Dungard BloodFist the Battered Brawler, Marshall of the Fortress

Skill List

Role

Chapter 6

What the hell is this slop? Proudfoot Ale, Olin called it, the bugger. Made
by the Halflings in their fruity Green. Tastes like shite, ya ask me. I slam
the tankard down on the bar, sending drops of the foamy slop running along
its surface. I look for Olin so I can let him know exactly what I think of
his swill, but my eyes go blurry. I try to stand up, ya know, clear my head,
but it swims a little. Guess I've had a lot of swill tonight.

The floor of the bar seems especially slippery when you've sampled a mug of
each specialty at the Eternal Star. And by my beard, I dont really mean to
spill my drink on the filthy duergar. The Eternal Star dont like much
brawlin' and I ain't done drinkin yet.

"Hey watch yourself, you pansy piss ant!" he says.

Fightin' words.

Before I know it I'm swinging Halfling Finest upside his head. The gully
dwarf doesn't seem phased yet, so I swing again. I whack 'em three times
before he knows what's going on. My head always seems to clear when it's time
for brawlin'. This mug doesnt seem to be doing much. Backing off for a
moment I grab up a stool, and its looking like the duergar is recovering
from the shock.


We can't have that.

I swing the damn thing with all my might, and it explodes into fragments that
spray into Olins other unhappy patrons. The duergar doesn't seem phased.

"Ta hell wit' yer, yer fargin' sack o' shite!" I yell as I dive toward him.
He brings his hands up in defense, but me and the gallons of ale I've put
down tonight are too much for a gully dwarf. It's a left, a right, a swift
kick in the ribs and he's wishing he did his drinking somewhere else. Olin's
bouncer grabs me...

"There will be no fighting in this bar, Dungard!"

Yea, yea, I know. Finding myself on East Dairen covered in duergar blood
(which I like) but with no alcohol on my person (which I don't,) I decide I
better find somewhere else to do my drinkin' tonight.

You know, it occurs to me that there are some people who know something about
swinging mugs, bar stools and other more exotic weapons. They have a lot of
meetings an hour past midnight, stories say. My fists will have to do until I
can meet up with them.

Role

Chapter 5

Paladins don't make for good drinking buddies. I'm slammin' round nine down
at Barghala's tavern (just getting warmed up,) and this fruit ain't managed
to finish his girly fruit wine. He, apparently, don't need to drink to start
flapping his jaws.

"If the Brigade doesn't stand against the Darkness, Dungard, who will hold it
at bay?"

He's got a point, I admit. There do seem to be a lot of evil bastards running
amuck these days. Fact, I'm staring one down right now. I can tell by his
garb the fella at the end of the bar belongs to the necromancer guild. He
stinks. Gives me the willynillies.

"You know what will happen if we don't stand against evil, if we dont tear
the darkness from the sky?"

The mug of foamy goodness in front of me isn't giving an answer, and neither
do I.role +
"It will over run us. Some say it's over running us now. We need more men,
more squires to rise to Maran. We need men like you."

The fella at the end of the bar is giving me the eye. Thinkin he wants to
scrap, but necromancers dont scrap, they cast spells that put you to sleep,
then they curse your body and soul. Hate 'em. This one is human, that much I
know. The too plain features, too little hair, and in his case too little
color gives it away.role +
The paladin is oblivious, "Problem is, no one has the courage to fight
anymore. Everyone is too afraid to stand up, to enter combat, to rise above."


"I think yer too afraid ta see da bottom o' yer glass, ya bastid," I mumble,
but his words have a ring of truth. Im distracted by the necromancer. But,
dammit, the man is right. No better time than the present...

"Dungard, if you are too concerned with drinking to----"

"It be scrappin' time!!" I'm flyin' through the air landing my shoulder
square into the chest of the dark mage. The paladin's breath is caught short,
and he jumps sending his foo foo drink down on some grumbling patrons.

"Help! Dungard is bashing me!"

His cry rises the Galadonian guard, but not before it's too late. I got him
by his scrawny neck with my left, and I'm rainin' pain with my right. Soon
he's incapacitated, one more hard right hand and the life leaves his pale
body. role +
"Ferger," I spit.

The paladin frowns, slipping me a green colored potion. "Drink it," he
hisses. I knock it back, it don't taste good, but after nine tall ales I
don't care. The room spins around me, reshaping itself into the Silverwood
forest. I'm out, and the special guards are none the wiser.

I reach out my mind to the paladin, "Sign me up," I tell him.

Role

Chapter 4

I toss aside my fifth pewter mug of God's Wrath. Arkat told me he was brewing
this batch special, and by me beard, he wasn't lying. But then dwarves aren't
known for deception - not even the merchants. Plus, I mean, there is prolly a
whole circle o hell reserved just for dwarves who lie about things as serious
as alcoholic beverage!

"Faalleen Sooldiieer!" I say, coming to a crisp salute. With a silent prayer
to Kastellyn and the gods of Light, I sacrifice the empty mug. We all have
our ways of remembering the fallen.

