A dwarf born into a noble family more concerned with status and wealth than dwarven heritage and honor.
Dwarf warrior 1
CG Medium humanoid (dwarf)
Init +2; Senses darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +4
AC 17, touch 12, flat-footed 15 (+5 armor)
hp 14 (1d10+4)
Fort +6, Ref +2, Will +3; +2 vs. poison, spells, and spell-like abilities
Defensive Abilities defensive training
Speed 20 ft.
Melee axe of the dwarvish lords +5 (1d12+6/x3)
Ranged axe of the dwarvish lords +4 (1d12+4/x3)
Ranged heavy crossbow +3 (1d10)
Offensive Abilities hatred, power attack, cleave
Str 17, Dex 14, Con 18, Int 14, Wis 17, Cha 7
Base Atk +1; CMB +4; CMD 16 (20 vs. bull rush or trip)
Feats Knack for Magic, Power Attack, Cleave
Skills Appraise +4, Know (dungeoneering) +6, Perception +4, Spellcraft +4, Survival +7, Swim +7; Racial Modifiers +2 Perception relating to stonework
Languages Common, Dwarven, Orc, Goblin
The barmaid at the Rusty Pirate brings you another mug of fine dwarven ale imported all the way from the Iron Hills. You’re still not sure how the tavern’s owner managed to strike a deal like that, but you plan to take advantage of it. As you empty your flagon your mind drifts from the present to the past.
Your parents were so proud to have their first-born son enrolled at the House of the Dragon at such an early age. They probably expected you to wind up a politician or worse yet, a loremaster in some museum. You were well on your way to becoming just that before that fateful night deep beneath the school.
While searching the archives for the biography of Zagig Yragerne and the construction of Castle Greyhawk, you stumbled upon a loose stone from one of the walls. Probing further, you found that beyond the wall lay a masterfully carved stone chamber packed with dusty relics of a bygone age. Dozens of civilizations were represented including armor from the Great Kingdom and curved swords of Primjar orcs, but one item captured your attention.
Far to the rear of the chamber, beneath a Suloise shield you beheld an old, rusty axe of dwarvish make. Your hand crept toward the handle and as it brushed its surface, you heard a noise in the stacks behind you. You stepped back quickly and scanned the darkness, but found nothing. Taking the axe fully in your grip, you turned to do a more thorough search and found yourself face to face with three imposing dwarven warriors. They introduced themselves as the Lost Kings: Erik the Swift, Baleog the Fierce and Olaf the Stout.
The Lost Kings explained that they were the three sons of the last High King of the dwarves, each beheaded by a goblin king with the very axe you held in your hands. They spent an indeterminable amount of time telling you of how since this tragedy, the dwarves have been a race lost, divided and leaderless. Each dwarf has been focused on amassing their own wealth and has allowed themselves to lose their way. They bid you to look at yourself, with your fine robes and close-cropped beard. It was then that you realized they were right. This was no way for a dwarf to live; a dwarf must taste battle and win honor for himself and his clan and for the dwarves as a whole. Without that you were nothing but a short human!
You listened intently as they advised what you must do if ever the dwarves would again be one nation. Erik bid you to help the dwarves flourish in keeping with their ancient traditions. Baleog asked you to give giants and (especially) goblins the deaths they so richly deserve. And Olaf implored you to become an inspiration to honorable people everywhere. The Lost Kings said that if you could do these things, you would reforge the power of the Axe, the Age of High Kings will return, and the dwarven peoples will be reunited at last. With this, they stepped back into the darkness of the forgotten chamber and were gone.
You left the House of the Dragon that very night, and never looked back. You committed yourself to honing your body and mind to an edge as sharp as that of the Axe. It’s been more than a year since you claimed the Axe of the Dwarvish Lords and left the school, and for more than a year things have been dull and boring. Try as you might, there’s been no adventure to be found. You have the martial skills. You want to be a hero. You want to be an inspiration. How can you be an inspiration when you don’t live in inspiring times? You look over at the cleric and give him a little salute as he studies the inscription on his staff for the thousandth time. He nods in return before getting lost in himself once more. He has his own ghosts to consider on a hot and humid night like this. Above the sounds of water lapping against the docks, you’re fairly sure you can hear thunder in the distance. A storm’s coming.