POOHEAD189

Dwarves!

Dwarf

Name: Thurin Stonewrought III

Age: 112

Gender: Male

Appearance: He's a tough and muscled Dwarf, with dark eyes to match his hair. Thurin's Beard reaches down past his belt, unbraided, though he has bronze fixings framing his beard to keep it a tad shorter so he could fight easier. His broad bladed Axe is finely crafted Steel, used as both a walking stick and his main heavy weapon. He had four throwing axes he can use as shorter weapons as well, if need be. His armor is made for light travel, though that still means he is clad in masterwork chainmail and half plate armor on certain areas of his body.

Skills and Flaws:
Skills

• Good warrior
• Good singer
• Good smith

Flaws

• Greed
• Obsessive/Single Minded
• Tactless/Thoughtless

Background: Thurin III was born one hundred and twelve years ago. His father was Thurin the II, one of the initial reclaimers of his ancestral home, who led one of the contingents of Dwarves into the deep as they slew the foul Orcs that infested the mines. Thurin I, his grandfather, fought in the Battle of the Seven Anvils as a young lad, and later served in the War of the North. Thurin was born in a line of proud and admirable Dwarves, and he does not intend to besmirch their legacy.

When he came of age, he took to the Axe and tried his hand at exploration to aid in the Dwarves as they delved deeper into the earth. Ever reaching for veins of precious metals, Thurin was given the task of leading a few incursions into the lesser known roads of the underworld. At times they found nothing, having to come back empty handed other than fixing the ever increasing maps with dead ends. Other times, they found veins of ore. Mostly Iron and Silver, though they did find a Golden vein at one point. Thrice, they came upon pockets of Orcs in the deep places of the world, fighting their way in and slaughtering the foul Goblins with their finely crafted weapons. And indeed, there was one instance where they found a beast they had not seen before. A nameless creature they merely caught glimpses of, and decided to delve no further, for its bulk was massive and its very presence befouled the air, having become rank with Dwarven fear. It raked into solid rock as if it were dirt, and screeched as it fed on slain Goblins.

From his experiences of the vastness that is the deep, Thurin the III decided he very much wished to see what was upon the surface as well, and was given leave to travel the lands as long as he sent back word to his father of useful places to colonize. He made a living as a mercenary and a singer. He was gone for 23 years, and returned back with many great tales and more than a few scars. Once he had returned (age 97) he had gone back to his previous life of delving into the earth.

In between his expeditions, he would go back to mining, for he had worked as a miner as a mere Beardling to hone his muscles and, as his father claimed, teach him a good work ethic. He tried smithing a time or two, and while no slouch, it wasn't his calling. His greatest love was adventuring, and because of his successes at finding minerals and new realms to conquer, as well as his family lineage, he was chosen among a throng of Dwarves to find the lost secrets of the silent colony.

Miscellaneous: (Other information you’d like to share about your character.)

Ayo

@Hungry Vandal
Hey, you're new so I won't be mean, but hijacking posts is a no-go here. Please make your own intro post, or none at all. Thank u

For the record too, people should have contacted me quickly rather than dog-piled a new user as well.

Dungeoncrawl: I Want to be a Wizard!

Been extra busy recently, sorry I haven't been able to post! Here it is though :)

Dungeoncrawl: I Want to be a Wizard!

Mal calmed himself. He didn't like how silent it was, so he tried to make as little noise as possible. He even made sure his breathing was reserved ans quiet. He took out his wand and eyed the tombs. He didn't have long, but he supposed he still had some time to look before he wanted to seek shelter elsewhere on the road. He knew he wanted to stay as far away as danger as possible, (within reason of course) so the disturbed tomb was not a good target. Instead, as embarrassing as it was to admit, the tomb in front of him with the bronze doors looked to be the most promising of reward.

Slowly he strode forward and grabbed the handles of the doors, attempting to open them with one hand, his wand in the other. If this didn't work, maybe the ruined and collapsed tomb might have easy spoils.

Paranormal Detectives

Dwarves!

Dwarf

Name: Thurin Stonewrought III

Age: 112

Gender: Male

Appearance: He's a tough and muscled Dwarf, with dark eyes to match his hair. Thurin's Beard reaches down past his belt, unbraided, though he has bronze fixings framing his beard to keep it a tad shorter so he could fight easier. His broad bladed Axe is finely crafted Steel, used as both a walking stick and his main heavy weapon. He had four throwing axes he can use as shorter weapons as well, if need be. His armor is made for light travel, though that still means he is clad in masterwork chainmail and half plate armor on certain areas of his body.

