Torgeir, Son of Halvor - Profile

[Panros]

Name: Torgeir, Son of Halvor
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 18 - Born 1353 (Year of the Arch)

Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Hazel
Height: 6’10”
Weight: 275lbs
Body Type: Very Muscular

Class: Barbarian
Deity: Tempus
Alignment: Chaotic Good

Personality: Torgeir at times may be an overly proud person but overall the barbarian is goodhearted and weary of other people’s feelings.

Description: Torgeir is an impressive human standing close to seven feet and weighing two times the average man. His skin is tanned and his body is muscular from spending the majority of his life under the sun traveling on the rugged road and trekking through the dangerous wilds. He has grown his thick brown hair to the back of his shoulders and wears his hair loose, though he ties his bangs into two braids to prevent them from blocking his vision. Torgeir’s young and handsome face shows a calm yet proud demeanor and his hazel eyes show that he is intelligent beyond his years.

Background: Torgeir was only a young child when he left his tundra home, Icewind Dale. He was born three years before half of the Elk Tribe left their cold home to help reclaim Mithral Hall for their young leader Wulfgar, the barbarian who united the tribes north of the Spine of the World. Torgeir and the other Uthgardt came to call Settlestone, an outpost near Mithral Hall, their home where they acted as traders for Clan Battlehammer. When Torgeir was four, his idol and leader Wulfgar died defending the famed dwarven stronghold against a vicious drow invasion. Berkthgar, a proud and arrogant man, became the new leader of the Elk Tribe and ordered the tribe to return home to Icewind Dale so they could live their lives off of the tundra as their ancestors once lived. A group of the barbarians, no more than thirty, decided not to return to Icewind Dale for they wished to explore the world outside of their home. Led by a burly yet wise barbarian named Halvor, father of Torgeir, the sect of barbarians began to travel south and east of Mithral Hall hoping to find a new place they could call home.

For the next six years the band of Uthdardt traveled and lived off of the foreign lands. During this time the barbarians were slowly educated about Faerun through their interactions with people, whether it be travelers, merchants, farmers or villagers. The Elk Tribe barbarians eventually began to offer their knowledge of the land, game and skins, to these people in return for modern items and sometimes gold. If a band of merchants met up with the tribe, the barbarians would escort the merchants to their destination in return for armor, weapons, and gold. By the end of the six years the barbarians were half living as nomads and half living as traders and escorts.

The traveling barbarians eventually found the Reaching Woods, a great forest with the River Chionthar running through it, and came to call the woods their home. There the Elk Tribe settled down and began to live a tranquil and rugged life in the forest. The barbarians quickly adapted to the new lifestyle that was similar yet very different from their life on the open tundra of Icewind Dale. Though the Elk Tribe barbarians retained and practiced their customs, they still maintained their social ways, occasionally trading for modern supplies with the townsfolk of Hills Edge or Hluthvar. Torgeir, hardened by his life on the road, grew up to become a fine warrior and since living in the forest, a fine hunter.

Eight years have come to pass since Halvor led the barbarians into the Reaching Woods. Now eighteen, Torgeir’s sights have moved to the Cormyr region of Faerun, an area that fell under attack by a red dragon and a humanoid army earlier that year of the Unstrung Harp. With only a few supplies the young barbarian heads east, past the Sunset Mountains and into Cormyr.

[Panros]

If anyone is interested in being a member of this sect of Uthgardt barbarians let me know via 'PM.'

[Panros]

Conflict Under the Well

The two were alone, and if it weren’t for the natural light seeping through the opening of the well, they would be in complete darkness. Yukhognath, more orc than human, demanded fifty gold coins for anyone wanting to climb back up to the surface and at that time he demanded the payment from a young and proud barbarian.

“Move,” demanded Torgeir as he saw the half-orc step into his intended path, blocking his way to the thick rope. The orckin only laughed in protest and presented a grizzly snarl showing off his crooked and yellow, sharp teeth. “Move,” ordered Torgier this time with a hint of anger in his voice. “Move or I’ll make you!”

The two stared at each other, equally matching the others intense gaze. Particles of dust, illuminated by the sunlight from above, gently dropped toward the ground. The rush of air coming down from the top of the well calmed and the ambiance made by the many drops of water falling off the stalactites fell silent. It was as if the world around them hushed in anticipation of the two’s actions.

Yukhognath charged as Torgeir became saturated with a vicious rage. The two warriors met head on, their greatswords clanging together causing sparks to fly from the source of impact. The half-orc quickly recovered from the recoil and brought his blade down with a mighty overhand chop. Torgeir nimbly dodged the blow and began to launch a counter attack. Yukhognath, speed heightened by his shear anger, quickly brought up his blade to meet Torgeir’s expected thrust but found that the man was spinning around him. Torgeir swung hard, using the spin’s momentum to further increase the power of his attack, and drove the blade across the half-orc’s back leaving a trail of crimson and fragments of armor behind it. Yukhognath growled and turned about, facing his opponent whom was recovering from the mighty spin and swung his blade from the left of Torgeirs head down toward his right knee. The young barbarian deflected most of the attack’s power with an improvised parry but the damage was done. He was cut on his chest and deeply in his arm.

