t I just become a mercenary and go into business for myself? Lorek said a fond farewell to his fellow guardsman, and set off on his adventure. He purchased Lot at the local market as a packhorse and immediately set out on foot to begin his long journey. Lorek has since started his mercenary business Dirty Work Done Here. Not really based anywhere, this affords him the freedom to roam and explore the world. He enjoys his travels, but finds that lasting friendships are hard to make. He has since forged a good name for himself by never leaving a job incomplete. This has allowed him to gain a small degree of wealth, most of which is either in his equipment or has been consumed by his love for ale.

The forlorn guardian also purchased his own chariot and a team of four horses about this time. He uses it to take him wherever he goes and haul his possessions. He named the horses Nightfall, Crush, Grinder and Inferno . His chariot is constructed of sturdy oak wood with a leather top cover. Lorek purchased large steel cylinders with spikes around them to affix to his tires. Should these come in contact with an enemy, they will be not more than scraps of flesh, finely ground bone and sprays of blood behind the chariot.

His first assignment was to hunt down a ruthless serial killer who had been recently plaguing a town. Utilizing his years of being a city guard, Lorek started acting like any other member of the community; he even took a job as a farm hand. As the fates would have it, he and the farmer became close friends. Little did he know of the danger he was befriending. One night, a few months after he began his task; Lorek was up late in deep thought. He heard a door downstairs slam abnormally hard and he grabbed Woe Fang. After slipping the blade free from the bounds of its sheath, Lorek stalked down the stairs.

A sudden chill crept up his back as his foot came to rest on the floor of the front room. The barbarian’s blue eyes narrowed as he hunted around the lower level of the home, looking for the intruder. He crept as quietly as possible into the kitchen with Woe Fang at the ready. He looked on in dead silence as he saw the farmer’s wife and daughter mercilessly butchered in the kitchen.

As Lorek continued inspecting his surroundings he noticed a bloody handprint on the door leading out to the back field. With great rush he made his way to and out of said exit. As powerful leg muscles pumped hard and hasty, the powerful mercenary caught glimpse of a figure running into the barn. Lorek put himself on rush and made it to the barn only a few moments after.

Being careful to not arouse too much suspicion of his presence, Lorek walked as quietly as possible. Slightly ahead he saw a shadow dart across the barn. Wasting no time, Sir Bearfist gave chase to the gleaming shadow. He felt a very slow sting drag across the bone of his lower leg and then a warm drizzle of liquid. He reasoned it was the assailant and shoved Woe Fang toward the ground. A low moan halted by gurgling blood was heard and Lorek looked down. It was the farmer all along.

After patching his wound, Lorek reported his findings to local authorities by way of a scribe. He then abided by the agreement made to bring back the killer, dead or alive. After collecting the payment from his employer, Lorek and the man parted ways.

Several months later a total stranger approached Lorek with an interesting proposition. The contract was to find the killer of the employer’s mother and bring them to final justice. It became obvious that the employer knew who the killer was, but was reluctant to say. When Lorek threatened to walk away from the job and collect his payment anyhow, his employer’s tongue loosened. “Davin Scotts” screamed the man. “That is the one you seek. Head to the north slums, he drinks much ale there. Bring him back to me alive so that I may enjoy whatever you do to him.” The cowardly one handed Lorek a sheet of parchment with the man’s picture on it.

“Then we have an agreement, you will have your vengeance by the morrow. I had better have my coins before then as well.” The threat rang with a chord of dogma. With those words and nothing more, Lorek began his journey to the north of the city and began scouring the bars. While he impatiently searched, the warrior got thirsty and his belly craved ale. One turned into two, two into ten. Shortly after nightfall a stranger came into the establishment and seated himself next to Lorek.

The barbarian looked over at the man, nodded and looked away. The stranger purchased himself an ale and told the barkeep to bring two. When the brews arrived the man paid for them and included a nice tip for the bartender. The stranger slid one of the ales to Lorek and smiled. “For you friend” the stranger said. Lorek’s eyes lit up like stars as he nodded in thanks. He raised the mug, looked over at the man and recognized him.

