Grysaor Crendel the Champion of the Virtues, Elder Prophet of the Light

Skill List

Role

Chapter 5

Liturgy: The Mountain Holy

Call: Glory for She gives Herself away, Her charity endless
Response: Sing of Her blessings, cherish Her provision

Call: Revere the birth of Her children, a gift in faith
Response: From the fires of life, Her veins, each ingot bestowed

Call: Delight in Her stoic strength, for She brings daily hope
Response: Into Her great bounty, She adopts and nurtures

Call: Remain in Her embrace, tempered in Her indomitable might
Response: Glory in Her sanctuary, our unconquerable crown

Call: Sing the hammer strong, retribution in axe and shield
Response: The anvil sets pure Her children to just vengeance

Call: Take heart, sister, brother, endure with great fortitude
Response: Take heart, sister, brother, courage guide us

Role

Chapter 4

The dwarf worked his way through the rugged paths. A hundred years years had
desolated the already precarious, winding mountain pathway. But the mountain
loomed large in the northern range. The dwarf turned west near the drying
stream, away from the now collapsed gates. A few goblins and wargs lurked in
the valley and the dwarf quickly dispatched them and continued on.

Coming up the nearly perfectly hidden Crendel Crevasse, the dwarf fit through
its slit and continued his way, the incline now returning to lead into the
heart of the mountain by this secret entrance.

Cold dominated the mountain passageways and the shadows lingered even in the
light of his torch. The silence of the mountain seemed to roar in his ears.
Any other would find the pressing weight of it disorienting. But this was
the remains of his home.

The dwarf readied his staff, anticipating the shadows to spring forth at any
turn and continue the carnage of that fateful day. Yet no monster dared
assault the holy champion, if any monster even yet remained.

The dwarf worked his way into the great hall, deep into the belly of the
mountain. Even in the darkness, the wash of holiness still reverberated as
he made his way through the rubble from the chancel to the apse.

This was his home, his calling of conviction, his service to his King, and
his dedication to his kin. Was. The swell of emotion near staggered the
dwarf, but his temperence and faith greater.

Rummaging around the broken cabinets at the edge of the apse, the dwarf found
a tattered, pale gray vestment. Even in the shadows of corruption, a faint
light still radiated from the holy garment, especially around the crest of
his King.

He briefly held the vestment in his hand, examining the crest for perhaps one
last time. The threaded silver boar glared back at him, face forward, its
stubborn gaze reminding him again of his King, and of his own failure to defy
him. The golden threaded hammer and anvil in the top left shimmered, the
runes upon the hammer still possessing some cantrip. In the upper-right
third, a circular crown was ridged in the outline of the mountain range of
his home in a bronze thread.

The dwarf paused, considering the crown of his King. Surely it lay in ruins
somewhere within the mountain. He knew not how to process such a thing. The
burden, the failure, the lineage, the battle, all flashed through his mind.

Donning the vestment, the dwarf moved to the center of the apse. The great
hall echoed at the dull sound of his booted steps. A low hum began to
reverberate in the expanse as he closed his eyes in meditation.

He turned from the tapestries at the back to face the room and raised his
arms in prayer, an audience of one, and began his holy worship.

(see next role chapter for the Call to Worship)

Role

Chapter 3

Grysaor wandered the ancient hallways of Delar Tol. The past kingdom rivaled
any other mountain glory and dwarfed his own King's now sundered mountain.
It was a surreal experience, to know the future desolation of this place yet
walk it in its waning glory, a fading sun on the western scape setting to
never rise again. Even now, though, it was clear the greed and avarice was
rotting this place from within, unkempt, dusty, and disorganized.

Grysaor had met its king, Talenor, briefly, yet spent little time with him,
not wanting to spoil his true intent of being there. Observation. He first
noticed it in the painting, the look of goldlust in the king's eyes at such a
youthful age. And when he caught the king's gaze, there it was, a focused
attention upon his precious stones.

It was the same look of his own King but more pronounced.

He later stumbled upon a letter written by the King's High Priest, a letter
which put a lump in his throat and nearly seized his chest.

Derthlin, venerable in service from king to king, saw the beginning of the
end. Baubles and stones weighed higher on the scales than the king's
subjects, and a callous disregard of the truth in the mines. Or perhaps
Talenor simply did not care.

