Bligduum "Bliggy" the Steadfast, Consummate Dwarven Maran

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Title History

Skill List

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PK Gank-O-Meter

Immortal Comments

Role

Chapter 1

-Don't call him Bliggy, unless you got a good pair of running
shoes on or a handy potion of teleportation behind yer back.

-The things he wants and values most are, in this order:
1)The triumph and preservation o' the Light.
2)Dwarven Ale
3)His Beard
Being a true dwarf down to his very bones, he'd never admit he
values something more than ale. Recently, Kelayna dipped
in melted honey is has been added somewhere on that list. He's
just not sure where at the moment.

-His liquor comes in three categories. Dwarven ale, ale that kicks
harder than Xilla with spiked boots, and elferpiss. Usually the first
two are indistinguishable.

-He doesn't talk about the Light very much. Its just plain to as day
to him why he fights, and he doesn't understand any other point of
view. Well, he might, but he gets confused easily.

-Dwarves like Blig tend to believe everything told to them, unless
its from a source which is blatantly untrustworthy. They had a word
for dwarves like him back home in Akan, and gullible don't even
cover the half of it.

-He's not very religious. He praises Aarn, of course, for how could
a Dwarven god NOT be perfect? And he someday hopes to meet
the Skyborn, but he's very tentative around Gods overall. Probably
owing to his mother telling him when he was little that Gods had
better things to do than listen to naughty little dwarves who
who hated taking baths. Gullible was, indeed, too light of
a word.

He doesn't know why he hates the name Bliggy. Don't make him think about it too much.

Role

Chapter 2

One day Bligduum was walking back from the orphanage
at Balator. He likes to visit there occasionally, bringing the
liddle'uns treats and ale (could you believe that none of
them had tried ale before he came along?! Farkin sacrilege,
that's what it was! In Akan, there wasn't any horseshyte
about... *grumble*).

These visits to the orphanage were usually kept secret to
most of his friends in the Fort and kinsmen back home -
for some reason, Blig's got it in his head that proper dwarf
warriors didn't let little kids crawl all over their armor and
tug on their beards. Now, where would THAT silly notion
have come from?

Suddenly, a horrible thought struck him like a thunderbolt,
jolting his knees and nearly toppling him over in its paralyzing
terror. Was he getting SOFT?!

Now, you have to understand, Blig was by no means lacking
courage. He'd faced hordes of Imperial troops in his time, standing
firm and tall, fought off the nightmarish horrors conjured by the
devious Scions of the Eternal Night. He'd pummeled through
armies of undead and endured the breath of dragons. Why, he'd
gutted the Duergar King and faced down Ol' Matron Beardstrong
herself (okay, he DID flinch a little there. But just a little.); his
fierce ol' muther, rumored by the rest of the dwarves of Akan to
have made the ArchDevils of the Hell back out of the room meekly
saying 'Yes, Ma'am.'

But the horror of the question at hand was too much for even our
stalwart Blig to handle, fear wracking his nerves and putting great
amounts of sweat on his brow (or was that just his heavy armor?).
In any case, poor Blig was forced to do what most dwarves aren't
renowned for: think. He plopped himself under a nearby tree and
took a good swig of ale or two to calm his nerves. Or three. Surely
it wasn't more than a dozen.


After a long, hard, and bitter struggle, he finally arrived at a true
answer, elegant, yet glaring obvious. Simple, yet brilliantly
understated. Beautiful in its truth. An epiphany, a revelation, building
on a simple fact.

'BECAUSE ALL DWARVES BE PERFECT, THERE BE NO
SUCH THING AS A SOFT DWARF, EH?'

It was true. Dwarves ARE perfect. His ol' muther said so, so
it must be true. Suddenly, another painful thought begins (with
much effort on his part) 'If your mother was WRONG, then...'

Laughing, he quashes the it easily. Utterly ridiculous, it was.
That would be like saying the sun don't rise, or the sky not
be blue. Whistling to himself, he resumes wandering out of the
orphanage, ironclad in old dwarven wisdom and a really thick
head, muttering something about ArchDevils and mothers. It is
quite clear which of the two he is more scared of.