Skills and Flaws:
Skills

• Good warrior
• Good singer
• Good smith

Flaws

• Greed
• Obsessive/Single Minded
• Tactless/Thoughtless

Background: Thurin III was born one hundred and twelve years ago. His father was Thurin the II, one of the initial reclaimers of his ancestral home, who led one of the contingents of Dwarves into the deep as they slew the foul Orcs that infested the mines. Thurin I, his grandfather, fought in the Battle of the Seven Anvils as a young lad, and later served in the War of the North. Thurin was born in a line of proud and admirable Dwarves, and he does not intend to besmirch their legacy.

When he came of age, he took to the Axe and tried his hand at exploration to aid in the Dwarves as they delved deeper into the earth. Ever reaching for veins of precious metals, Thurin was given the task of leading a few incursions into the lesser known roads of the underworld. At times they found nothing, having to come back empty handed other than fixing the ever increasing maps with dead ends. Other times, they found veins of ore. Mostly Iron and Silver, though they did find a Golden vein at one point. Thrice, they came upon pockets of Orcs in the deep places of the world, fighting their way in and slaughtering the foul Goblins with their finely crafted weapons. And indeed, there was one instance where they found a beast they had not seen before. A nameless creature they merely caught glimpses of, and decided to delve no further, for its bulk was massive and its very presence befouled the air, having become rank with Dwarven fear. It raked into solid rock as if it were dirt, and screeched as it fed on slain Goblins.

From his experiences of the vastness that is the deep, Thurin the III decided he very much wished to see what was upon the surface as well, and was given leave to travel the lands as long as he sent back word to his father of useful places to colonize. He made a living as a mercenary and a singer. He was gone for 23 years, and returned back with many great tales and more than a few scars. Once he had returned (age 97) he had gone back to his previous life of delving into the earth.

In between his expeditions, he would go back to mining, for he had worked as a miner as a mere Beardling to hone his muscles and, as his father claimed, teach him a good work ethic. He tried smithing a time or two, and while no slouch, it wasn't his calling. His greatest love was adventuring, and because of his successes at finding minerals and new realms to conquer, as well as his family lineage, he was chosen among a throng of Dwarves to find the lost secrets of the silent colony.

Miscellaneous: (Other information you’d like to share about your character.)

Dwarves!

Gimme a day or two and you'll have yer Dwarf!

Dungeoncrawl: I Want to be a Wizard!

Mal scratches his chin, squinting his eyes at the barrows before him. Calmed by the leisurely walk and the babbling brook, his normally cool reserve was maintained even as he stepped in the dank, foreboding area. Mal had not seen many signs of life, but he wasn't a ranger or huntsman. He knew he was in the right place, but he needed to make certain he was prepared before he tomb delved. He decided to make various moves.

Firstly, he made his way down the hill carefully, making sure no one was watching with his ever moving eyes. He wasn't the most physically adept specimen, but he had a good head on his shoulders and a young body. Once he made it to the bottom, he surveyed the barrows, judging each by how easily it would be to delve into and the iconography to see if any looked to be of particular notice or esteem.

Next, he began to weave a strap for himself with a ten foot section of the rope he had acquired. He needed free range of movement with his limbs in order to be effective. All the while he contemplated on which tomb or barrow he might search within, hoping he could nab something quick and easy before he made his way to civilization where there was wine and woman.

Cold Iron and Black Powder

Boris Todbringer wouldn't want to hear it, but Altdorf was a lot like Middenheim in many ways. The stones were old and well cut, faithful iconography placed over every busy street, with a teeming citizenry and the noise that goes along with it. But he could tell many of the people were different, in a fashion. They were slightly shorter, with fairer features, not to mention many were noticeably fatter. Still, they were citizens of the empire and even sigmarites knew to be happy when they saw the white wolves. Or that was how it had been in Carroburg, and Senden, and any of the smaller hamlets they passed through in the southern realm.