The two fought blow to blow each landing a hit as the other finished his attack. Both knew that they could be defeated in any second so they continued pressuring each other with their attacks, each hoping that the other would fall. Torgeir decided to improvise and brought his blade low, hoping to trip Yukhognath with the flat of his blade. The half-orc proved the quicker and seeing the opportunity slammed the hilt of his blade into Torgeir face. The world around Torgeir faded and soon he found darkness.

He awoke a few seconds later and found the orc clutching his own serious wounds. Yukhognath snarled at Torgeir, the half-orc knowing that he couldn’t kill the man or he would feel the wrath of the Purple Dragons. Torgeir saw that the half-orc lowered his weapon and in response lowered his own. “Fifty gold,” demanded Yukhognath as he looked down at the kneeling Torgeir, both warriors breathing hard.

[Panros]

Kindred Spirits

It was a star filled night and the air was crisp, air that refreshed Torgeir who just recently exited the local ruins carrying a pack filled with gold coins and trinkets. He breathed deeply letting the fresh air clear his lungs and proceeded to find a merchant in Isinhold who would be willing to give him the best price for his baubles. He nodded to the guard on duty and passed through the town gates when he saw his dear friend Endisty engaging in a verbal battle with two half-orcs. “No,” the barbarian whispered as he braced himself for a possible fight.

* * * * *

They sat at a table in the Regal Griffon Inn during the late hours of the night. Abby Winters, a small and shy woman robed in white, sat opposite the large Torgeir, and was telling him about her thoughts regarding the local band of half-orcs. Torgeir shifted in his seat to lean on the sturdy wooden table and looked about the tavern. The candles lighting up the room were dimming and were causing elongated and eerie shadows to form behind the many empty chairs and tables. The barbarian looked to his left and spotted Kale, the tired barkeep, wiping a counter with a rag and by his expression knew that the man was ready to close the lounge as soon as the two finished their conversation. Torgeir then turned his gaze back to that of Abby’s. He didn’t like what he heard and was trying to digest it. The woman had just told him that one of the half-orcs had nearly accosted her after she tended the orckin’s wounds in a tomb she was cleansing.

Torgeir face was screwed tight as he sat frustrated. He wanted to cut down everyone of the half-orcs who belonged to the band, yet he held a feeling that would not let him do so. The huge man sighed and admitted, “Though I hold ill feelings towards orckin, I understand that any creature can redeem itself.” He waited until Abby smiled and nodded to continue. “I do wish to fight the band of half-orcs but not because of hate or anger.”

“Then what for?” inquired Abby.

“I wish to show them humility,” answered the barbarian flatly.

No sooner had the words escaped his lips, Abby responded, “They don’t have pride that needs breaking. I think their pride is already broken,” she paused to catch her breath, “and that is why they pretend to have so much.”

Only after hearing Abby’s words did Torgeir realize that his feelings towards the orckin were correct. During older times his tribe was more or less in the same position these half-orcs were in now. He scolded himself for not noticing it sooner.

* * * * *

“What is this all about and why did you run out of the inn?” asked an angry Endisty. The two were able to walk away before a brawl started. In truth, Torgeir had never seen the woman so angry and he was sure that the half-orcs wanted no piece of the feisty half-moon elf no more than they wanted a piece of him.

He didn’t want to answer the latter part of the question. He left the tavern because he was angry with Endisty for eyeing another man, a palidin named Kain Phalanx, and he was angry that the same man tried to scry his way into the barbarian’s soul. Magic that proud Torgeir did not appreciate the least bit. He firmly grabbed Endisty by the shoulders. “What do you think your doing?” asked an angry Torgeir. The scowl that she gave him made the large man release his grip and calm down. “They have done nothing.”

Endisty looked at the man stonily and then flew her hands out wide as if amused though she surely was not. “What has happened to you? You defend them?” asked Endisty as she pointed back in the direction of the two half-orcs.

“I have spoken with Abby,” stated Torgeir. “What she told me has got me thinking differently.” He looked to her unconvinced face. “Don’t you understand?”

“Honestly Torgeir I do not understand,” answered Endisty with a shake of her head. “Please, PLEASE enlighten me,” demanded more than stated the half-elf.

“They act strong not because of pride. They do not need to be taught humility.” The large man turned around unable to face the fiery woman with his conclusions. “Their pride has been broken, they are defeated in spirit, what they need is acceptance.”

“What?” yelped a shocked Endisty. She grabbed Torgeir’s muscular arms and spun him so that he faced her. “What in the bloody hells is going on with you?” she queried wearing a mask of incredulity on her face. “You truly think to befriend these-”

“It is hard to explain,” the calm in his voice interrupting the woman’s question. “Know, that if the half-orcs hurt you I will kill them. If they start a fight I will finish it.” He paused knowing that he just might cause Endisty’s wrath to peak with his next sentence. “Until they do, I will take no action towards them.”

“Listen, you!” said Endisty as she stepped closer to Torgeir allowing him to view the intensity in her eyes. “I don't plan to 'take action' against anyone,” she paused to compose herself, “but I certainly am NOT going to keep still and silent while they have their run of the town, saying and doing as they please.” Endisty threw her hands to her side and stood on the tip of her toes putting herself inches from his face, “They are beasts Torgeir, worse than the most wretched animal.”

