Applications - Champions of the Enchanted Lands

Sabrina is a about average height for a human, a sturdy lass coming in at 5'10, a couple inches less without her armour. She bears a lean figure, well-toned and tanned from spending plenty of time outdoors, blessed with delicate hands and long legs. Her feet and fingers bear calluses and the smooth skin of her limbs are marred with the hint of long healed injuries, though no obvious scars are found. Resolute eyes and dirty blonde hair about shoulder length, usually tied up in pigtails, a ponytail, a bun or some other method to keep it out of her way, stand out on the hard features of a relatively fair face. She has a fondness for dresses in more civil settings and her armour is of somewhat lighter make to allow her to take advantage of her agility as well as her strength. While meticulous about her appearance civilized settings, Sabrina is much looser about her cleanliness and hygiene out on a campaign, where she usually feels more comfortable. Her presence gives a sense of struggle between eager combativeness and the subdued discipline of a veteran. In battle, there is an even wilder edge, a crackle of electricity to her style, bestowed upon her lithe frame by the massive blade she always kept strapped to her back...

Selfless to a fault, Sabrina gives everything she has to every task she is faced with, never expecting anything back. Her generosity is fairly blunt, however, not the kind, comforting presence of a protector, but the grim resignation of a soldier...one in a never-ending battle and possessed of a death wish. Her presence, while inspiring in its fullest bloom on the field of battle, can be chilled by a tempestuous nature, her emotions fluctuating between cold discipline to lightning fury with no sense of a middle ground.

Those who know her best...superiors in the faith, fellow champions, and the royalty she serves...the ones who do not idolize her as some manner of avatar or champion, are most likely to sense the source of this disturbance. Even as her skill and strength and ability to channel divine power grew, Sabrina is suffering from an ongoing crisis of faith that is only gently tempered by her staying around older and more experienced warriors that have mentored and still mentor her. Sometimes, her fury in battle is drawn more from her frustration with what she feels is a lack of direction in her life and her faith than it is through the divine inspiration of the lord of war. At the height of her anger, she seems almost gleefully suicidal, as she questions the reasons for her continuing to fight the good fight.

Finally, the fearless knight suffers something of an inferiority complex...one worse than she would ever wish to admit. Being one of the youngest current champions of Irengard, and a commoner raised up to knightly rank only for her natural divine afffinity to the lord of war to boot, Sabrina sinks into the chilly aspect of her demeanour to try and remain unfazed by the challenges of civilized life. Even if, out of respect for her rank and service, the most tactful of individuals about her try to make her feel at home, Sabrina is keenly aware that in some ways, she is but a jumped up country bumpkin blessed almost on a whim by the maniacal bringer of storms. This touch of mercurial combativeness taints the otherwise stoic dedication Sabrina brings to a faith that those who know Sabrina well might almost think she is too good for.

Orphaned in the dangerous Darklands, Sabrina was dropped off by a mother lost to the mists of time, presumably some wild woman of unknown descent, at the front door of a cloister of one of the hardiest religious orders in existence in the Enchanted Lands, the Red Blades of Kord. In this dour realm of savages and strip miners, the young orphan was clumped with other unwanted children to become a yeni cheri, janissary to the unversed. This was the darker side of Kord's doctrine, the grey realm of the War domain where the lines blurred between the might storm lord and the cruel strategist that was Bane.

Kord welcomed the weak, so that the weak could suffer for the survival of the strong. The yeni cheri, devout as they were, were not supposed to become priests. They were weapons to be forged, the grunts of Kord's never-ending battle, especially the battle of the Red Blades against the demons in which its banner was first raised in that tragic war of the Holy Alliance. Sure, that foe had been bested, but War never truly leaves a land, or so the Red Blades believe. True blessing was for the highborn, the willing, the knowing faithful. But someone had to do the messy business of bleeding and dying by the hundreds, even the thousands, when Kord willed it and incursions by the surviving forces of the Seven Hells demanded it.

Of course, every so often, just as a smith makes an exceptional blade, so are there those who stand out amongst the yeni cheri. These are promoted to captains, commanding them in battle, or perhaps even temple guardsmen, the highest honor to which they could hope to aspire. Sabrina was not one of these. At least, not then. For there are the true oddities of the weaponsmith’s work, creations that seem flawed, but prove invaluable for their flaws. She had a disturbingly natural knack for the mysteries of survival, the path of cleansing, even with the rudimentary training she was granted. Nor was she viewed as possessed of a hardy enough frame to bear the hammers and axes and polearms that were the standard weapon of her companions.

There were attempts to make some use of her. After all, no true general was wasteful of his resources. It must be a good death, not a stupid one, not even for the lowliest of believers. Yet her natural talents were not matched by any desire to expand in those directions, so set was she on the yeni cheri path. After all, with no family, why ought she live when those with families were dying? Attempts to educate her in higher knowledge or fighting skills were clumsy, such that it would only be in later years that she would gain fluency in the fighter’s tongue, what the unenlightened callously dubbed ‘Giant’. But she healed bloody well without really thinking about it. For her superiors, that alone was perhaps a salvageable blessing.

Sabrina's crusade, her holy war, came...and went. The grand battle for which she had been forged was fought when she was seventeen years of age, according to the records. In the scheme of things, her legion had been sent to a fairly minor engagement, fighting some odd fusion of savage raiders and maniacal cultists. Sabrina kept her comrades on their feet for as long as their sanity allowed them to accept. Eventually left alone, stubbornly resisting with such vigour that a rare and inglorious Kordite rout was, to the surprise of the overseers of the Red Blades, not followed by a wild rampage of the victors. Nobody ever knew of these glorious deeds until an enterprising young priest, having met the seemingly addled Sabrina, came by later on to try and learn what had salvaged this rare defeat into a victory from the memories of the dead.

Left to die, as the barbarians she'd fended off in the dozens had finally broken at the sheer tenacity of the woman they had mercilessly hounded, Sabrina lay there. Barbs were embedded in her limbs, blood spurting from wounds unfathomable, a leg shattered, an arm dislocated...and she lived. And lived, and lived, and kept on living. Day two was an agony, day three a delusion, day four a nightmare, and day five a resurrection. Events beyond that remain a mystery as yet, a mystery that has haunted the swordswoman since.

What she saw, what she felt during that stupor was disturbing to her, but dutiful soldier that she was, she went off, arm in a sling and leg limping and all from the hut of the dirty scavenger that had found her, and made to report to her superiors. But they would not receive her in the yeni cheri quarters. She was dead to them, and only Kord himself, they believed, could be so reborn to fight anew. Armed with her revelations, the devout soldier was forced to move into deeper worship, now possessed of knowledge from her visions. The battle priests who indulged her came to view her as an enigma, a sign, an omen. Of what, they knew not. Typically, they blamed it on her inability to speak the fighter’s tongue, for the visions she received, if they could be called that, had been obviously given in that language. Perhaps, they suggested, if she learned it, then the visions may return, and then they would all know, as she would understand the tongue

She learned it, as was her duty, and in the meantime, kept to the strictures of the Lord of War. The weapon forged had rarely dulled, but its willingness to draw blood had dimmed, its keen edge cooled, though whether that has strengthened it or made it brittle remains unknown. Never since that miracle in the Darklands has Sabrina been so hard pressed again, and for that inexplicable hardiness and strength of will, that sheer inability to give up, the unorthodox rise in the ranks of the formerly expendable country lass became nearly inevitable. With each punitive campaign and crusading expedition into the wilds she first joined, and later, reluctantly led, Sabrina gained experience and built her budding legend. She was a walking omen of something, her deeds and the aura of victory that followed her from the Darklands, to Elgard and finally to Irengard, where her superiors eventually moved such a remarkable anomaly in their faith.

