Drogar BrokenHammer the Champion of Boozing, Lucky Priest of the Golden Wit

Role

Chapter 5

Drogar grew up the clumsy, absent-minded youth that
all the others avoided. His life was not easy, from
a young age having the burden of being named the One
sat heavily on his shoulders. Many times he doubted
that the Head was right.

Even now, as he begins his journey, leaving behind
the rubble of the Forge, he has trouble believing.
His time till now has been spent searching for a place
that he can continue his work. Both in crafting his
perfect drink and his eventually his forgework. It
will be some time before he takes up the forge hammer
though. The pain of his mistake is too raw.

He travels about now searching out his path, finding
himself at the guild in Akan, he realizes that the
Head himself has spoken for his admission there.

He was born under the Sphere of Courage, though he
attempts to embody all three of the tenants of the
Lord of Luck. Seeking purity in his crafting of
the perfect drink, and hopefully again one day in
his forgecraft. The Monks of the Thirteen Peaks
trained in the weapons that they crafted, but it
was the transcendent ones that turned their body
into a weapon. Such was the training that Drogar
received, he will follow the path of a Monk within
his guild, having worked hard to begin mastering
the way of the Drunken Fist.

In his search for a new Forge, Drogar has learned
that the Fortress of Light holds one of the finest
in all of Thera, he will seek knowledge of this
forge and in doing so will find himself drawn to
the Brigade of the Holy Pheonix.

Role

Chapter 4

It was late, the sun long passed below the peaks. The
light of the forge was enough for him to work by. He
was forty nine now, the years had taken that squat,
chubby, clumsy boy, and turned him into what he was
today. It's not as you might think, he was no chiseled
statue of perfection. He was still a bit round in the
waist. But his physical clumsiness seemed to be abating.
That's not to say that there weren't still accidents, there
were. But these were more because of his consistently
distracted state than any physical affects of his youth.

Tonight, he worked alone. A tall cask of his latest batch,
his only company. He was well into that, wavering, and
slightly blurred vision the only affect he felt just now.
He found, years ago, a balance in his imbibment that allowed
his hands to move more free, and his wits to seem sharper.
In practice on the field, he became much better than any
of the other initiates in combat, but only if he found that
balance in his brew. Tonight he had decided that it was
time to see if that balance transferred into his forgecraft.

The bellows blew and the drink flowed. Finally taking the
white hot hammer from the forge, he moved over to quench
the head. And here, history was made, and broken at the
same time. You see, drunk as he was, the barrel holding
the quenching oil looked much the same as the barrel holding
his latest batch. The resulting explosion threw him clear
of the forge, which was the only thing that saved him.

In the days following, the Head of the Order found that
it was time for Drogar to partake on a journey, one that
would hopefully find his path. Drogar knew it for what
it was, the teachers had finally convinced the Head that
he was too dangerous to leave in the Monastary. As he
walked past the ruined forge, a small tear in his eye,
he also knew that he had to bring about the Prophecy, and
he'd need help to do that, help that he knew he'd find
out there some where.

Looking down from his window above the courtyard, the Head
caressed the hammer he'd taken from the debris. It
crackled with power. He knew that Drogar had come very
close that night, that something within him was blocking
the way. The boy, much like his own son, would not find
that here. He started penning a two missives then, one
for the guild in Akan asking for help and at the same
time warning them of Drogar's unique situation, the second
send to a pigeon that flew high into the Redhorn mountains.

Role

Chapter 3

Drogar entered the Monastery at the Thirteenth hour, of
the Thirteenth day, of the Month of Dark Shadows. He didn't
understand the significance of that until much later. He
was a clumsy nineteen year old boy then.

Years passed, he learned from the teachers, he attended
vespers, and even private lessons from the Head of the Order.
Those were as much to protect his fellow monks as to teach
him. You see, Drogar was prone to accidents. Often those
around him would feel the pain of his clumsy ways. But
the prophecy had to come true, he was the One. So they
kept trying.

Barrels of Whiskey ruined, weapons warped from poor forging,
and then there was the small matter of the latrines. Suffice
to say, Drogar had made quite an impression.

There was something there though, buried deep in him, he could
feel it.

Title History

Role

Chapter 2

role + The bells rang throughout the monastery, the same as every
day. Evening vespers was the call. But this day was special.
On this day, the new initiates would be chosen. Maybe today,
the One would be chosen.

High up in the mountains north of Akan, north even of the
mountain kingdom of Mortorn, nestled in a deep valley surrounded
by Thirteen immense mountains lived the monks of the Thirteen Peaks.
The Monastery sat high on one of the valley walls, a small town
below. It had been there as long as most could remember,
though any from outside the valley had long forgotten them.

Boy's from the village lined up acrossed the courtyard, most
of them sturdy dwarven stock. They stood hoping to be made
an initiate, but more so, hoping against hope that they were
the One.

The head of the Monastery, a dwarf back stooped with age, stood
before the boys, his robes emblazoned with 13 runes each of the
tenants of the Order, Courage, Passion, and Wisdom. A line of
younger but still seasoned teachers at his back. He gazed out
over the group of youths.

A rumble passed through the assembled crowd as a wave seemed
to start from the back moving to the front. Bursting from
the middle of the crowd a rotund young dwarf running for all
his might. Realizing just a whisker too late, he tried to pull
up and stop, but instead crashed into the first youngster in
line. That youth fell into the next, that one into the next
until all of them lay on the ground. A gasp rolled through the
crowd, but the head monk just smiled and pointed at the young
one and said....

"The one!"

Role

Chapter 1

Long ago established with a two fold purpose. First
to find the perfect formulation for the perfect drink,
the second to forge the perfect weapon. The Monks of
of the Thirteen Peaks, had long toiled in their efforts.
The book of thirteen prophecies spoke of the One. In a
year of Thirteens, meaning that the number was a whole
part of that year, thirteenth hour of the thirteenth
day of the Month of Dark Shades the One would come.

The one that would bring about the final formulas,
that would take them out into the world to turn back
the darkness and bring about the greatest party the
world had ever seen. That one had never been named...

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