Appearance: This ranger, although young, is marred with scars and worry-lines. His long black hair is dirty and dreadlocked in the places where braids used to be. His beard is similar. Beneath his tattered cloak he wears studded leather armor that looks well kept despite seeing countless battles. The way he carries himself seems to counter his dirty demeanor. Carter stands tall and proud. When he speaks, he does so like a natural leader.
Personality: Carter doesn't like to take the position of leader, but he often ends up as such. He holds himself up as a serious person, but he knows how to find the humor in a situation. He is generally quiet because he is looking for the right thing to say, not because he has nothing to say at all.
Backstory: (Hold onto your butts guys, this one's really long.)
Maulder took a step back and let his son draw back the already taut bowstring. At the age of seventeen Carter had the accuracy of a castle marksman, but Maulder knew his son was capable of more. The aged ranger took pride in the fact that his boy followed the path of a hunter. When Carter wasn't training his eagle eyes he was honing his skill with a blade or studying the flora and fauna of the region with his mother, Fiila.
Yes, Carter was growing to be a skilled young ranger, although his temper could have used some adjustment. When his training first began Carter struggled with stringing his short bow. The young boy became so mad that he snapped the hickory limb in half. Maulder smiled at the memory, his brash son was a man grown. He was ready for his first hunt. Turning from his offspring he saw that the fates agreed with his decision.
To the east of their cottage, Maulder saw three plumes of black smoke rising from behind the trees. His mismatched eyes, the left one blue and the right one green, took in the sight, judging the distance, deciding the cause, finding a route. He listened to the forest but heard few animals, only the faint clashing of steel.
At this point, Carter had appeared at his father's side, swiftly and as silent as a jaguar on the hunt. The young man's dark curly locks were pulled back into a short ponytail, though a few strands fell to the sides of his face. Maulder wished that Carter would just shave his head and be done with the girlish style. A stray hair in the eye could mean death on a hunt.
"Fetch my longsword from the foyer," Maulder commanded his child, "as well as your own blade my son. The hunt calls for your service this day."
°°°
The two rangers crouched low in the foliage at the edge of a large clearing. A road used for trading between the two nearby towns stretched down the middle of the small field. Carter stared open-mouthed at the horrific scene before them. They had discovered an ambush set by a group of orcs for a passing caravan. Four carts which were previously led by beasts of labor now sat ruined, and three of them were aflame.
Scattered throughout the clearing were small skirmishes between mercenaries who were hired to protect the goods of the caravan and the orcs who sought said loot. Carter moved to join the fight, but Maulder stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked his son in the eyes and communicated his meaning.
"Observe the area before entering," he whispered just loud enough to be heard under the despaired cry of a falling human warrior. "When outnumbered, as we currently are, find an advantage in the environment."
Carter scanned the ensuing battlefield a moment, then nodded toward the largest of the orc war party. Maulder gave silent agreement. If they were to slay the leader if the band the lesser orcs morale would drop and they would retreat. "Stay low, and watch your sides," Maulder warned his son. "This is a battle, not a game. They will take every chance they can to kill you."
With that the older ranger rushed into the fray. The orcish captain was already engaged in close combat with two mercenaries when Maulder closed on his left flank and drove a dagger into his calf. The humanoid retaliated by swinging his jagged falchion in a wide arc that skidded off of the ranger's pauldron and cut into his forehead just above his eyebrow.
Carter circled around the clearing, loosing arrows into the battling orcs as he went. Three arrows flew, and two orcs fell. The third managed to block the arrow by pure happenstance as he lifted his blade and struck down a human warrior. The large orc locked his eyes in the young ranger.
The orcish captain, after attacking strange old man, who'd appeared from seemingly nowhere, turned to block the blows of the two humans he'd already been fighting. With a mighty swing of let severed the forearm of one warrior, another attack got caught in the side of the other.
The large orc charged towards young Carter with animalistic intent. The ranger stepped back then loosed another arrow at the charging berzerker. The missile glanced off of the brute’s shoulder, but he showed no sign of pain as he rushed the newcomer. Carter drew back the drawstring of his elven-made longbow and inhaled quick, panicked gasp as he realized that he was too slow.
Maulder was breathing hard. The immense orc before him was incredibly nimble for its size and stature. The ranger wasn't entirely certain, but he could have sworn he'd seen some semblance of technique in the humanoid’s wicked attacks. It was in the little movements of the rallies and reposts, the swift cuts at the chinks in his armor. Maulder was sure that this orc was trained by someone who was highly skilled, someone he thought he-
Maulder saw his opening, a cross swing that flew too wide. This orc was schooled in swordplay, but not overly skilled at it. With a quick, heavy jab Maulder drove the end of his short sword into the muscle of the orcs abdomen and through into the precious, vital organs that lay just below. The orc let out a gurgling roar and swung a weakened arm at Maulder, striking him across the face. If the brute hadn’t been dying that blow would have taken Maulder’s head off.
Carter heard the humanoid captain’s dying shout as the orc he was fighting fell upon him. He heard two successive snaps. There was the crack of the arrow’s shaft as it broke upon piercing the oncoming wall of muscle and the unmistakable crunch of bones beneath a monstrous weight as the orc ceased running and seemed to fly into him. Carter bit back a scream that made its way from his shattered right arm to the back of his throat. The hulking mass that lay upon him was no longer breathing.
The sounds of combat faded from the clearing. The fires that enshrouded two of the four carts crackled and roared in the absence of the clashing of steel and shouts of warriors. Maulder cleaned his blade on the late orc leader’s back and raised a hand to the welt that was growing quickly under his left eye. As he rose from a stooped position he scanned the battlefield for his son. For a moment he was sure Carter was lost, or had fled. Then his gaze fell on a body on the edge of the battle that, almost periodically, would rise a bit, then fall again. He made his way over and moved the corpse to discover the cause of the phenomenon. Carter was there with his left arm against the chest of the enormous dead orc and his right arm bent at an alarming angle.
“Did we win?” Carter gasped feeling the relief of freedom. Maulder laughed, but there was very little amusement behind it. Carter’s arm was broken, but there was something more troubling on Maulder’s mind. One of the few remaining caravan guards approached the rangers with a hobble in his step. Maulder helped Carter to his feet and turned to meet the warrior halfway.
“It’s a miracle you came along when you did. A moment more and we’d be slaughtered or slaves.” The guard spoke in a heavy eastern accent, but the gratitude in his voice was easy to understand. “If there is any way we could repay you for your aid I am sure Vissim will be more than willing to provide.”
Maulder gave him a hard look before speaking. “Did your pay the tariff upon entering the region?”
The guard looked taken aback then glanced from Maulder to Carter who cradled his broken arm nearby. “Yes, Vissim is very diligent about fees and ta-”
“Then you have already repaid me in full.” Maulder interrupted. His steely visage was broken by a wide grin. “ I am only regretful that I was not quick enough to save you allies and goods, but that is the past.”
“You are the lord of these lands?” A look of awe and reverence dawned on the fighter’s face and he took a knee so as not to show disrespect. “Forgive my insolence. It is not my place to speak to you.”
“Nonsense, we fought side by side this day. In my eyes, we are as equals.” Maulder raised the man to his feet and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now, on the other side of that hill to the north is a village called Marpole. Tell the village elder of what happened here today and make sure you show him this,” He produced a token made of finely carved cherrywood. The coin was imprinted with the image of a howling wolf. “If you do not they will assume your account is nothing more than a tall tale and they will brush you aside. If you do you will be repaid for all of your lost goods. I feel that is fair enough as I was not quick enough to save all of your friends.”
“You are too kind, lord. This shall not be forgotten.” The guard returned to his fellow survivors and relayed the good news.
Maulder watched the display then turn to the woods, towards home. “No, I fear it shall not.”
