Abwan Valorstride, The Half-Blooded Brute

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Krilari
Posts: 16
Joined: Thu Feb 27, 2020 2:12 pm

Posted by Krilari »


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Name: Abwan Valorstride
Race: Half-Ogre; Half-Human
Gender: Male
Age: Thirty-Two
Professions: Planeswalker, Carpenter, Gymrat
Faction: Cipher of the Transcendent Order
Languages: Common, Orcish, Goblin & Giant

Appearance

Height: 8’ 7” / 2.6 m
Weight: 528 Lbs / 239 kg

Complicated by the nature of his birth Abwan is a man of neither beauty nor grace; And as an icon of deplorable half-bred bastards there is more commonality in his physique to that of mountains than man. In particular his Ogrish blood dominated, complimenting night-statuesque immensity of form with scored flesh given both the color and texture of blushing sandstone, a coarse mix of browns and oranges with just the barest pale red where his complexion scars over. All of this leather-tough hide stretches over his craggy physique of fat-swollen, burgeoning muscle-- a figure of function over form, condemning more typical, defined, and aesthetic lines to favor a thickly stocked gut, the sorts of which only paid complement to the tree limbs one might mistaken call his appendages. Crowning it all is his countenance. Often described as something only a mother could love, it - like much of him - showed more of his monstrous heritage than his Human. This was most prominent in the thick breadth of his jutting jawline and the flat, piggish nose that hung over his betusked underbite. His eyes sit pinched between fat cheeks and a slanted brow, their narrow sockets giving any greenish color a dark, beady appearance.

Personality

Alignment: Neutral Good

Impulsive and paternal, Abwan Valorstride is a man of Ogrish pride guided most by the passionate and sometimes inadvisable whims of his heart. Regarded more for his simplistic wisdoms than any grand or philosophical intellect he is a man that was not burdened with an overabundance of formal education, but instead has taken confidence within life experience and the strength it has fostered: Strength of Body; Strength of Heart; and Strength of Character. In this self-evident truth he finds himself disinclined towards deception, dismissing lies as weakness unbecoming of his stature, and instead maintains a staunch adherence to a life lived in sincerity; however truth needn’t be mistaken for an absence of respect. Where others may see truth as avenus towards or a defense of “Brutal Honesty”, Abwan maintains himself in a balance of sincerity and warming support, avoiding the common pitfalls of sarcastic or snark-ridden commentary to belittle his allies.

However, adversity cannot always be dismantled through charismatic rumblings. When diplomacy fails and discussions turn to blows, Abwan is quick to take up his axe in the name of all that is Good. In combat he becomes focused, dedicated, wielding both his weapon as well as his stature with all intimidating surplus of supernatural strength, using it to cut down his opponents before they can make opportunities upon his relatively light armoring or reckless methodology. Inversely, within duels he is far less intense, usually bearing joviality over intimidation, and good sport over any abundance of pride. Abwan believes that through adherence, practice, and mastery over martial practice he can best execute his will upon the otherwise pitiless planes that have consumed lesser men in eons prior.

In summary, despite all outward appearances, Abwan is a man of softer heart. He cares for those who have the heart to care in turn, and prefers the company of good humor and good spirits over the over-dramatic or outright negative grumblings of the apathetic. Labeled as a bearish and fatherly spirit, he takes joy in the simple things, and guards them with an apt ferocity.
Krilari
Posts: 16
Joined: Thu Feb 27, 2020 2:12 pm

Posted by Krilari »


Darkness had huddled around the upper echelons of the Great Gymnasium. It an excess of hours into Anti-Peak Abwan was the only waking soul left to roam the lifeless and darkened chambers, his only company being that of candlelight which steadily guided him to an unoccupied table.

It had been months that he contemplated these writings, determining just how to give them form on the paper. They were months of hesitation as well, uncertainty, doubt, but he had resolved himself though one resounding truth: If his pen could reach even one soul in need, then it would all be well worth the trial. And so he drew out the ink. Hew drew out the quill - torn from some monstrous subject so that it'd best fit within the brute's meaty palms - and he drudged up the empty, leather-bound tome he had decided for this task so long ago. The cover was unveiled, and upon the yellowed pages he began to write;


Lessons

In remembrance of Rel Paletress.
May you find in death all of the glory and wealth you were denied in life, my boy.