Without speaking Lorek finished the ale, stood up and walked behind his new friend. Mighty fists were soon balled tightly and extended slightly outward. Both were swung and landed against the sides of the man’s head. The vicious blows knocked him unconscious and Lorek grabbed Davin by the neck. When the barkeep shot the barbarian an inquisitive look Lorek bared his teeth. “This man is a murderer, and a bounty on my list. I’m collecting whether or not you like it.” These words frightened the barkeep to no ends. In moments Lorek was on his way to get paid.

Halfway back, Davin stirred from his forced slumber and began fighting with his capturer. “I’m innocent of whatever charges are set against me, please let me go.” A cruel smile came to Lorek’s mouth as he continued forcefully dragging the offender. “My sword is going to tell me if you’re innocent or guilty. If you are in fact innocent, it will pass harmlessly through you. If you turn out to be guilty of the crimes which you stand accused of, you get the idea.”

Instantly Davin’s eyes widened in fear. “Okay, I admit my guilt. Just please spare me my life. I’ll pay you twice as much, bounty hunter.” Lorek stopped dead in his tracks at the mention of twice his pay. “Give it to me now, and I’ll release you.” When Lorek spoke he masked the deceit he was practicing with a reassuring smile. “You will release me if I pay the sum you ask” the man inquired. “This instant” was the response.

“How much will my freedom cost?” The tone attached to these words was fearful and of a somber note. “Two thousand sans, if you have them.” The man lost control of his emotions at this point and began screaming in a fit. “I have the money; my father is very wealthy and will pay any sum for my safe return. Take me to his house and you will get your coins.” Lorek dragged his meal ticket through town, taking the man’s directions until finally arriving at their destination.

The savage’s large fist pounded the door until a sagely old man answered. “What will you have, young sir?” "I’ll have two thousand sans worth of coins for your son’s safe return. He stands accused of murder and has made me an offer for his freedom. An oath made is a debt unpaid.” “You have a point there, young sir. I will pay the barter for my son’s freedom if you’ll give me a moment.” Lorek nodded and waited patiently for the man to go and gather his coins.

When the kindly old man returned, he was with two goldbard coins. “Here you are. Enjoy your monies.” Lorek released the man to complete the deal. Still with deceitful intentions, he stalked his prey further. Approaching from behind he wrapped one arm around Davin’s throat and began squeezing tightly. His other hand still had the coins he was just paid for the man’s freedom. “You didn’t really think I was going to let you go, did you? How foolish you were to believe that.” The man’s face began to turn purple as the breath was squeezed out of him. When he passed out from lack of air, Lorek loosened the grip and continued dragging him.

In less than an hour’s time, they had made it to the home of the mercenary’s employer. “I’ll be having my coins now. The filth is yours to do whatever you will once you pay me.” His hirer cackled in demonic glee at the thought of having custody of his mother’s killer. “Here you are, eight hundred sans, just as promised.” Lorek’s eyes narrowed, he knew the man was trying to cheat him. “I’ll be having those other two hundred sans now, or I’ll be having your head. How about I let you decide?”

Brown eyes widened at this threat as he dropped to one knee. “Forgive me, your coins are forthcoming.” The man rose and brought forth the rest of the pay. “That’s more like it.” As soon as his pay was collected, Lorek walked to the nearest tavern and drank until sunrise. When the roosters started crowing, Lorek left and began wandering aimlessly. A few hours later he came out of his stupor to discover that it was night outside and he was sleeping naked in a horse stall.

Most recently he heard of a place called the Thirsty Herald and decided to travel there. He heard tell of men getting lost in the desert and dying so he was certain to hire a Shendar guide to help him with find his way. They haggled for a few moments before an agreement was reached. He paid the man half of the agreed upon sum during the journey, and the rest after they arrived at their destination. They parted ways on good terms with both of them wearing a smile after the enounter.