The other knights didn't notice, but Torm could see a lot of disapproving gazes glancing their way. Some had true vitriol in their gazes, but no one spoke up. Only a few even tried to get in their way, and they were nearly trampled, with the wolves at the fore not even noticing, likely chalking it up to being overcrowded. The group mostly passed by well-to-do members of society and white color workers, couriers, or even sight seers, as the Imperial Palace stood just to the north of them, dominating the streets with its grand presence, its inner walls manned by the city watch and a few token members of the Rieksguard.

To their south were the vaults, a veritable castle unto itself. Nearly all the city's wealth, and even a sizeable portion of the provinces funds were locked in there, as were many of the wealthy citizen's hoards of gold. No commoners or day laborers would be around there, and it seemed to be true. All the people who watched them from the southern street were even more posh in their dress and countenance, but just as unwelcoming as the others in the crowd. The wolves rode on, Torm's eyes wandering, more curious now than ever. He had heard the chapter house in Altdorf needed more manpower and a greater presence in the city, but whatever problems they had that led to that decision looked to have gotten worse. The small contingent turned the corner past the Vaults, and even the older, jaded knights were surprised when they saw what lay at the foot of the Grand Cathedral of Sigmar.

Shouting and screaming suddenly blasted their ears, and an exponential amount of angry faces, some frothing at the mouth as various crowds shoved and pushed at one another on the holy flagstones. One man had climbed a statue of Sigmar, smearing what Torm could only guess was rotten fruit or excrement on the warrior god's face. Ulricans wielding banners with a wolf on it butted heads with twin tailed comet wielding citizens, yelling and pressing.

"What the hell?" Gundahar asked aloud, perplexed at the spectacle. Thorsten cursed in old nordlander, and even some of the fiercer men were given pause even as their horses walked forward, always used to crowds clearing to make way. The beasts bumped into men and women, and Torm hoped there were no children less lucky than the last one outside the walls.

Two hands shot out of the crowd, grabbing the reins of Isidor's barded steed. The knight's chilling gaze fell upon the crazed fellow, and with a dexterous twist of his arm, he butted the head of his hammer into the civilian's face, cracking his nose open in a spurt of blood. The man's face was too flattened for him to make a noise, and he spasmed and tumbled to the ground, disappearing into a mass of undulating flesh. Gundahar growled at someone looking his way, scaring some onlookers off with his snarl. Torm kept his head like a few of the older knights, using his keen eyes to gaze about. Torm, likely due to being the youngest, had the best eyes of the troupe. He pointed with his warhammer to the east, indicating a thinner crowd, like a small riverway running through a swamp.

The message was carried up the line, the wolves sending their burly mounts in a curve toward the exit, batting away any handsy crowd members with swift kicks or strong blows of the hand. It was counter productive to his prior suggestion when Torm's eagle eyes spotted something in the crowd. A glint of iron in the sunlight, perhaps something in the air or a distant cry. But a part of the crowd detached from itself, cudgels and iron rods and even a few swords raised in the air. A wolf banner whipped in the wind, billowing above them as a cry from Ulric rose above the din. A crowd of sigmarites cried out, trying to understand what was happening before the other crowd charged.

Torm tensed, and without thinking kicked Hauke into movement, breaking out of the order of march and flying through the crowd, knocking aside two men who tried to bar his way and raising his hammer into the air. He knew what was happening before he even thought about it. The Ulricans had grown bolder at the sight of the order, and Torm knew that bloodshed was moments from erupting on the flagstones of Altdorf. A few even looked overjoyed one of the wolves had entered the fray, but their cries fell when they saw the ferocious knight halt his steed between them rather than trampling through the sigmarites, facing the crowd of his own faithful and holding his hammer out defensively. They looked crestfallen, confused. Torm shook his head, black hair swaying in the air.

"No." He said simply.

"What!?"

"Why?"

"For Ulric!"

"We are citizens of the Empire of Man!" Torm roared, moving Hauke to the left to throw his weight against the wall of men and women, causing them to back up, intimidated. Torm glanced back at the Sigmarites and their dumbfounded faces, but he paid them no heed other than that. He then raised his hammer, and to some he resembled the statue of Sigmar across the square, and to others perhaps he simply looked like a commander. He just hoped he did not look ridiculous in front of his elders. "We spill the blood of chaos worshipers, not Sigmarites or Ulricans! The Orcs fall to our hammers and the beastmen are slaughtered by our steel and gunpowder, but we cannot win if we fight one another!"

