Xbox One Gamertag: Free Today56 just say who you are first.
Breath deep as the snow falls around you. Let it fill your lungs and purify the fires of doubt within you.
Jet lagged as all hell, really crazy work week, getting married on Monday o_____o, traveling again on Thursday (will have WiFi this time).
I have the second half of my post on my phone, just need to edit bits of it. It explains how Shel ran (quite literally) into Balder and (Siks, at Balder’s recommendation?) joined the Rogue Gallery a month before current time.
Last edited by Leanna; 12-15-2018 at 01:35 AM.
art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable
Xbox One Gamertag: Free Today56 just say who you are first.
Breath deep as the snow falls around you. Let it fill your lungs and purify the fires of doubt within you.
Xbox One Gamertag: Free Today56 just say who you are first.
Breath deep as the snow falls around you. Let it fill your lungs and purify the fires of doubt within you.
Tarrok is tall, just over nine spans with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His thick hide is a deep shade of bronze from the sun and snow-glare of his mountainous homeland, stretched over thick trunks of limbs and neck. Tarrok stands apart from his kin at a glance, being more hirsute of body with fingers that end in black claws, wolf-like eyes, and savage tusks. Tarrok's overall visage is far more... primal. Steeped in the wyld-energies of the Great Mother since before his birth. He dresses in plain attire of leather, hide, and treated wood. Charms, trophies, and fetishes clatter and rustle softly as he walks. Luscious hair the color of night is cropped close to his fur-tufted ears, leaving the hair at the top of his head to grow long. Tarrok keeps it meticulously groomed, plaited, woven with numerous beads and charms, and done up in a bun or tail that hangs down to his mid-back.
Race: Orc Role within the company: Shaman
Spoiler: Racial Skills and Abilities
Thick Skin
Orcs hail from a life ill-fitting the milksops of civilized life, and have long since adjusted for such. Like the rest of his kind, Tarrok's skin is not only thick, but tough, requiring greater effort to slash and pierce deep enough to do anything beyond superficial damage.
Supernal Constitution
Growing up in high altitude, Tarrok has great stamina and strength compared to those of lower altitudes, accustomed to the struggles of the mountains and valleys. Imbued with the power of spirits, he is immune to non-magical poisons and diseases.
Spirit Champion
Tarrok was born a being of half-spirit, attuned to the harmonics of the universe. He can interact with spirits of nature; invoke, command, and even dominate them if needed. These spirits and their energies are the key to his magic.
Blessings of the Great Beasts
Under the light of the blood moon following his birth, Tarrok was baptized by their grand shaman. Imbued with the might and protectiveness of Mother Bear, the determination and fidelity of Father Wolf, the wisdom and swiftness of Grandfather Eagle. As he grew older, these blessings showed physical manifestation in his body as much as his mind and spirit.
Spoiler: Normal Skills and Abilities
Elementalism
Calling upon the powers of elemental spirits, Tarrok can channel the powers of these elements through his body and manifest them in a number of ways, lances of lightning to breath of fire.
Enhancement
Bargaining or dominating a wild spirit, Tarrok can imbue it into an items drawn from the Allmother's bosom, including the very bodies of allies.
Restoration
Channeling the energies of life from the Allmother herself, Tarrok can use his touch and breath to purge poisions, fight disease, and heal wounds. He, however, cannot use these on himself.
Totems
The core of his magical tradition, Totems serve as a physical bridge between the material and spiritual realms. Once a spirit is bargained with, the Totem serves as a calling card for that spirit, summoning it to materialize into the physical plane. To make totems is a lengthy ritual process, requiring dutiful creation and anointment of the totem and bargaining with the spirit. The greater the spirit, the more intricate the totem must be and the more costly the bargain.
The Allmother Seed is the source of his mystical power, a surviving mote of his original Glen. If the seed is ever destroyed, he will lose his connection to the spiritual and elemental planes. Inversely, if he ever manages to plant the seed and successfully raise a sacred glen, his power will grow with it, making him a somewhat literal force of nature. Tarrok is quite literally allergic to black magics. Spellcraft that upsets or perverts the natural order sends ripples of tainted energy through the Wyld, and will make him increasingly ill with prolonged exposure.
Weapons:
Club-staff carved from white oak struck by lightning. Imbued with the essence of an earth elemental, making it tough as steel. A braided thong is wrapped around the shaft just below the knobby head of the staff.
Jawbone cleaver, imbued with a war-spirit
Sling and ammunition (stones and knucklebones). The sling can be tied to the head of the staff for extra oomph.
Armor:
Thick hides and furs, a bone breastplate, and a shield of wicker and stretched, hardened hide.
Equipment:
4 totems (3 lesser, one greater)
Stone ammunition pouch
Knucklebone ammunition pouch
Briar pipe
Pouch of pipeleaf
Satchel for salves, poultices, and ritual components
Flint ritual knife
Various talismans of bones, claws, teeth, and feathers
Personality: An oddity for an orc, Tarrok is something of a pacifist. He finds that war is a glut and perversion of the purer strife of nature. War levels forests, corrupts and pollutes the land with its machines, and the rapacious violence scars the spiritual realms and drives the spirits mad. Tarrok, while patient and measured, will not fail to defend himself or others. He will, however, try to find a more measured solution to a problem or puzzle, and will never condone acts of war.
