Kilrik Loregrin (Ork Beastmaster)

[Karhald]

Roll20 Name: Karhald
Discord ID: Karhald (Kilrik Loregrin)
Character Name:Kilrik Loregrin
Race: Ork

Lifetime Legend Total: 0
Unspent Legend:0
Thread Item Points:0
Silver: 28

Discipline: Beastmaster
Circle:1
Discipline Abilities

Characteristics
Dex: 16 (7)
Str: 16 (7)
Tou: 15 (6)
Per:13 (6)
Wil: 10 (5)
Cha: 11 (5)

Karma Mod: 5
Karma Step: 4
Karma Max: 6 (+1 from leftover attribute points)
Uncon: 37
Death: 44

Init: 6
PD: 9
PA: 5
MD: 8
MA: 3
SD: 7

Movement: 12
Carrying Capacity: 175
Wound Threshold: 10
Recovery tests per day: 3

[Discipline] Talents
First Circle Discipline Talent: Avoid Blow (Rank 1) Step 8
First Circle Discipline Talent: Claw Shape (Rank 1) Step 11
First Circle Discipline Talent: Thread Weaving (Rank 1) Step 7
First Circle Discipline Talent: Unarmed Combat (Rank 2) Step 9
First Circle Discipline Talent: Wilderness Survival (Rank 1) Step 7
First Circle Talent Option: Animal Bond (Rank 2) Step 7

Free Talent: Name (Rank)


Talent Knacks **not yet, but there will be!**
Talent Knack Name

Skills
Knowledge Skill: Cara Fahd Traditions (Rank 1) step 7
Knowledge Skill: Forestry (Rank 1) step 7

Read/Write Language: (2) (Or'zet and Throalic)
Speak Language: (2) (Or'zet and Throalic)

Artisan Skill: Storytelling (Rank 3) Step 8
General Skill: Great Leap (Rank 1) Step 8
General Skill: Leatherworking (Craftsmanship) (Rank 2) Step 8
General Skill: Missile Weapons (Rank 1) Step 8
General Skill: Climbing (Rank 1) Step 8
General Skill: First Impression (Rank 1) Step 6

Equipment:
Adventurer’s Kit (backpack, bedroll, flint & steel, torch, waterskin, large sack)
Artisan Tools (writing kit if allowed, otherwise purchased for 23 silver)
Dagger
Traveler’s Garb (soft boots, shirt, belt, breeches, traveler’s cloak)
Trail Rations (1 week)

Hide armor
Shortbow, quiver,
20 arrows


Threads Tied: none

Animal Companions: Fayeel, white wolf

Brief Backstory:

"What is it you wish to know of me? My troubling past, the murder of my family, the enslavement of my entire village? You will be sorely disappointed, for all whom I love and care about are alive and well in a frontier village just four days run from the gates of Throal. "

The young Ork picks up his tankard and takes a long, slow drink, savoring each swallow. When he removes the cup, a strip of fatty tissue is hanging from his left tusk, which protrudes a little further than the right. He casually picks the bit of flesh, which was in his drink of hurlg, and pops it into his mouth.

"I am Kilrik Loregrin. The second Name is what I have chosen for myself, and some day I hope it will be a part of my own pattern, a part of the stories as retold by myself, for that is what I am, a collector of stories, of knowledge, and some day I wish to bring those stories together in a grand retelling done in the old ways, covered in striking body paints, standing before a raging fire, while I shout the Stories in the old tongue of the Orks."

He looks down into his cup at the question.

"No, I do not yet speak Or'zat, the old tongue, I only speak Or'zet, but they are related, and I have heard the old tongue before. I seek a teacher for that, the training for that I will repay with stories I have collected and with fresh meat from freshly killed beasts that I take in the wild. Hunting comes easily to me, it is part of the path I walk, that of the Beastmaster."

His eyes narrow, a low growl escaping his throat at your offhanded comment about laying with beasts.

"I'll have you not insult nor speak ill of the path of the Beastmaster, lest I let my gahad burn bright as my fingers flay your face and I use your blood for bodypaint."

He looks down at the table, where he accidentally gripped the edge with clawed fingers, digging deep and impressive furrows in the old wood.

"That is what my hands do to old, seasoned wood, what do you think they will do to your soft throat? Now, do you have a story to share, archer?"

He laughs at the audacity of mentioning the path of the Troubadour.

