CotMA: Castle of the Mad Archmage
This dwarf has been hanging out in the Asylum and drinking for years now. His shield bears a device resembling Abbor-Alz. When he gets drunk enough, he strangely claims lineage from the (in)famous separatist Clan Koorzun.
ST 13 (+1)
Thac0 (Melee/Ranged) 18/19
Save v. Breath 13
Save v. Poison/Death 8
Save v. Petrify/Paralysis 10
Save v. Magical Device 9
Save v. Spell 12
Studded Leather w/Shield
Flint & Steel
(50ft) Hemp Rope
(12) Iron Spikes
(12) Wooden Spikes
Andropous gladly divulges that Petrokefalik is not his clan name. He will happily inform you that neither is it the name of his homeland. Indeed, he seems almost pleased to tell you exactly what it is.
“How could it be my clan’s name? Or how could it be my homeland? For aren’t I both a wanderer and a Squatter?” he’ll jest. Perhaps he makes a decent human feel awkward at his joke, but he certainly seems to enjoy distempering most folks.
But then his face alters. Where has his humor fled? The change is drastic, and few who retain a pleasant spirit in his jest cling to one now.
“It’s a title,” he gruffs.
Such exchange is common between other patrons and himself at the bar in Greyhawk City. Now, perhaps you’re wondering which bar he claims. But he’s not picky about that. He haunts the closest that doesn’t stop him from drinking.
Needless to say, many patrons have overheard. They suppose him bragging and furthering the jest. But it only seems such to those who hear but do not see. Those who behold his eyes know. It ain’t no boast. And it ain’t funny.
Just what it is, they aren’t sure. And if anyone could tell, none have.
He’s not angry, at least not at them. His voice is tough, but eyes are absent. His stares forward, yet gazes only into the abyss of his own soul.
As disconcerting as is his casual racial self-depreciation, the depth of his eyes in that moment is bone chilling. But as quickly as it comes, it disappears. Suddenly, a laugh.
“Well,” he chuckles, “this beer ain’t drinking itself, now is it friend?”