°°°
Fiila was worried. What if her boys did not come home from this hunt? She knew it was foolish to think that way, but on the nights when Maulder would be gone tracking goblins through the valley or catching thieves in the act of, well, thieving, she would lay awake in their bed feeling the space where he should be. She needed his warmth to get to sleep. Ofter when Maulder would come home from a long hunt Fiila would look just as haggard as he did.
Now their son, Carter, was going on hunts too. The boy was barely old enough to grow a beard and yet Maulder found it suitable to bring him out killing. Fiila was getting flustered, and it wasn’t doing her any good standing out on the balcony waiting for either her boys or the coming of Dendar. If one were to die, gods forbid, it truly would be the end of the world. Her world. Fiila went inside, the cool air of the lodge calming her racing heartbeat. Many trophies and banners adorned the walls of Brightpine Manor, though Fiila never saw the taxidermied beasts as grotesque or the many different flags as tacky. They were all displays of honor and valor, but Fiila did always make sure to have a flower placed in any of the rooms housing the once majestic animals.
The suddenness of Maulder’s leaving didn’t come as a shock to Fiila. The manor stood on a hill overlooking the entire valley, and Maulder’s eyes were always vigilant when looking for trou-
The front door opened suddenly, without warning, and loudly. Maulder ushered Carter in. They bother were bloodied, but alive. Fiila ran to meet them as Carter sat down in a chair near the hearth. Maulder was taking a good look at his son’s right arm with his one good eye, the other was completely swollen shut and the flesh around it had gone a pale purple color. They looked to be in terrible shape but they were in good spirits. Maulder even laughed as Fiila approached.
“Would you believe it, darling? I take the boy on his first hunt and he gets it into his head that he can take the full weight of a charging berserker. Bite down on this for me, son.” He handed Carter a thick leather strap. “Fiila, be a dear and hold him down. We need to set the bone or it won’t heal right.”
Fiila obeyed her loves command, and, with a grunt and a quick crack, Carter’s arm was back at its original angle. Fiila looked at them both sternly. “Carter promise me you won’t do anything so reckless in the future. I couldn’t bear thought of…” She trailed off but quickly rallied. “And Maulder, you would do well to keep a better eye on this boy of ours, you and I both know I don’t have it in me to give you another.” She brushed the few strands of rogue hair that had escaped from her normally neat bun and gave a heavy sigh as she collected herself. “ I swear, even if it is your duty as the lord, these hunts of yours are going to be the death of me.”
“They’re more like to be the death of me dear.”
“And that’s what I’m afraid of!” Fiila shouted in response to her husband’s jest. Silence fell. Even the wind outside the manor, ever strong and billowing, seemed to die down in the ire of a worried mother. Maulder rose and placed his calloused hands on Fiila’s soft shoulders. They found each others' eyes, and in one motion, as Carter watched, Maulder drew her into a long embrace.
“I fear,” Maulder started after a moment. “I fear that this hunt may not yet be over.” Fiila pulled back from him, despair in her eyes. “The orcs we fought today were to well organized for a roving band. I need to trace their steps back to the tribe. I fear that this is only the first of many attacks if I do not act now.” He made for the door but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Maulder. You are half blind and half starved…” Fiila knew she couldn’t stop him from leaving, but if she could have him just one more night, maybe his warmth would linger until his return. “Stay here and rest. Leave in the morning. I am sure the trail will not grow cold before then.”
Carter could hear the desperation in his mother’s voice, and for a moment he wondered if his father would walk out the door in spite of her pleading. Maulder’s, broad, proud shoulders slumped under the weight of the request. Carter, who watched from the side, saw for the first time his father look his age. He was scarred and rugged despite his lordly status. His rough shaved head was lined with as many years as old wounds. The eyes that were once a vivid green have turned as gray as the stubble on his cheeks.
Without turning around he spoke. “Carter, draw me a bath. I’m sure you can do that with one hand. Fiila, please prepare supper. I will retire to my study for I must prepare letters warning the village elders of the orc threat.” And with that, he left, up the stairs and down the hall to his study.
The remainder of the day proceeded almost normally. There was very little dialogue between mother and son as they went about their tasks. As the sun ducked behind the mountain that served as the valley’s wall Maulder emerged from his study with a handful of letters bound in twine which he placed on the table in the foyer. They ate dinner in silence, cleaned up in silence, and, in silence, they went to their beds. Fiila did not feel Maulder’s warmth that night as she’d hoped. He seemed to distance himself from her as they lay in bed together.This worried her greatly, but as the night passed she drifted off to sleep.
When morning came Maulder was gone, and he did not return.
°°°
In the nine years since Maulder’s disappearance, Carter had grown in some aspects but stayed the same in others. He was no longer a reckless fighter. His bow skills had doubled and his swordplay was close behind. He never gave up on that girlish style as his father had hoped, he even took to having his wife, Reichal, braid it before he went out. He matured in a way that mirrored his father, broadly built, homely to look at, strong as an ox and just as stubborn, yet deft in his movements. Nine years before he was barely able to grow an inkling of a mustache, but now he was sporting a long, thick beard. Reichal also, on occasion, would braid that.
Carter continued the duties of his father with great difficulty at first. Then he grew used to battle. When he and Reichal had their first child, a girl that they named Hali, the hunts became harder. There was more at stake. If he died in the line of duty like his father then his wife and daughter would go through the same thing he and his mother had gone through. When you mourn over an empty grave you have no other choice than to put a piece of your heart in that loved one's place. He could not put that burden on Reichal.
His fighting took on a more savage style, he was no longer fighting for just his own life, he was fighting for the lives of his wife, daughter, and mother as well. In the time since his father’s death, Carter had done all he could to clear the valley of hostile humanoids. He never found the orc tribe that proved his father’s demise, however. Once he’d come across the remnants of a war camp up in the foothills of the western border, but the trail had long since gone cold.
°°°
Reichal was six months pregnant with their second child when the attacks started again. Orcs raided caravans as they passed through the valley, often striking in broad daylight. They were bold and they were merciless. Carter roamed the valley floor with very little time for rest. The orcs attacked in squads of six. They were coordinated and well trained, but Carter was forged by fire, and each band fell before they could do any major damage.
It was tiring, fighting day after day when the enemies came in unrelenting waves. There seemed to be no end to the orcs’ forces, but Carter knew for a fact that there had to be a source. The warbands always seemed to come from the western mountains. That’s where the trail always led, but Carter never went any further than the abandoned camp. The once ashen fields had grown over with cogon grass, and the wooden pillars that served as center poles in tents stood as silent sentries in the open area. The memory of Maulder’s final hunt served as a wall, preventing Carter from advancing any further.
The thought that this tribe of orcs could be the very same tribe that ended his father’s life both enraged and terrified Carter. The possibility of his dying without an heir to protect the valley and his family was unacceptable, but there he stood, on the edge of the camp waiting for a reason to delve into the western mountains. After a month of this cycle of fighting and waiting, he saw his reason. Deep between the folds of stone that served as a mountain pass, long unused by travelers, Carter saw a thin trail of smoke curling up into the blue summer sky.
After a moment’s hesitation he flew across the open field. He dashed over the remains of broken arrows and rusted tools. Discarded bones cracked under his footfalls. Then the crack of bones turned into the crunch of gravel as Carter passed through the field and into the mountainous terrain. As he went he glimpsed the signs of movement that only a ranger’s trained eye could see; recently loosened stones, bare patches in the road, broken blades in the mountain grass. The trail was almost too easy to follow.
As he ran he hypothesized ways he could dispatch the enemy ahead. If the host was vast he would have no choice but to negotiate. Carter thought back on how many times he had encountered orcs from this particular tribe. Every day for the past month, and sometimes he would face two groups in a single day. He must have had slain hundreds of them by this point. How much more could there be? Never underestimate your opponent. Maulder’s voice rang in the back of Carter’s mind. He dreaded being scolded by his father from beyond the grave, but most all of the time his late father was right.