“Then walking up to someone and killing them because of their heritage is not beastly?” retorted Torgeir.

Endisty stepped back then and they both remained silent for a few moments. The only noise that came to pass between them was the soft rushing of wind left by a cool breeze. “My people,” continued Torgeir, “have had to suffer prejudice as the orckin suffer now. It took more than half of my life for my tribe to be tolerated yet alone accepted.”

“That is ridiculous,” declared Endisty. “I doubt your people are even capable of what those things are and do.”

Torgeir looked at his friend coldly. “You do not know my people.” His hard face softened upon knowing that she did not mean to insult him. “Have you heard anything of Icewind Dale? Have you heard of the savage tribes of barbarians living there, no worse than tundra yetis?”

“Only what you spoke of it to Abby and I that night,” answered Endisty as she shook her head.

Torgeir went on to explain the tainted past of his people. He told Endisty how life was a struggle for survival for his people living on the snowy tundra of Icewind Dale. His people used to live as independent tribes that were constantly at war with each other. If the rival tribes were not raiding each other for supplies they would attack and kill traveling merchants to take their items. Torgeir explained how his people were united under one other leader before the time of his idol Wulfgar. Under this rule the barbarian people led an attack on the villages of Ten Towns trying to permanently remove the settlers from the tundra. He made it known that his people slew anyone who got in their way, even children.

“Though I never participated in the raid I have had to live with the hate from many people for all of my life,” admitted the barbarian to the stunned and paled Endisty. “Before settling in the Reaching Woods, my people have suffered the burden of carrying a broken spirit and prejudice as the half-orcs here in Cormyr are carrying now.”

“That,” she paused trying to make sure what she heard was a reality but lost her initial response in the process. “By the gods!”

“I'm sure if anyone else here knew of this they would look upon me like them. Might I paint my skin green to be with them.” Torgeir noticed that Endisty was stunned to silence. “I need to be by myself.”

Endisty tried to say something to comfort him but no words came out. Instead her mouth hung open in disbelief.

Torgeir turned and began to walk back into the ruins. “Please do not follow.”

* * * * *

He sat on a bench by himself in an abandoned room somewhere inside the remnants of a grand temple. He did not like how he was at opposite ends with Endisty, she gave him friendship that he never knew before he met her, and sourly regretted ever confronting her. Torgeir shook his head and dismissed the notion. That is how their companionship worked for each has always come to the other with their burdens and problems in the past and found that they would stand by each other no matter what. What he did not know is if Endisty would look at him lesser than before and sighed at the thought. Torgeir then stood up and removed his greatsword from the tough leather holster he wore on his back. He walked to the rooms exit. Maybe he’d find some unfortunate spirit to play his frustration on.

[Panros]

Rainy Day

The group of scouts were camped high on the hill and sat lazily under the night sky. The moonlight barely seeped pass the bumbling clouds that previously held the rainwater which was now soaked into the earth they sat on. No action had come to pass this group of scouts the last three days except for the common fights of who gets the best part of the game they caught for dinner. One member got up and decided to scan the roads that surrounded the solitary hill, roads that sometimes carried a traveling merchant that the band of scouts would mercilessly kill and loot. He knew, even before the lookout told him, that it had spotted something.

“Jukha, one human. Easy kill,” informed the orc with a toothy grin.

“Get others ready. We kill him and eat him. Tell cook Wuglat we have human for dinner,” commanded Jukha in the guttural orc tongue.

The orcs began to bustle into motion soon after and each grabbed their weapon, be it an axe, club, or bow, and formed themselves into crude positions on the hill for an ambush. The figure slowly approached and Jukha couldn’t help but lick his green lips in anticipation of the tumult. A hole opened in the jumble of clouds and a ray of moonlight brightened the small are where the man walked through. Jukha’s eyes widened as he gulped heavily and issued the bowman to stand down.

One of the orcs mistook the gesture as the signal to attack and let fly an arrow that harmlessly struck the ground a few feet from the man. Caught up in the excitement the rest of the orc archers shot their arrows at the human a second later. The man was ready this time however and in that second brought a large sword before him. With a few sword and body movements the man deflected and dodged the barrage of missiles then rushed forward in a charge. Some of the orcs ran to meet the man on the grassy slope and in seconds were cut down. Others tried to attack the man when his back was turned but soon found that he was expecting the assault when the man met the score of orcs with his greatsword.

One orc charged in, his hand high above his head holding an axe, and soon found that the large blade the man carried was lodged in his chest. The orc jerked backwards as a boot hit its stomach and, after the man gave a quick pull, fell to the ground dead. Two others took its place and they quickly found themselves dead as the man spun in a circle and chopped them in half. Then before the last one could react the man brought his greatsword down on top of the unfortunate orc’s head and split it into two.

The archers were stunned into stillness and began to reload their bows only after Jukha yelled at them to do so. The three orc archers let loose their strings but found they struck nothing but air for the man was upon them even before they set their sites. With two thundering slashes the man cut through the wooden bows and a trio of orc chests killing his foes. Jukha stood still as he watched his companions fall and was completely bewildered at the turn of events to his party. The orc knew this huge man to be the one who led a raid into his kins caves a week earlier. He along with a silvery haired woman hacked their way through the old orc chief’s personal guards and the chief himself. And in that few moments of remembering, Jukha found himself clutching his stomach, falling backwards off the slope, and landing dead on the road below.

