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Character Name
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Alignment
Current XP
Next Level XP
XP Change
Class
Race
Campaign
Deity
Level
Size
Age
Gender
Height
Weight
Eyes
Hair
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Total Skill Points:
0
Feats & Special Abilities
Other Possessions
Item
Weight
(lbs)
Loc
Total Weight:
0
Spell Saves
Save
DC
LEVEL
Spells
/Day
Bonus
Spells
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Number of Spells/Powers Known (Bards, Sorcerers, Psions & Psi Warriors)
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Spell/Power Name
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Psionics
Manifester
Level
Key
Ability
Base
Bonus
Max
Current
Currency
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Description
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Character Traits
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Contacts / Friends
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Statistic Block
Condition and Effects
Additional Information
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[
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]
Polton Warde is, these days, a farrier. He hammers horsehoes, draws hooks, and crafts locks and hinges with a plodding ability and equal disinterest that belie the excitement of his younger days. Only the contents of the padlocked sea chest in the back of the shop would tell of a career of adventure and mayhem. After all, A careless or clumsy man could find any number of ways to get as many burn scars as that around a forge, couldn't he? Only a couple people in town might have cause to suppose him to be otherwise talented, and they make a business of keeping their mouths shut. Like everyone else on Dyebol, Polton started out fishing. He was a tough lad, prodigiously strong, and a hard worker. He had something of a wild streak, and got in enough fights that there was talk of him joining the merchant marine, but his mother Marta wouldn't hear of her only son, her only child, ploughing the waves amidst piracy and the clutches of the fish-slayer. His father, Dubter Ward, was, after all, increasingly in the thrall of Dyebol's other fish-slayer. Every seventhday or more, Polton was called by a runner from the Longtoes to carry the recumbent, slurring, and often singing form of his father back home. Robbed of any real role model, Polton took to listening to stories of heroes, and acts of bravery and valor from the Wild's War. Romanticizing the Imperial armies and dreaming of fighting goblins in the new colonies, and in the face of staunch resistance from his parents, Polton undertook a grand act of rebellion and set out in the night on his own to adventure! The interim years found him dogged but discouraged. The road to the colonies was rather longer than he, in his innocence, had expected. But as a brave lad with great strength and resolve, he found work along the merchant road in towns in the industrial east chopping wood or shoveling coal as he wended his way slowly southward, working until he had enough money to move on. Then, finally, a stroke of luck; at a traveler's inn North of Dunnoch, Across a smoke-filled room, he saw them! Adventurers. It had to be. Where else would there be, at a single table, a dwarf in full plate, an elf in robes, and a muscled, wild-haired man dressed in furs and smelling of blood and oatmeal? It took all his courage to approach that table, but in the morning he was in charge of the luggage and handling the pack mule. It was an exciting time for Polton. He got to listen to the talk around the campfire, and get a few pointers in combat from Jobun and Rounce, and Sylbalyan took time enough to teach him his letters and a few words of the tongue of sorcerors and dragons. Their adventures took them west over the next two years, fighting bandits, goblins and other, stranger creatures. But Polton's time with the three adventurers was to be curtailed.A Quest to steal dragon eggs for an influential gourmet of House Sand who fancied himself a gourmand miscarried badly. Waiting with the mule, Polton heard the roar and saw the smoke rise from the cave mouth. He Felt, rather than heard, the second roar as the wind of the creature landing bowled him and the terrified mule over. SNAP GULP The terrified mule vanished into the maw of the giant, glittering golden lizard that now stared, with eyes glowing like pools of molten gold, at the awestruck young man sprawled on the grass. Paralyzed, he felt the creature's will probing his mind, sifting through memory to find out just how much he knew about dragons, and how much he knew about the errand. Reaching some decision, the giant golden dragon crooked a mighty beringed talon. The cheap chainmail lent to him by the late Jobun grew first warm, then hot, then scalding. Pinned by the dragon's crushing will, the human could only thrash on the ground as the coat of hot steel links grew hotter and hotter. His clothes burst into fire, and his chest blistered and sizzled. Then, nothing, just the sickening smell of burnt skin and the hideous pain of dying nerves. The voice of the dragon sounded in his mind as it leant forward, capturing his pain-crazed eyes in its own. "THAT, HUMAN, IS WHAT THE FRYING PAN IS LIKE FOR AN EGG. THINK ON THAT AS YOU WALK HOME." A small pulse of healing energy flowed from dragon to stricken Polton, enough to let him roll onto his side and try frantically to crawl away from the terrifying presence. Scarred in body and mind, he limped back to camp and collapsed, In fevered dreams, giddy with pain, he felt himself plunged into lakes of molten gold, hammered on the anvil of an implacable will, and forged into something not exactly human, but now something more; Something with caged fire in its belly and an aura of flecks of golden light. It took him another two years to wend his way home. With a new lust for treasure in his heart and new talents to help, he gained experience, some wealth, and a few new scars to complement the puckered quilt of cicatrix that criss-crossed his chest and back. A further misadventure left him with a lamed leg as a result of the lucky frantic swipe of a dying hobgoblin's club. And so Polton's grand homecoming came with him riding in the back of a peddler's wagon, sitting on a great sea chest firmly padlocked, holding his weapons and armor, and the last of his adventuring gold. Returning to his parents' home, Polton found an empty fishing cottage, Marta had sickened and gone, and Dubter was even more deeply sunk in fish-slayer and in debt. He could never face his father after that, and when his adventuring gold set him up with a farrier's forge and a house, he set aside a sum of gold to pay his father's tab at the Jolly Wrightsman, and to keep him in whatever golden watery world that he traveled to through the bottom of a glass. The leg has healed, but Polton's adventuring spirit was mostly crushed by the bleak home he had returned to. He was far more tired than a strong and healthy man of twenty-eight should feel, especially one that even now throbbed dully with the glory of gold in his heart. And so he spent his days hammering and shaping the petulant and grubby metal. Only in the past year or so has he begun to use some of his draconic power again. On moonless nights he walks to the beach, his trusty everburning torch muffled as he wades into the ocean, walking its silted and rocky floor in search of salvage as fish dart and feint about the light he holds. He's cultivated an agreement with Silimeo Bosley whereby the gnome buys interesting bits of salvage and waterlogged cargo in exchange for coin, and once or twice has approached Alderman Smythe about purchasing especial bits of salvage. They ask him no questions, just as he shows no curiosity in their respective businesses.