As an orc and an outsider from a nomadic people, Tarrok finds the trappings of civilization to be distasteful. He's seen how the developments of industry bend and break once-pure vestiges of the wild, and he loathes the jiggling wretches who would savage the land for minted gold.
Likes: Balance, Nature, Purity (in nature), Freedom Dislikes: Corruption, Civilization, Industry
Spoiler: Background
Tarrok's tribe was a superstitious one, living in howling wilds where only death was plenty. It was their custom that, once every generation, one of their newborns be offered to the mysterious enclave of druids that made their home in the wildest places of the world - the beating heart of mountain, forest, and field. Tarrok was one of those offerings, taken solemnly by the Druids to be made into one of their own.
Supped on the fruits on their ancient tree and the ensorceled flesh of the wyld glen, Tarrok was slowly changed by the constant convergence of realms. Blessed and bestowed by great spirits, his body gradually shifted to better be the bearer of their glorious purpose. Physically and magically endowed, he went through the Threefold Trials of the Enclave at the proper age. If he succeeded in his trails, he would live as a bridge between the spiritual and the psychical. If he failed, Tarrok would be torn asunder by the untamed energies that flowed through him, giving him power.
He draws breath to this day, so obviously he survived his trials, at the very least. For over a decade and a half, Tarrok served his Enclave beautifully, fighting blight and corruption as well as rampant wyldergrowth, keeping his little corner of the world as pure as he could. Yet, not all could be kept pure forever. All things are fleeting, after all.
Slaves of industry came, mining their mountains, drying their rivers and leveling their forests. For years, the Enclave - as well as the orc hinterland tribes - fought against the incursion of man, but they were many. Three replacing as many as they slew. The Enclave had no choice. Beseeching their ancient tree, said to be an aspect of the Allmother herself, each of the Enclave took a sacred seed from the tree, entrusted to find a place befitting a sapling of the Allmother, and raising a sacred grove around it. In the fight against the march of industry, the Enclave's numbers suffered greatly. As more of the sacred grove died, the magics of those defending it began to lessen. Tarrok, nowhere near as strong as his master Druids and Ban-Drui, watched as they withered physically and spiritually, many dying to the infestation of corruption as surely as fire or the blade. With their numbers so depleted, Tarrok was forced to take the burden of his Master, carrying with him the sacred seed of the Allmother's Tree.
In his travels, he learned much. Primarily that the vile civilized folk value nothing more sacred than gold. With his Enclave scattered to the wind and his mother-tribe uprooted, Tarrok swallowed his pride as he applied to the Gallery, offering his services as a front-line spellcaster so that he may gather enough coin to buy land and raise a sacred grove, as has ever been his sacred mission. If he helps ailing spirits and creatures along the way, that fits squarely into his belief of maintaining balance. Along the way, he has developed a begrudging fondness for his fellow Rogues, finding their eccentricities and generally petty and/or tiny ways to be amusing, at the least. They have saved his life as many times as he has saved theirs, and while he smiles and sings in their revelries and their stories, there is a sadness in his wolfish eyes, knowing that one day, he must say farewell to them all when he raises his sacred glen.
Other:
Having the chance to walk in the shade of the alpines was a breath of fresh air for Tarrok. The sprawling city surrounding the Gallery was... unpleasant for one of his particular race and inclination. Winter was coming, though, which gave the wind a playful nip as it brushed his fur-tufted ears. Cloak drawn close, Tarrok walked in a steady, casual pace, but tilted his massive head when he heard a soft whimper on the wind. Drawing in a deep breath, Tarrok exhaled a cloud of fog as he uttered a spell.
"Spirit of Air, show me where from the cries come." Rather than dissipate the cloud of his breath took on a vaguely humanoid shape, tilting its head. "I have only gnosis in offering," Tarrok said, extending a massive hand. Invisible the the eyes of the uninitiated, a mote of Tarrok's own spiritual energy hovered over his calloused palm like an ember. Eagerly, the spirit took the essence, absorbed it, and flew with the rasp of breeze through branches. Tarrok followed, finding a timber wolf yearling trapped in the rusted jaws of a trap. Approaching slowly, Tarrok met the wolf's eyes, extended a clawed hand from his robe.
"Peace, Little Brother..." Tarrok said in the tongue of beasts, planting his staff firmly in the ground, using both his massive arms to pry open the jaws of the trap. Clicking his tongue to the beast, Tarrok took the savaged forelimb in his hands, setting the bone and coating the wound in an stinking clay salve. He squeezed softly, drawing energy from the waning plant-life, fading in the winter season, and empowered the awakened herbs. Light shone faintly beneath Tarrok's hands.
Another Orc and a male one at that. This'll be fun with Shel, can't wait to see him done.
Xbox One Gamertag: Free Today56 just say who you are first.
Breath deep as the snow falls around you. Let it fill your lungs and purify the fires of doubt within you.
Xbox One Gamertag: Free Today56 just say who you are first.
Breath deep as the snow falls around you. Let it fill your lungs and purify the fires of doubt within you.
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