He was met with stunned silence, but at least there wasn't a slaughter. He caught up to his fellows moments later, averting his gaze from theirs even as some began to mumble. Arnulf patted his shoulder, but still. He wondered if he had done the right thing.

Cold Iron and Black Powder

Hauke whinnied, his large head shaking irritably. The southern air didn't agree with him, and Torm had to concur. Even on the tail end of winter, he felt the air wet and pungent with humors that couldn't survive the air in Middenheim. He reined his steed in, giving a stolid word of discipline to the willful horse, and Hauke replied immediately with straightening himself. Torm wanted to look at his fellows, but he kept his eyes forward. He had not been one of them for long, having been inducted and given full membership two years ago. He had a chip on his shoulder, easily seen by his betters, even as calm as he could be in the middle of a beastman raiding party. He kept his mouth shut and head high, his long hair and goatee having been cut to help with the riekland heat and culture, but that still left him with a mane of thick hair as black as a moonless night.

The sea of peasants scattered and even the freemen stepped lightly and made way for the company of warriors, nearly three dozen strong and having slowed to a canter once the walls of the capital had come into view. Carroburg was a nice respite, even with the weak drink, but the small city was utterly dwarfed by Altdorf, which looked as if it was larger than even Middenhiem in size. Doubtless it appeared so for the lack of mountains, but that didn't dissuade Torm from being impressed by its grand spires and imperial majesty. Whatever their politics, Karl Franz ruled here and they served the emperor. At least in their own fashion.

Amid the parting crowd, one small boy with big eyes stood still on the side of the road, waving up at the fur-clad northerners but making not a sound. One-eyed Isidor nearly trampled him, his steed missing the boy by sheer luck, its tail swishing against the youth's face like he was a fly. Angsar rode by next, brown haired and grim, his face long and terrifying. He pulled his steed to the left a bit to keep it from hitting him, but made no noise save for that. It was Gundahar that paid true notice to the boy, giving him a horrible roar that had sent fear in beastmen and bandits alike, his eyes wild and bloodshot making him look the part of a true madman. The boy gasped and ran off, tripping just once before disappearing as he screamed in fear. The red bearded Middenlander laughed at the departing youngster, waving his warhammer.

"Keep it to yourself," Thorsten warned him sternly, glaring at Gundahar with just a pinch of tolerance. It was easy to see they were old comrades.

"Hey, just having a bit of fun. The boy was going to kill himself standing there!" Gundahar protested, waving his hammer in the vague direction of the crowd, one man dropping a basket of blankets from the gesture, marring the fabrics in the mud. Sigmund rode just ahead of Torm, the battle-scarred man sixteen years his senior. He shook his head at the sight, muttering how soft the people must be here in Reikland if they feared Imperial contingents. Gundahar continued. "Besides, you know Wulfrim would have killed him for even looking our way."

"Hold your tongue until we get to the Chapter house," Arnulf warned, the second (or third?) oldest of the troupe. Torm did not know the details, but he and Thorsten used to be fast friends until some falling out thirteen winters ago. Unlike the white haired Nordlander, Arnulf still had a bit of his youthful bearing, if only barely. His salt and peppered mane and brown eyes had some of Ulric's luster, and Torm suspected it was his a blessing from the wolf god for the man's wisdom. "If you must speak, speak like you've got a swaddled babe trying to sleep."

Gundahar grunted with annoyance but complied, Thorsten granting Arnulf a nod. The most he would give his fellow, Torm had to guess. The younger knight heard a sudden calamity from the rear, but did not turn, recognizing it as Wulfrim's large horse. Hauke was a good size, but Wulfrim was even slightly larger than Gundahar, and he needed a horse to match. He galloped to the fore, hammer in the air to signal to the others they needed to maintain formation. The riders pressed their horses closer in a rigid, triple file march at their wolf brethren's order. Torm glanced at the bannerman as he rode past, three scars marring the left side of his grim face, somehow not losing an eye from the raking of the manticore's claws. Before them, as if the raising of the hammer held a power of psychic might, the doors to the city began to open with a dramatic groan, and the watchmen at the top screamed to his fellows below, cupping his mouth so all could hear the news.

"The wolves! The White Wolves of Ulric have come!"