Carter skidded to a stop and listened. The sound of several feet hitting the ground was unmistakable. Quick as a fox, he lept behind a large boulder as a band of orcs making their way to the valley floor passed by. Carter waited. He held his position until the last of the humanoids had passed his hiding spot. A moment longer, then he made his move. Rising to his feet Carter loosed three arrows in succession of each other. The first two pierced the backs of two of the orcs who were unfortunate enough to bring up the rear. The third arrow glanced off of the third orc’s pauldron. Two orcs fell to the ground, one orc turned to the source of the attack, and the rest drew their swords.
Throwing his bow aside, Carter drew his weapon as well. The long sword he wielded glinted in fading sunlight as he rushed in to meet the orc he’s failed to fell by arrow. With a duck and an upwards thrust the large warrior crumpled, a bleeding mess. Carter lept back then to avoid the oncoming attacks from the remaining three orcs. The closer two missed by miles, but, despite his father’s warning, Carter underestimated the reach of the final in the trio. He felt the bite of the two handed scimitar as it cut into his left arm.
Holding back a cry of pain, Carter moved right and attacked left. He struck the closest orc in the neck. Stopping suddenly he turned on the largest of the orcs and slashed the brute across the chest. Gore spread across the mountain path and flecked Carter’s face. He felt a blade nick him in the shoulder and retaliated with a quick, but brutal stab. The large orc fell to the ground over the body of his compatriot who still clung to his bleeding neck.
The last of the orcs took a step back but remained in a fighting stance. Though this being the smallest of the group, the young looking orc was still a foot taller than Carter. The ranger stood opposite the warrior and mirrored his stance. They circled the bodies of the dead or dying orcs once, twice, three times. Then, without a word of reproach, the orc turned and ran in the direction he came from. Thinking fast, Carter realized that if the orc made it back to warn his camp the entire force might attack. His mission would be a failure. His family would be killed and the valley could be overtaken.
With the possibility of discovery growing as the distance between him and the orc grew Carter did the one thing his father told him to never do under any circumstance whatsoever. He threw his sword. All of his strength went into the propulsion of the blade. It flew in an arc end over end. Fear and desperation ran rampant in Carter’s mind as weapon, sailed through the air. He didn’t even notice he was holding his breath as the sword grew closer. He realized that as it fell the blade would not make contact with the fleeing orc, but, against all odds, a hollow KONK rang out and echoed throughout the mountain pass as the heavy granite pommel struck the back of the orcs head.
The orc fell. Carter let loose a cry of surprised relief, then collected himself. He retrieved his bow and sword. For a moment he considered killing the cowardly orc, but he resolved, instead, to bind its arms and legs. Carter hated unnecessary killing but he wasn’t about to let this survivor run back to camp and warn the rest. He supposed he could interrogate the orc and find out right away where the camp was located, but he feared the orc if it even spoke the common tongue, would be uncooperative. He decided to leave the orc behind and use the group's fresh tracks as a guide to their source.
The mountain path wound around many cliffs and crags. Ruins of ancient watchtowers stood overlooking gorges and canyons. It was near one of these demolished buildings that Carter caught his first glimpse of the orcish war camp. His breath caught in his throat. He saw just the outskirts of the camp in a couloir far below him. The full camp itself was obscured as it wrapped around the cliffside. The sun had begun to set as Carter came across it and already hundreds of campfires and torches had been lit to fight off the dark of the coming night. The wisp of smoke he’d seen on the edge of the valley seemed to have grown to the size of some great and terrible serpent.
Deftly Carter made his way around the side of the mountain. Having found the camp he made a point to avoid all paths. Instead, he leaped from ledge to ledge. In the dark of night he found his cover overlooking what seemed to be the center of the mass of tents. From his belt, Carter drew a spyglass and surveyed the circular clearing. Many orcs had gathered there, standing around an enormous bonfire. They ate and drank and spoke in their guttural language in low tones. As Carter settled in his perch the camp fell silent. On the western side of the great fire, a large circular tent stood and seemed to draw the attention of everyone present. Carter focused on this point as the front flap of the tent, a massive bear skin, flew open, and out came a tower of muscle and metal. The gargantuan orc was clad in heavy, black iron plate mail. It wore atop its gnarled, scarred head a ram’s skull fashioned into the savage crown. A low chant began to ring out among the many orcs as their supposed chieftain.
“Molaak’Tok. Molaak’Tok! MOLAAK’TOK!” It began in a low murmur, as most chants do, then it swelled into a raucous chorus. The leader, assumedly Molaak’Tok, raised his hands and let loose a thunderous roar that silenced the crowd and sent chills up Carter’s spine. The tent opened up once more, and Carter was shocked to see a hulking form that loomed above Molaak’Tok climb out, and before Carter could draw in a surprised breath, another gigantic creature emerged from the dwelling. The newcomers were covered from head to toe in coarse, black, fur. Never before had Carter seen a werewolf, but here were two of them, standing on either side of the orc chieftain. It was difficult for Carter to believe an orc of Molaak’Tok’s size would have need of bodyguards, and it was even more difficult for him to believe that an orc, or anyone for that matter, would have such control over a pair of werewolves.
Molaak’Tok began to speak. It was the tone that a military leader spoke in while reprimanding his subordinates for a job not well done. He was disappointed in them, Carter understood that, but that was the extent of what he could understand. Orcish was one of the few languages that Maulder had neglected to teach him. The chieftain would frequently point in the direction of the valley. His veins were bulging and his dark skin was becoming flushed with red. At the height of Molaak’Tok’s enraged speech, a shout rang out from the east end of the crowd. Carter’s blood froze as the host parted. He immediately recognized the young orc warrior he’d left back in the pass.
The scout made it’s way up the path between its comrades leading up to where Molaak’Tok stood aghast at this sudden show of disrespect. The survivor knelt before his leader and said something too quiet for Carter to hear, but the fury that overtook Molaak’Tok was enough to tell Carter the message that had been delivered. It was time to go. He got up from his perch, confident in his shroud of darkness and began making his way along the wall of the gorge. The anger that was exploding from Molaak’Tok moments before had begun to spread like a virus throughout the population of the camp. War cries rang out and that clanging of weapon being equipped and armor being donned resounded in the encampment below.
Carter had made a grave mistake. He’d neglected to send out letters warning of even the possibility of an orcish raid on the valley. Now an army was sitting on the doorstep with gripping the handle with one hand and a scimitar with the other. He remembered the night the Maulder left, he’d spent several hours writing letters for each of the village elders. Carter had only kissed Reichal goodbye as he did every other day. If only he had-
Carter slipped. The ledge he’d lept to turned to gravel under his weight, and he felt his stomach clench as the sudden downward trajectory took shape. There was a low rumble as Carter drifted through the air, he wasn’t sure as it was the sound of falling rocks, or, hundreds of soldiers on the march. He felt strangely apathetic about the how and why and what. He didn’t feel it when he hit the ground.
∘∘∘
Darkness. Darkness unlike any other. That is where Carter drifted. He was aware of time passing, but it was all very strange. Every hour was like a minute, and every minute was a second. He knew he had to wake up, but he wasn’t sure how. He wasn’t even really sure why for that matter. Light appeared. It was like a gray against the wall of black. Then the faint grayness became several small white spears. Carter tried to raise his arm and became very aware of the pain that radiated throughout his entire body. His head especially.
With great difficulty, Carter sat up, and the flood of light nearly blinded him as the gravel he’d been buried under fell away. Some loose grit clung to his face, cemented by a stream of blood that had been staunched sometime in the night. He felt frail as he stood shakily to his feet. There was somewhere he had to go. Home. He had to get home. Which way was that? East. Was that left or right? He looked up at the sun which peaked over the edge of the canyon wall. Right. Right? Right. Remembering his teachings he checked his surroundings. A multitude of people passed this way. He had to follow their footsteps.