* * * * *

Torgeir wiped away the orc blood from his face with some cloth from the clothing of one of his newly dead foes. He stood on the hill and looked at the strewn out orc corpses and stood proudly knowing he brought glory to his god Tempus. He then made his way down the hill and onto the road and began to walk east making sure not to step on dead Jukha along the way.

* * * * *

In an hour Torgeir found himself at some foothills. He scanned his surroundings but the heavy shower of rain severely limited his vision. He felt the chill of water drip its way down his back and quickly grabbed at the wet brown hair that found its way into his armor. Suddenly the large barbarian hunched forward and exhaled deeply. Before he could figure out what happened, a blur flashed past his face and struck him on his left shoulder, causing him to jerk back after a resounding pang. The barbarian looked up, spotted a tree and ran for cover.

He looked back to where he previously stood and found that two melon sized rocks lay in the mud not too far from his footprints. Another missile whizzed past the tree he was hiding behind and hit the ground a few feet away with a loud thud. Torgeir looked to the crater; the rock was deeply embedded in the earth, then dared to peek around the tree to the direction the rock came from. A few yards away stood three figures that, because of the rain, Torgeir could not make out. He withdrew his greatsword, Foecleaver, and after another barrage of rocks ran for his assailants.

Torgeir’s face twisted as he saw the true forms of his attackers. They were ogrillon, humanoids that were part man and part ogre. He ducked as another rock flew past his head and nearly slipped in the mud. The ogrillon dropped their rocks and approached the man thinking he would fall over in his stumble. Quickly seeing that the man was back on his feet the two half-ogres furthest away reached down for their stones as the remaining one rushed Torgeir.

Torgeir struck the creature on its side but the attack did nothing to stop the yellow creature’s fist from striking his face. Torgeir staggered back and thrust forward with his blade. The creature took the feint and began to strafe to his right when the back of his head collided with the sharp blade of Forcleaver. The two remaining ogrillon launched their missiles Torgeir’s way, even before the other was killed, and found that both of their attacks hit the back of their dead kin. The barbarian pushed the dead ogrillon backward into the mud and began to step on its stomach. Then, off of his dead foe, Torgeir launched himself high into the air and brought his arms behind his head. A thunderous crunching noise erupted from skull of one of the ogrillon who was unfortunate enough to be in the way of Torgeir, who brought Foecleaver down upon its head. The other shouted something in its tongue and soon after found the sharp end of Torgeir’s blade driven through its throat.

He heard movement from above and when Torgeir looked up to the ledge saw six more half-ogres looking down to him. The large barbarian ran to the incline he saw earlier that would bring him to the higher ground where he could meet his foes all the while thuds and splashes of mud formed right behind his feet. The heavy rain turned into a slight drizzle and Torgeir sighed at the fact that the half-ogres’ vision for throwing stones his way was now clear. He furiously worked to climb the hill and was breathing hard when he reached the top though he would find no time to rest. The half dozen ogrillon dropped their rocks and were charging Torgeir, yelling in their glottal tongues, hoping they would overwhelm him with their numbers. Torgeir raised his sword and shouted to Tempus, the god of battle, and met his enemies.

* * * * *

In a nook and near a bed of water, somewhere east in the middle of vast hills, Torgeir made his camp. The barbarian didn’t make a fire, in fear of alerting any creatures that might attack him in his sleep, and ate the rations that he brought with him. He awoke a few hours later when the sun was halfway in the air. He removed the brush and rocks he put over his bedroll and rose up and stretched. Pain greatly struck him on his face and shoulder but the proud barbarian shook it off. After all, he had felt worse. Torgeir’s back was ached from sleeping in his armor and once standing the man began to do a series of stretches hoping to loosen the knots in his muscles. He then went to small lake that he slept near and crouched down beside the water. Taking some of the lake into his uncovered hands, Torgeir splashed water on his face letting the cool liquid liven his body. After satisfying his thirst, Torgeir went back to his resting spot, gathered his belongings, and climbed himself out of the nook. Now on higher land Torgeir viewed the world around him and smiled. Everything about the place looked much better after a day of heavy rain.

[Panros]

Talosian Invasion

The sky held a swarm of dark clouds that rushed along with the strong air current and every few moments roared in anger. Rain fell heavily to the ground soaking the dirt road until it was a muddy river. The grassy fields were covered with plumes of smoke and dying embers that were left over from the wild and powerful bolts of lightning. The five stood in the midst of the storm and their concern grew worse as lightning struck and charred a nearby chicken farmer.

Haylin Amorine’s pale face whitened even more as he flinched away from the farmer’s corpse. The group looked to each other for a moment in shock. “Let us move before we are struck by one,” offered Torgeir who lowered his greatsword hoping he would not be struck next.

Son’ya was already scouting ahead even before Torgeir finished his sentence. “There,” stated the elf as she peered into the distance, “three or four of them.” Everyone nodded for indeed there were shadowy figures behind the curtain of thick rain.