Forward

There comes a time in every boy’s life where toys and the delight of innocence must be set aside in favor of the workman’s axe; where the frivolity of youth are sacrificed to the cold and uncaring vice of necessities; where temptations of the wicked and misguided may seek to lead them astray into betraying their fellow man all so that they may lead an easier life. I pray this book may find a boy at such a time in his life, for even one life guided down the righteous path may make the toll of writing worthwhile. It is not an easy life, to live in consideration of your neighbor, for it may often call you to rise in their name and put your own reputation to test time and time again; however, there is more reward in the path less traveled, as too is there more reward in a life led in the name of one’s community over their own self interests.

Having lived in an era where crime and gang warfare were so commonplace to the suffering of my people I have seen too many young men desperate, lonely and afraid, quickly manipulated into perpetuating that same suffering unto others, cursing my streets to strife with petty squabbles over territory no one owned at the cost of lives barely lived. The barest scraps of bread carried the weight of gold, and clean water was a commodity spoken in cautioned whispers, lest its existence become too well known. It was - is - a land of mud huts and thatch roofs that did little to fight off rain or snow; it was a land of misfortune souls outcast by appearance, intellect, culture, or the perceived lack thereof; it was a land of refugees, refused recognition from any of the higher powers that be. And when all others turned their backs upon us and left us to our own devices, we had not sought the high road, no. Instead we cannibalized ourselves, flaying away our dignity and virtues, casting aside food nature to instead squabble to the perverse amusement of the palatial, castle-dwelling elite.

I cannot address the injustice for I do not know how. It is not my place as Planeswalker nor man to topple regimes or overthrow councils. Rather, it is only my place to sit and write and advise where I may, and pray that these teachings may find a boy much as I was: Afraid, alone, and desperate. May these parables from my lifetime help lead him to a life that elevates not only the self, but others around him, and guide all into a more prosperous tomorrow.

Chapter one

The skies were choked with portents. Storm clouds churned over-head with colors of rot and sickness, the absence of any sun overhead doing nothing to dispel the arid heat or the distinct scent of brimstone that had permeated through the mountainous region. In truth we had only been walking for a few brief moments and the chill of Sigil’s indifferent weather was a recent memory then growing faded as we set ourselves to our duly-appointed task. By our vows to the Allfather we had entrenched ourselves in the adventures of one Lord Childeric, noble but misguided in his intentions he had made a pact with Devils and swore the souls of his enemies to Baator in exchange for the power to conquer them in the name of his son. It was a gambit, thinking that under a united kingdom his son would not know any suffering, but even at his most basic foundation he knew it wouldn’t be true. We had convinced him, and now began the grueling task of correcting his realm before there could be the slightest hope of righting the excessive wrongs. Here in the mountainous pass between the various conquered kingdoms, the Devils had begun to prey upon the shattered confidence of Childerics men, routing traitors in hopes of finding one Ragnvald the Wolf - a chief advisor to the Lord, and the blessed sent by the Allfather himself.

Our worries were many, and our options were few. We were pressed for time and every precious second could very well mean the difference of life or death, not only for ourselves but for Ragnvald, and for the hopes of turning the campaign in our favor. All that stood in our way were patrols of Childeric’s own men out in search of the turncoat commander, a simple task in itself but we had come to agree that these men deserved no death. Instead they needed to be warned of the Hellish threat, but they are of a stubborn nature, and ourselves carried no proof of the threat beyond what information we were provided. Stalled, and - from my perspective - without any genuine recourse, I had decided the route I would take.

I would lie.

At the time of these proceedings, the Blood Trade within Sigil was at its height and flasks of Devil’s and Demon’s Blood were selling at a premium. I often made a habit of visiting the planes of the Blood War with interest in funding my own adventures, and it wasn’t unlike me at the time to take trophies to later drain for valuable profits. I claimed one such - a Demon’s head - and threw it before the patrolling soldier. Even now I cannot tell you if it was a blessing or condemnation that these men had no method of telling the difference, for the moment that the red-fleshed sneer rolled over the sands I knew that I had betrayed myself. Worse sill, I had betrayed that of my allies. In the haste I used to denounce my own honor by weaving lies so too did I deny those alongside me of any honor in themselves. Looking then to my friend at the time - a Human woman by name of Katherine - there was no denying the visage of astonished horror. At the time she commanded the battlefields in a suit of obsidian-black armor, often made to look weightless on her, but in that one distinguished moment it looked as if she had taken the burden of every pound and all the world with it. Hours would pass thereon where we continued on the basis of my lies, freeing Ragnvald and routing the demons, but battlefield glories were not enough to restore what had been lost. Despite victory in flesh and blood, I had still betrayed my soul, and cast down others alongside me whether they consented or not.

