Adventures on Tellene - Stirrot Isle
Gordon's Dwarven Fighter/Thief
Died Fighting a Troll
Level 2 Fighter Thief
2 in all Specializations, All Combat Talents
Medium Shield, Leather Armor
Pick Pocket: 65%
Appraisal (Armor and Weaponry): 22%
Disarm Trap: 21%
Identify Trap: 22%
Lock Picking: 43%
Rekoj wasn’t always mean and ugly. But he always did pick his nose.
Rekoj arrived at Stirrot Isle a few months back, driven by the tales of treasure and allure of money. He joined a group of adventurers which quickly went sour, but quickly found another group to go dungeon diving with.
He was always a little faster than the other dwarves around, he always thought. Even when working the mines with the other dwarves, he noticed he could swing the pick a little faster, run a little quicker, and even snatch things a little slicker. He worked the mines with his kin for years; mining was good for them, a simple type of work, one that all dwarves had felt the call of.
But mining wasn’t Rekoj’s vocation. He wanted more than a simple life of mining. He wanted to know what it was like to have money, to put the steel they had forged to use. He heard stories of goblins and giants and trolls, and he knew how to use a battle axe. With a thirst for adventure, Rekoj left his family and went on a journey searching for adventure.
He worked odd jobs, lifting boxes and crates for some days, and helping caravans cross between cities for others. The caravans and crates and task masters were never sympathetic to Rekoj, and he never needed any from them. He was poor, ugly, and oftentimes rude. People tended to ignore Rekoj, to turn away and desperately think of an excuse to turn and get away. Rekoj didn’t mind, though. Because every time they turned and walked away, he would use the opportunity the lighten their purses.
Along his travels, he never made many friends. Maybe it was because of the nose picking, or maybe it was because of the pocking on his face. Or maybe it was his hideous scars that crisscrossed his face, and how he would always point them out to others, asking them if they knew how he got them. No one knows how he got the scars. If you ever asked him, he would ask you if you knew, as if he was curious and had no idea himself. Or he’d tell you a story about how he got them from the pick axe his father threw at him after he stabbed him the back. Or he’d tell you a story about how he got it after being bitten by a bird, a giant bird, big enough to ride on. Or he’d tell you a story about how he made them himself, after he’d gotten bored of beating up all the other dwarves in his home town. No matter what the story, he’d always get an excited, wild, raw look in his eyes, as if reliving and relishing in the memory, and then pick his nose. He’d always pick his nose.