While stumbling his way back to the valley floor, Carter remembered the events of the previous nights. Horrid sights. Werewolves and orcs and fire and steel. It all was so overwhelming. He didn’t notice the scent of smoke until he’d reached the edge of the trees, just past the ruins of the original orcish war camp. Looking up, Carter spied several plumes of white smoke across the valley. He was too late. He rushed to the center of the valley, his domain, the place he’d failed to protect. How could one man be expected to defend an entire region? How could Maulder leave him with this responsibility? The same way he had almost left his own child.
Climbing the hill his home stood on was a nostalgic feeling, but it was also agonizing. Carter felt like he was nearing the end of a very long race that he did not want to finish.The end did however come. He stood in front of the door to Brightpine Manor and felt he could relate to it. The door was a mangled mess like he was. Unlike Carter, the door was damaged by the claws of some terrible beast. The smell inside was horrendous, but Carter knew it well. It was a smell that, once you experience it, you never forget its terrible sweetness. Carter was very familiar with the scent of death.
He could see Fiila from the doorway. Her leg was gone and her eyes were open, but there was no light in them. Carter could feel his legs start to go out from under him and steadied himself on the doorframe. He choked back an anguished sob. To see his mother that way…
Carter stood up straight. When his hand came away from the door he felt something come with it. Looking down he saw a small clump of coarse, black fur. He tossed the refuse aside and drew his sword. He wasn’t ready for a fight if a fight was coming, but he didn’t want to die without a sword in his hand. He went inside. The interior of his home was cold. Unfriendly. He felt like he was out in the woods at night without a torch or a coat. Alone in the dark and very cold. He went upstairs. Somehow the smell was worse up there. It was as if he’d walked into a tavern, and he was walking towards the kitchen where the chef had a roast over the fire. He entered his bedroom.
The amount of blood that covered the floor seemed unnatural. The crumpled form of a dead werewolf lay at the foot of the bed. Carter walked in to inspect it and jumped when he heard a gurgling cough behind him. He whirled around and tripped over himself. He landed on the blood-soaked wood floor with a grunt and looked at the source of the offending noise. Reichal was behind the door. She sat there with her back against the wall, a silver short sword clutched in both hands. Looking at her, Carter couldn’t tell where the wounds stopped and the bruised skin began. She was covered in blood and rife with fear, but her wide eyes relaxed at the sight of her love. They almost closed.
Carter ran to her side. He wanted to grab her and pull her into an embrace, but he knew that would only bring her pain. Reichal smiled up at him. “There were two…” she whispered under her breath as Carter knelt beside her. “I was… I was afraid they’d gotten to you before... Before they came here…” Her breathing was labored. She dropped the sword and rested her hands on her swollen stomach. “Maulder stopped kicking just before you came in. I think…” she closed her eyes. “I think he went to sleep.”
“Maulder?” Carter breathed. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and a mass had grown at the back of his throat. “You named him Maulder?”
“Of course. It’s very bad for a child to die without… without a name.” Reichal let out a painful sob. She looked away from Carter and looked out the window. Her voice was very faint when she spoke again. “You should tuck in Hali… it’s far past her bedtime.” Her eyes closed. Her hands fell to her sides. She stopped breathing. Carter screamed.
∘∘∘
Carter dug three graves that day. After they were filled and marked he wandered from the silent halls of Brightpine Manor in a daze. Hali was gone. Her room looked like a storm had torn through it, but there was no blood, and there was no sign that she’d been there when the attack had happened. If she was alive, she was lost to him. The ranger drifted through the valley, but he found no signs of life. It seemed those who weren’t put to the sword were taken as slaves instead.The burnt husks of the villages and homesteads stood like gravestones in a long overgrown cemetery.
Food in the valley was scarce, the water was tainted by corpses, and the silence was beginning to fill up with whispers. The voices spoke terrible things into Carter’s mind.The ghosts of the villagers begged and berated him. They insulted and spat at him, but only when he was quiet. He learned, a few weeks into his wandering, that by humming or whistling he could calm his demons. Death seemed like a viable option.
The sun was setting as Carter dropped to his knees in the clearing that served as Brightpine Manor’s courtyard. He almost drunkenly pulled open his shirt, exposing his scarred chest. With shaky hands, Carter drew his longsword from the once ornate, now filthy, scabbard. The edge of it had a strange, unfamiliar glint to it like the unsettling look one would see in the eyes of a stranger bearing ill intent. The blade, Carter remembered, had been a gift from Vissim, the leader of the caravan he and Maulder had rescued all those years ago. “It all comes full circle eventually” One of Carter’s ethereal companions whispered into his ear “Close the circle. End the pain.” hissed another. Holding it by the blade, Carter raised the longsword with the tip pointed at his chest.
“Don’t disappoint me, son.” Maulder’s voice rang in the back of his mind.
“Follow us home.” Hali sang in her small, innocent voice. “Just like the children in that story you used to tell me. The one with the nasty witch.” Carter began to apply pressure, but something within him held back. A bead of blood rolled down from the fresh wound, and the voices rose from mixed whispers to a panoply of cheers and jeers. They begged for more blood to be spilled. They longed to see the gore. They through by the sound of a single lonely note. It rose and fell over the course of its long life, and Carter recognized it as the song sung by wolves. The howl was joined by others. Soon the dissonant choir filled the air of the night sky with their song, and the voices were silent once more.
Carter dropped the sword and struggled to his feet. A painful memory flashed in his mind. “There were two…” Carter remembered the night it all happened. Molaak’Tok had two werewolf companions. One was killed by Reichal. The other… He realized that, in hindsight, the attack on the valley would have been inevitable. He realized then, that he was not the one who had to pay for the death of the valley. He realized that his hunt was not over.
Gameplay Stuff
Standard Array:STR:14 INT:11 WIS:13 DEX:16 CON:9 CHA:15
Background: Hunter
Traits: Natural Leader, Haunted by his Past, Tough but Fair, Occasionally Humorous
Starting Equipment: Studded Leather Armor, Longsword, Longbow, Quiver of Arrow [20], Explorers Pack, Tattered Green Cloak with Gold Inlay
Natural Explorer: Forest
You are particularly familiar with one type of natural Environment and are adept at traveling and surviving in such regions. Choose one type of favored terrain: arctic, coast, desert, forest, grassland, mountain, swamp, or The Underdark. When you make an Intelligence or Wisdom check related to your favored terrain, your proficiency bonus is doubled if you are using a skill that you're proficient in.
While traveling for an hour or more in your favored terrain, you gain the following benefits:
Difficult terrain doesn't slow your group's travel.
Your group can't become lost except by magical means.
Even when you are engaged in another activity while traveling (such as foraging, navigating, or tracking), you remain alert to danger.
If you are traveling alone, you can move stealthily at a normal pace.
When you forage, you find twice as much food as you normally would.
While tracking other creatures, you also learn their exact number, their sizes, and how long ago they passed through the area.
Favored Enemy: Humanoids [Werewolves]
Beginning at 1st level, you have significant experience studying, tracking, hunting, and even talking to a certain type of enemy.
Choose a type of favored enemy: Aberrations, Beasts, Celestials, constructs, dragons, elementals, fey, Fiends, Giants, Monstrosities, oozes, Plants, or Undead. Alternatively, you can select two races of humanoid (such as Gnolls and orc s) as favored enemies.
You have advantage on Wisdom (Survival) checks to track your favored enemies, as well as on Intelligence Checks to recall information about them.
When you gain this feature, you also learn one Language of your choice that is spoken by your favored enemies, if they speak one at all.
You choose one additional favored enemy, as well as an associated Language, at 6th and 14th level. As you gain levels, your choices should reflect the types of Monsters you have encountered on your adventures.
This character has been over 4 years in the making. After growing with him I have finally transferred him from 2e to 5e. I can't wait to see where his story goes.
I just need you to pick the biome and favorite creatures along with writing down all of your abilities and posting the equipment, the background and traits and we are good.
I just need you to pick the biome and favorite creatures along with writing down all of your abilities and posting the equipment, the background and traits and we are good.