No doubt by now there are some of you who are perplexed by my issue with these circumstances. I had lied once, and what of it? It was to save men - lives - and deliver a realm from evil, so surely the ends justified the means? First, I would advise against any such mentality as a man is measured by how he regards the weakest of his neighbors, not the strongest. Seek to aid the misfortunate and disabled before you labor the more affluent with further riches. In this instance I had put the life of the commander inherently above that of his men, processing his rescue as a higher priority than the well-being or proper instruction of those who were in the moment upon the battlefield and due to clash with the Devils at any moment. Had I been willing to stop and contemplate and pursue myself with truth I - or any of my allies - may have found a fitting response that kept the needs of the patrol in mind just as well as our need for haste.

Reader, take lessons from my mistake. Action is your voice crying out into the heavens, and through it you will shape the events around you and stir the hearts of your allies. By valorous and true motion you can chose to rally your friends with hope rather than contempt, and regard your world with sincerity rather than poisoning it with your deceptions. Be certain to surround yourself with those who you can confide within, and when you have secured that sincerity do not disrespect them by doubting their abilities. If you may not know the answer, then it is very well possible that they themselves may. Take heart, and never lower yourself to a standard beneath your own.

As we draw to a close, I leave you with the wisdom of Ragnvald the Wolf;

“The path of honor is not easy. It involves doing that which is just and honorable without expectation or reward, or even at cost of yourself. It may seem foolish at times, in a world ruled by strength. Men believe in it, though, and will love you then and after for it.”
Krilari
Posts: 16
Joined: Thu Feb 27, 2020 2:12 pm

Posted by Krilari »


“Abwan.” Her voice bleeds with a crooning, adoring sincerity. “You’ve flattered me for so many years of my life all the while unwitting to your own steadily bleeding away. I know, I know. It is an act done in love, but in love you must understand: When you are gone, I will still be here. When your flesh has rotted and your bones ground to dust, I will be here. The sun will turn a thousand times and still, I will be here. You have lived so long for me, but now it is time to live for yourself.”

The City of Kraag was a bastion of civility in an otherwise untamed world. Founded on the joining point between a lower and higher bluff, it encompasses the two sheer-faced cliffs as well as the surrounding flatlands using a series of carved steps and chain-driven elevators to connect each varying point. Of the Bluffs the highest bears the most fortification of towers and walls all of white-washed stone, crowned foremost by a citadel of a castle that crowds the sky from it’s northward position. The lower bluff is still a shining example of garish architecture, even if modestly so in comparison to the ivory of its superior, and is occupied with fewer fortifications and more expansive manors justifiably occupied by those few who could afford them. Then there is the valley below, the wedge of flatland driven between the two bluffs by which most of the city’s population dwells in shoddy cabins and tin-roofed huts- at least they did so away from it’s main trade route, which bisected the valley and led directly from it’s outward gates to the lifts leading to the more affluent districts. Along this road are most of the shops - or better said, the shops that could afford such illustrious positioning - as well as all the city’s more presentable inns and taverns.

It wasn’t the pleasantries that Abwan made his return for. He didn’t care for the high bastions or the merchant houses and their manors. He didn’t care for the affluent dragging their carts and coin through the tradeways. Abwan hadn’t returned for them. Instead his morning was spent shouldering through increasingly narrow, ill-attended streets, venturing further from the main ways and further into the secluded dens, the homes of fresh paint and firm wood were steadily replaced with whatever ramshackle construction could justifiably fit it’s occupants. Goblins, being small and industrious as they were, contented themselves to packing entire families counted in tens or twenties into tin-roofed boxes whereas Orcs and their varying kin strung up hovels from mud, thatch and wood. Drow - frequent as any of the other ‘Lesser’ races, as they were seen - tried their best to mimic civility with wooded homes, but between their daylight sensitivity and the ever-strained quarrel for territory their abodes never amounted to anything more impressive than their neighbors.