The Maiden of Kord, they called her in the cities, where folk only dreamed of the glorious side of battle. And in the army camps, well, there were more dread titles from those who had seen her deal the only mercy she knew to give, the sort that the wild men had tried to subject her to...and failed. She was the Mercykiller, the Angel of Death, the Lightning Reaver...Now if only she could figure out what she ought to call herself. Eventually, the Storm God would get around to telling her that, right? With ten years of glorious deeds for she knew not what and ten years of aimless combat behind her, it was difficult for so young a soul thrust into so much responsibility not to wonder if it had been madness and not holiness that had driven her to her calling. Where was it all headed...

So when the King of Irengard finally sent out his call, Sabrina had to wonder...Did Kord finally have the mercy to reveal her final purpose?

Sabrina, as always, is heading out to heed the call of the King, as an answer to duty. Privately, however, she hopes to find herself. Her recklessness and ruthlessness in battle is all in the hopes that her god would finally reveal once more why she had been spared in that massacre, and why she had been blessed with such natural skill in channeling his power when all indications initially seemed like she would be a poor candidate for a warrior...

Sabrina Lyonesse, Longtooth Paladin (Iron Wolf), Daughter of Mercy
Init +10 HP 128/128 Bloodied 64 Healing Surge 33 (0 used /11)
AC 31 Fort 28 Reflex 24 Will 30 Speed 6
Str 22 (+6) Con 13 (+1) Dex 15 (+2) Int 9 (-1) Wis 20 (+5) Cha 12 (+1)
Longtooth Shifting, Lay on Hands, Divine Challenge, Ardent Strike, Holy Strike, Iron Wolf Charge, Lawbreaker's Doom, Hold Fast, Wolf's Bound, Castigating Strike, Dispensed Justice, Arc of Vengeance, Knightly Intercession, Divine Vengeance, Virtue, Aspect of Ferocity, Vengeful Vigilance, Red Death, Insightful Riposte, Melee Basic Attack, Ranged Basic Attack, Symbol of the Champion's Code, Channel Divinity: Divine Mettle, Channel Divinity: Divine Strength
Notes

Immobilizing Action (11th level): Whenever you spend an action point to make an extra attack against the target of your lawbreaker’s doom power, on a hit with that attack the target is also immobilized until the start of your next turn.
Strength of Conviction (16th level): Whenever you reduce the target of your lawbreaker’s doom power to 0 hit points, you gain temporary hit points equal to 10 + your Strength modifier.

Mighty Challenge - +6 damage to Divine Challenge.
Two-Handed Weapon Expertise - +2 damage to Charges.
Berserker's Fury - 1/day as a free action, you can gain a +2 bonus to damage rolls until the end of the encounter.
Honored Foe - Gain 5 THP when hurt by marked enemy.
World Serpent's Grasp - Prone on Slow or Immobilize

Meliorating Gith Plate Armour - +1 AC per milestone.
Badge of the Berserker - Charging does not provoke OAs.
Dragonborn Greaves - +2 item bonus to speed and +1 item bonus to AC and Reflex while Bloodied.
Symbol of the Champion's Code - +2 damage on Divine Challenge or Sanction.
Horned Helm - +1d6 damage on a Charge.
Gauntlets of Blood - +2 damage vs Bloodied opponents.
Belt of Vigor - +1 Item Bonus to Healing Surge Value.

Hmm...experience with 4e would be about...a couple years now, or so...Maybe closer to three. 3.5 for a couple years before that, but didn't know of anything before that at all. I've DM'd a couple of games, still running a Scales of War campaign for some folks. Most of this is on PbP or IRC, as I live in a place where there's not much hobby gaming, so the internet is my usual medium for gaming, heh, so my expectations of what can be achieved in a game are built differently from some people who have done the whole tabletop thing a lot.

What do I expect from the game? Well, I want a solid interactive fantasy epic of an experience, with great roleplaying, plenty of subthemes and subplots from PC interactions with each other, with NPCs, with the environment and the metagame. I hope it goes at a fairly good pace, and that there's a fairly varied mix of personalities in the group. To be honest...personality is probably the biggest thing I might adjust towards the group, with Sabrina, if she gets in, mostly because I want there to be some conflictual trends in the goals of people here and their beliefs, despite the fact that we're all goodie-goodies. Different degrees of good, is what I'm hoping to see, and different moral codes. And of course, I'm looking for character growth, and I definitely wanna eventually evolve Sabrina into the sort of Champion who actually feels she can stand on her own merit, and doesn't have to like...throw herself manically at everything just to prove she belongs.

Cicero was a well-known figure around the free cities of Elgard, not because he was an incredibly powerful knight, but because he was an incredibly powerful knight who was also a bastard and massive prick of epic proportions. His name first came into prominence about fifteen years ago when, still a no-name soldier of ignoble repute, he entered a regional combat tournament on a whim. Expecting the local favorite, Sir Harlfax to win the tournament by a landslide, the crowd was promptly handed the most outrageous disappointment of their lives when Cicero suddenly sucker-punched Harlfax in the middle of a verbal exchange usually reserved for salutations, and then through a vicissitude of verbal and physical abuse, proceeded to reduce him to a babbling pile of ineptitude, on the ground begging for mercy mere moments later.

Technically, there weren't really any rules against that. Nonetheless, people were understandably displeased with how their new champion knight earned his title, and took to the streets in protest. Bulls***, they cried, that was just a complete fluke, and Cicero was a cheater. Rather than voice any form of response, Cicero gave them a figurative one-fingered salute, and proceeded to repeat the same feat at the same tournament a year later. And then again, the year after. In every case, his opponents, all honorable, aspiring champions of the realm, were each soundly beaten, insulted, and traumatized with such ferocity that for many years afterwards, they remained a mere pale shadow of their former prowess.

He was promptly banned from regional tournaments immediately thereafter. Nonetheless, the damage had already been done, and his reputation already made. Cicero the Bastard. Cicero the knight who erred from the path of chivalry. Cicero, who would win, no matter the cost. Surprisingly, that actually made him a popular soldier in the employ of certain lords, dispatching him to assignments where no other knight could possibly succeed. Where so many others would oblige their knightly oaths, rather than heed the pleas of the weak, Cicero would berate them for their weakness and tell them to grow a pair while he proceeded to take the head of the opposing bandit lord. Rather than trying to smooth over a difficult hostage situation, Cicero would simply bluff that he didn't give a damn, and charge in headlong anyway. He would lie, cheat, steal, bed, and blackmail to gain any edge he could prior to a fight, and when the scuffle actually came, a sharp tongue hurling the most scathing of insults and a sharp blade with unerring preference for the enemy's groin saw him through to victory any day.

Though in his quests he almost always ends up displeasing someone, it remains that his accomplishments were successful, useful, and surprisingly, good. Being that there were only bandits, raiders, and the occasional demonhost remnant to fight off, its rather hard to imagine a scenario where such a victory wouldn't be heroic, or awe-inspiring had it been done by any other method and any other man. Nonetheless, recognized or not, Cicero's checkered career continues, with him fast becoming a favored soldier to be throw into the most dangerous and impossible of situations. After all, if he dies, that's somehow its own consolation prize.