All good. I think you can understand his favored enemy if you read the backstory. Sorry it's so long, but like I said, this character is years in the making.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"When I finally find a pen I have nothing to say..." ~Some graffiti I found once.
Carter Brightpine
Race: Human Class: Ranger (Hunter)
Age: 32
STR: 14 INT: 16 WIS: 15 DEX: 17 CON: 15 CHA: 17
Appearance: This ranger, although young, is marred with scars and worry-lines. His long black hair is dirty and dreadlocked in the places where braids used to be. His beard is similar. Beneath his tattered cloak he wears studded leather armor that looks well kept despite seeing countless battles. The way he carries himself seems to counter his dirty demeanor. Carter stands tall and proud. When he speaks, he does so like a natural leader.
Personality: Carter doesn't like to take the position of leader, but he often ends up as such. He holds himself up as a serious person, but he knows how to find the humor in a situation. He is generally quiet because he is looking for the right thing to say, not because he has nothing to say at all.
Backstory: (Hold onto your butts guys, this one's really long.)
Maulder took a step back and let his son draw back the already taut bowstring. At the age of seventeen Carter had the accuracy of a castle marksman, but Maulder knew his son was capable of more. The aged ranger took pride in the fact that his boy followed the path of a hunter. When Carter wasn't training his eagle eyes he was honing his skill with a blade or studying the flora and fauna of the region with his mother, Fiila.
Yes, Carter was growing to be a skilled young ranger, although his temper could have used some adjustment. When his training first began Carter struggled with stringing his short bow. The young boy became so mad that he snapped the hickory limb in half. Maulder smiled at the memory, his brash son was a man grown. He was ready for his first hunt. Turning from his offspring he saw that the fates agreed with his decision.
To the east of their cottage, Maulder saw three plumes of black smoke rising from behind the trees. His mismatched eyes, the left one blue and the right one green, took in the sight, judging the distance, deciding the cause, finding a route. He listened to the forest but heard few animals, only the faint clashing of steel.
At this point, Carter had appeared at his father's side, swiftly and as silent as a jaguar on the hunt. The young man's dark curly locks were pulled back into a short ponytail, though a few strands fell to the sides of his face. Maulder wished that Carter would just shave his head and be done with the girlish style. A stray hair in the eye could mean death on a hunt.
"Fetch my longsword from the foyer," Maulder commanded his child, "as well as your own blade my son. The hunt calls for your service this day."
°°°
The two rangers crouched low in the foliage at the edge of a large clearing. A road used for trading between the two nearby towns stretched down the middle of the small field. Carter stared open-mouthed at the horrific scene before them. They had discovered an ambush set by a group of orcs for a passing caravan. Four carts which were previously led by beasts of labor now sat ruined, and three of them were aflame.
Scattered throughout the clearing were small skirmishes between mercenaries who were hired to protect the goods of the caravan and the orcs who sought said loot. Carter moved to join the fight, but Maulder stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked his son in the eyes and communicated his meaning.
"Observe the area before entering," he whispered just loud enough to be heard under the despaired cry of a falling human warrior. "When outnumbered, as we currently are, find an advantage in the environment."
Carter scanned the ensuing battlefield a moment, then nodded toward the largest of the orc war party. Maulder gave silent agreement. If they were to slay the leader if the band the lesser orcs morale would drop and they would retreat. "Stay low, and watch your sides," Maulder warned his son. "This is a battle, not a game. They will take every chance they can to kill you."
With that the older ranger rushed into the fray. The orcish captain was already engaged in close combat with two mercenaries when Maulder closed on his left flank and drove a dagger into his calf. The humanoid retaliated by swinging his jagged falchion in a wide arc that skidded off of the ranger's pauldron and cut into his forehead just above his eyebrow.
Carter circled around the clearing, loosing arrows into the battling orcs as he went. Three arrows flew, and two orcs fell. The third managed to block the arrow by pure happenstance as he lifted his blade and struck down a human warrior. The large orc locked his eyes in the young ranger.
The orcish captain, after attacking strange old man, who'd appeared from seemingly nowhere, turned to block the blows of the two humans he'd already been fighting. With a mighty swing of let severed the forearm of one warrior, another attack got caught in the side of the other.
The large orc charged towards young Carter with animalistic intent. The ranger stepped back then loosed another arrow at the charging berzerker. The missile glanced off of the brute’s shoulder, but he showed no sign of pain as he rushed the newcomer. Carter drew back the drawstring of his elven-made longbow and inhaled quick, panicked gasp as he realized that he was too slow.
Maulder was breathing hard. The immense orc before him was incredibly nimble for its size and stature. The ranger wasn't entirely certain, but he could have sworn he'd seen some semblance of technique in the humanoid’s wicked attacks. It was in the little movements of the rallies and reposts, the swift cuts at the chinks in his armor. Maulder was sure that this orc was trained by someone who was highly skilled, someone he thought he-
Maulder saw his opening, a cross swing that flew too wide. This orc was schooled in swordplay, but not overly skilled at it. With a quick, heavy jab Maulder drove the end of his short sword into the muscle of the orcs abdomen and through into the precious, vital organs that lay just below. The orc let out a gurgling roar and swung a weakened arm at Maulder, striking him across the face. If the brute hadn’t been dying that blow would have taken Maulder’s head off.
Carter heard the humanoid captain’s dying shout as the orc he was fighting fell upon him. He heard two successive snaps. There was the crack of the arrow’s shaft as it broke upon piercing the oncoming wall of muscle and the unmistakable crunch of bones beneath a monstrous weight as the orc ceased running and seemed to fly into him. Carter bit back a scream that made its way from his shattered right arm to the back of his throat. The hulking mass that lay upon him was no longer breathing.
The sounds of combat faded from the clearing. The fires that enshrouded two of the four carts crackled and roared in the absence of the clashing of steel and shouts of warriors. Maulder cleaned his blade on the late orc leader’s back and raised a hand to the welt that was growing quickly under his left eye. As he rose from a stooped position he scanned the battlefield for his son. For a moment he was sure Carter was lost, or had fled. Then his gaze fell on a body on the edge of the battle that, almost periodically, would rise a bit, then fall again. He made his way over and moved the corpse to discover the cause of the phenomenon. Carter was there with his left arm against the chest of the enormous dead orc and his right arm bent at an alarming angle.
“Did we win?” Carter gasped feeling the relief of freedom. Maulder laughed, but there was very little amusement behind it. Carter’s arm was broken, but there was something more troubling on Maulder’s mind. One of the few remaining caravan guards approached the rangers with a hobble in his step. Maulder helped Carter to his feet and turned to meet the warrior halfway.
“It’s a miracle you came along when you did. A moment more and we’d be slaughtered or slaves.” The guard spoke in a heavy eastern accent, but the gratitude in his voice was easy to understand. “If there is any way we could repay you for your aid I am sure Vissim will be more than willing to provide.”
Maulder gave him a hard look before speaking. “Did your pay the tariff upon entering the region?”
The guard looked taken aback then glanced from Maulder to Carter who cradled his broken arm nearby. “Yes, Vissim is very diligent about fees and ta-”
“Then you have already repaid me in full.” Maulder interrupted. His steely visage was broken by a wide grin. “ I am only regretful that I was not quick enough to save you allies and goods, but that is the past.”
“You are the lord of these lands?” A look of awe and reverence dawned on the fighter’s face and he took a knee so as not to show disrespect. “Forgive my insolence. It is not my place to speak to you.”
“Nonsense, we fought side by side this day. In my eyes, we are as equals.” Maulder raised the man to his feet and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now, on the other side of that hill to the north is a village called Marpole. Tell the village elder of what happened here today and make sure you show him this,” He produced a token made of finely carved cherrywood. The coin was imprinted with the image of a howling wolf. “If you do not they will assume your account is nothing more than a tall tale and they will brush you aside. If you do you will be repaid for all of your lost goods. I feel that is fair enough as I was not quick enough to save all of your friends.”