To date, Lorek adheres to very few practices of his people. One of them being that he keeps a few blood rings in his hair to remind the barbarian of the home he has forsaken from a young age. He shows his lament for this on an almost nightly basis by weeping a few tears each night before bed. Another practice he is involved with is carrying a lance for times of war. Also, the berserker carries black rags with embroidery of the Helvet'ine symbol. One day he hopes to return to his people and get back the life he left behind.

[Lorek Bearfist]

Chariot: Lorek's chariot consists of thick planks of oak wood. It measures just about two and one tenth peds high overall. The length of it is four and one quarter peds. It measures almost exactly three peds wide. The canopy is made of black leather with steel studs dotting it like stars on a night sky. There are four spikes that extend out just shy of a fore on each side. It is pulled by a team of four Carriage stallions. They are all males and well trained.

Familiars: Crush is by far the most intelligent of the six. He follows instructions better and, at times, behaves more properly than the other three. White in color and standing just short of two peds tall at the shoulder. The beast has a brown mane, tail and fur around his lower legs. The eyes of this horse are a deep and chocolatey brown. His personality is mischevious yet he is kind enough when he wants to be. Although Crush is at times kind, he can be a malicious and lethal monster when called for. He often plays pranks on unsuspecting stable boys. He'll whinny until the young man approaches to pet him, then Crush will bite the boy on the hand. His kindness is shown only to those he deems honest and kind.

Grinder is a true beast by nature. Savage and powerful, this Carriage male is an excellent example of his breed. A deep brown in color, his fur is mostly the color of mud. The only exceptions are a grey stripe up the length of his nose, the grey mane and tail and the grey strands of fur toward the bottoms of his legs. Grinder trusts absolutely no one besides his master and will instantly attack any who attempt to do anything other than feed and brush him. He has kicked and or bitten many stable watchers for making attempts at friendship.

Nightfall is completely black with no other colors in his fur. He is outgoing, smart and tries to treat everyone with a degree of respect. He will let almost anyone pet or touch him unless he picks up a bad vibe from them. In which case his temper will flare up and a very unpleasant side of him will come out. He can be just as cruel as even the most sadistic of tyrants when it is called for. His true personality is one of kindness and honesty. This shows in almost every action the caring horse takes.

Inferno is grey with tan details and several small black spots. The personality of this horse is very close to that of his master in some ways. Those being that this horse is slightly kind but mostly indifferent and untrusting. He will not obey anyone other than Lorek regardless of the consequences. Also, the horse has developed the niche of leader and alpha amongst the other three. His eyes glow of a feral intelligence that shines through consistently.

[Zann Lightbringer]

Point taken, barbarian friend. I was thinking about them being Armeros' buddies, and insulting one of his friends... I don't think he'll like that.

[Lorek Bearfist]

No problem, bubba. I wouldn't be so good at defending myself if I didn't do research of my own Thanks for bringing that up, though. Can't wait to see ya in the TH or FD. Take care, Thorg. See you on the boards. *Gets back to work.*

[Ta'lia of the Seven Jewels]

Oh Lorek, would you please be so kind and quote that part in your history for me where he found to Armeros. Your CD is too bloody and violent for me to go over it again.

Also, I state that his family was never very religious. Not everyone raised in a certain setting will have a certain religion.

I don't know the vikings well enough to say, if all worshipped the gods or not, but generally in medieval times were very few who did not belief in the gods of the own society. So, your statement , that your family was never very religious (where did you state it?) is not valid for such a tightly knit society as the Kuglimz. In these times everyone had the same religion if raised in the same setting. where did he get to know Armeros? Please quote that part for me.

To the braid and rings: You take from a tribe only what you like, but not what is an essential of that tribe and I find this sad. Is Lorek not proud of his heritage? Would he not try to get a warrior like those he has known in his youth? I would at least expect a convincing reason, why he does not follow this tradition.

To the beating of his wife: Very un-Kuglimz, this society would not tolerate it, as Alysse has pointed out to you in your old CD.
Have you read the Criminal Codex?