This was the true heart of Kraag, in his eyes. It wasn’t the nobles or the mayors or the litany of over-paid officials. It wasn’t the merchants that made gold, paying their supervisors in silver, who barely spat coppers for their laborers. The city belongs to it’s slum-dwellers, it’s outcasts, it’s litany of ‘lesser’ races that had been barred from wealth and status and instead were left to languish in squalor and labor for those few coppers each day. He was not alone in his malcontent for the lavish either, and in these backroad communities a common heart dwelled between it’s many occupants, bridge the differences of race, creed, or origin in order to find common enemy in their circumstances. Of course, everyone did talk about one day earning their due, but it was only ever spoken over mugs of watered-down ale or the rare flagon of grog that had been mysteriously acquired from the backs of more affluent taverns. The heart of rebellion only ever beat within the chest of drunkards, and Abwan had a lot of drinking buddies. It is within one such watering hole that he found just what he was looking for.

It was a shoddy piece of work, as most things were in Kraag, barely wide enough to fit an Ogre and was considered spacious for it. Like clockwork the house was packed with various faces looking to commiserate, wasting their few coppers in order to drink away yesterday’s pain in anticipation for tomorrow; Face that all turned white as Abwan fit himself through the doorframe about as well as one could when they’re nearly doubling its size. After affirming that he wasn’t some vengeful apparition he sat himself by the bartop and, for an evening, remembered everything he once was. He remembered his evenings spent in the same crowd. He remembered Duron, Fick, and Zachary - An Orc, Goblin, and Human respectively - who often shared his misery. He remembered the lumber mills he worked beside them and the cheap pay he would make from it. He would remember the poor jokes that they laughed over until their chests burned, and he remembered the litany of nights spent shambling together disjointed shanties. For the barest second he felt that the year had been nothing but a dream, and that he had simply sat himself back down after another night of work. The truth remained though, and after the dreams passed he spent the rest of the evening regaling tales of wild fantasy to explain his absence of which some listened in awe while others scoffed in skepticism - though despite any doubts, none in attendance were as proud as to decline the gold coins he left in their pockets. In trade, all he asked for was a single woman - his ‘Auntie’. The resulting silence was deafening.

There is a saying among the Ciphers of Sigil that is commonly cited to its newest members; “There is a time for thought, and a time for action. See to it that the two never intersect.” To some it is the reason for meditation, and to others it is their guiding mantra through the multiverse, but for Abwan in this moment it had become indulgence - encouragement for his bloodlust. The woman he had loved as a mother when he had none of his own. The woman that cared for him, and he cared for in kind had been robbed from the streets. Debts piled as they often had in Kraag, and when one of the litany of gangs came to collect they did so regardless if you had the coin. Those who could pay their debts did. Those who could be of use were taken. Those who had no use often disappeared. The Bloodhounds had claimed his own son years prior in a similar ruse, he himself too unwitting to stop the circumstances from unfolding before him, but now he was older. Stronger. He would not let them take her as well. He indulged enough conversation to find where the Hounds made their compound, then left without a further word.

Rage boiled off of Abwan, lingering in the air around him like a churning miasma. In the sarcasm of his internal monologue he admired the Hounds for their audacity - to strike while he was absent, and to think they would very well get away with such a robbery. Once before, perhaps, but never again. Never to those under his protection. When he arrived upon the Easterly shore of the city where the gang had built their compound into the rocky cliff face of the lower bluff, he arrived upon them with the fury of a storm crashing upon their unwitting isle. Taking no effort to hide who he was or what he had become, he bore his axe - his Finest Hour - and buried it’s edge within the wood-wrought gates, sundering and splintering their defenses with destructive force and murderous intent. When the gates collapsed underneath him, he proceeded to reap through the compound with the ease that a farmer reaps wheat. His axe blew left, then right, with each swing casting aside the disgruntled fools that had dared to try and rob from him, their deaths and dismemberment nothing more than a fleeting moment within the vast expanse of his rage. What grisly business ensued was a strike of retribution long overdue, equivocal to no fight if only because the scrap-girded bandits and their rusted weapons couldn’t hold even the barest flame before his otherworldly equipment. When the red mist finally cleared from his eyes he laid them upon what he had wrought.

