[center][b][color=aba000][h1]Duren Ghedic[/h1][/color][/b][/center] [img]https://i.pinimg.com/736x/a9/3a/dd/a93addf9c5b20e734542e3ca3aa70ef7--character-portraits-character-art.jpg[/img] [color=aba000][u][b][h3]Race[/h3][/b][/u][/color] Dwarf [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Age[/h3][/color][/b][/u] 47 [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Deity[/h3][/color][/b][/u] Abbathor [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Spirit Animal[/h3][/color][/b][/u] Elephant [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Class[/h3][/color][/b][/u] [b]Major:[/b] [i]Guardsman[/i] Duren lived the majority of his life serving the dwarven city of Bhornbadir as a guard - standing watch at the city’s gates, patrolling the streets, and breaking up drunken brawls - or, at the very least, dragging away unconscious bodies, post-drunken brawl. He’s known hardly anything but life as a line of defense, until recently, and puts his knowledge of protection at the forefront of his mind during his travels across the world. [b]Minor:[/b] [i]Brewmaster[/i] Despite a life devoted to the protection of Bhornbadir, Duren, like anyone, maintained a hobby in his off-time. Like many dwarves, this hobby just so happened to involve alcohol. Brewing various beers, spirits, and the occasional whiskey or rum, Duren has become something of a professional in the art of brewing, and something of an alcoholic in the art of drinking. Known to be drunk more than he is sober, his state of sobriety is often a clear indicator of his talents as a brewer. [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Personality[/h3][/color][/b][/u] Duren is, and always has been, a relatively jolly man. Never one to be pessimistic, the dwarf prefers to look on the bright side of things, and have a laugh at the turns his life takes. To some, his overly positive outlook on life may be a tad bit immature, but the eternal smile forever plastered on Duren’s face would suggest he cares little about the opinions of others. The same smile may also suggest that Duren is not sober, though it is often hard to tell the difference. With a downright cheerful attitude and welcoming demeanor, Duren sometimes acted as more of a greeter than a guard when it came to watching the gates of Bhornbadir. A joyful “good morning” or “good afternoon” could be heard nearly every time Duren turned a corner in his hometown, as he greeted nearly everyone he saw, be they friend or stranger. Duren was often told it would one day land him in trouble, though he’s yet to receive a jab in the gut for his greetings in his 47 years of life. Duren’s positivity may not be entirely natural, however. The old dwarf’s love of alcohol has likely altered his outlook on the world, along with his physical well-being. Riddled with the internal effects of long-term alcoholism, Duren suffers from poor eyesight, and a fair affinity to common illnesses. This may be something a common man would look to remedy, however, Duren’s apparently eternal drunken state has him smiling through the pain, instead. His charming (by dwarven standards) personality has made him quite the celebrity at local taverns and pubs. Always seen with drink in hand, Duren can, and will, talk the ears off of a fellow tavern-goer, regaling them with tall tales about his great grand-pappy and how he could single-handedly slay 40-foot long dragons. Seemingly no matter how often such stories are told, the cheers from his fellow dwarves reassures Duren that it has yet to get old. However, despite Duren’s undying love for his home and his fellow dwarves, he feared the life of a true dwarven elder. Those who had lived far longer than he, who survived by nothing other than Abbathor’s will and the aid of younger dwarves, lived and exemplified a future he knew he wanted no part of. To lay dormant, unmoving, yet conscious, and breathing - this was not in Duren’s life plan. Now, he travels the world as a mercenary, having long abandoned his life as a dwarven guardsmen. Now, he seeks adventure, and stories to rival that of his grand-pappy’s. If death comes at the claws of a dragon, or the club of an ogre, then so be it. He’ll be ready. [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Appearance[/h3][/color][/b][/u] Duren is about average height for the common dwarven male - he stands at around four-and-a-half feet tall, with all the typical dwarven male features. His black hair, which is slowly greying with age, is fashioned to sweep to the left side of his head and back some, staying well out of his wrinkled fac3. His beard, with its matching hues, stays braided on either side. A long scar runs down the center of his left eye as a reminder that although he holds a deep appreciation for his past career and fellow guardsmen, it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. A