Assault and physical violence is punished to the degree in which it affects a person's physical and/or emotional stability or ability to function as a normal adult in   Kuglimz society.
 Crimes for which there are no legally specified punishments (extremely unusual or highly aberrant behaviour that would not normally occur in the   Kuglimz community) would be dealt with on a case by case basis
Crimes against children are considered to be among the most heinous, since children are unable to defend themselves. For legal purposes, a child is anyone who has not passed the adulthood rituals (see Kuglimz Gender Roles and Marriage Customs), no matter what that person’s age.

Replace child with woman or weaker person, this would be similar. Just because you have replaced the beating of children to that of his wife does not mean, that Alysse's comment is invalid !

 Taken from the KUGLIM CRIMINAL JUSTICE CODES


Please colour any changes!

[Ta'lia of the Seven Jewels]

Most recently he heard of a place called the Thirsty Herald and decided to travel there. He heard tell of men getting lost in the desert and dying so he was certain to hire a Shendar guide to help him with find his way. After paying the man with a severe beating and leaving him in the desert, Lorek made his way.

LOL, no way, the Shendar would not take you through the desert in the first place, they are picky with whom they travel , better take the ship to Strata, this is no way to get through the desert.

Any changes should be coloured, you added this after I commented on your CD!


Edit: I found your passage about Armeros, but I'm fairly sure it was not there this morning, but I do not know for certain. Please colour further changes!

[Lorek Bearfist]

First, that was in there long before you commented. Secondly, please avoid SCREAMING at me, as you did here:

Replace child with woman or weaker person, this would be similar. Just because you have replaced the beating of children to that of his wife does not mean, that Alysse's comment is invalid !

I have done nothing to warrant such a treatment from you other than not including every little detail about his heritage in his history. Again he left them when he was only 14 years of age. I know that that is right about the time that they do their adult rites, but he had not gone through them yet. I'll make note of that to avoid further confusion. I may have him keeping a few "blood rings" in his hair just to remind him of his home.


As I stated earlier, not every medieval Irishman was of Christian or Celtic practice. There is a huge difference between most and all. Most of my family is of Christian religion and I'm Norse; talk about black sheep. So, given that, I see no reason to incorporate the comment about his family's lack of religion. I will change part of his history about his father so he is being emotionally abusive rather than physically. Then in the one instance of physical abuse, Lorek lashes out. Makes more sense considering their criminal justice system, eh? I hope that satisfies. Oh, you asked for a quote of where he learned the worship of Armeros, so here ya go.

Two days later, Lorek and Dornist were sharing laughs and conversation over apples and ales in a tavern known as The Rainbow Beer Inn. The tavern had recently gained a slight degree of fame for the special dyes they place in their grogs to give them a tint to the drinker’s liking. “Just a small question out of curiosity, Lorek. What deity do you serve”, asked Dornist of his new ally. “None, I guess. My family was never very religious.” Dornist being shocked by the response turned to Lorek and said the following: “Why don’t you turn to the service of the War God Armeros, as he has always been a great ally during times of battle and strain to me.” Lorek smiled at the thought of having an unseen presence around him to aid in times of conflict and agony. All throughout their stay at the inn, Lorek asked many questions of worship to Armeros and learned much. Since, neither he nor his chosen deity has forsaken each other regardless of the amount of strain in Lorek’s life

Also, I'm sure someone would have no problem of taking someone else somewhere under the promise of coins. If someone offered me five hundred bucks to take them to downtown, then beat me senseless after; what could I do about it? Two things; nothing and like it. Basically what happened to Mister Shendar. Also, if his occupation were a guide, isn't it his *obligation* to take people where they need to go?

Most recently he heard of a place called the Thirsty Herald and decided to travel there. He heard tell of men getting lost in the desert and dying so he was certain to hire a Shendar guide to help him with find his way. After paying the man with a severe beating and leaving him in the desert, Lorek made his way.

Also, I do not need the rules of the forum explained to me about coloring one's changes. I leave that comment in every CD I comment on. It is a condition of any further comments coming from me. If there is nothing else, I'm back to work.