My eyes are getting fuzzy, but I know this place well now. The smell of
torches hangs in the air, their light reflecting on a sawdust circle and
racks of weapons. Various tactical volumes are scattered here and there,
having been placed wherever their readers finished with them. Several posters
depict vulnerable points of the different races. It is the Chamber of Combat.

This damn gnome is a worse drinking partner than a paladin. Gnomes be known
for wisdom, and I reckon he knows a thing er two about scrappin. He's not
telling me though, and he ain't lettin' ale down his throat to loosen the
tight lips.

"Ferger." He ignores me... again.

I sigh deeply, and start number six of the God's Wrath. I do love me some
good brew. It'd be better to share with Lord Kastellyn though. I check my
backpack...

"Ferg! Finished it all waitin' fer 'em again!" Blushing, now I'm hoping he
doesn't show. I mean, how rude ta meet a fella for a good brew, and then
drink all the brew yerself. Well, that wouldn't be the first time I did that.
Mama would be shamed.

I stagger out of the chamber again, making for the road at the end of the
world. I reach my senses out to the realms, feeling who needs scrappin from a
Squire of the Brigade. Imperials again, bah. A fella gets tired of beatin
those whiny crapballs. (Yea, I said crapballs.) Still, I know I'm no warrior
yet. But a humble tavern brawler who got talked into doin the right thing.
Maybe if I learn what it means ta really embrace Combat I can become more.
Maybe someday, if the Stars align, I can be a Legend of the Brigade.

Role

Chapter 3

Good old Akan! Where the streets are simple, the folk are stout, and a fella
can still get a couple casks o foamy goodness fer personal use. I breathe in
deep, taking in the fresh mountain ale, errr, I mean air... fresh mountain
air.

I'm lookin for Haltan, that big fire giant warrior what has been known to
kill a dwarf or two in these parts. Pisses me off it do, pisses me right off.
Of course, Farhoak's inn has the door open, and I can hear the sounds of a
good time coming from inside. Farhoaks door is always open, ain't it? Wonder
who da richest dwarf in Akan is... Farhoak, or Arkat...

Well no matter, I'ma make Farhoak a few silvers richer tonight. I searched
high and low for that giant, and I think I earned me a quick drink er two. Er
five! Me head always clears up when it's time ta lay da heavy hands down on a
bastid anyhow.

"Dungard! Ho to ya!" Heads turn as I stroll on in, finding myself a table. A
few mugs are raised, and smiles greet me as I take a seat. Someone buys my
first round. Well hell, looks like my work in the Brigade is appreciated
somewhere. I watch the barmaid wiggle her fine, hairy little tush off ta
fetch me brew. When she gets back, I squeeze a silver into her palm with a
wink. Always have ta take care o yer lifeline to da booze!

I'm just about to take down the first sip o the sloppy mug, when I sense it.
The subtle smell of soot, sweat and steel. Haltan, ferg. I'm noticin' too
late...

I yell, "Help! Haltan is bashing me!" Ah ferg, how embarrasin. I hate yellin
that crap.

I be sent sprawling over the table, the heavy swords of the giant cleave
easily into my armor. I return a couple punches, but they don't compare to
the deadly cleaves of my foe. I try to slip out of the way of the bigger
swipes, he is strong, but good thing dwarves are known for their speed.

Alright, well, maybe we ain't known for our speed.

Before I can really get my footing he's bashing me up against the bar again.
Ferg, I'll jes' hafta overpower him! Good thing dwarves are known fer der
strength!

Alright, maybe we ain't known for our strength.

I'm losin' fast, an' the looks on the faces o' the patrons show fear. Fear
for me, fear for them. The giant swings his sword again, barely missing my
neck. It buys me jes a second before he can bash again... now a lesser
warrior might try to pummel 'em, hope ta overpower, but not me. I've learned
a thing er two on the fields of battle. Quick like a storm giant to fish
stew, I slip a punch up into his nuts. It's a vital area, an' it might jus'
give me the edge I need to turn this tide. The giant, his thick eyebrows
raised in shock, grunts with pain. "Take dat yer fergin' smokey ash hole!"

Dwarves are good at insultin, at least!

Enraged, he charges me again dropping his shoulder straight into my chest, I
go flyin' back, but this time I'm ready for him. Just as he rears up to
charge again, I make a swift grab for one of his swords and it clatters to
the ground. He tries to bash anyway, not havin noticed my quick move for his
weapon. Now it's my turn. I may not have had anything to drink yet, but no
giant is going to take me in a bar brawl.

I kick his sword out of the way as he reaches for it, he lunges too deep and
I bring my knee up into his jaw. He staggers back

Role

Chapter 2

Balance now! Lifting a fifty pound barrel of ale to your lips without
spilling, and without dropping the barrel on yer foot is no small task! Thank
the Light, I'm an old pro. Not a drop spilt, and the smooth bite of pale
dwarven ale warms me against the cold. Sometimes I do my drinking alone now,
staring out at the world from the snow covered ledge of the Fortress of
Light.

I wrap my cloak tighter around me, pulling my beard in. A few more swallows
of ale won't hurt anything - I'll just have to take the stairs slower...