heavy smoker to match his drinking habits, Duren’s voice is deep and scratchy, making no effort to mask his years of tobacco and alcohol abuse. Despite this, Duren holds a jaw full of healthy teeth - something he attributes to his homemade brews, no matter how unlikely this statement may be. Nevertheless, his warm smile is only strengthened by his almost unnaturally white teeth. Duren has a relatively stocky build. Like most dwarves, muscle mass comes quite a bit easier due to their smaller frame, though Duren’s near constant drinking has resulted in something of a pot belly as well, which is often at the butt of many of his self-deprecating jokes. [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Equipment[/h3][/color][/b][/u] [list] [*] Before leaving Bhornbadir, Duren had a fine set of dwarven plate mail made specifically for his travels - tailored to be sturdy, yet relatively light for plated mail. That in mind, the deep silver armour is still quite hefty, and clinks with every step. It does its job, though, as one would expect from dwarven smiths. [*] A single-handed waraxe. Supposedly belonged to Duren’s grand-pappy. [*] A mighty shield, awarded to him for his service as a guard - large enough to properly shield a dwarf, and about half of a regular-sized human. [*] A pouch of tobacco, with a long pipe to match. Old habits die hard. [*] A multitude of flasks, bottles, and skins - all filled to the brim with various sorts of alcohol. Older habits die harder. [*] Matches. Used to light his pipe, or a homemade molotov - whichever the situation calls for. [*] Various foodstuffs, including some dwarven treats he cooks himself - likely unfavourable to anyone of non-dwarven heritage. [*] Various clothing and portable bedding, for occasions that don’t require skills as a warrior. [/list] [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Skills[/h3][/color][/b][/u] [b]Major[/b]: [i]Guard’s Duties[/i] Duren is, first and foremost, a guard. He’s well-trained in the art of protection and, despite his poor vision, can still block an arrow, or a blade, like the best of them. Used to being on the front lines, Duren is a fearsome foe for anyone looking to engage him in melee, as his shield becomes not only a part of him, but a part of his allies as well. Dedicated to not only his own survival, but his friends’, Duren’s likely saved more lives than he could count - if he was sober enough to count in the first place. [b]Minor[/b]: [i]Liquid Courage[/i] Duren’s love of intoxication has led to an interesting battlefield tactic, useful when a fight calls for more than a sturdy shield. Duren can down a flask of booze like it was water on a hot summer’s day, and, as a result, can throw himself into something of a drunken stupor on the battlefield. Ditching his knowledge of defense, Duren allows himself to be thrown into a fury of merciless swings of his axe, slashing at anyone in his path. Likewise, if he sees fit, he can ignite a bottle and cloth, lending him the ability to lob a makeshift molotov cocktail at his foes. Last, but certainly not least, his skill as a brewer comes in handy most of all after a long day’s work, where he’s more than happy to drink away the remainder of the night, and likely entice his fellows to join him. [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Magic[/h3][/color][/b][/u] Perhaps unsurprisingly, Duren, like most dwarves, doesn’t know the first thing about magic. How it works, what it can do, or where it even comes from, are all questions that would cause Duren to draw a blank. Dwarven society rarely calls for the use of the arcane arts, and so Duren’s only ever experienced the craft a handful of times in his life. Mixing a lack of knowledge, and lack of experience, Duren hardly trusts magic. The sight of a man holding flame like a ball of snow is nothing short of unnerving to the retired guard, and if he can, he’d much prefer to stay well away from those who dabble in the stuff. [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Strength[/h3][/color][/b][/u] Duren feels at home in two places - the bar, and the battlefield. If one can endure the old dwarf’s constant ravings, tall tales, and drunken blabbering, they’ll find nothing short of a lifelong friend, and one that would die to protect them, no matter the cost. His skills as a defenseman are undeniably his greatest strength, and one who finds themselves toe-to-toe with the dwarf would be lucky to get a hit past his towering shield. Mixed with the skillful swings of his axe, he can be quite the foe in a fight. This, along with his bizarre, yet charming, personality, Duren is a strong ally to have on one’s side when traveling. Lucky for them, traveling is exactly what Duren has set out to do. [u][b][color=aba000][h3]Weakness[/h3][/color][/b][/u] Decades of alcohol and light tobacco