Sigurd Phanehammer

A dwarf with a lost past and distant future. Who know's where this dark one will go?

Description:
Stats:
  • Str – 16
  • Dex – 10
  • Con – 18
  • Int – 11
  • Wis – 15
  • Cha – 8
Defenses:
  • AC – 19 = 10(Base) + 7(scale) + 2(heavy shield)
  • For – 16 = 10(base) + 4(con) + 2(fighter)
  • Ref – 10
  • Wil – 12 = 10(base) + 2(wis)
HP:
  • Max – 38 = 15(base) + 18(con) + 5(toughness)
  • Sur – 13 = 9(base) + 4(con)
Skills:
  • Athletics
  • Endurance
  • Heal

Feats: Toughness

Bio:

The Picture of Sigurd Phanehammer.

A dwarf, hardy in appearance, thick in body and more strong and stalwart than most, travels much. The weight of his 58 years is heavy and scars abound on his back and face. In particular, a vicious cut, perhaps from youth, drives a deep canal along his scalp, right ear to left eye. As no hair grows there, he keeps the top shaved, sculpting an intimidating visage with bare head and layered fuligin beard. Along his arms too lie deep cuts, strange marks routed as if by claws. For arms and armor he bears heavy dwarven scale, shield and hammer marked by use.

Born to Rivig and Gelur Phanehammer just shy of three score years ago, Sigurd lived a life he cannot remember. The names and faces of his kin, the warmth of their hearths and the ringing of their hammers against anvils. These things are memories not just forgotten, but rendered hopelessly remote. Of his king’s banner, there is a vague image: that of a tattered eagle, set deep with talons upon a red shield, and the flayed skin of his brother’s scalp laid bare before it. For all that he abhors the image, the stink, the gush of blood, urine and pain, the singular image of his brother’s death, of the illithid feast, it is the only thing connecting him to his home. It is the only memory, before, for a long while, he had none.

Taken as a slave, at what age he does not know, and forced to toil in depth’s deep beneath Duendar’s surface, Sigurd thought not. Constant were the whims and fancies of his master Klukrithidias, without meaning was all else. Yet it was not as harsh as it might have been, for Klukrithidias saw in Sigurd what other’s did not. Even as his kin were dragged to the stocks, their brain’s devoured long after their minds and bodies had been spent, Sigurd lived on, the faithful servant. In it’s own way, the smooth moss bed made for him, of dimly glowing faereez, was home. Perhaps it could have continued on that way forever, days slipping by in unaltered haze, until finally his master would dine one last time. Yet it did not.

It was another dwarf. Yet not one of the light, not one of the shield, with strong smile and stiff back. Instead, it was one of the broken, one of the bent. A twisted reflection of Moradin’s grin, blasted and beaten before the spark’s off his forge. It was a Druegar, a dark dwarf. Her name was Bekkhild.

Slave to another, Ytthisllisax by name, she was.

Before continuing further, it is important that we understand the relationship these two master’s had with one another. For while Klukrithidias was an upstanding young follower of the Creed of Nature (one dedicated to the mastering of natural forces, whether through breeding or experimentation), Ytthisllisax fell to a darker art. Not content with merely the power’s of the mind, he sought more. To join at the end of his day’s with the collective, with the consciousness that sleeps beneath, was far from sufficient. Ytthisllisax would live on as Ytthisllisax, for all time. And he found the means and opportunity in the person of this aforementioned Druegar.

In his pride, or perhaps his lust, he then did the unforgivable. He gave her back her mind. Where once there had been a shell, a mere memory of depth’s undelved, and power corrupted, now there stood again Bekkhild. For this, she taught him what dark arts were at her avail, yet with subtle twist. For as she taught him, she wove traps into his studies, flashes of insight that jumped out at inopportune moments. These moments of blindness, that sent him reeling with the knowledge powering in, gave her chance to act. And in building upon boldness after boldness, one day she made it free.

On that day she brought Sigurd with her.

And, to this day. He does not know why.

Stories of Wsshylk (The City of Lost Names [ Name of the Illithid city they both hailed from ]), Bekkhild told to him. Stories of plots, large and small. Stories of good and evil. Leaning on her as they trudged through the Underdark, dark sunless caverns that swallowed the mind whole, he came to understand his place once again. And as he returned to himself, he came to love the one who had saved him.

“Why did you save me? Why would you risk yourself for me, who had never been more than a tool and weakling?” He asked.

“In time you’ll remember. Just… do not forget me and someday you’ll remember” Always in response.

He knew, of course, that this was hardly likely. Druegar were evil, bent, broken, twisted and malevolent. He must have done something for or to her, and this aid he received must be either in repayment or a trick waiting to turn. And so he thought, as she told her stories and answered none of his questions. So he thought for one, in retrospect incredibly, short year.

Until he awoke, light in his eyes and strong hands on his shoulders. Deep voices echoed in his head and the radiance stunned him. Discovered by a mining party as they cut across to a long abandoned shaft, he had come to the dwarves of LongWayDown. He twisted, he shouted, he fought with all his might, all to no avail. The drew him back, thinking him one of their number, driven to the edge by hunger and despair, mistaking his tears of loss for those of joy. For though the coming years would be good, though the food plentiful and the songs hearty, Bekkhild was gone. And he has not seen her since.

Taken in by Terhelm Ironhammer, respected leader of a small clan under Dareknia’s Peaks, Sigurd was slowly brought back into the fold. Good food and strong mead put meat back on his bones while steady work at his adopted father’s forge toned his muscles and re-sharpened the edge of his mind. As he learned the trade of the smith, so to did he alight gracefully as the hardest working, if one of the oldest, new members of the Guard. For all that he found his trade, new joy in creation forged by sweat and exertion and a family to watch his dreams as well as his sleep, still Sigurd was not truly happy. All involved knew that he must go forth and find himself anew in deeds of valor, for words and thoughts were little enough for one who had seen, and lost, so much.

Today he ventures forth, ostensibly in search of his clan, yet truthfully still searching for his lost love. He knows not truly what she would look like under light better than a dim glow, but is sure that if only he can hear her voice, if only for a moment, he will know her. He wants to know why she saved him, what he had meant to her and what relationship, if any, she has to his past.

He is a fighter, a defender, a broken-hearted lover and a stalwart friend. His past is checkered in parts, faded in others and simply missing in the last. His present is filled with questions, an ever ongoing quest to discover who he might have been. And his future… never again will he be weak, for he knows too well what that means in this world. The next time he will not fall, he will not falter. The next time, he’ll be dwarf enough to win Bekkhild back, and strong enough to not be left behind.

Sigurd has been sent to Eddersway with a commission for the local smith, a letter signed by Terhelm himself. If there is more to this town, or more to the smithy, he will soon come to find out…

Sigurd Phanehammer

Duendar hamanu