“You are too kind, lord. This shall not be forgotten.” The guard returned to his fellow survivors and relayed the good news.
Maulder watched the display then turn to the woods, towards home. “No, I fear it shall not.”
°°°
Fiila was worried. What if her boys did not come home from this hunt? She knew it was foolish to think that way, but on the nights when Maulder would be gone tracking goblins through the valley or catching thieves in the act of, well, thieving, she would lay awake in their bed feeling the space where he should be. She needed his warmth to get to sleep. Ofter when Maulder would come home from a long hunt Fiila would look just as haggard as he did.
Now their son, Carter, was going on hunts too. The boy was barely old enough to grow a beard and yet Maulder found it suitable to bring him out killing. Fiila was getting flustered, and it wasn’t doing her any good standing out on the balcony waiting for either her boys or the coming of Dendar. If one were to die, gods forbid, it truly would be the end of the world. Her world. Fiila went inside, the cool air of the lodge calming her racing heartbeat. Many trophies and banners adorned the walls of Brightpine Manor, though Fiila never saw the taxidermied beasts as grotesque or the many different flags as tacky. They were all displays of honor and valor, but Fiila did always make sure to have a flower placed in any of the rooms housing the once majestic animals.
The suddenness of Maulder’s leaving didn’t come as a shock to Fiila. The manor stood on a hill overlooking the entire valley, and Maulder’s eyes were always vigilant when looking for trou-
The front door opened suddenly, without warning, and loudly. Maulder ushered Carter in. They bother were bloodied, but alive. Fiila ran to meet them as Carter sat down in a chair near the hearth. Maulder was taking a good look at his son’s right arm with his one good eye, the other was completely swollen shut and the flesh around it had gone a pale purple color. They looked to be in terrible shape but they were in good spirits. Maulder even laughed as Fiila approached.
“Would you believe it, darling? I take the boy on his first hunt and he gets it into his head that he can take the full weight of a charging berserker. Bite down on this for me, son.” He handed Carter a thick leather strap. “Fiila, be a dear and hold him down. We need to set the bone or it won’t heal right.”
Fiila obeyed her loves command, and, with a grunt and a quick crack, Carter’s arm was back at its original angle. Fiila looked at them both sternly. “Carter promise me you won’t do anything so reckless in the future. I couldn’t bear thought of…” She trailed off but quickly rallied. “And Maulder, you would do well to keep a better eye on this boy of ours, you and I both know I don’t have it in me to give you another.” She brushed the few strands of rogue hair that had escaped from her normally neat bun and gave a heavy sigh as she collected herself. “ I swear, even if it is your duty as the lord, these hunts of yours are going to be the death of me.”
“They’re more like to be the death of me dear.”
“And that’s what I’m afraid of!” Fiila shouted in response to her husband’s jest. Silence fell. Even the wind outside the manor, ever strong and billowing, seemed to die down in the ire of a worried mother. Maulder rose and placed his calloused hands on Fiila’s soft shoulders. They found each others' eyes, and in one motion, as Carter watched, Maulder drew her into a long embrace.
“I fear,” Maulder started after a moment. “I fear that this hunt may not yet be over.” Fiila pulled back from him, despair in her eyes. “The orcs we fought today were to well organized for a roving band. I need to trace their steps back to the tribe. I fear that this is only the first of many attacks if I do not act now.” He made for the door but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Maulder. You are half blind and half starved…” Fiila knew she couldn’t stop him from leaving, but if she could have him just one more night, maybe his warmth would linger until his return. “Stay here and rest. Leave in the morning. I am sure the trail will not grow cold before then.”
Carter could hear the desperation in his mother’s voice, and for a moment he wondered if his father would walk out the door in spite of her pleading. Maulder’s, broad, proud shoulders slumped under the weight of the request. Carter, who watched from the side, saw for the first time his father look his age. He was scarred and rugged despite his lordly status. His rough shaved head was lined with as many years as old wounds. The eyes that were once a vivid green have turned as gray as the stubble on his cheeks.
Without turning around he spoke. “Carter, draw me a bath. I’m sure you can do that with one hand. Fiila, please prepare supper. I will retire to my study for I must prepare letters warning the village elders of the orc threat.” And with that, he left, up the stairs and down the hall to his study.
The remainder of the day proceeded almost normally. There was very little dialogue between mother and son as they went about their tasks. As the sun ducked behind the mountain that served as the valley’s wall Maulder emerged from his study with a handful of letters bound in twine which he placed on the table in the foyer. They ate dinner in silence, cleaned up in silence, and, in silence, they went to their beds. Fiila did not feel Maulder’s warmth that night as she’d hoped. He seemed to distance himself from her as they lay in bed together.This worried her greatly, but as the night passed she drifted off to sleep.
When morning came Maulder was gone, and he did not return.
°°°
In the nine years since Maulder’s disappearance, Carter had grown in some aspects but stayed the same in others. He was no longer a reckless fighter. His bow skills had doubled and his swordplay was close behind. He never gave up on that girlish style as his father had hoped, he even took to having his wife, Reichal, braid it before he went out. He matured in a way that mirrored his father, broadly built, homely to look at, strong as an ox and just as stubborn, yet deft in his movements. Nine years before he was barely able to grow an inkling of a mustache, but now he was sporting a long, thick beard. Reichal also, on occasion, would braid that.
Carter continued the duties of his father with great difficulty at first. Then he grew used to battle. When he and Reichal had their first child, a girl that they named Hali, the hunts became harder. There was more at stake. If he died in the line of duty like his father then his wife and daughter would go through the same thing he and his mother had gone through. When you mourn over an empty grave you have no other choice than to put a piece of your heart in that loved one's place. He could not put that burden on Reichal.
His fighting took on a more savage style, he was no longer fighting for just his own life, he was fighting for the lives of his wife, daughter, and mother as well. In the time since his father’s death, Carter had done all he could to clear the valley of hostile humanoids. He never found the orc tribe that proved his father’s demise, however. Once he’d come across the remnants of a war camp up in the foothills of the western border, but the trail had long since gone cold.
°°°
Reichal was six months pregnant with their second child when the attacks started again. Orcs raided caravans as they passed through the valley, often striking in broad daylight. They were bold and they were merciless. Carter roamed the valley floor with very little time for rest. The orcs attacked in squads of six. They were coordinated and well trained, but Carter was forged by fire, and each band fell before they could do any major damage.
It was tiring, fighting day after day when the enemies came in unrelenting waves. There seemed to be no end to the orcs’ forces, but Carter knew for a fact that there had to be a source. The warbands always seemed to come from the western mountains. That’s where the trail always led, but Carter never went any further than the abandoned camp. The once ashen fields had grown over with cogon grass, and the wooden pillars that served as center poles in tents stood as silent sentries in the open area. The memory of Maulder’s final hunt served as a wall, preventing Carter from advancing any further.
The thought that this tribe of orcs could be the very same tribe that ended his father’s life both enraged and terrified Carter. The possibility of his dying without an heir to protect the valley and his family was unacceptable, but there he stood, on the edge of the camp waiting for a reason to delve into the western mountains. After a month of this cycle of fighting and waiting, he saw his reason. Deep between the folds of stone that served as a mountain pass, long unused by travelers, Carter saw a thin trail of smoke curling up into the blue summer sky.
After a moment’s hesitation he flew across the open field. He dashed over the remains of broken arrows and rusted tools. Discarded bones cracked under his footfalls. Then the crack of bones turned into the crunch of gravel as Carter passed through the field and into the mountainous terrain. As he went he glimpsed the signs of movement that only a ranger’s trained eye could see; recently loosened stones, bare patches in the road, broken blades in the mountain grass. The trail was almost too easy to follow.
As he ran he hypothesized ways he could dispatch the enemy ahead. If the host was vast he would have no choice but to negotiate. Carter thought back on how many times he had encountered orcs from this particular tribe. Every day for the past month, and sometimes he would face two groups in a single day. He must have had slain hundreds of them by this point. How much more could there be? Never underestimate your opponent. Maulder’s voice rang in the back of Carter’s mind. He dreaded being scolded by his father from beyond the grave, but most all of the time his late father was right.
