Post by ardogen on Sept 15, 2014 16:13:05 GMT -7
Character name: Bol Tyrat
Background Information:
Bol was born to a small enclave of oread, a village, hidden in a cave in the mountains north of Rook, near the Iron Realm of Zaramunz. From a young age, Bol demonstrated many of the usual and lauded traits of a being made of earth: a disposition of quiet reflection, stoic values, and a mind slow to accept change. For most of his life, Bol lived his life in his small world, surrounded by friends and family.
In his 90th year, Bol was solemnly reflecting upon the nature of the world around him, as he heard gruff, guttural voices at the entrance to the cave. Tall, muscular black shapes bearing arms entered his village. Bol's village existed on the border between the Iron Realm of Zaramunz and the Tog Nar orcs. Dwarves would come and go from time to time, searching for new ore deposits or places to build trade outposts in the craggy mountains and they'd bring word of the Tog Nar, of their fine coin and use as trading partners, but also of their ferocity and cruelty. These warnings fell on deaf hard ears and the village was grossly unprepared to fight.
Summoning his brute strength and stalwart body, Bol flew against the orcs with nothing but his fists. The orcish weapons merely clinked off of Bol's tough skin but Bol's fists could not reach past the orcs' long weapons. Frustrated and seeing the futility of his efforts, Bol merely stood in the way of the orcs, using his body as an obstacle, puffing out his chest by holding his breath, trying to look menacing. The orcs merely laughed and moved to try to get past Bol again, until a small feminine voice whispered into Bol's ear the word: "Exhale".
Bol, more out of his inability to hold his breath for so long than by the small voice's suggestion, exhaled by reflex, and to his surprise, blew out a powerful gust of air at the orcs. The orcs, simply looking to use their superior agility to quickly nab any precious gemstones the oreads might've had, quickly ran off, clearly unprepared for reprisal, let alone of the magical kind.
The oread of the enclave would not come out of their hiding places, and would look at Bol with wary, shocked eyes. The enclave chieftain rumbled over to Bol and politely asked him to leave, handing Bol a few small gemstones to use to trade for possessions out in the world. Bol harrumphed back his disappointment. He had saved the village! Insulted and becoming very un-oread-like, blew once more with a magical gust, this time at the chieftain.
Stepping out of the village cave for the first time, Bol's skin tingled. The wind. The wind blew over his body and gave him a sensation he hadn't felt before, in the draftless, musky cave. The touch of another Oread felt nice, but this feeling, of the world passing over and embracing him, this feeling was amazing. Bol felt alive. Bol felt energy and life and everything he had ever meditated on in his village seemed to click inside his head. Everything made sense now. Bol would travel and follow the wind, seeking out the small voice he heard, and exploring the world beyond his old village.
Available Times:
EST
Monday & Thursday: 8pm-1am
Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday: 12pm - 4pm
Saturday & Sunday: Anytime
Playstyle:
I'm pretty new to tabletop games, I've been playing Pathfinder for a month and a half. I've GM'd and PC'd at about equal rates and I prefer a good balance of rollplay and roleplay. I tend to make foolish decisions from time to time just to see what'll happen and spice things up. I'm very much a fan of "What could possibly go wrong?" and "Why not?" as opposed to "I'm not going there" or "I'm not pushing that button".
As a sidenote, probably will not play Bol very much (unless Balvos is retired and/or dead).
Also, are Oread still Outsider (Native) in this setting? Any changes to their racial traits as happened with the Drow?
Background Information:
Bol was born to a small enclave of oread, a village, hidden in a cave in the mountains north of Rook, near the Iron Realm of Zaramunz. From a young age, Bol demonstrated many of the usual and lauded traits of a being made of earth: a disposition of quiet reflection, stoic values, and a mind slow to accept change. For most of his life, Bol lived his life in his small world, surrounded by friends and family.
In his 90th year, Bol was solemnly reflecting upon the nature of the world around him, as he heard gruff, guttural voices at the entrance to the cave. Tall, muscular black shapes bearing arms entered his village. Bol's village existed on the border between the Iron Realm of Zaramunz and the Tog Nar orcs. Dwarves would come and go from time to time, searching for new ore deposits or places to build trade outposts in the craggy mountains and they'd bring word of the Tog Nar, of their fine coin and use as trading partners, but also of their ferocity and cruelty. These warnings fell on deaf hard ears and the village was grossly unprepared to fight.
Summoning his brute strength and stalwart body, Bol flew against the orcs with nothing but his fists. The orcish weapons merely clinked off of Bol's tough skin but Bol's fists could not reach past the orcs' long weapons. Frustrated and seeing the futility of his efforts, Bol merely stood in the way of the orcs, using his body as an obstacle, puffing out his chest by holding his breath, trying to look menacing. The orcs merely laughed and moved to try to get past Bol again, until a small feminine voice whispered into Bol's ear the word: "Exhale".
Bol, more out of his inability to hold his breath for so long than by the small voice's suggestion, exhaled by reflex, and to his surprise, blew out a powerful gust of air at the orcs. The orcs, simply looking to use their superior agility to quickly nab any precious gemstones the oreads might've had, quickly ran off, clearly unprepared for reprisal, let alone of the magical kind.
The oread of the enclave would not come out of their hiding places, and would look at Bol with wary, shocked eyes. The enclave chieftain rumbled over to Bol and politely asked him to leave, handing Bol a few small gemstones to use to trade for possessions out in the world. Bol harrumphed back his disappointment. He had saved the village! Insulted and becoming very un-oread-like, blew once more with a magical gust, this time at the chieftain.
Stepping out of the village cave for the first time, Bol's skin tingled. The wind. The wind blew over his body and gave him a sensation he hadn't felt before, in the draftless, musky cave. The touch of another Oread felt nice, but this feeling, of the world passing over and embracing him, this feeling was amazing. Bol felt alive. Bol felt energy and life and everything he had ever meditated on in his village seemed to click inside his head. Everything made sense now. Bol would travel and follow the wind, seeking out the small voice he heard, and exploring the world beyond his old village.
Available Times:
EST
Monday & Thursday: 8pm-1am
Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday: 12pm - 4pm
Saturday & Sunday: Anytime
Playstyle:
I'm pretty new to tabletop games, I've been playing Pathfinder for a month and a half. I've GM'd and PC'd at about equal rates and I prefer a good balance of rollplay and roleplay. I tend to make foolish decisions from time to time just to see what'll happen and spice things up. I'm very much a fan of "What could possibly go wrong?" and "Why not?" as opposed to "I'm not going there" or "I'm not pushing that button".
As a sidenote, probably will not play Bol very much (unless Balvos is retired and/or dead).
Also, are Oread still Outsider (Native) in this setting? Any changes to their racial traits as happened with the Drow?