It has been a long time since that day in Farhoak's inn with Finego. The day
I learned them maces, and took my first step to true warriorship. It's been
like a ride in a mining cart ever since. Tremendous highs, and lowest of
lows. Guess I just feel like reflecting.

Balancing the once fifty, now forty pound cask, I drink more. I'm probably
drunk - but I'll leave the final word on that to the bottom of a dry barrel.

I found them monks of Macalla that taught me how ta use exotic weapons, and I
found dem monks what teach yer ta bash like an Avalanche. A monk in his own
right, the gnomish guardian of Lord Kastellyn's shrine be helpin me to learn
to suffer through the lean times, having heard the Whispers of the Great
Seige. Reckon I owe a lot to da gods now, I've felt der reward time and again
on my life - guess der likin' a brawler turned champion of the Light.

Ders been lows too. I guess all o' that learnin' lead me ta thinkin I was
invincible. I ain't. Reckon I'll be doin' a lot better with the life I got
left. I owe it ta me fellows in the Fortress.

Sighing, my breath is a ale-stinkin plume of steam in the air. The sun is
setting now, and the Scions of the Eternal Night will stir. I turn to walk
down the stairs, and a flicker in the corner catches my eye.

Nightwalker.

Grinning to myself, I turn. Cask in hand I whallop the thing as it tries to
retreat into the shadow. No more the wimpy blows of the barstool so many
years ago, the cask hits as hard as any hammer, and the thing reels back in
obvious pain. It's shriek pierces the stillness of the Fortress.

"It be scrappin' time!" I yell, full of inspiration.

A quick knee, followed up by an elbow (a crafty comination a wise little
fella helped me learn) and the thing is sent screaming back to the shadow
plane.

Hefting my maces I narrow my eyes southward to the Tara'bal. Where lurks
Nightwalkers, a dark mage is always nearby...

Role

Chapter 1

The churning sound of leather and clank of armor fills the cold fortress air.
The troups are readying for battle. Brave men dat I'm proud to serve with
ready arms, check wands, or dull their armor to blend into the shadow. It's a
good force dis time, an' our Captain Darascus stands ready to lead us.
Victory seems assured, as ders jes' a couple bastids to oppose us at da Chasm
an' Palace.

I check my gauntlets, making fists, to be sure they are tight on my favorite
weapon. I heft the claws of Baernika, grabbing a searing chain of light in my
offhand. Me maces hang from my belt, ready to serve the Light. Time ta kick
some fergin' arse!

"Dungard, you're on guard duty. Make sure our foes don't try to counter
attack while we storm their strongholds," Captain Darascus orders.

FERG! Guard fergin' duty! Bah! Ah hate guard duty! Most borin' crap in da
world, waitin' around fer da fight ta come ta me. Bah! A fella lak me was
born for pickin' fights, not to sit on me stool an' wait fer a gully dwarf to
bump me!

"Aye Captain!" I respond. Well, orders is orders.

"Squire Nolyek, stay with Maran Dungard." The Captain gives his final command
as he turns to march the troups on to War.

Well, you don't have to be on guard duty for more than a couple hours before
the ale calls to you. It says, "Duuuungarrd..... driiiiink meeeeee..." That
ethereal call is like a sirine's song to a dwarf. So I drink... yer gotta
drink when it calls. Guard duty er no. So I sit next to the fountain, propped
up, staring at the Tara'bals backside waitin' for somethin' to happen. Soon,
with a belly full of foamy goodness, I'm drifting off to sleep...

******

The clamor of tankards and passing dishes echoes through a tall, stone room.
A large, roaring fire warms the hall and fills it with the comforting smell
of wood smoke. I'm sittin' at the head of a long, oak table full of seated
guests. Several casks of ale sit against the wall. The table is filled with a
magnificent feast. Birds of every kind - chicken, turkey, duck, pheasant,
quail and even the more exotic carrion bird lay roasted on the table. Pork,
beef, and fish in various sauces sit next to bowls full of vegetables,
potatos and bread. Such a feast this dwarf has never seen.

I blink, realizing where I am... the Azure Fields. Before me sits my clan and
line, the BloodFists. They represent every walk of dwarven life. Brewers,
miners, blacksmiths, warriors, priests and paladins. Generation after
generation of Maran, upstanding Akan Citizens, even the occasional
Battlerager and Tribunal. All from different paths, but sharing the common
Passion and Pride of the legendary BloodFists.

Other guests join our feast, proud dwarves of days gone by. Thror HammerSong,
never one to miss a party, sits at my left hand. To his right sit a host of
Maran dwarves who make their permanent residence in the Azure fields. Alriac,
the Landslide of Mortorn... Heas the Mithril Knight, Warborf the Hammer of
the HammerSong... and others.

At my right hand sits a special guest. The half-elven Lord Kastellyn, namer
of the Bloodfists. He leans back cooly in his chair and sips out of a golden
tankard. I sense the red tinge of evil around him, very out of place on the
Azure Fields... but kept in firm check by the four Tara'Bal flanking him

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