[Simonne Miller]

Lorek, Talia was not yelling at you, she was emphasising a point.

I'm sure she can talk for herself, but I'd just like to point out that she already said

LOL, no way, the Shendar would not take you through the desert in the first place, they are picky with whom they travel

They can afford to be picky, they are the only ones who can guide people through the desert. It's not like they have to beg for someone to let them take them through the desert. I'm sure Talia can explain what conditions have to be met before a Shendar will guide someone through the desert, and under which circumstances they will categorically refuse to guide you.

[Lorek Bearfist]

I'll just edit it that he paid the man the agreed upon price and they parted ways on good terms. That way, we avoid any further conflict regarding this matter. Thanks, Simonne.

[Rookie Brownbark]

As I stated earlier, not every medieval Irishman was of Christian or Celtic practice. There is a huge difference between most and all. Most of my family is of Christian religion and I'm Norse; talk about black sheep. So, given that, I see no reason to incorporate the comment about his family's lack of religion.

And you can see how well people of different religions get on in certain parts of Ireland even now...erm.....  In medieval times religion was part of who you were - a distinction between "us" and "them".  If you were a different religion then you were often suspect of every crime and not to be trusted at all.  What about the Crusades?  Or Jews being burned for supposedly causing the black death?  Santharia is far more tolerant than earth was then.

What exactly do you mean by "not that religious"?  Did they take part in festivals and bring sacrifices?  Did they help repair the temples?  If not then they would run the risk of being seen as not really part of the community.  You'd have to ask Alysse what exactly the reaction to their lack of religion would be, whether they would be thrown out or simply not trusted.  It's not an easy way to live your life anyway.

[Lorek Bearfist]

Thanks, Rookie. I'll clear it up and mention something about it in either that paragraph or a later one. I'll also ask Alysse how the community would react to their lack of participation. *Me glomps the Brownie for being so helpful.*

[Rookie Brownbark]

Another thing - I think the problem with the Shendar guide was not the beating, I think it was him being taken across in the first place.  I'm not sure what exactly would make them not take him, but like Sim said I'm sure Talia can clarify for you.  Her and Alysse's comments are really valuable and I would definitely take them all into consideration.  Otherwise they will probably be repeated by the CD mods, which is a bit of a waste of time to be honest.

[Lorek Bearfist]

Funny you should say such. I'm playing PM tag with Alysse right now sharing ideas. Also, I doubt Talia would raise issue with my new explanation.

[Simonne Miller]

Alright, I promised I'd take a look, so here I am.

Name: Lorek Bearfist
Nicknames: Lorek the Butcher, Lorek the Heretic, Demon, Widow Maker
Age: 36
Birth date: The seventeenth day of the month Awakening Earth.
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Tribe: Helvet'ine of the Kuglimz
Occupation: Muscle for hire. Lorek will only turn down a job if it means compromising his honor. That last part is something for his personality section, Muscle for hire is enough.
Type: Mercenary / Barbarian / Guardian / Bounty Hunter What do you mean with 'type'?
Title: Brutal Guardian
Height: Just a few nailsbreadths more than two and a half peds. (8’4”)Not everyone uses feet and inches, don't add them. We'll make the calculations to our own system with just the santharian measurements.
Weight: Fluctuates between five pygges and fifteen ods to five pygges and thirty-five ods. (515-535 lbs.) same comment
Eye color: A shimmering combination of the colors of Mithril and frosted Ocean Blue
Hair color: A blend of Injohue, Lyth’be Pollen and Viperene Sand
Family names: Father - Kerjinn Mother - Helik Brother - Njord
Religious faith: Armeros, God of War
Portrait: Picture. (Thank you to my friend Demacros for his excellent work. Hail my brother!)

Overview: Bred as a warrior he comes from a long line of them. A fighter as his forefathers before him, a vicious foe in battle; he is capable of making many an enemy regret crossing his path. Trained to be great in battle at the defense of others throughout his life, Lorek possesses great fighting prowess from years of practice and training.
                               