abuse have taken a toll on Duren’s health. His eyes suffer from poor vision, and he is prone to common illnesses from a weak immune system. As a result, Duren is restricted to melee combat, and the use of things such as bows or crossbows are almost completely out of the question. His ability as a proper scout is also hindered by his vision, along with his affinity for heavy armours. A thief who clinks with every step is not going to make it far in the business, after all. While his armour does him wonders in a fighting environment, it is also detrimental to his movement. Scaling tall mountains or traversing through thick snow is a difficult task for one so short and heavy. As such, Duren is much more suited for flat land, where he can put his thick armour to proper use. [u][b][color=aba000][h3]History[/h3][/color][/b][/u] Duren was born and raised in the dwarven city of Bhornbadir. A fair city, built and developed by generations of various highland dwarf clans, which sits only a few miles west of famed mountain dwarf territory - the city of Gir Daruhm. Duren was one of many siblings, having multiple brothers and sisters, both younger and older. Some went on to live lavish lives, some left the city gates to pursue new lives, and some live out their lives in drug dens in the city slums. Duren, however, settled for a comfortable life serving his home as a guard. At the age of 15 he held his first duty at the city gates, and for 30 years he proudly served his home. Duren is, and always has been, a jolly dwarf. His optimistic outlook on life is almost contagious, and his wheezy laughter embeds itself in the memories of his friends. Almost nightly, the dwarf could be found at the tavern, sharing drinks and stories with his fellow Bhornbadir civilians. His jokes, be they simple or crude, never failed to put a smile on the faces of those who would listen, and the old dwarf’s warm smile almost forced a mirrored grin out of onlookers, whether they understood the joke or not. However, despite what Duren may lead one to believe, life as a guard was not all it was cracked up to be. Often, he found himself in the midst of a battle, clamouring to protect his friends from loosened bolts or sneaky knives. The noble nature of dwarves did not always ring true, and crime was unfortunately rather common in Bhornbadir - which often resulted in a fatal end of the lives of those who would go against the city’s laws. Duren’s devotion to his people kept him moving forward. However, a particular love of alcohol is what really kept him going. A sober Duren likely would not have endured 30 years of slaying ne’er-do-wells, and so ale he drank, and spirits he drained, as both a means of suppressing the nasty bits of his career, as well as a means of maintaining his cheerful perspective of life. As Duren grew older, he began to notice his once jet-black hairs begin to fade. Before long, groups of strands that were once black as night had taken on a grey hue, with some turning as white as the snow that coated the northern mountains. Age was creeping up on Duren, and fast. As he observed his fellow dwarves, he began to make note of those that were too old to care for themselves. Senior dwarves who could do nothing but breath and stare, who relied on women to feed them and change their clothing. Was that the life he wanted? Did he want to rely on the compassion of his neighbour to carry out tasks as simple as walking to his front door? No. He did not. So, after regaling the tale of his grand-pappy’s dragon slaying for perhaps the thousandth time in his favourite tavern, Duren decided that he had had enough. If death was on his schedule, he would welcome it with open arms, not fight it with every lame breath as a useless bag of bones. On his thirtieth anniversary as a guard of Bhornbadir, Duren resigned from his position. Weeks later, with his booze, axe, and ceremonial shield in hand, Duren left the city, permanently, for the first time. Following in his grand-pappy’s footsteps, Duren began to travel, offering his services as a trained guard to traveling merchants and any others who would otherwise perish at the sight of an armed highwayman. The dwarf made many enemies outside the walls of Bhornbadir, but made twice as many friends. Now, two years later, Duren is certain he can find old friends in nearly every corner of Allaria. However, lately, his travels have taken him in a direction that not even he could have seen coming. Now a part of the resistance, aiding in the plight against the Apotheosis, Duren is preparing for the next chapter in his life - the protection of one man, Ssazah, on his journey to contact fabled snow elves. Oh, how his drinking buddies back in Bhornbadir will love this tale. [img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c8/09/c7/c809c73ec4a905d06cf1e0a3c912aca4.jpg[/img]