Hope was lost to Derthlin, abandoned unlike the mines. But a staunch
dedication kept the Priest loyal, using words without the force of truth
behind them. Derthlin would not defy his king, unlike Grysaor had, though in
his own path it had not mattered but for conscience. Though tears streaked
upon the face of Derthlin as he prayed to the stones, no hope came, and like
an untempered blade he was breaking.

What comfort and counsel could Grysaor provide here against a settled future?
He could only lament in his own sorrowful solitude.

But this is where defiance and dedication both find place, each one side of
the poleaxe's blade. Dedication, while a greater virtue, must be balanced
with wise reason and contemplative thought, and righteous defiance must
stiffen the spine of any who kneels.

These are the sins of the dwarves, of Grysaor, and like the ingot upon the
anvil, he hammers into submission, forging that which cannot be broken in
battle or age.

Role

Chapter 2

The few remaining dwarves eventually assimilated into other kingdoms and
villages of their kin.

Grysaor, though, spent many years in meditation and prayer, reflecting on the
his inadequacies and failures, wrestling with the past events. Could he have
done more? Where did it all go so wrong?

He lamented the arrogance of his King, who in all his righteous station had
grown too isolated from the commonfolk, and detached from prudent counsel.

He loathed the virtues tainted by shadow and chaos. It was greed which gave
a foothold to fear, then to anger and distrust. Gone was the benevolent
compassion, the love for justice, mercy, and truth.

Such proved the capability for each good and honorable person to succumb.
For the shadow is not only about us but tempts within. The need to identify
and purify our thoughts within may be of more importance than the shadow
external. But both clearly in need of the radiant light of examination and
contemplation.

Grysaor made one last pilgrimage, a return to the mountain kingdom, his home.
It smoldered still, corrupt and desolate.

His solemnly vowed that he would not become as this mount, pledging to use
his gifts for the good of others. Contemplative and thoughtful perseverance
within and for others, he would remain a revelator serving and guiding those
in his orbit. He would pray for, advise, and counsel any who had need.

Role

Chapter 1

"Ye gotdern DEFY me yet again!" His King laid into him with the full weight
of his anger.

Grysaor of course didn't see it that way. He let the words roll past him and
they echoed down the chambers halls, raising his staff high into the
corner of the room to idly remove the cobwebs.

He let his attention drift and refocus on the massive tapestry wrapping
around the Kings antechamber. Depictions of Sappers in various scenes of
combat were brought to life in rich illustrations. This kingdom bore a great
lineage and legacy of Villagers born, raised, and trained for the glory of
war. Such wars draw exceptional enemies over the centuries, he thoughts to
himself.

Which all the more emphasized his place in service to his King. A revelator,
or as others in the lands often speak of, wisemen, diviner, or even
soothsayer and prophet. Grysaor did not see the future, of course, but his
keen insight saw many possible futures unfolding, allowing him to counsel and
advise his King in making decisions.

His King, upset at his caution, continued to fume at him.

A great chest had shown up at the kingdom gates. Intricate details of war
and victory inlaid of rich mithril and gold adorned the chest. The inlays
were heightened in the glory by the pitch black background. It must be of
magical sort, for no technique known to dwarves could set such a pitch-black
surface, as if the shadows absorbed the very light. But the chest carried a
grand heft to it, and certainly such a work must be full of gold and jewels.

Grysaor cautioned his King from opening, at least until its sender be made
known. But the goldlust had taken his King, Grysaor observed, and as greed
turned to fear, fear turned to distrust and spite. No counsel was heard that
was not threatening to his King.

Something was amiss. No payment was due, no treasure or gift of honor
expected, so Grysaor remained suspicious of this. In the end, though, he
could not intercede any longer.

As many things go in Thera, the decision proved immediately ruinous.
Hindsight for some, foresight for Grysaor.

The treasure chest was indeed a trap, all shadow and magic, for immediately
upon its opening spewed forth dozens of nightwalkers and nagas. The war
proved brutal, overwhelming the guards, spreading throughout the halls and
living quarters, leaving a trail of misery and carnage. Just when the tide
seemed to turn, out from the chests portal roared a shadow dragon. It
bore upon the marked King, cruely devouring his lower half.

Grysaor stared in abject horror as despair washed over him. King, kingdom,
legacy, family, and friends. Is this how it ends, in chaos and shadow
annihilating it all?

He fled, but one of a few survivors from thousands.

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