"Hah! And why? Why would I follow that path? Singing and dancing never called to me the way howling and stalking my prey did. Oh, yes, the storytelling is a part of my being, that is true, and I appreciate you respecting my passion for the oral traditions of our people, but let me tell you this, City Ork, that path, which I do respect, do not misunderstand me, that path is not the path I am meant to walk. I dream not of singing on a stage, lute in my hands, or drum between my knees, no. I dream of HER, a white wolf, beautiful and terrible. She lives in the mountains there, I know of her, and she knows of me. I have spoken with her in my dreams, she is waiting, and together we will collect and tell the stories of old Cara Fahd. Yes, she is waiting, and on the morrow I will continue to make my way to her."

He closes his eyes, and sniffs the air.

"I am getting close, in a few days, I will find her, and then the stories will flow from my lips and the forgotten traditions will be re-discovered!"

He slams his empty tankard on the table and scatters a couple of coppers to pay for the drink and food.

"Thank you for the conversation, I will return in a week, with her by my side."

Kilrik, true to his word, returned to the village 10 days later, bearing wounds from a scuffle with a bear, and with a newly bonded young wolf in tow. Henamed her Fayeel, and already there were stories beginning to form from the deeds they were to perform together.

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Kilrik was born and raised in Throal, just another child of the Scourge, like everyone else around. His family unit was one of the many groups of orks with the unenviable task of cleaning the lumps of greasy filth that fell from the great vaulted ceilings of that kaer. Just a thankless task that paid fairly well, and kept their family in some comfort and with wealth enough to pay certain magistrates to be lenient on sentencing when one of his family members' gahad was tripped by a foolish comment from one of the other denizens of the kaer.

Such was life for the Muckraker clan of orks, the street cleaners, the offal shovelers, the hide-tanners and aurochs ranchers that were of great importance to the day to day operations of the kaer, but of the lowest tier of society.

Kilrik hated muckraking, but there was one aspect of the family business that he looked forward to, and always requested that he be assigned to do: tending the beasts in the Great Corrals. Being with the animals always just felt right, the smells, gazing into their eyes, and sharing moments of mutual understanding, even though most of them were destined to be slaughtered. He had a knack for calming them, even in the moments before their deaths, though he was never present for the killing, as he far too often found himself wrestling his cousin to the ground and throwing the killing mallet away. Such interruptions were problematic, to say the least.

One day, while leading a pair of goats on a day-long journey to another sector of Throal, he ran across another ork who was staring intently into the eyes of a horse that had been wounded in an accident. The animal was bleeding and whinnying in pain and fear, yet this older ork just kneeled down next to it, pressed his finger against the palm of his hand, and somehow cut himself! He pressed his bleeding hand to the horse's injury, and to Kilrik's great surprise, the animal seemed to have healed from the worst of the great cut across its shoulder. The old ork stood up, rubbing his own shoulder, which now bore a bleeding cut that was inflicted by no blade, and began talking to the horse. Somehow, the animal understood everything the ork said to it, and Kilrik knew that he had met a true master of beasts, one who walked the path that Kilrik merely dreamed of. This old ork was a Beastmaster.

"Please, teach me to walk the path. I've felt the calling, the true Calling, for many years, but..."

The old ork turned and looked at skinny, dirty young Kilrik. Hmm.. ain't much to you, is there? Well, alright then, bring me three hundred silver, and I'll teach you. Oh, you should be thanking me for giving you a discount. I'm of the 8th circle, boy, I could demand four hundred, and anyone else would be happy to pay it. Can you pay?

Kilrik stood up straight and looked the intimidating Beastmaster in the eye. Yeah, I can pay, I'm a Muckraker. The old ork clearly understood what that meant, and the kind of income Kilrik could generate with that kind of terrible work, and he nodded. Tark Bloodmaw, I live here in the Dahnat of Ulutur, everyone knows who I am, they can point you towards my house. When you bring the silver, bring an extra bit for room and board for four months, that's how long I'll need to whip you into shape.

Kilrik, upon delivering the goats to the Ulutur market, ran home to count his savings and express his plan to become an Adept. There was much yelling and accusations of him being a fool who was throwing away his hard-earned silver, but Kilrik knew that this was his future. Bearing a black eye from his mother's tender argument style, he arrived the next day in front of Tark's hovel, carrying a bag that was heavy with silver.