Description: Hardened pale skin wrought with battle scars and given an unnatural density from years of frigid climates is spread over a tall, heavily muscled frame. Every inch of his body is covered in a layer of dense brawn. These rippling and scarred sinews show the hardships the barbarian has put his body through over the course of his lifetime. The definition of Lorek's muscles gives his body the look as if it had been carved from stone.

Five blood rings clank in one braided length of shimmering locks reminiscent the hues of sunshine. These give testament that Lorek is a powerful Helvet'ine warrior hero to be feared by all who threaten the innocent. The berserker keeps the rest of his hair loose and free of these trinkets of heritage. His golden hair hangs just slightly below massive shoulders.

Vibrant silvery blue eyes shine with a maniacal gleam and an everlasting bloodlust. They reveal much about his nature: that he is random, at times ill-tempered but mostly friendly. Should one gaze a bit deeper into them, they would find the misery he hides deep within himself. A degree of sagely wisdom can also be seen inside of him through his oculars.

                                         Armor and Armaments:

A sheath on Lorek’s hip holds a sword of mammoth size. The overall size of the sword is just a little larger than one and one half peds and one palmspan. The edge of the sword measures one and three eighths peds in length and fourteen nailsbreadths across at its widest point. The sword is a highly polished black that has been tainted the color of vilique. Ancient combat runes the color of snow have been cut into the center of the length and are used as blood grooves. The lower quarter of each cutting edge has been filed to a fierce serration. Made by a dwarf craftsman of great renown, the sword is comprised entirely of a recondite metal. It has been rolled a total of two hundred and seventy-six times. The face of a demonic entity separates the grip from the blade with the horns being flared out to the sides to act as the hand guard.
         
When gazed upon, Woe Fang inspires fear and awe at its tremendous size. Reminiscent of an oversized gladius, the blade could easily send an unprepared opponent into a state of shock and horror when pulled from its scabbard. Uhm... really? Cause if you see the size of the scabbard, you won't be expecting a dagger to emerge from that, so pretty much anyone who can see the scabbard (which is pretty hard to hide) could see how big the sword was and would thus be prepared, so I don't think anyone would actually go into shock (not when they're any kind of fighter, anyway) Lorek unloosing this fearsome hunk of metal has called an end to more than one bar fight by way of the other side fleeing in fear that he might actually use it. Couldn't he do that with his sheer size? Go loom over the fighters and they're sure to quit 

Blood Wind A sentence saying he also has a bow would be good. You just drop the name on us and expect us to know what you're talking about, but we actually have to go to the second sentence to know that it's a bow is old, but sturdy in its make. The bow is a piece of durable oak wood with a plate of blackened steel over the front. The string slightly reflects the moonlight as does a spider’s web. There is etching along the steel of a few scorpions and snakes, but one would have to look very closely to see them. A steel crosshair sticks out to one side to increase accuracy.

Vicious Strike is a lance of Helvet'ine make and is thus heavier than regular lances. It is large and black with a deadly metal tip at the end. The lance measures just a little over two peds in length it is used only for seige warfare. run-on sentence, please split into two or use a conjunctionThe make of this lance ensures quality should he ever need to use it.

Lorek’s shield is a four nailsbreadths thick piece of oak wood with a five nailsbreadths thick plate of metal riveted to it. The kite shield measures one and a half peds wide and just as high, Lorek is rarely seen without it.  How does he carry it when he's not fighting? It'd be a bit heavy to always have on his arm, no?

His helmet is a thick piece of ore, a deep gray color except for a faint hint of a diseased green reminiscent of vilique. A large, demonic horn protrudes from each of its sides. A set of spikes runs up the length of the nose guard. The face of the helmet is mostly open so as not to obstruct vision.

Bracers of this odd hue cover his forearms from the elbow to slightly behind his wrists. A combination of spikes and studs protrudes from each of the bracers. The bracers themselves also protect from blows that Lorek can see coming and can block with his arms. He has more than once let an opponent land a punch on him only to block their next with the bracers, resulting in a very painful injury to their hand.