Corpses and the soon-to-be littered the street of the relatively minor compound, while before him some unwitting slaves were beginning to worm out from within their various places. Women, half-dressed in chains and shackles emerged from brothels while men in similar degradation appeared from workshops. He looked to the corpses and wondered for the barest moment if some that he had laid low were also beholden to those same chains-- but that was a regret he would have to stomach another time. Of the steadily-amassing ‘servants’ that the gang had taken over unpaid debts some moved for the blood-stained brute, though he paid them no heed other than the revelation of their evident freedom. Instead he shuffled through the chaos of clamoring bodies, eventually within the brothel, and up into its higher reaches where She awaited. ‘Auntie’, as Abwan had ever known her, was a Drow. Her skin carried the complexion of night and consistency of eternal youth- though even that had been muddled by a life spent in the harsh reality of the slums, making for calluses that strengthened her composure with density and muscle; though no stubborn spirit would ever undo the cataracts that blotted her eyes to the color of moonlight. Yet even in chains, even in blindness she was fierce, and Abwan had to well dodge a dagger before finally announcing himself. In that moment of audacious disbelief they moved and embraced.

Ultimately their exit had to be as prompt as Abwan’s entrance. While the city guard often did little to regulate what they thought were “petty squabbles” of the slums, enough of them had been under the gang’s payroll and without a doubt would come looking for answers among the midnight chaos. They awayed through back streets and alleyways, pushing through until they were in the familiar clutter of their own neighborhood on the opposing side of town. Night then had begun to soften into the barest beginnings of dawn - the darkness of the sky breaking apart into the dulled tones of blues and violets; and there in the squalor and the cold of morning the two embraced in full. With tears shed the son reunited with his mother - not of blood, but of family. They spoke for hours as the sun slowly dawned and the city resumed it’s chaotic life, mulling over the year they had lost, the time they had spent separated, and the relief to see one another for that brief moment. However, it would be a moment that must remain brief.

It wasn’t for any outside force. No guards came to break them up. No bandits came for them, nor gangsters looking for revenge. Only that Auntie looked upon her Son and worried. Blood filled the streets, and no doubt there’s going to be someone in the city sly enough to notice the presence of a boisterous Planeswalker, even in the outcast slums and backstreets. He needed to disappear, and that meant a certain brevity to his visit, no matter how long he had intended to stay.


When he was set off, it was with a gift of knowledge. For years he had contented himself to the ignorance of his own birthright, always assuming that he had the heritage of Ogres and Humans within his blood - but revelation was offered alongside a tome that acted as an account speaking of an esoteric tribe thought long lost, though recently found again if all was to be believed. It spoke of the Valorstride - Orcs, who held themselves in honor and glory away from the corruption of civility.

It wasn’t much to go off of, but it was a start.
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Gadwin
Posts: 116
Joined: Thu Feb 20, 2020 7:51 pm

Posted by Gadwin »


The diary detailed that the Valorstride made their home far to the north, on a secluded sliver of land tucked away from the problems of modern civilization. Abwan would eventually find out that the only reasonable way to get there would be through a dense pine forest, one that would at this point be heavily dusted with snow.

Some time ago, perhaps the giant wouldn't have ever considered traveling to or through the forest- his friends at the Sawmill he'd worked at spoke of it from time to time, though the discussions were always very brief and hushed in spite of the hard-working, burly men. Their tone was a fearful respect for the wood, citing numerous stories heard around town and experienced firsthand through family and friends- of hunters and lumberjacks going missing indefinitely after announcing they'd planned to chance their way through the thick of the forest in search of untapped plentiful game or seeking to set up woodcutting camps at the unclaimed, easily available lumber-to-be. Nobody had ever made efforts to find out why, or what caused these disappearances- the military had better things to do than go around campaigning against hearsay and rumors, and what adventurous types of people existed were thoroughly dissuaded from making an attempt at exploring, since the last, and most popular band of adventurers who'd announced such a foray had also never returned. Nobody would be willing to go anywhere near the forest's edge, citing bad omens and curses for those who got involved..



((it may be more "natural" with ease of back-and-forth through discord from here on out, so summaries of that can be posted here as we go along))
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