Ailren, a malaise elf, and Haylin, both wizards, began to issue somatic and verbal commands as they pulled from themselves magical energy. Chrysthania, a red headed half-elf, and Torgeir each gripped their swords ready to charge.

“For Tempus!” bellowed Torgeir.

Chrysthania’s beautiful face hardened as she nodded to Torgeir’s sentiment. “Tempus, give us strength and victory.”

Son’ya let fly her arrow, which magically ignited into flames as it left her bow, as Haylin released a ball of fire onto their foes. Torgeir and Chrysthania charged past the two and met the coming enemies.

* * * * *

The large barbarian returned to the group and quickly tightened the remaining strap of his armor along the way. Torgeir could see their grim expressions even though the dying candles of the Regal Griffon Inn barely illuminated their faces.

“Talosian priests are attacking,” explained Haylin when he caught Torgeir’s gaze.

“Talosian clerics,” quipped Ailren. The elf always seemed ready to correct everyone’s mistakes despite the situation.

The patrons remained silent as a monstrous roar boomed from the sky through the room. “Outside is a rather bad storm,” continued the pale wizard, “with very deadly lightning.”

Chrysthania brought her gaze from the door to Torgier and looked very distracted. “Talosians to the south, Son'ya has rushed off without thinking, we have to stop them,” stated the distressed warrioress.

Torgeir nodded with a slightly puzzled expression. He did not know anyone named Son’ya nor did he know the woman and the pale man before him. He realized then that it did not matter. They were now comrades in arms, and they had to fight an enemy that threatened them all.

* * * * *

Torgeir found himself in the midst of chaos. All around he heard clangs of metal, the cries of the fallen, the fizzle of electricity, and the heavy patter of rain. The large man caught glimpses of his allies in between the moments of combat and found that he was not the only one who was fighting one to many. Torgeir cleared away every thought accept those of his battle instincts and found him self once more focused on the fight before him.

He blocked a strike to his side and quickly brought his large sword to his right to deflect an attack of another. The large barbarian then swung his blade back to his left, knocking the initial Talosian soldier’s sword aside, then, using the momentum, turned a circuit and lunged his blade through his foe’s armored chest. He looked past the falling Talosian and his eyes widened. Another soldier of Talos took the opportunity to swing at the barbarian, but Torgeir was ready. He quickly bent backwards so that his body was arched from his feet to his hands as his enemy slashed his blade above him, just in time to dodge a bolt of lighting, cast by a nearby cleric, that struck the unfortunate Talosian behind him.

Torgeir pushed hard from his hands so that he was standing as the charred corpse behind him hit the mud. He brought his angry gaze to the cleric who was now running behind the defenses of his soldiers. He readied his grip and turned to swing when an arrow whizzed by the large man’s face and struck dead the remaining soldier of Talos to his side. He looked to the direction where the arrow came and nodded when he saw Son’ya holding her bow. The elf pointed with her weapon to Chrysthania who was surrounded by six Talosians. He nodded again and charged off to aid her.

- - - - - - - - - -

The next part will be coming in due time. For all those who wondered, barbarians have the Uncanny Dodge feat.

[Panros]

Description: An impressive human standing near seven feet, Torgeir weighs two times that of an average man. His lightly bronzed skin and large muscular figure is lined with a deep scar that runs from under the pit of his right arm down to the hip on the same side. Thick, tangled, and dark brown hair fall freely past his shoulders while the hair covering his forehead is often tied in plaits to the side. Torgeir’s defined and handsome face often depicts a proud composure and his hazel eyes easily delineate the thoughtful mentality found within him. Hardy yet balanced movements and his emission of confidence demand the respect given to that of a seasoned warrior.

Note: An update to the original character description. This is what one would see if he examined Torgeir.

[Panros]

Fighting Orogs

He stared his enemies down then turned his body so that his left shoulder was facing the orog closest to him. With a grunt he charged forward a few steps and swung his greatsword horizontally from right to left.

The orog, no stranger to combat, easily deflected the blow propelling the large blade further down and to the left of the barbarian, leaving the giant man open for attack.

Torgeir saw the orogs rush him, in fact he expected it. He was already spinning in a tight circle with the attack, the parry the orog landed giving Torgeir enough momentum to swing his sword faster. Torgeir completed the circuit and slammed the blade into the bewildered orog's waist knocking it to the side more than a few feet.

With a cry to Tempus the large man easily brought the heavy sword over his head and brought it down upon another orog. The orog was ready for the block, leveling his sword to stop Torgeir's overhead chop. Hard was Torgeir's strike sending vibrations down the orog's arms and into his spine, causing him to nearly fall to his knees.

Nearby a second orog landed a blow striking Torgeir's black silver armor on his back when the large man stepped back from the recoil of his last attack. More than willing to trade a blow for a kill Torgeir brought his sword once more upon the first orog.

The orog meant to block again but his arms froze in protest. The impact of the large barbarian's first attack rendered his arms too weak for him to lift his sword. He stood in horror, somewhat accepting his fate, as he stared into Torgeir's intense and furious hazel eyes. Then he heard a crack and a pain greater than he had ever experienced struck him on the top of his skull. He let out his last breath then he knew no more.