Like many other knight-errants, Cicero spent much of his days wandering around punching people and taking their stuff (read: questing). Unlike the more formal overlord-vassal relationship kept by knights and their noble patrons in the Irengard, the independent city-states of Elgard offer little organized military presence outside of what relatively minor garrisons their cities could sustain, and their lords could reasonably keep only a small cadre of vassal-knights under their direct allegiance. Rather, they relied primarily on contractual work from the extensive group of 'free knights' that make their home around the region. In a way, the work is almost certainly mercenary in nature. A call to arms is issued asking for brave champions of the realm to muster, and those of particular virtue (or avarice) rise to the challenge.

In this manner, Cicero has already worked under several of the smaller city-states in the region: Garicia, Sirecia, and Vugoslavia (please, for the love of god, change these names). The lords of each of these cities have all acknowledged Cicero begrudgingly, for as much of an ass as he was, few other knights of the realm could put down a uppity band of raiders with such brutal effectiveness to the point where a bandit lord would surrender on his own volition, begging to be freed from further torment. Lord Vugoslavia even prefers him, for in one particular contract to save a noble the lord found particularly annoying, conveniently neglecting to define 'save the hostages' in the mission parameters ended in a way that was exactly as one would expect.

His best patron by far, however, was Lady Illyasviel Alveron of the city-state of Alveron. Well, technically, his patronage was by the city itself and the lord that governed it, but in truth, he had a love-hate relationship, both professionally and personally, with the lady of the city. 'Illya', he called her, harking back to younger days, when she was still a young free knight, and one of very few who not only tolerated, but even liked the way Cicero conducted business. It was downright amazing how one night under the influence of the universal shame-inhibitor known as alcohol and a careless slip of the phrase "ohohoho, please, call me 'Illya'" could cause nearly two decades of grief. This sort of familiarity, however, was what allowed both sides to benefit from a pseudo vassal-lord relationship in the years following her marriage to the Lord of Alveron - Illyasviel had become the de facto Knight-Commander of all Alveron's military forces, and with her ascension, the contracts flowed nonstop. He was almost always assigned the most dangerous and arduous of challenges, and with it, the most lucrative contractual rewards (and not all of which was monetary), though whether it was because she trusted his capabilities to succeed in the matter or an earnest attempt to try and get him finally killed was anyone's guess, and more often than not up to the whims of her fiery temperament.



Involvement with Isengard/Ordamar:

When Ordamar speaks, you listen. Or at least, you listen to the parts that you want to hear. Ever-vigilant, and mindful of the fact that he needed to rebuild his army quickly in the event of unforeseen future disaster, King Ordamar began myriad preparations to consolidate his military power, and one of them was a request - not so much of alliance, for the value of such association with scattered minor free states was suspect at best, but of commission. Elgard, after all, was even nearer to the Darklands, and had seen its own share of conflicts for years. What better way to ensure his own soldiers kept their edge, he reasoned, than to infuse them with new skills and fresh perspectives from an officer-exchange program? With any luck, he might even handpick a few talented ones to serve and bolster the ranks of his own champions. He would pay, he announced, for each Elgardian city to organize a force of its own knights and soldiers to bolster his forces, and quite handsomely too - the treasuries of individual cities paled in comparison to that of a prosperous kingdom, and no fewer than a dozen city lords popped their eyes at the number of zeroes written in the contractual rewards.

Well, that certainly got them all thinking. How could they profit off of this? Most of them arrived at the exact same conclusion: the last great war had a survival rate of oh...what percent again? This was a great time as any to do personnel downsizing. Their most problematic and incompetent; the lazy, weak-willed and moronic sons of their vassal knights who only gained their aristocratic titles because 'daddy was also a knight'; in scores and droves they sent their refuse to their probable doom, the refuse, so long as they numbered a proper army, whose weight King Ordamar would pay for in gold.

All except for the City-State of Alveron. They sent one single knight. It was all they could afford.

--------------------

And with that, we transition to another RP sample.

It was no hidden fact that Cecil Alveron despised Cicero. The reasons...need not be said, for they are manyfold, but his suspicions of certain shenanigans with his wife definitely made the top of a very long list. Which is perhaps why everyone was stunned when he proposed that they contract a free knight, generally a tremendous expense, to King Ordamar's muster when all other city-states were practically laughing and swimming gleefully in all the free gold they were getting at Ordamar's expense. And then he mentioned the free knight's name: Cicero Krosse. And then they all understood.

. . .

The antechamber was silent, for few dared to speak. Those that did dare, chose not to. They simply looked onward as Cicero perused the contract.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Voluntary exile, rather than some some foray into some new found deathtrap in an effort to get me killed once more. Your idea, Illya?."

He amusedly noted a definitive cringe from the Lord Alveron, whom was still relegated to calling her by her formal name Illyasviel while Cicero could so easily kick common courtesy to the curb. He knew Alveraon was an intensely jealous and possessive man, and it was, perhaps, even the only reason why he still called her by her familiar name even now. The passion-flame of their private relationship was smothered long ago, and by now it had become a mere ghost in the closet, to kept sealed tightly under wraps. Well, probably. When someone approached within even a mile of the subject, both would vehemently deny it. At the same time. And then they'd proceed to hurl the exact same insults at each other. Hmm...

"...Illya?"

With some uncharacteristic amount of cautiousness, Cicero gauged his patrons' faces for reaction. The obvious indignation from Alveron was both amusing and favorable, at least to his interests, but Illyasviel was a surprisingly hard read. She hasn't thrown anything lethal at him - usually a good sign, but she was also thinly smiling - usually a bad one. More importantly, however, she had a vacant look in her eyes, no longer looking towards him, rather, beyond him, anywhere but him. She also looked like she was about to say something when one of the retainers slammed his fist against the table in outrage.

"Insolence! How dare you speak to Lady Alveron with such vulg-" He began, but was interrupted in turn.

"BE SILENT. Adults are talking."

The retainer was well into his early fifties, and thus a good two decades older than Cicero, but the bastard knight talked down to him with the tone of speaking to a small child, loudly, definitively, and without a further look in his direction. The old man seethed, and might even have sputtered an enraged response or two, but Cicero simply talked over him, paying him no further heed.

"Is he new? He must be new around here." That got a semblance of smile out of Illya, if only just the tiniest bit. "I've little reason not to accept your assignment. However, we're talking about a pervasive extension of my servitude contract, for a period that looks an awful lot like, well...indefinite, and far outside your domestic concern. Doable, but the cost would be..."


He penned a figure even as he spoke, one with far too many numbers behind it to appear reasonable, and looking eerily like the exact value that King Ordamar had offered for a requisition of troops, down to the same decimal values, even. Cicero had his sources.

"...Twice this value. Half up front."

"Th-this is an outrageous sum. You could buy a small estate with that!"

"Two, actually, and on the waterfront of the outer quadrant of Vugoslavia, no less. The Lord of Vugoslavia recently pulled eminent domain on some land left undeveloped after some forgettable noble kicked the bucket in an unfortunate hostage incident, and offered to build me a vacation home for cheap."

"..."

"...but you know, I'd never even think of leaving here, not when the missus here treats me so well."

The double threat seemed to do the trick. Alveron motioned Illya over, and two retreated to a heated private discussion over whispers. Distinctly significant outbursts were overheard, such as "Oh, come on, that's our entire budget! How would we look when Ordamar saw we only sent one knight?!", and "Oh please, with the trash everyone else is sending? We'd be sending more soldiers than any other state ever would.", along with something about "'Tis a price worthy of a hero of the realm."