Upon his commanding fists Lorek wears a pair of half-plate gloves of the same color, each of them with two blades of a half fore's length and having a scythe-like curve. They are excellent for battle because he can slash with them and shred and opponent. He can also use the blades to pierce armor or swing his sword in his left hand and punch with his right. These are not worn as often as most of his armor as they are dangerous, even to himself. 

His scalemail upper piece slips on overhead and hangs to slightly above mid-thigh. Runes have been etched into every piece of metal that he believes to be for protection and superiority in combat over one’s enemies. The breastplate is as grey as storm clouds with a faint hint of a sickly green offsetting its smoky hue. Lorek also wears a gorget for protection from blows to his throat.

Chainmail leggings matching the color of his scalemail are often worn beneath his clothing. They are protective and yet flexible. The usual noise made by the ringlets of his leggings is hushed by his bearskin pants. Lorek often wears a set of greaves outside these pants. Each of the greaves is a dull gray color. When donning his armor, Lorek sometimes wears a suit of tanned bearskin over top of it. The only exception is that he wears his greaves outside of his pants.

Lorek mostly only wears his bracers, gorget, shield, helmet, greaves, a bearskin suit, sword, bow and arrows. The rest of his armor and equipment he leaves in his chariot when it is not needed.

                                 Clothing:

Lorek wears nothing but bearskins, as he has no need for dressier clothing. Very rarely does he find himself in need of fine clothing and when he does he simply buys it when it is needed. The bearskins he wears are nothing short of plain. The tops of which extend to just above his elbows. Each of these has been fitted with a hood to keep his ears warm in more wintry climates. His pants extend just a few nailsbreadths above the ankle, while  knee high boots of this leather are worn on his feet.

                                  Medallion:

A large silver trinket is worn on a leather string around Lorek's neck at all times. It has a portrait of the face of Armeros. The medal hangs to a perfect rest near the top of his sternum. His name has been etched onto the back of this piece. Aside from his mithril knife, this is his prize possession.

                               Mithril knife:

When the hulking savage was a lad of but six his father gave to him a large hunting knife made of mithril. Lorek cares for it as best as anyone could, just as he promised. The knife gleams to this day and is also quite sharp for as old as it is. I assume you explain in the history how his father had a mithril hunting knife in his possession, but perhaps you could mention it here as well, since it's SUCH a rare metal that it really needs a good explanation.

Personality: His form is rather threatening; his mood can be foul at times, though he is not totally unfriendly. Although always prepared for battle, he is not simply a mindless killing machine. His thoughts are similar to those around him as he aspires at times to make friends. His efforts are no doubt in vain for the most part as his size and structure lend great hindrance to this. Most folks Lorek comes in contact with discern him as nothing more than a threat. Somewhat kind to strangers, Lorek will never pass up an opportunity to defend an innocent party.

Lorek is semi-antagonistic in the taverns and inns he frequently haunts. This has lead led to him being thrown out of more than one tavern for fighting. Occasionally these brawls have been good for his way of life by drawing customers from the crowds of onlookers who watched him in action. Lorek would not hesitate to silence someone he viewed as overly arrogant. Though Lorek knows that these antics are sometimes good for business, he will not kill just for the smell of blood. He is very aware that one’s life is the ultimate price to pay. However, he has never backed down from a challenge.

His skills have been honed through a lifetime of practice, training, discipline and exercise. He never lets himself fall to anything below the apex of physical capability. His mindset is very military, even though he has never been involved with active military service. He is strict with discipline on himself with regards to his fitness, combat prowess and mercenary lifestyle. Lorek lives and abides completely by a code of ethics that he will never break.

Always remaining the honorable party, Lorek will justify everything he’s done with the following sentence: “Every action I’ve ever taken was the right thing to do at that time.” Regardless of what course of action he has taken in his life he has always been careful to never bring dishonor to himself or to his clan’s name.