Torgeir turned his head and looked to yet another orog. With a grunt he yanked free Foecleaver, his greatsword not as impressive as it should truly be, from the dead orog's skull. He began to charge the beast when a form he recognized crossed his path and met his foe first.

The Orog did not stand a chance. The raven haired warrior that was Luna was already using the moment of battle from her previous kill to send what seemed to be an impossibly quick attack to the lone orog. Her axe chopped into the creatures arm causing it to stop its swing. Luna crossed her legs, then with a roar she spun in a tight circle, bringing her axe along with her, and hit the orog with such force that the beast lost not only its other arm, but its life as the sharp edge of the axe splintered into its ribs.

Torgeir, impressed, could only grin for he swore he saw Luna smile then wink to him as she spun letting fly her lethal attack.

[Panros]

Contemplating Luna

Hunched over, Torgeir rested a gauntlet covered arm against the wooden board while leaning his head into his forearm. The lighting in the hallway below the inn was dim. Footsteps, creaking from the ceiling above, and the soft crackle of flame coming from the lanterns, were the only noises Torgeir heard besides his sigh.

These past few months have weighed on my mind and heart heavily.
I am not who I used to be. I feel in order to be the warrior I once was, I need to leave Corymr; to find myself. I will return to you all.


Lunitari the Bloodaxe

The large man straightened his neck then lowered his silver clothed hood, the adamantine links inside it clinking against his pauldrons. He eyed the letter once more, a piece of parchment tacked to the message board amongst many other scrolls and papers, then closed his eyes and exhaled softly. He felt that he might have added to the weight that burdened her heart and mind. He felt it was he who was responsible for her change … partially.

He noticed the change the last few times he was with her. Lunitari was not herself as of late, or the woman Torgeir knew and fell in love with. He felt she was troubled, but he chose not to question her for his forwardness usually ended up having the two at ends. He chose not to comfort or help her for she would more than often not let him do such things. Luna would always strive to be a warrior though she was not in combat. She would fight off his concerns for her. Torgier wondered if he pressed her with his worry too often, enough to cause her to become conflicted and leave Cormyr.

Though he knew that she loved him, there were two others who he thought Luna considered before him. Torgeir furrowed his brows, his face slowly hardening. He questioned her about the two many times in fear of her safety. He questioned her how she could hold a man and elf, such as they, as friends. The giant man grunted and balled his hands into fists. She changed whenever she was near the two, acting more harsh and brusque. The large man rubbed his temples realizing that she treated him differently, lowly even, whenever those two were around her. The two were to blame for her changes, for her leave… partially.

A grunt of a sigh escaped Torgeir’s lips and he knew then, as he stared to Luna’s letter, that he was a fool for not seeing it sooner. That he chose to deny what he felt, what he heard, what he saw all for the sake of making Luna happy. Torgeir ran a plate covered hand through his hair then down the side of his face over his shadow of a beard.

He would not play the fool anymore. These changes were brought upon herself by herself realized Torgeir. He would hold then kiss her, if she let him, when he next saw her. He would still love her. He would ask her questions and he would demand answers… when he next saw her.

[Panros]

Revelation

The orc scrambled as it clawed at the red scaled trap that was Torgeir’s gauntleted hand. Gasping for air, for life, the suffocating orc looked with pure horror into the fury that was Torgeir’s face, veiled by shadow from hood though eerily highlighted by the soft glow of light that the scales of his armor always seemed to release.

Hoisted higher, the struggling orc stared past the hand around his throat into hazel eyes filled with anger. A low and threatening growl escaped the barbarian through gritted teeth as he tightened his grip around the orc’s neck. The orc choked a breath as it desperately kicked with its legs and batted at the large man’s hand.

With a grunt, Torgeir squeezed until the bones in the orc’s neck snapped. The resounding grotesque noise echoed loudly between the large surrounding stones.

Torgeir’s chest rose and fell as he eyed the dead orc in his grasp. Its reddened yellow eyes bulged out of its sockets and its tongue hung limp over it’s stained crooked teeth. The giant man’s face screwed as the corpse hit the grass with a thump. Looking from the dead orc to his hand, Torgeir took a few steps backward, then grabbed at his head.

“Ouch…” stated a melodious voice behind him.

Torgeir lowered his hands, stood straight, stoned his face then looked over his shoulder to view Finbarr and Dorenee, his traveling companions, standing nearby under the moon’s soft light.

“That looked painful,” finished Finbarr.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Torgeir traveled the path alone, under a cloudy starless night, snow lightly falling to the ground. With a grunt, Torgeir hefted his pack so that it fit his shoulders more comfortably. The bright light emitting from Foecleaver his guide, the barbarian navigated his way along the cold slopes leading him to Skullcrag.

He was unsure. More so after the revolting of the people in Redmist. He injured some townsfolk there, knowing he could fell them easily, and could not bring himself to conclude whether what he did was right or wrong.

Torgeir stopped midstride and began to recall the major things he thought he did right in his life.

He cared deeply for Endisty Seasilver, the silver haired half moonelf of Tymora, and thought himself her good friend. She disappeared leaving Torgeir for no reason, whether she died or left Cormyr he did not know. Every couple of months he would think about her, finding sorrow in not knowing why he caused her to leave and in not knowing of her fate.