Carter skidded to a stop and listened. The sound of several feet hitting the ground was unmistakable. Quick as a fox, he lept behind a large boulder as a band of orcs making their way to the valley floor passed by. Carter waited. He held his position until the last of the humanoids had passed his hiding spot. A moment longer, then he made his move. Rising to his feet Carter loosed three arrows in succession of each other. The first two pierced the backs of two of the orcs who were unfortunate enough to bring up the rear. The third arrow glanced off of the third orc’s pauldron. Two orcs fell to the ground, one orc turned to the source of the attack, and the rest drew their swords.
Throwing his bow aside, Carter drew his weapon as well. The long sword he wielded glinted in fading sunlight as he rushed in to meet the orc he’s failed to fell by arrow. With a duck and an upwards thrust the large warrior crumpled, a bleeding mess. Carter lept back then to avoid the oncoming attacks from the remaining three orcs. The closer two missed by miles, but, despite his father’s warning, Carter underestimated the reach of the final in the trio. He felt the bite of the two handed scimitar as it cut into his left arm.
Holding back a cry of pain, Carter moved right and attacked left. He struck the closest orc in the neck. Stopping suddenly he turned on the largest of the orcs and slashed the brute across the chest. Gore spread across the mountain path and flecked Carter’s face. He felt a blade nick him in the shoulder and retaliated with a quick, but brutal stab. The large orc fell to the ground over the body of his compatriot who still clung to his bleeding neck.
The last of the orcs took a step back but remained in a fighting stance. Though this being the smallest of the group, the young looking orc was still a foot taller than Carter. The ranger stood opposite the warrior and mirrored his stance. They circled the bodies of the dead or dying orcs once, twice, three times. Then, without a word of reproach, the orc turned and ran in the direction he came from. Thinking fast, Carter realized that if the orc made it back to warn his camp the entire force might attack. His mission would be a failure. His family would be killed and the valley could be overtaken.
With the possibility of discovery growing as the distance between him and the orc grew Carter did the one thing his father told him to never do under any circumstance whatsoever. He threw his sword. All of his strength went into the propulsion of the blade. It flew in an arc end over end. Fear and desperation ran rampant in Carter’s mind as weapon, sailed through the air. He didn’t even notice he was holding his breath as the sword grew closer. He realized that as it fell the blade would not make contact with the fleeing orc, but, against all odds, a hollow KONK rang out and echoed throughout the mountain pass as the heavy granite pommel struck the back of the orcs head.
The orc fell. Carter let loose a cry of surprised relief, then collected himself. He retrieved his bow and sword. For a moment he considered killing the cowardly orc, but he resolved, instead, to bind its arms and legs. Carter hated unnecessary killing but he wasn’t about to let this survivor run back to camp and warn the rest. He supposed he could interrogate the orc and find out right away where the camp was located, but he feared the orc if it even spoke the common tongue, would be uncooperative. He decided to leave the orc behind and use the group's fresh tracks as a guide to their source.
The mountain path wound around many cliffs and crags. Ruins of ancient watchtowers stood overlooking gorges and canyons. It was near one of these demolished buildings that Carter caught his first glimpse of the orcish war camp. His breath caught in his throat. He saw just the outskirts of the camp in a couloir far below him. The full camp itself was obscured as it wrapped around the cliffside. The sun had begun to set as Carter came across it and already hundreds of campfires and torches had been lit to fight off the dark of the coming night. The wisp of smoke he’d seen on the edge of the valley seemed to have grown to the size of some great and terrible serpent.
Deftly Carter made his way around the side of the mountain. Having found the camp he made a point to avoid all paths. Instead, he leaped from ledge to ledge. In the dark of night he found his cover overlooking what seemed to be the center of the mass of tents. From his belt, Carter drew a spyglass and surveyed the circular clearing. Many orcs had gathered there, standing around an enormous bonfire. They ate and drank and spoke in their guttural language in low tones. As Carter settled in his perch the camp fell silent. On the western side of the great fire, a large circular tent stood and seemed to draw the attention of everyone present. Carter focused on this point as the front flap of the tent, a massive bear skin, flew open, and out came a tower of muscle and metal. The gargantuan orc was clad in heavy, black iron plate mail. It wore atop its gnarled, scarred head a ram’s skull fashioned into the savage crown. A low chant began to ring out among the many orcs as their supposed chieftain.
“Molaak’Tok. Molaak’Tok! MOLAAK’TOK!” It began in a low murmur, as most chants do, then it swelled into a raucous chorus. The leader, assumedly Molaak’Tok, raised his hands and let loose a thunderous roar that silenced the crowd and sent chills up Carter’s spine. The tent opened up once more, and Carter was shocked to see a hulking form that loomed above Molaak’Tok climb out, and before Carter could draw in a surprised breath, another gigantic creature emerged from the dwelling. The newcomers were covered from head to toe in coarse, black, fur. Never before had Carter seen a werewolf, but here were two of them, standing on either side of the orc chieftain. It was difficult for Carter to believe an orc of Molaak’Tok’s size would have need of bodyguards, and it was even more difficult for him to believe that an orc, or anyone for that matter, would have such control over a pair of werewolves.
Molaak’Tok began to speak. It was the tone that a military leader spoke in while reprimanding his subordinates for a job not well done. He was disappointed in them, Carter understood that, but that was the extent of what he could understand. Orcish was one of the few languages that Maulder had neglected to teach him. The chieftain would frequently point in the direction of the valley. His veins were bulging and his dark skin was becoming flushed with red. At the height of Molaak’Tok’s enraged speech, a shout rang out from the east end of the crowd. Carter’s blood froze as the host parted. He immediately recognized the young orc warrior he’d left back in the pass.
The scout made it’s way up the path between its comrades leading up to where Molaak’Tok stood aghast at this sudden show of disrespect. The survivor knelt before his leader and said something too quiet for Carter to hear, but the fury that overtook Molaak’Tok was enough to tell Carter the message that had been delivered. It was time to go. He got up from his perch, confident in his shroud of darkness and began making his way along the wall of the gorge. The anger that was exploding from Molaak’Tok moments before had begun to spread like a virus throughout the population of the camp. War cries rang out and that clanging of weapon being equipped and armor being donned resounded in the encampment below.
Carter had made a grave mistake. He’d neglected to send out letters warning of even the possibility of an orcish raid on the valley. Now an army was sitting on the doorstep with gripping the handle with one hand and a scimitar with the other. He remembered the night the Maulder left, he’d spent several hours writing letters for each of the village elders. Carter had only kissed Reichal goodbye as he did every other day. If only he had-
Carter slipped. The ledge he’d lept to turned to gravel under his weight, and he felt his stomach clench as the sudden downward trajectory took shape. There was a low rumble as Carter drifted through the air, he wasn’t sure as it was the sound of falling rocks, or, hundreds of soldiers on the march. He felt strangely apathetic about the how and why and what. He didn’t feel it when he hit the ground.
∘∘∘
Darkness. Darkness unlike any other. That is where Carter drifted. He was aware of time passing, but it was all very strange. Every hour was like a minute, and every minute was a second. He knew he had to wake up, but he wasn’t sure how. He wasn’t even really sure why for that matter. Light appeared. It was like a gray against the wall of black. Then the faint grayness became several small white spears. Carter tried to raise his arm and became very aware of the pain that radiated throughout his entire body. His head especially.
With great difficulty, Carter sat up, and the flood of light nearly blinded him as the gravel he’d been buried under fell away. Some loose grit clung to his face, cemented by a stream of blood that had been staunched sometime in the night. He felt frail as he stood shakily to his feet. There was somewhere he had to go. Home. He had to get home. Which way was that? East. Was that left or right? He looked up at the sun which peaked over the edge of the canyon wall. Right. Right? Right. Remembering his teachings he checked his surroundings. A multitude of people passed this way. He had to follow their footsteps.