Though honorable, he is still a mercenary and thus practices deceit. How so? This coupled with violence has earned him quite a sum of coin, most of which he has spent on equipment, ale and harlots. Fearing not what is to come, he continues on. Almost positive that he is wanted by many of the people he has practiced tyranny against, he is always watching his back. He keeps violence and deceit as part of his duties when necessary to see to it Armeros’ justice remains alive in the world of Caelereth.
 
Lorek has no problem drawing swords on a foe in a bar to bring them in the light of the harsh realization they are outmatched, when this does not work he will simply order one of the men to come forward, and ground him with terrible injuries. This usually leads to a fresh scar upon Lorek’s massive body from a sword slash. Bar fights are usually fisticuffs, bartenders generally don't allow people to draw swords in their inn Lorek has ended several fights in this fashion; as who can wield any weapon when breathless or in the severe pain of one or more broken bones.

Just because he enjoys a good fight, Lorek could never bring himself to violently put his hands on a woman without cause. Lorek would also jump at the opportunity to put a woman beater in his place. In his mind, only the weakest of men would ever fight a woman with no purpose other than the lust for violence in his heart.   

Though not totally unfriendly, Lorek has become accustomed to his wandering ways. Maybe a bit strong-willed in his realization that many of his friendships are but fleeting moments of happiness. His fits of anger are haunting demons that dance upon the edge of Lorek’s thoughts. This knowledge of the inner dwelling evils that torment him is almost too much of a burden to bear. This has caused the barbarian to become even more of a loner by moving on at times from relationships that held the promise of true love in his life. Sorrow permeates on the edge of his psyche with the understanding that he has most likely left behind sons of his own because of his life as a traveling mercenary and bounty hunter.

While the merc almost never goes out of his way to do someone a favor for no reason; he will help almost anyone, for a price. There are only a very select few exceptions outside of fellow worshipers of Armeros, whom he would aid without price. He has never charged his religious brethren a single san for his services, provided they give proper thanks to the War God in exchange. Entirely devout to Armeros, he spends at least one hour per day of uninterrupted prayer in the name of his chosen deity.

Lorek’s service to Armeros is proudly proclaimed. Any who disagree with it are usually left scorned with injuries. He often gazes at the sky and smiles thinking of Injera as the ever-watchful right eye of his savior. Lorek sees Armeros as responsible for his still being around to draw breaths into his lungs.

His travel pack contains the following:
Two animal skin firkins.
A flint, steel, a torch and tinder.
A week and a half worth of rations, entirely consisting of dried beef, rice, nuts and beans.
Five sets of clothing all made of bearskin.
His armor and shield.
Woe Fang.
Vicious Strike.
Three extra bowstrings.
Enough oats for his chariot horses to last them a week and a half.
Blood Wind.
A pack of fifty arrows.
A tent of accommodating size.
Two blankets.
A bedroll.
A coin sack containing a confidential amount of sans gathered from mercenarial doings.
A small amount of paste mixed with sand that he applies to wounds.
The mithril hunting knife his father gave him.
A sharpening stone, a large vial of polish, a vial of oil and two black rags, both emblazoned with the Helvet’ine tribe symbol.
Five poultice rags with healing herbs rubbed into them constantly, these herbs are mixed with paste and ground stone. He applies these rags to wounds. He never leaves these rags unprepared.
A black leather knapsack to carry most of his possessions. The only things it will not hold are his armor, shield, bow, arrows and Woe Fang.

Ok, that's it for now. I'll come back for the rest this weekend, hopefully

Advanced search

[Members]

Members Total Members: 2849 Latest: abigailjordan Stats Total Posts: 214569 Total Topics: 8052 Online Today: 31 Online Ever: 216 (November 30, 2006, 09:08:03 AM) Users Online Users: 0 Guests: 72 Total: 72

[Artimidor]

	Powered by SMF 1.1.21 | SMF © 2005, Simple Machines TinyPortal v0.9.8 © Bloc
Theme based on Cerberus with Risen adjustments by Bloc and Krelia Modified By Artimidor for The Santharian Dream