For all her unreadable mood today, she was actually sticking up for him. Which, for an infinitely rare moment of humble gratuity, Cicero contemplated thanking a god (whichever; Cicero hasn't prayed to any god since...well, ever). He didn't, of course, but it was the thought that counts. Now everything falls into place. Cecil Alveron wheels about abruptly, snatching up the contract with a "gimme that!" look, and scratching his name onto the signature line with vehement ferocity.

"You are NOT getting that second half of the sum unless Ordamar personally sends you back to me, your chest pinned full of commendations. I want to see it in the news, and I want to see scry-pictographs. you got that?"

Hopeyoudiehopeyoudiehopeyoudiehopeyoudie, his face otherwise says, in no uncertain terms.

"Oh, that was already in the plan, you know."

It was certainly the most he could hope to get out of him in this situation. Cicero merely sends back his regards with his usual cocksure smirk. It was not returned in kind.

"Good. Now, for the love of all that's radiant and necrotic, get out of here. Go do your job, and get the HELL out of my sight. "

Wordlessly, Cicero got up and began to depart. Still no words from Illya. He turned and looked back one last time...

She was standing, and staring straight at him. Her soul-piercing gaze was complemented by a thin sliver of a real smile; faint, bittersweet, but genuine. There was even the ever minute traces of a faint mist welling up in her eyes. No one, not even Cicero held any illusions about his chances to return back to these lands after being signed off to the king of Irengard, and this was the least she could do to send him off.

"Farewell, Sir Cicero Krosse. And godspeed."

For reasons even he couldn't explain, Cicero felt like laughing.

"Until we meet again, Illyasviel Krantz."

Leaving all but few perplexed as to why he called her by her maiden name, Cicero made his egress before another word was uttered. His forceful gait as proud as ever, the towering knight strode forward one step after another while the guards scrambled to clear a path. Soon, he would travel to a foreign land, off to fight eldritch horrors from a foreign dimension. The men of those lands knew nothing of him, of his ways, and still waged war while holding on to their petty ideals of chivalry. Soon, he would show feeble fools, men and demon alike, how real battles are won.

Let's show, instead of tell, because I'm pretty bad at just telling you "hey, my character is this."


RP Sample, using actual powers that this character would use:


Oh, this was good...he could already tell where this was going, and a predatory sneer began working its way into the cocksure expression that was ever-present on his face.

"Keh, a shot at point-blank range?"

It really wasn't, as the demon figured he was at ample distance to afford a margin of safety while hurling a fireball, but before he could even blink, Cicero had already bounded up to him, proclaiming his own truth and casting aside all logic of incredulous protest with a flying sword to the face.

"How...courageous? Daring? Try utterly stupid. It always amazes me how the lives of hundreds of soldiers are saved every year due to the ineptitude of pants-on-head imbeciles like you. Shall I do us all a favor by letting you escape so you may yet live to pollute your inbred genepool with your moronic filth?"

Or how about not. Cicero's silver blade had already decided to provide the answer. Not once, but twice it descended on soft, unarmored flesh, and punctuated by a gleeful wad of spit aimed straight into the eye of the freshly ventilated cadaver. Needless to say, the result precluded the possibility of any point-blank fireballs to be shot that day.

Cicero declines to wear a helmet, because spit and insults do not travel nearly as far behind a mouth guard and visor, and anyone facing him on the field of battle would observe a blond, heavy-set soldier in plated armor and crimson finery at least half a head taller than them, staring down at them with cobalt blue pupils filled with obvious and dismissive scorn. That is, assuming they can see at all, with Cicero usually opening the battle by throwing sand in their eyes.

For the DM who prefers something a little darker and edgier than the world-saving superman. Your tastes may vary.

Character functions reasonably as a full defender, strong side of striker, and can sub leader in a pinch with one heal/encounter. Mostly though? This character's main role will be to end up trolling the enemy.

Let's be real here. I'm mostly a numbers guy who likes building optimized characters. But at this point, I'm pretty tried of building vanilla characters, and almost always end up trying to play weird characters that do crazy things. In general, I do my damndest to try and achieve the perfect marriage of RP and mechanics to match the character.

That aside, I'm been around the block for about 8 years, starting 3E, transitioning to 4E, and never looked back. I've played/playing a few games on MW, and currently running a one-shot Lair Assault for some people, because I'm too lazy to run my own stuff and its super easy to do adventures-in-a-can.

Also, please note that I'm friends with lcg16. While I hope to hell you take us both, if you had to pick one defender/defender-lite, take her.

====== Created Using Wizards of the Coast D&D Character Builder ======
Cicero, level 16
Human, Rogue|Paladin, Daring Blade
Hybrid Paladin: Hybrid Paladin Reflex
Hybrid Talent: Paladin Armor Proficiency
Human Power Selection: Heroic Effort
Background: Born Under a Bad Sign (Born Under a Bad Sign Benefit)

FINAL ABILITY SCORES
Str 15, Con 11, Dex 16, Int 11, Wis 9, Cha 24.

STARTING ABILITY SCORES
Str 13, Con 10, Dex 13, Int 10, Wis 8, Cha 18.


AC: 35 Fort: 28 Reflex: 32 Will: 32
HP: 112 Surges: 8 Surge Value: 28

TRAINED SKILLS
Acrobatics +12, Athletics +13, Intimidate +22, Diplomacy +20, Endurance +9, Bluff +20

UNTRAINED SKILLS
Arcana +8, Dungeoneering +7, Heal +7, History +8, Insight +7, Nature +7, Perception +7, Religion +8, Stealth +7, Streetwise +15, Thievery +7

FEATS
Human: Versatile Duelist
Level 1: Heavy Blade Expertise
Level 2: Hybrid Talent
Level 4: Bardic Dilettante
Level 6: Vigilante Justice Style
Level 8: Mark of Finding
Level 10: Underhanded Tactics
Level 11: Disheartening Ambush
Level 12: Psychic Lock
Level 14: Improved Defenses
Level 16: Reserve Maneuver

POWERS
Hybrid at-will 1: Riposte Strike
Hybrid at-will 1: Virtuous Strike
Reserve Maneuver: Lashing Blade
Hybrid encounter 1: Heedless Fury
Hybrid daily 1: Majestic Halo
Hybrid utility 2: Call of Challenge
Hybrid encounter 3: Low Slash
Hybrid daily 5: Mocking Strike
Hybrid utility 6: Swift Parry
Hybrid encounter 7: Darting Strike
Hybrid daily 9: Profit from Weakness
Hybrid utility 10: Flush With Success
Hybrid encounter 13: Castigating Strike (replaces Heedless Fury)
Hybrid daily 15: Bloody Path (replaces Mocking Strike)
Hybrid utility 16: Slip from the Grasp

ITEMS
Heavy Shield, Imposter's Warplate Armor +4, Githyanki Silver Longsword +3, Headband of Intellect (heroic tier), Dreamstone Amulet +4, Iron Armbands of Power (heroic tier), Diamond Cincture (heroic tier), Boots of the Fencing Master (heroic tier), Dice of Auspicious Fortune (paragon tier), Symbol of Scorned Fate +1
====== Copy to Clipboard and Press the Import Button on the Summary Tab ======

Quinn is of average height, weight, and build, with an pleasant - if mostly unremarkable - face. She wears her brown hair in a longish bob that does nothing to conceal the points of her ears. A perfect emerald in an intricate silver filigree is held to her brow by a fine silver chain - which also manages to keep most of Quinn's hair from her face. Her eyes are mismatched: the left is a startling silver, the right is the same bright emerald green as the stone at her forehead. She wears fine leather armor intricately tooled in an ancient eladrin style. Her green cloak is embroidered with silver thread and trimmed with sable.