He aided Lynarra and her escape against the angry folk of Isinhold, who blamed her for helping in a crime she did not commit. She and Torgeir became arrested by the Purple Dragons for assisting a murderer, both stripped of charter. Both for helping a friend in need.

He at one time had a split heart, developing feelings for another woman while he was with Deliana. He resisted the woman, choosing to stay with Deliana. She left him a few months later even though he stayed true.

He gave his life and love to Lunitari and ended up seeing her change for worse, becoming a person he did not first love, but was willing to love still. He did no wrong yet she betrayed and denied him of love.

He killed Silinthius, ending a fight that he did not start. Arrested, he lost his charter once more while the man he fought did not face the Purple Dragons for his previous attack.

He blinked, then shook his head clearing his senses, the thick layer of snow that accumulated on his head falling lightly to the white powdered ground.

More than not, what he thought to be right, ended up leaving him with pain, confusion, and sorrow. No longer would he do what was right for everyone decided Torgeir as he spotted an orc in furs pointing to him and shouting over its shoulder in guttural tongue. The giant man decided that he would do what was right for himself[/b] as he spread his legs and tightened his grip on Foecleaver.

He roared then met the orc charge.

[Panros]

The Blood Moon

All was quiet. For one moment every surrounding creature, even the wind, fell silent before the defying roar that the large man bellowed from the depths of his chest. Sword arm high into the air Torgeir stared down from his perch of bestial corpses looking to a score of werewolves with an intense fury that split the warm and thick air. No sooner had Torgeir inhaled a deep breath a chorus of war cries and hails to Tempus erupted from the tribesman behind the frenzied warrior that was Torgeir. This was the Tribe of the Elk. This was Uthgardt. This was the rage of the barbarian people.

The wolf men lowered their heads, their black and brow fur standing on the ends of their necks, their ears fell flat and their yellow eyes narrowed. Some of the lycanthropes released a low menacing growl while eyeing their prey warily. Many others crept back and huddled closer together before the sight of the leather and fur clad, sword and axe and hammer armed barbarians. Saliva dripped wildly from their powerful canine jaws as a few others released an eerie and ominous howl.

Men stared down wolf men in the pretense of another battle. Like the eye of a storm, all fell quite once more. The dark forest of the Reaching Woods was softly illuminated from the unnatural orange moon that came once every other century. This moon as the group of beast man Malarites called it was the Blood Moon. Their feral and animal instincts soared beyond that of their human instincts as the Blood Moon neared, causing them to strongly feel the need to hunt and feed. A more savage form of the High Hunt was celebrated during the moons preceding the orange moon of this night. Where only one or a handful of humanoids would be forced into a game of predator and prey during a High Hunt, the Blood Moon called for hunt of a large group of humanoids, such as orcs or even giants, for three months. Unfortunate was the Elk Tribe to be the werewolves’ target, though, even now as the two sects stared each other down, many of the lycanthropes were wondering if they were the ones unfortunate to incite the anger of the Elk.

Torgeir slowly lowered his greatsword Foecleaver, a weapon finding and growing its own renown as quickly as its wielder. The white light emitting from the moving sword caused the shadows to dance wildly along the ground. He turned his shoulder to face the Malarites staring them down firmly as he stood ready for battle. A throwing axe seared through the air from out behind the giant man to strike the closest werewolf in the chest. With a bark the wolf man tore free the weapon and leapt ahead. Barbarians charged and werewolves rushed as the two forces met for combat.

His first strike wasn’t that of Foecleaver, rather he drove the spiked pauldron of his impressive red dragon scaled armor into the same wounded chest of the first leaping werewolf, causing the creature to yelp quickly short of breath. Before the werewolf could react, Torgeir followed through with a punch to the creature’s ribs sending it staggering back. Another took its place as Torgeir spun a tight circuit swinging his heavy blade hard as it pounced for him. So sharp was Foecleaver’s edge that it cleanly cut through the beast. The wolf man’s upper body didn’t leave its torso until it hit Torgeir and fell to the ground limply in a mangled and black blooded mess of its innards.

The large barbarian was after his first attacker again quickly closing the short distance between them. Torgeir leveled his sword horizontally to block a vicious double clawed attack from the now recovered werewolf. He found himself stepping back as the beast swung its claws quickly from left to right, each block of his sword issuing a dreadful scraping sound. Many would try and find a way around this, eventually finding a pattern in the wild beast’s attacks so they could counter it. This was not the case for Torgeir. More than willing to trade a minor blow for a kill, Torgeir raised his arms into the air, accepting the claws that raked against his ceremonial Uthgardt red dragon armor, and brought his heavy sword down upon the wolf man sending its head down into the bloody dirt with a wicked crack.

Cries of agony, both man and beast, filled the air as Torgeir yanked free his greatsword tearing a chunk of bone with it. Instincts of survival and battle beckoned Torgeir to look over his shoulder as he saw five more wolf men coming upon him. His brows furrowed as he entered a focus as great as any weaponmaster. A power once uncontrolled and a burden, Torgeir reached with his thoughts to the burning conscious of the red dragon found within his suit of armor. He urged it to release its ferocity as small plumes of thick grey smoke seeped from between its scales. The panting and growling of the werewolves grew louder as they fast approach him and then all five pounced.

