Post by Braith Morwen on Oct 22, 2012 13:00:13 GMT -5
GENERAL
Full Name: Fredoria Larriseck Harrion Kerrias
Race: Hammer
Age: 612
Gender: Utterly masculinely manly
Sexual Orientation: Omnisexual. Really, why should he be picky?
Birthplace: Orzammar
Residence: Wherever the Void Daern happens to toss him that day. Bastard dwarf.
Affiliation: Daern
Occupation: Warhammer
Religion: the Wielders
COMBAT
Class: Weapon
Character Stats:
Strength:
Dexterity:
Willpower:
Magic:
Cunning: 6
Spells:
Gear: Bronto hide grip. It should have been work away or lost centuries ago, but it holds great sentimental value and Fred will not let it go. Occasionally his wielder will wrap an additional layer around the grip, but all attempts to remove the bronto hide fail miserably.
CHARACTERISTICS
Appearance: Very large and ornate, Fred looks more like something one would find over a wealthy man's fireplace than a serviceable warhammer. The hourglass shape of his head and spike studs, however, as well as his exceptionally strong manufacture, make him a truly devastating weapon.
Personality: World weary, dignified, and sophisticated, this old hammer has seen his share of everything he cares to and more that he doesn't. Don't be fooled by his quiet demeanour, however – he has an acid wit and little patience for foolishness.
HISTORY
The sound of ringing steel and smell of hot steel saw Fredoria Larriseck Harrion Kerrias into the world – the only hammer forged by dwarven smith Makionar Kerrias, and one worthy of paragons. Had young Makionar chosen to continue forging steel rather than joining a contingent of warriors into the Deep Roads, perhaps he would have been truly named a paragon.
Alas, it was not to be. Believing his one true calling to be the protection of his people he travelled to the Deep Roads, his new young hammer in hand. Fredoria Larriseck Harrion Kerrias was still a child then, ill prepared for the horrors of war and even less for the darkspawn. His shrieks of terror and bitter sobs went unheard by clumsy dwarven ears, his first battle made only worse by the untrained hands of his wielder.
The only comfort Fredoria could find was the company of the other weapons, battle-hardened vetarans all and expertly handled by their expert wielders. Swords and axes and mauls that decimated any enemy shouted encouragement and support between swings and Fredoria took heart, aiding his wielder as well as he could. But no amount of help from any weapon, no matter how strong or brave, could make up for a lack of skill. Makionar made a particularly clumsy swing and struck one of the dwarven warriors, the catalyst for a terrible loss.
Still a babe with only one battle to his name Fredoria was already disgraced for the sake of his wielder. Given a choice he would have returned to Orzammar with his friends, but he was forced to join the fabled Legion of the Dead with Makionar instead. Fredoria cursed the man bitterly, but to no effect. Clumsy dwarves can't even hear a weapon's voice, let alone understand the words.
In the Legion, at least, he found his place and purpose. The older weapons, from lithe daggers to great, burly greatswords spoke to him or ignored him as they chose, and slowly he learned of the world. His life was death and darkness, but such was the lot of a weapon and he soon found comfort in the company of a long, elegant silverite dagger. She was beautiful and elegant, with a hilt of blue wood that Fredoria had never seen before – ironbark. Her name was Treya and she was of elven make, entirely unlike any other weapon in the Deep.
For more than a century Fredoria lived in the Legion with Treya and all their friends, growing older and harder with each passing year until it was no longer startling when he realized that he was the old man and that not a single dwarf among the ranks had been alive when he first joined. His latest wielder was a good one, well trained and fond of his exceptional weapon, and when Treya's handle cracked he was the first to bind it shut with a long rope of twisted bronto hide. Fredoria's wielder, it seemed, was as fond of Treya's wielder as Fredoria was to Treya herself – a pleasing prospect if ever there was one.
But the Legion was not made for the joy of its legionnaires, and a mere few years later Treya broke in her old age and her wielder died with her. Fredoria and his own wielder both went made with grief, and when they returned to camp with the remains of their respective lovers the wielder wrapped the bronto hide rope around Fredoria's handle as he had done for Treya. Neither of them could bear to remain, however, and forsaking their oaths they fled to the surface.
The wielder took to getting very drunk as often as possible, leaving poor Fredoria – whom he had taken to simply calling “Fred” - to look after him. Time and again he berated his oblivious wielder for drinking himself into a stupor or fell over to crush the foot of a would-be cutpurse. Humans, Fredoria decided, were dishonest idiots and dwarves were drunken fools incapable of dealing with tragedy.
When Fredoria got sick of taking care of the wielder – the great being that was meant to control him with strength and skill – he simply chose to stay in his room rather than calling out to go along to the tavern. Unsurprisingly the man did not survive the day, and Fredoria was stuck lying in the room until some thieves came along to loot the dead man's things.
Time and again this pattern repeated. The old wielder would die, usually out of pure stupidity, and he was stolen or sold. Another weapon might have given up on trying to help his wielders, but not Fredoria. He yet remembered that his old wielder, the one who mended Treya, was a good man before he turned to a drunken fool and he strove to remind each set of hands to take him up of their strength and purpose. Over and over he failed, until six hundred years after he was forged the very tired hammer was taken up for the first time in centuries by a dwarf.
The lad, Daern, was an interesting fellow to say the least. A decent warrior that preferred ale and women to actual combat and Fredoria was resigned to the knowledge that this dwarf would likely end up just like the last one. Oh well. At least this one spoke to him relatively intelligently. Or, at least as intelligently as a squishy flesh-creature could manage.