The tip of her right ear is pierced, and a small charm hangs from it on a short silver chain. An intricately filigreed silver ring sits on the third finger of her left hand. Both are gifts from her patron; Quinn becomes quite agitated if someone suggests she remove them. Quinn bears a strange glyph on the palm of each hand. These glyphs are not brands or tattoos; they are as much a part of her skin as her fingerprints and are an outward mark of her pact with Fate.

Distracted and somewhat skittish, Quinn's attention almost always seems focused on things others can't see or hear. She is generally polite, possessing the social grace typically associated with half-elves, but getting and keeping her attention in casual conversation is sometimes a challenge. When relaxed and around friends, Quinn's elven heritage is quite pronounced. She loves to dance, generally has a drink of some sort in her hand, and delights in singing and telling stories.

Perhaps its her mismatched eye color, perhaps it is something else, but strangers often feel slightly unsettled near Quinn. Domestic animals tend to avoid her. Cats are a notable exception to this. They tend to flock to Quinn, much to her irritation. She hates cats.

Quinn keeps a journal written in Primordial.

To say that Quinn is crazy is ... oversimplifying the situation. Let's be clear: she was crazy. Mad as a hatter for some years. Potent otherworldly magic tends to have that effect on mortal minds. But she's better now. Really.

The specifics are a bit fuzzy in Quinn's mind. She may have been tricked, or gone willingly, or been outright kidnapped - at this point the truth of what happened that day matters far less than one might expect. What matters is that she was gone from this realm for ten years. Apprenticed, as it were, to a powerful faerie creature and turned loose on an unsuspecting world. Or perhaps it was turned loose, unsuspecting, on the world. Again, the specifics are a bit fuzzy. What matters is that she seemed pretty well unhinged at the time and for more than a few years after ... but she had a purpose. She just couldn't ... quite ... remember what it was.

She moved around a lot in the first few years following her return. Some of it was by necessity. She had power, and it manifested in odd ways and at often inconvenient times. Quinn found she could see things that hadn't quite happened yet (in some cases, things that wouldn't happen for years to come), hear things that would be spoken in just a few moments (and occasionally longer), all overlaid on what was going on now. It was confusing, and more than a little distracting. Worse, Quinn would often act in response to what she knew would happen. Sometimes this meant killing a killer before he struck, or moving a child out of harm's way, though it looked for all the world like kidnapping at the time. Sometimes, she moved because she felt the need to be over there. It was some time before she finally managed to puzzle out why.

It took 7 years for Quinn's mind to patch itself back together enough for her to recall what she had done (perhaps foolishly) as a child. The pact had given her power, and with that power she had saved so many. She was a servant of Fate, sent back from somewhere else to make sure things went according to plan. Well, mostly according to plan. Hopefully according to what Quinn thought was the plan. She spent a lot of time in Elgard, managing to be at just the right place at a given time to stave off this bandit attack or that band of marauders.

As Quinn mastered her Sight, she came to the attention of those who pay attention to such things. It came as a bit of a shock when an emissary of Ordamar VI, King of Irengard, finally caught up with her a nameless inn on a forsaken crossroad in the middle of a swamp to offer her a position in His Majesty's elite. (She's since come to realize her Sight is rather myopic with regard to herself.) 7 years in, Quinn has built a reputation as a canny negotiator, diplomat, and (when the need arises) deadly assassin.

Now, as word of the demon army's power spreads and tales of its horror are proven fact, Quinn steps forward. She commands power over Fate itself ... but will it be enough to save Irengard?

I've been playing RPGs in general (and D&D in specific) for nearly 30 years, and I've been an avid theatre buff for about as long. (At one point I thought I wanted to be an actor, and blew 2 years of college studying the craft.) I enjoy the characterization of the game as much as the tactical aspects of 4E combat. My expectations are fairly basic: tell a story, roll some dice, have fun. I've been an active member of the MW community for about 4 1/2 years.

I was one of the early advocates of 4E, and participated in some of the first playtest games as we struggled to translate the highly tactical nature of 4E combat into the play-by-post format. I won't say I'm an expert; there are others in the community with a far deeper grasp of the rules than I. My focus isn't on rules (though I will say I'm far more than "passingly familiar" with them) or character optimization (though I do build 'em like I mean it). Rather, I try to focus on a creating balanced and interesting characters that a) interest me, b) others find interesting, and c) play well within a group.

Quinn, Half-Elf Warlock (Fey & Star Pact), Feytouched
Init +8 HP 101/101 Bloodied 50 Healing Surge 25 (0 used /8)
AC 29 Fort 22 Reflex 27 Will 30 Speed 6
Str 9 (-1) Con 14 (+2) Dex 11 (0) Int 21 (+5) Wis 11 (0) Cha 22 (+6)
Eldrich Blast, Eyebite, Dire Radiance, Melee Basic Attack, Beguiling Tongue, Fey Switch, Ethereal Sidestep, Twilight Teleport, Knack for Success, Second Wind, Hand of Fate, Fickle Fate, Fate Commands, Sign of Ill Omen, Will of the Feywild, Curse of the Golden Mist, Crown of Madness, Storm Countess's Kiss, Eladrin Boots, Quickcurse Rod, Eldritch Admixture, Elegy, Viper Belt
Notes Class Features:

• Prime Shot: +1 to ranged attack rolls when no other allies are closer your target than you.
• Shadow Walk: When you move more than 3 squares from where you started your turn, you gain concealment until the end of your next turn.
• Pact Boon: When a cursed enemy drops to 0hp, choose to roll for Patron's Favor OR gain a cumulative +1 bonus to any d20 roll before EoNT.
• Slashing Wake: Once per turn, when you leave a square by teleporting, enemies adjacent to that square take 5 damage.

Feats:

• Rod Expertise: +1 feat bonus per tier to attack rolls with rods. +1 shield bonus while wielding a rod.
• Protective Hex: When you hit a target under your Warlock's Curse with an attack, the target takes a -2 penalty to melee and close attacks targeting your allies. The penalty lasts until the end of your next turn.
• Bloodied Boon: You can choose to gain your pact boon when an enemy you curse is first bloodied. If you do so, you remove your curse from that enemy.
• Superior Implement (Accurate Rod): Can use Accurate Rods.
• Superior Will: Can make a SoT saving throw to end Dazed or Stunned conditions, even if the effect doesn't normally end on a save.
• Resilent Focus: +2 feat bonus to all saving throws.
• Twofold Pact: Gain the effect of a second Eldritch Pact.
• Twofold Curse: When you use your Warlock’s Curse class feature, you can curse the two nearest enemies.
• Sibling to the Stars: You may choose to change the damage type from your Warlock's Curse and Eldritch Blast to Radiant.
• Shared Pact: When your Pact Boon is triggered, you can designate an ally within 3 squares of you to receive the benefit instead of you.

Magic Items:

• Eladrin Boots: +2 squares to any distance you teleport, plus a daily effect.
• Gloves of Eldritch Admixture: Damage from Warlock's Curse can be acid, cold, fire, or untyped.
• Incisive Dagger: +2 squares to any distance you teleport.
• Shadow Warlock Armor: While you have concealment from Shadow Walk, all enemies under your Warlock's Curse grant Combat Advantage to you.
• Viper Belt: Gain Resist 5 Poison, plus an encounter effect.

Action Point -
When you spend an action point to take an extra action, you also gain a +4 bonus to attack rolls until the start of your next turn.

Allies-
+1 racial bonus to Diplomacy Checks within 10 squares.