While stumbling his way back to the valley floor, Carter remembered the events of the previous nights. Horrid sights. Werewolves and orcs and fire and steel. It all was so overwhelming. He didn’t notice the scent of smoke until he’d reached the edge of the trees, just past the ruins of the original orcish war camp. Looking up, Carter spied several plumes of white smoke across the valley. He was too late. He rushed to the center of the valley, his domain, the place he’d failed to protect. How could one man be expected to defend an entire region? How could Maulder leave him with this responsibility? The same way he had almost left his own child.
Climbing the hill his home stood on was a nostalgic feeling, but it was also agonizing. Carter felt like he was nearing the end of a very long race that he did not want to finish.The end did however come. He stood in front of the door to Brightpine Manor and felt he could relate to it. The door was a mangled mess like he was. Unlike Carter, the door was damaged by the claws of some terrible beast. The smell inside was horrendous, but Carter knew it well. It was a smell that, once you experience it, you never forget its terrible sweetness. Carter was very familiar with the scent of death.
He could see Fiila from the doorway. Her leg was gone and her eyes were open, but there was no light in them. Carter could feel his legs start to go out from under him and steadied himself on the doorframe. He choked back an anguished sob. To see his mother that way…
Carter stood up straight. When his hand came away from the door he felt something come with it. Looking down he saw a small clump of coarse, black fur. He tossed the refuse aside and drew his sword. He wasn’t ready for a fight if a fight was coming, but he didn’t want to die without a sword in his hand. He went inside. The interior of his home was cold. Unfriendly. He felt like he was out in the woods at night without a torch or a coat. Alone in the dark and very cold. He went upstairs. Somehow the smell was worse up there. It was as if he’d walked into a tavern, and he was walking towards the kitchen where the chef had a roast over the fire. He entered his bedroom.
The amount of blood that covered the floor seemed unnatural. The crumpled form of a dead werewolf lay at the foot of the bed. Carter walked in to inspect it and jumped when he heard a gurgling cough behind him. He whirled around and tripped over himself. He landed on the blood-soaked wood floor with a grunt and looked at the source of the offending noise. Reichal was behind the door. She sat there with her back against the wall, a silver short sword clutched in both hands. Looking at her, Carter couldn’t tell where the wounds stopped and the bruised skin began. She was covered in blood and rife with fear, but her wide eyes relaxed at the sight of her love. They almost closed.
Carter ran to her side. He wanted to grab her and pull her into an embrace, but he knew that would only bring her pain. Reichal smiled up at him. “There were two…” she whispered under her breath as Carter knelt beside her. “I was… I was afraid they’d gotten to you before... Before they came here…” Her breathing was labored. She dropped the sword and rested her hands on her swollen stomach. “Maulder stopped kicking just before you came in. I think…” she closed her eyes. “I think he went to sleep.”
“Maulder?” Carter breathed. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and a mass had grown at the back of his throat. “You named him Maulder?”
“Of course. It’s very bad for a child to die without… without a name.” Reichal let out a painful sob. She looked away from Carter and looked out the window. Her voice was very faint when she spoke again. “You should tuck in Hali… it’s far past her bedtime.” Her eyes closed. Her hands fell to her sides. She stopped breathing. Carter screamed.
∘∘∘
Carter dug three graves that day. After they were filled and marked he wandered from the silent halls of Brightpine Manor in a daze. Hali was gone. Her room looked like a storm had torn through it, but there was no blood, and there was no sign that she’d been there when the attack had happened. If she was alive, she was lost to him. The ranger drifted through the valley, but he found no signs of life. It seemed those who weren’t put to the sword were taken as slaves instead.The burnt husks of the villages and homesteads stood like gravestones in a long overgrown cemetery.
Food in the valley was scarce, the water was tainted by corpses, and the silence was beginning to fill up with whispers. The voices spoke terrible things into Carter’s mind.The ghosts of the villagers begged and berated him. They insulted and spat at him, but only when he was quiet. He learned, a few weeks into his wandering, that by humming or whistling he could calm his demons. Death seemed like a viable option.
The sun was setting as Carter dropped to his knees in the clearing that served as Brightpine Manor’s courtyard. He almost drunkenly pulled open his shirt, exposing his scarred chest. With shaky hands, Carter drew his longsword from the once ornate, now filthy, scabbard. The edge of it had a strange, unfamiliar glint to it like the unsettling look one would see in the eyes of a stranger bearing ill intent. The blade, Carter remembered, had been a gift from Vissim, the leader of the caravan he and Maulder had rescued all those years ago. “It all comes full circle eventually” One of Carter’s ethereal companions whispered into his ear “Close the circle. End the pain.” hissed another. Holding it by the blade, Carter raised the longsword with the tip pointed at his chest.
“Don’t disappoint me, son.” Maulder’s voice rang in the back of his mind.
“Follow us home.” Hali sang in her small, innocent voice. “Just like the children in that story you used to tell me. The one with the nasty witch.” Carter began to apply pressure, but something within him held back. A bead of blood rolled down from the fresh wound, and the voices rose from mixed whispers to a panoply of cheers and jeers. They begged for more blood to be spilled. They longed to see the gore. They through by the sound of a single lonely note. It rose and fell over the course of its long life, and Carter recognized it as the song sung by wolves. The howl was joined by others. Soon the dissonant choir filled the air of the night sky with their song, and the voices were silent once more.
Carter dropped the sword and struggled to his feet. A painful memory flashed in his mind. “There were two…” Carter remembered the night it all happened. Molaak’Tok had two werewolf companions. One was killed by Reichal. The other… He realized that, in hindsight, the attack on the valley would have been inevitable. He realized then, that he was not the one who had to pay for the death of the valley. He realized that his hunt was not over.
Gameplay Stuff
Standard Array: STR:14 INT:11 WIS:13 DEX:16 CON:9 CHA:15
Background: Hunter
Traits: Natural Leader, Haunted by his Past, Tough but Fair, Occasionally Humorous
Starting Equipment: Studded Leather Armor, Longsword, Longbow, Quiver of Arrow [20], Explorers Pack, Tattered Green Cloak with Gold Inlay
Natural Explorer: Forest
You are particularly familiar with one type of natural Environment and are adept at traveling and surviving in such regions. Choose one type of favored terrain: arctic, coast, desert, forest, grassland, mountain, swamp, or The Underdark. When you make an Intelligence or Wisdom check related to your favored terrain, your proficiency bonus is doubled if you are using a skill that you're proficient in.
While traveling for an hour or more in your favored terrain, you gain the following benefits:
Favored Enemy: Humanoids [Werewolves]
Beginning at 1st level, you have significant experience studying, tracking, hunting, and even talking to a certain type of enemy.
Choose a type of favored enemy: Aberrations, Beasts, Celestials, constructs, dragons, elementals, fey, Fiends, Giants, Monstrosities, oozes, Plants, or Undead. Alternatively, you can select two races of humanoid (such as Gnolls and orc s) as favored enemies.
You have advantage on Wisdom (Survival) checks to track your favored enemies, as well as on Intelligence Checks to recall information about them.
When you gain this feature, you also learn one Language of your choice that is spoken by your favored enemies, if they speak one at all.
You choose one additional favored enemy, as well as an associated Language, at 6th and 14th level. As you gain levels, your choices should reflect the types of Monsters you have encountered on your adventures.
This character has been over 4 years in the making. After growing with him I have finally transferred him from 2e to 5e. I can't wait to see where his story goes.
"When I finally find a pen I have nothing to say..." ~Some graffiti I found once.
I just need you to pick the biome and favorite creatures along with writing down all of your abilities and posting the equipment, the background and traits and we are good.
Also to play in my campaign, he will need standard array stats.
Basically read my first post in "The Peaks of Winter's Hold"
"When I finally find a pen I have nothing to say..." ~Some graffiti I found once.
Thats a long backstory