Role

Chapter 1

Fate had been a cruel mistress and the gods had been cruel pranksters.
Somehow, after over 100 years Gumblink was still a healer. Worse yet, he
was an Acolyte of the Golden Sun. A man of lesser dedication, or perhaps
just a sober man, probably would have turned the knife on himself ages ago.
He had sworn himself, before the Divine Smith of the Tara'bal, to serve the
Light to the best of his abilities, but this was ridiculous. He was sure his
family would have been shamed by his profession. What kind of dwarf cannot
wield an axe, he often wondered aloud.

Wielding a "sensible weapon" had become somewhat of an obsession for him. He
would often find a secluded place, usually the shrine of his Lord, and
imitate the great axe wielders he had been lucky enough to see in action. He
would try and spin the haft in his hand, and imitate overhead chops, and even
the sweeping motion that he had often seen result in a gutted victim. He
thought that perhaps if he could wield an axe he would return some kind of
dignity to himself and his family. Maybe the damned elves would keep their
distance and not pick on him so much as well.

They had been quite a nuisance, the elves, and Gumbldink often felt as if he
were surrounded by the pointy-eared bastards. Just one more example of how his
life had become a comedy of errors. No dwarf who was not star-crossed or
otherwise cursed by fate would have to deal with this many elves, he was sure
of it. They made fair allies, but the wine sipping and the pungent scent of
flowers were almost enough for him to throw himself into a working forge. He
had even met an an elf who carried a basket full of flowers, daisies no less!
If that weren't bad enough the Lord of the Summer Country had "blessed" him
with the scent and feeling of summer. Pulling the Chariot card from the deck
of fate and being condemned to a cell in Hell had been a more enjoyable moment
in his life. He persevered though, never taking his eyes from his duties.

The books in the Fortress spoke of finding serenity in the Light, being of
fair word and action, and never losing hope in his comrades or those needing
redemption. He was sure an elf wrote all of that, because no self-respecting
respecting dwarf would have. He was an Acolyte of the Golden Sun, however,
so he did his best to stay true to the spirit of the organization. That's
not to say he liked it. The dwarf in him would much rather have been
gutting heathens with an axe and stomping on the necks of soot-skins. This
urge troubled him, somewhat, because it often led him to chase after those
that had escaped the talons of the maran and he was afraid it made him a
poor Acolyte. To soothe himself he noted that he was a dwarf before he was
an Acolyte and, therefore, he was a dwarf first and foremost not some elven
woman afraid of blood.

He had made a name for himself preaching to the various people of the
world, giving thanks or urging redemption depending on the tendencies
of his audience. He earned the mark of Aarn for his efforts, allowing
him to further focus his rage and dedication. Whether it was the fact
that he had earned the mark of his Lord, proven himself to be a leader
of men, or simply by default, those around him had begun talking about
a leadership position within the Ac