Elic

Elic has an unassuming figure: that of a boy. His skin is pale, nearly albino, because of his connection to the demons (see below), and he covers as much of it as he can. To each person who sees him, his eyes are a different color. He wears the boots he wore when he was an adult (also see below), but tightens them so they fit him. He carries around a backpack with his adventuring gear, along with a separate set of clothing to change into. Both of his outfits are reversible, effectively giving him four sets of clothing. His summonable feyweave armor allows him another set of clothing, and a way to change it fast, although it is heftier then his normal clothes. All of his clothing is dark yet intricate so as to distract from the wearer as much as possible. His short, messy black hair is usually tied in a bandana.

He uses a large belt pouch to carry his thieves’ tools and wand, and a second smaller one, hidden by his cloak (a different color with a different embroidering on both sides), hides his magical dagger. He also carries a decoy dagger, one with no special powers of its own. Around his neck hangs an old necklace with a locket at the end, given to him by the demons (see below). Inside the front end of the locket, there is nothing, but when opened from the back, a secret compartment reveals a small red jewel from which the amulet gains its power. He is unusually tough and agile, even if he doesn’t look it, as most enemies find out the hard way.

Elic does his best to hold the ruse of being a child. When all fails, he tells the truth, and if they do not believe him, he quickly disarms them and shows them the power of the demons he harnesses. If he still cannot convince them, he will challenge them to a game of skill of some sorts, one of their choosing. He hates to not be taken seriously, and will go to any measure to show one who questions the authenticity of his clam. Of course, this is all time permitting. If he has urgent business or it is someone like the town guard who is threatening to throw him out of the city, he will simply knock them out as painlessly as he can (as long as they mean no harm, of course).

Before becoming a champion, and sometimes even now, he wanders in the streets of towns far and wide, asking those who are able to take him in for the night. Those less fortunate or those of much generosity will find themselves repaid not only in gold, but in the many stories of his life, past and present. Those less kind-hearted will find their status and wealth soon in the latrine. Any city he enters is better off by the time he leaves. He feels this to be a repayment for the crimes he did earlier in his previous life. He feels that all are innocent until proven guilty, and is therefore nice to everyone he meets until they show unkindness or preform acts of evil. In this way, he has driven off many a tribe of monsters plaguing a town by simply giving them the resources they need. However, if their intent is truly malicious, his words will turn cold and often the attacks will stop before he even lifts a weapon. If in combat, he will hardly ever kill someone, preferring to knock it out and question why it was committing evil acts, so as to stop the spread of evil at its source and hopefully redeem the person. However, if the monster is truly viscous and will not listen to reason, or is an unthinking beast, he has no problem carrying out his duty in the party.

Elic is talkative, the complete opposite of his former self. He is cheerful and fiercely competitive. He takes on combat with a confident smile and a mischievous look in his eyes. Elic is fidgety and does not like to stay in one place for too long. While Elic is cheerful and kind on the outside, when in full combat, he becomes a different creature, more vicious and gains some almost demonic features, hardly noticeable unless one looks closely. He also harbors a dirty secret. Although he says he is a thief, a mere scoundrel, in reality, he is a highly trained assassin. He received his twitch and talkative manner from a bizarre poison accident, as he was not used to working on poisons with childish hands. He hides his ability for dark magic by saying that he was previously a wizard’s apprentice, and that his dark magic is merely a spell used that he had not quite mastered. He masks these dark talents with his appearance and his friendly ways.

Part 1: Early Life

Elic was born under the name of Elanic Rekidel Helfinat in the bustling port city of New Klorand, one of the ten great cities of the nation Indarica. His mother and father were a minor lord and a servant girl who loved him. Unfortunately, he did not love her back, so she turned to the demons for help. She made a pact with them, and in return they gave her her love. However, the young lord lusted for power. The slave girl used her powers to please him, helping the young lord ascend to just below the much-loved king. But still the young lord wanted power and so the girl killed the king. The young lord gained the title of king, but none of the power. The soldiers revolted and the townsfolk protested. The young lord was dead within a year’s time, and the city fell to ruins.

It was around this time that the slave girl had her first and only child. She traveled to a far off kingdom; a minor one with few ties to the world at large. But to her dismay, she soon gained demonic qualities and became a succubus, her demonic power turned against her. However, by day she would turn into her old self and raise her child, who grew up a happy, albeit lonely, child. The demons wanted more from her, however, and so she began the ritual to bind her son to the demons. He refused to give in fully, and halfway through the ritual he ran away, only slightly giving in to the demons. He tried to survive in the town alone, but his mother, desperate to please the demons, manipulated the town guard to her will and they searched relentlessly for him. He managed to escape with only a scar from a fight with the town guard at the gates of the city, which he won by using his bizarre new power granted to him by the demons.

He wandered for days and days, until he collapsed in the middle of a trade road, where he was found a few hours later by a marauding band of thieves, who took him in and raised him as their own. They eventually reach the town of Elgendal, a notorious thieves town, where villains run rampant and the king openly endorses such behavior. Here he joined a thieves guild, a relatively low power one, and soon began to ascend the ranks with his mystic powers and skill at assassination.

Part 2: Adulthood to Death

He soon became the third-highest rank in his guild; second only the leader of the guild and his lieutenant, though in reality he was stronger than both. With his help, the guild became one of the most powerful in the city. But he began to have a nagging sense of regret that this city would forever remain in chaos, in part because of him. He began to loose sleep over the end of life, and the complex ways for which it was necessary. For example, was it right to kill the mastermind behind the series of murders? Or did he become that mastermind because that is what the city demanded of him? If the only answer to surviving was killing, what was the point of living in the first place?

It seems that chaos was the cause of this vicious cycle, and so he made it his only mission to bring the city to order. Unfortunately, the path to peace is fraught with bloodshed. He had to eliminate the two officers who came before him and rise to the top of the guild. He also had to get people who thought like him into similar positions, which also required the killing of man. But soon he had gathered together enough power to take control of the city. They infiltrated the castle of the lord and by morning the old government had been wiped out without a trace. With much effort and military prowess, the city was beaten into order and became a populous trade city.

But not all were happy. Soon some of Elic’s advisors, commanders, and lieutenants began to lust for more power. A great war broke out in the city, and Elic had no choice. Rather than see it return to its previous state, Elic destroyed the city with the help of powerful wizards under his command. Soon the city had collapsed in flames. But one person followed Elic as he fled from the city: the former lord. When it came to a one on one duel, they were evenly matched. Elic used the only infernal spell he could, which would hurt an opponent if Elic got hurt as a last ditch attempt. As the lord finished Elic off, the fires of hell, called on by Elic, reduced the lord to ashes.

Part 3: Rebirth

As his soul left for the Shadowfell, it was intercepted by an exarch of Asmodeus, who had taken notice of him. The exarch told him of the coming invasions of the Enchanted Lands, and guaranteed him unimaginable power if he pledged service to the demon legions. Elic was terrified by what the exarch told him about, and only pledged his service so that he could help stop the invasion. But after the deal was sealed, the exarch wiped Elic’s memory of the invasion and left him only with a nagging sense of fear.

Elic still remembers how he got his newfound powers, but does not remember why the exarch contacted him in the first place, or why he pledged allegiance to the demons, even if he was lying. Elic woke up miles away from where he died with a pennant around his neck with a fiery gem inside, which gave him the power to create fireballs. It was meant as a gift from the demons, but it reminds him of the city he was forced to burn to the ground. He was also reborn as a child, which posed some obstacles, like for entering towns (think, “Hey kid, where’s your mother?).

