Fables of the Borderlands
Occupation: (former) Minstrel at the Silver Spear
Luck Ability: The Broken Star – 2x Luck Mod on Fumbles
|AC||Spd||Ini||HP||Hit Dice||Fortitude Save||Reflex Save||Will Save|
Base Weapon Proficiencies:
MELEE: Club, Dagger, Quarter Staff, Hand Axe, Spear, Long Sword
RANGED: Spear, Dagger, Short Bow, Cross Bow, Sling
Once a humble bard within the thorpe of Thorne in Harrow, Loré was a content and pleasant man. The love of his heart, a young raven haired beauty, a miss Morgan Haverson was all that he longed for and she, him as well. Until one wicked day when the Hound of Harrow came from the blackened pits of fen & moor. The wise Syl Rue, advisor to the Jarl of Thorne decreed that all would place their names upon parchment and they within a locked box in the town center square. The lovers prayed in earnest that neither would be chosen to be made sacrifice should their name become one day drawn from the horrid lock box. Yet, that day too came, for Morgan, and she was carried aloft by her frightened neighbors to be tethered to the rock, where upon nightfall, the hound would come to claim it’s involuntary reward.
It was upon the final hour as Morgan had come to the sacrificial place that a group of travellers curiously found themselves in the midst of the mysterious and barbaric rite. Intervening, they convened an alternate method, and Morgan never looked upon the face of her lover, Loré the same again. Instead she poured her heart into the attentions of wily rogue, too coarse for the likes of someone as beautiful and gentle as young Morgan. Loré clutched his broken heart as the rabble of men promised one day after the next to guide the town safely away from the vile hound, though this they did not. Instead Loré bore witness to the rapacious fiends as they plied the innocence of the town without earnest heed for it’s future. He watched as the town became enamored with their charm, and estranged from his. He watched as Morgan slipped from his side, into the arms of another, as his malice matured and hardened.
He would put an end to this stranger, and thereby reclaim his love. The day came when the rabble of men claimed they would seek out the hound and finally put an end to the nights of terror. The bard joined the rabble along with a host of other villagers and set out for Thorne’s Southern Mountains, the old site of the Roth Mines. There somewhere along their journey the bard envisioned the opportune moment to reveal his true hatred, and exact his ardent revenge. ..
Loré accompanied the party and 14 other villagers who had resolved among themselves they would in someway contribute to a victory over the terrible hound. Egotistically the so-called heroes lead their followers from Thorne south into the Roth Mountains covered in the ice and frost of a cold December morning. The bard walked behind them as they marched ahead unaware and unappreciative of the faith the town had placed in these strangers from a strange land. Had Loré even been consulted for his precious wealth of rumor and suspicion of Harrow or the Hound? No, not a single fool of the rabble offered the slightest interest, and so the bard conceded to withhold anything which could turn an advantage into a subsequent gloat-fest for the ‘adventurers’.
Instead Loré grinned quietly to himself, clutching the stag handled dagger he mused he may never need, as he realized the ‘heroes’ were walking straight into a trap of ferocious orc-men who laired in these dangerous foot-hills. In his mind’s eye he could see the one who had taken his Morgan from him, rendered powerless in the strong merciless grip of the dark men, who would summarily crush the skull of these interlopers, and disembowel them overhead to bathe in the warmth of fresh slaughter. This thought even brought a chuckle from his throat, not that they seemed to notice.
By the Zenith of the passing mid-day sun, two wandering dark orc-men had been surprised and killed by the questing party. Neither the men of Thorne, or the Hound seeking adventurers had suffered so much as a scratch, yet they unwittingly climbed closer to the old abandoned mines which were center to the savage orc-men. Were their adversaries clever or wise, the party would have never had wandered so close. The dark things were not concerned with the thought of adversaries, for they had no need for worry, it was their mountain or so they would remind each other when the White Serpent slumbered.
Loré noted unsurprisingly that two of the three rabble-rousers were thieves, though their skill was somehow graduated to a heightened state of adept which he could not discern but to guess they possessed some manner of magic which went unspoken even among themselves. The third was a nasty corpse of a thing, veiled and garbed in all the roses and finery of establishment. This serpent of a hero had slithered into position at the right hand of the Jarl of Thorne, and now whispered into his very ear, all the while concealing his forked tongue behind his narrow pale lips. Whethersoever he gestured his thieving thralls would seek, and so he sent them into the mouth of the mine, having sighted the entrance and the encampment of the orc-hold by dusk, and by fortune before the dark-things had snorted them out as the party trespassed into their dangerous territory.
The clever bard noted the power this rat king held over his two companions, he determined the blade of his dagger would virtuously glide over the throat of the ambitious asp, for if he chose otherwise, this nemesis would soon grow wise to his plans and spoil the plot for revenge.
The men of Thorne waited in the snow near the eves of the pine that sprouted throughout the area. They disguised their fear with complaints of the snow, and the disappearing sun, but soon a hush came over them as they heard the approach of many feet crushing snow, and the low grumble of bickering voices beset in miserable patrol.
Loré hesitated, and sunk himself beneath the low skirt of drooping snow laden pine. He relished the thought of the thieves being torn limb from limb by the foulspawn. The ‘rat king’ called for order and rank, the morale of his followers, weighed in the balance of Leadership, and was found wanting. The foreign diplomat fool, his silver words meant nothing now, Loré knew. The men scattered and ran as the patrol appeared each dark thing stood head and shoulders above the men, and with twice the brawn. Loré watched with childlike zeal as one of the miserable creatures planted a huge fist square to the face of the frail diplomat, an arc of crimson shot across the white snow, two against one with no sense of fairness a second orc-man raised a heavy heel above the fallen rabblerouser and smashed his head deep into the snow. Loré could only imagine the crumpled skull and ruined face of the Asp who had betrayed Thorne. The ‘hero’ was dead. He relished the thought.