Another thing the demon did not talk about was the urge to do evil deeds. So he set off to find another patron to help break this connection with the demons. What he found was the vestiges of Zutwa and King Elidyr, who offered to ward of the demons if they came, but he would have to forge a pact with them for him to be able to do so. Having no choice, he did.

For a long time went about doing his own business (described in section 2: Personality, Behaviors, and Pastimes) and tried to put his troubles behind him. Then, while visiting a huge kingdom in the south, he heard about a nation fueled by evil and bent on destroying the southern nations, including this particular kingdom and Irengaurd. He gathered an army of rouges, assassins, and others, and over a period of 10 months, manipulated the strings of the nation to bring about its political and military downfall. Thus he was made into a champion of Irengaurd. He requested the ceremony be private and secretive, so many do not even know he exists, let alone he is a champion.

In the past month, two things have happened. First, he has finished building a dwarf-sized construct that he had been working on in his spare time, and a demon has begun to follow him around. A small one, albeit, but he will not state the reason he is here, and it has begun to worry Elic.

Standing slightly over 2 meters tall, the battlescared human does not look the slightest like a barbarian.
Where one would expect a large two-handed- or two large one-handed weapons, Mord only has a modest sized waraxe, but the most eyecatching about him is the shield he carries on his back that is as large as himself, a symbol of Kord is etched into both of them.
Covering his chest there is a large tattoo of a shield with many broken weapons depicted around it.
Mord usually walks around without anything on his upper body, proudly displaying his tattoo and scars, and even in combat his armor covers only his back and arms.

(The best picture i found if one disregards the armor)

(If the picture above is too orcish i also have a human version, but i dont feel that it properly depicts Mord)

Calm and collected, Mord is known as the Enduring Mountain, a name that reflects his combat style. Mord is fighting in a way so that he will take the brunt of the force while he tries to keep his comrades safe. So far he has never once fallen in combat and is slightly overconfident because of it. If anyone is ever left behind Mord would stay with them til the end.

Outside of combat, he tends to be overprotective, especially when it comes to those weaker then him. Mord is also slightly naive in the fact that he is willing to give everyone a chance but only one chance and if it is squandered he is not willing to give another one. In his free time he mostly sits somewhere with a great view and broods over everything.
Mord aims to one day unite the world under one rule, not necessarily his rule, but a just rule, he has seen enough injustice done to the people at the hands of nobles or others. Some will say he has delusions of grandeur, if they found out his plans to right all wrongs and set the world right, but Mord believes that it is possible if only he could gather allies and connections to help him.

Although he grew up in the middle of the tundra among barbarians, and is a barbarian himself, he has purged the anger from his raging self and found the calm center of the raging storm. There are few things that actually makes Mord mad, one such thing is betrayal. Mord is prideful and will not kneel to anyone he deems it necessary to kneel to, as he explains it "You are a better person then me, you need not that i kneel for you".

Although called the "Templar's" of Justice there is no specific religion they are connected to.
The Templar's current headquarters/camp is located in Irengard.
The Templar's were created with the purpose of bettering the world and ridding it of all evil and that is the ultimate goal it strives for.
Anyone whom wishes is welcomed into the Templar's and as such you can find many different kinds of people from all of classes and races there.
The Templar's are a safe haven for anyone as long as they follow the commandments.
There are three commandments;
1. To do good and change the world for the better where they can.
2. To never stray of the path of justice and do evil.
3. To fight against evil, corruption and injustice.
If anyone breaks the commandments they face trail at the Templar's own "court" where the current leader will pass judgement.

the Bonesplinter clan, one of the most influential of the northern barbarian clans, is lead by Grog Bonesplinter. They are know for being ferocious warriors fighting til their last breath, bringing terror into the hearts of their enemies.
Mord, being born the chiefs son in such a clan, had a lot of pressure on him, practically demanding he were going to follow in his fathers footsteps. So he tried to appease them and train to surpass his father one day and inherit the clan.
Mord had the strength and skills needed to become the next barbarian king, that was Grog's wish anyways. But Mord lacked one crucial thing, the cruel savage mindset needed to be acknowledged by his fellow peers. To remedy this Grog bought a young slave boy named Mathew and raised him and Mord as brethren. At first it was difficult for both of them to adjust but little after little they became as close as brother can be.
The years whent by and Mord and Mathew honed their skills hunting and sparing together, this year would mark Mords 18th summer, Mathew came to be mords brother 4 summers ago.
One night Mathew suddenly came at mord with a knife trying to kill him. In the ensuing fight Mord fataly wounded Mathew, and with his dying breath Mathew told him; That Grog felt the time right, that Mord needed to wake up from his dream and become ruthless and had ordered Mathew to assasinate him and no matter how much Mathew refused it was impossible, because Grog owned him and he had to do what his master told him.
Hearing this mord snapped, the years of pent up anger and rage being unleashed and his counsciousness fell into a hazy murk. He remembers little from the time but the stories tell of him ravaging everything in his path on the way towards Grog, who lost an eye in the battle with Mord.

The next eight years of Mords life his mind was a hazy murk clouded by hatred and anger, becoming the ruthless barbarian his father wanted, but at the price of becoming little more then a puppet for Grog to command. Thanks to Mords newfound strength the Bonesplinter Clan started expanding their territory vanquishing most in their path.
It was inevitable that they would cross blades with Titans Wrath, The largest of the barbarian clans in the Nordic Plains, sooner or later, yet here there were no victory for either side , just mutual destruction and carnage. A mighty storm raged as the battle continued, still with no end in sight. Then a lightning struck the ground and all combatants could see a lone individual walking towards them, his armor practically shining as he walked towards them over the plains. With each stride he took a lightning struck and he seemed closer the humanly possible. When he closed in on the outskirts of the fighting he didn't say or do anything he just kept walking, yet everyone knew instinctively how powerful he was and turned to run in fear. The lines of battle parted in front of him as he moved towards the two people locked in combat at the centre of the battlefield. There at the center of the battle Mord was locked in combat with the champion of Titans Wrath. As he stopped right next to them both combatants looked up at him. The red haired middle-aged man looked at both of them his gaze piercing through, looking at their naked souls. Looking at him Mord felt something stir inside of him, like he was looking at a lighthouse guiding him home, and for the first time in a very long time he felt clarity return to him, like if someone had reached down into the hazy murk that trapped him and pulled him out of it. Exhaustion overtook Mord and the last thing he saw before passing out was the symbol on the red haired mans breastplate, a fist clenching a lightning bolt pierced by a sword.

it took several months before Mord regained consciousness after the battle but when he finally did, he had fundamentally changed. the first thing he did after waking up was to make a grave for Mathew, something his father didn't deem necessary.
Mord spent most of his days now studying the arts of war and diplomacy. He was shunned once again by the clan, yet they could not ignore what he had done for them and what he continued to do, opening trade routes, making alliances and commanding them in battle against invaders. Although Grog was not pleased with the things his son spent time doing, he acknowledged him as a wise and strong leader, that when the time came he could hand over the Bonesplinters to, unless someone better fit came and occupied the position. Alas if Mord settled with leading the clan he would not be able to realize his dreams and as such he left the clan under the guise of a pilgrimage.

The demonic invasion threatens the peace that Mord seeks to create so he has actively been seeking out opportunities to thwart them these last years, making a name for himself as the Enduring Mountain, a tireless warrior that strides through battle leaving the broken bodies of his enemies in his wake.
His quest towards Irengard, the gathering point of the realms resistance, brought him through Ancelot where he saw the suffering of the common dwarfs breaking their back mining precious metals and how they were treated as slaves of the nobility, never allowed outside least they never be let back inn. Never being one to quietly look on while people were being oppressed, Mord voiced his concerns with in the high court of Ancelot. Something that made him quite unpopular with the nobility as they ridiculed his ideas and propositions, chasing him from the town. His voice didn't go unheard however as in the following weeks the workers, the poor and some of the sensible nobility started organizing into a union for the betterment of the lower class. quite the number of outcasts, struggling to get by, were moved by his passionate speeches on the betterment of the world and they decided to follow him and help with his plan to make a just world. the most notable one an exiled noble named Hrothmar Ironbrow, a dwarf that would later become Mords adivsor and shield-brother.

before getting to Irengard, Mord and his band of followers had to venture through the dangerous lands of Elgard. Looking like a roaming band of beggars, with a few exceptions, the group was constantly assaulted by small-time brigands and thugs, most of whom ran at the sight of one of their comrades dying. over the course of the attacks people died and Mord understood that he was not capable of defending them all. In nearly every town, city and village they traveled through Mord found crime and corruption, and when he found it he tried to eradicate it to the best of his abilities. many a village were more then happy to take in a few families from Mords band after he had removed a local band of thieves or corrupt nobles. Yet in doing this Mord gained the ire of The Black Hand, the criminal organization controlling most of the region, while the numbers in his group dwindled. in Westhaven ,the last village before crossing the border to Irengard, Mord left behind Hrothmar and the remaining few followers he had, although they didn't want to he gave them no choice as he wanted them all to be safe.
Knowing him a powerful adversary the Black Hand lured him into an ambush in the mountainous regions bordering the realm of Irengard, in the pass of Mornings Bane. There they had gathered the remnants of the bandit encampments Mord had destroyed as well as three mercenary companies numbering at least 4 dozen each. Seeing the small army there just for him Mord was glad that he had left his friends behind, they were at least safe even if he now faced death. Drawing his axe and shield Mord faced the oncoming onslaught, not moving from where he stood. The fight dragged on, first minutes then hours, yet Mord would not break. Feeling his consciousness slipping Mord swore he was hallucinating as he heard a familiar voice shouting in the distance. Not daring to look away from the enemies in front of him he was surprised to see them retreating away from him, even more surprised was he when countless people surged past him towards the mercenaries engaging them in combat. while the mercenaries were better trained the sheer amount of people pouring at them brought them down and the battle to an end. As the chaos died down Hrothmar approached Mord and explained to him that some of the villagers in one of the villages he had saved had overheard a few drunk bandits in town talk about the plan to off Mord and they sent word to him and the other villages organizing a makeshift militia to help out. Mord was speechless at the sheer amount of people that were willing to endanger themselves to come to his rescue, and he vowed to never let them down as they placed their hopes and dreams with him and his visions of a better world. after being brought back to westhaven they held a large banquet to celebrate that they had rescued Mord. it was at this time that Mord decided that they should be more then just a ragtag group of followers and as such the founding of The Templar's of Justice happened, and from that day on Mord started carrying with him a standard adorned with the symbol of the Templar's and of Kord.

Spending some time in Westhaven training his new followers before leaving for Irengard made them a bunch capable of defending themselves, not as skilled as a company of veteran mercenaries, but with time they would be. The journey to Amaurot, the Capital of Irengard, went by uneventfully until they came across a sacked village. There were telltale signs of it having been attacked by demon worshipers as there were a lingering tainted aura over the town. Despite this, Mord and his followers immediately started looking for survivors. But the more they searched without even finding a corpse, the less hope they got of finding someone alive.
That was until they found where everyone had been herded together. They had all been gutted and emptied, their intestines arranged in a series of intricate and intertwining magic circles and at the center of it all was a young boy, probably no more then 12 years old. as none of them were versed in the ways of magic or demons they had no idea what was going on, but looking at the kid writhing in pain they knew that it was evil and had to be stopped. So Mord did the only thing he could think about that would stop the ritual, he charged right in there to grab the boy and get him out of the magic circle. As Mord picked up the boy he realised just how bad an idea it had been to charge into the unknown ritual. Because the rituals focus had been removed the demonic energies started going haywire causing destruction and devestation and in the middle of it all Mord stod protecting the boy with his body. When the chaos subsided Mord could be seen still standing in the middle, but not responding to anything. A closer look at Mord showed that he was merely unconscious, the demonic energies having wrecked havoc on his body, yet the boy remained unharmed and unconscious.
Hrothmar decided that they would continue following the tracks leading away from the village so that they eventually could catch up to whomever did this and deliver justice to them. A small group of them were carrying mord and the kid on stretchers wating for them to recover sometime along the way.

After three days of travel the group finaly catches up to the demon worshipers. Mord had regained consciousness the day before but there was still no improvement on the boys condition.
The demon worshipers were locked in fierce combat with a detatchment of soldiers from Irengard. The soldiers were lead by a human wielding the power of the stars that Mord later came to know as Halaster, and while they were fighting as hard as they could the ragtag band of demon worshipers were pushing them back. Leading the deamon worshipers was a

whom were utilizing the fires of hell to scorch and burn all that came close to him, while commanding the mortals to bow before him, Regdar 2nd leutenant of Dargor's army.
That was all mord needed to hear as he lead the charge, attacking them from behind, taking them by surprise. The surprised screams of Regdars followers were followed by the sickening sound of steel meeting flesh, effectively throwing the whole group into disarray. The momentary laps of concentration from Regdar and his minions was al Halaster needed to turn the tides and begin the counter attack. The pincer maneuver had worked better then Mord could have hoped for,trapping Regdar between a rock and a hard place. It didn't take long before the battle was over only Regdar and a few of the more skilled of his minions were left. Unfortunately, Regdar were more clever then Mord had given him credit and he had prepeared for this scenario. Uttering a phrase in infernal Regdar teleported away using a ritual qued to him.
Later that night the two groups held a feast in celebration of their victory and in memory if the fallen, getting to know eachother and exchanging stories.
The next day Mord's group tagged along with Halaster's back to the capital, it was a long treck but the fact that they had company on the jurney shortened the time. Sometime along the road the young boy Mord saved woke up causing quite a commotion. The ritual had left some rather unique marks on him, mainly his eyes were blood red like a demons and he had grown a few fangs, yet there were no noticable changes to his personality. Many ment he had to be purified and put down for the safety of the world, Mord on the other hand was adamant in his view that he was still an innocent child free of sin and evil and he made it clear that to get to the boy, who said his name was James, they had to go through him, and that discuraged those that his words didnt.

Getting back to the capital Halastar informed the king of what had happened and Mord's involvment in the battle. Impressed by Mords actions the king granted him and his Templar's a building complex outside the city to use as their headquarters, as well as giving Mord the title of Champion, not just for his actions in Irengard but all the rumors of his actions that the king could confirm.

Experience points(only mentioning what is relevant to dnd):
For the last two years i have been a player in two long, continuous 4E campaign. and i have been into rpgs for many years before that. also been involved both as a gm and a player in several smaller 3.5 and pathfinder campaigns, and a few 4.0 campaigns.
Expectations:
conviction and awesomeness, i am very easy to please when it comes to rpgs.
Why me:
out of principle i will refrain from answering this as i dont want applications to turn into a contest of one-uppmannship.

OOC:
if i took too much liberty with adding things to the setting please tell me. the background ending is short on purpose as Mord is rather new to Irengard and it gives him lots of possibilities ingame, if i make the cut.

waiting with it til i know if im in or not.
short summary:
class: barbarian. warlord multiclass.
Paragon: calm fury

human(orc)