Each of the werewolves’ eyes opened wide as they were caught in incredibly hot fire that burst from and surrounded Torgeir. One instantly found its death as flames shot down its windpipe into its lungs while the others cowered back with a whimper. Taking advantage of the wolf men’s sudden halt, Torgeir lifted then swung his arms, turning and moving with the weight of his sword as it crashed and ripped through the burning hides of the beasts. He pulled Foecleaver free from the remaining charred werewolf as the flames ceased; the dragon out of breath. The air smelled of burning hair and flesh and his armor was covered in a black layer of soot that quickly left the barbarian as he took his next breath, the ash falling to the ground as softly as snow.

Torgeir grunted then quickly looked left. A raven haired tribesman and a dark brown haired tribeswoman were hacking away together at any werewolf who came too close them with their double bladed swords. Each acted as the defense of the other as they twirled around each other in a dance of death. He looked right and saw one man of his tribe pounced upon by three werewolves who quickly ripped him to shreds, leather armor and all. Torgeir sprinted right then to aid a girl, no more than fifteen winters, who struck one of the three feasting beasts with her spear. The trio of wolf men quickly surrendered their meal and surrounded her, hoping to find a new one, as she repeatedly turned her head left then right, the tassels of her braided brown hair flying into and away from her face, as she try to see all three.

Another warrior of the Elk took notice and the older man hastily threw his large mace in the werewolves’ direction. The spiked weapon slammed into one of the beasts causing it to collide into one of its kin. The final one pounced for the girl whose back was turned and to its surprise found her spear lodged up its throat and into its skull after she quickly turned to face it.

Torgeir arrived finishing off the last of the trio as it squirmed under its dead partner whom had a mace imbedded deeply into its contorted body. After all of these years Halvor was still a strong warrior and seeing his aged father tug free the giant spiked club of a mace from the limp werewolf made Torgeir believe that he would be one for many more years.

“Son of Halvor,” the aged barbarian said as he looked Torgeir over. Halvor was smaller than his son Torgeir, and his mane of hair was significantly greyer. His long beard was tied into two plaits, his hazel eyes wise and intelligent, the features of his face strong and defined. Even at fifty winters Halvor, son of Hoenir, was handsome enough to court a woman less than half his age.

Torgeir’s own hazel eyes brightened seeing his father in battle. Like his father he wore his thick brown hair loose save for the two plaits behind either ear. The features of his face were defined and strong like his father’s, and so different from the round cheeked fresh faced Torgeir found in Cormyr a little more then ten years ago. “Son of Hoenir, Leader of Elk,” responded a proud Torgeir.

Father and son had little time to bond and they quickly turned their heads to view their new adversaries, six more of the wolf men. Both nodded as they turned and readied themselves for another fight along with the spear girl and another youg man who held two axes. With a cry to Tempus and Uthgar the four met the charge.

* * * * * * * * * *

The mutilated bodies, caught in the transformation from beast to human as they die, were burned in a large pit in the ground. Torgeir turned around and let the rising sun hit him. The new sunlight shone over his remarkable armor, powerful sword, and battle hardened face painting him many hues of orange and red causing him to stand out poignantly from the thick black clouds of smoke coming from the pit behind him.

The Blood Moon and the battle with lycanthropes were over and all the thoughts of fury, of combat, and loss washed away from him as he viewed the burning pyre of fallen Uthgardt barbarians, except for one thoughtful urge that panged him since he first left Cormry. He would help his people for a few more days then he would leave them. Of all the things he wanted most it was to return to the woman he grew fonder of as the days keeping them apart passed by. He would soon return to Korista.

[Panros]

May 9, 2008 11:53:14 GMT -5 Panros said:

The tune ended softly off of Torgeir’s pursed lips and sent him into memories he shared with his playful elven friend. It had been too long since he heard Teneas’s tell tale tune and the large man found himself surprised that he had whistled it. With a smile he rubbed the thick stubble on his chin than ran a calloused hand through his thick brown hair to pull it over his shoulders.

“You okay there Torgeir?” asked a bronzed skinned leather clad man, smallish in stature, an axe in his hand.

The large barbarian hadn’t noticed that he had stopped hiking and somewhat startled he looked to the ranger and the rest of his traveling companions that had kept him company ever since his arrival to Shadowdale, in the northern parts of the Dalelands. An odd troupe, the company had taken the nearly seven foot tall giant of a barbarian and his equally impressive greatsword, Foecleaver, warmly and into open arms. Torgeir turned his gaze to the thick forest surrounding them, smelling wet and fresh from the recent rain, before settling his hazel eyes back to them.

“I am fine,” Torgeir finally responded as he set Foecleaver into a round before resting it on his shoulder. He walked the few feet and began to pass them. Sunbeams that broke through the tree tops played across his face. “To the orcs then.”

A few quite moments passed, the only sounds playing in the air were that of nature and the soft thudding of boots on damp ground. “Where did you pick up that tune?” questioned a dark skinned woman, her voice as beautiful and strong as her appearance and her sorceress magic.

A few more moments passed as Torgeir searched for the words. “A crazy elf,” answered Torgeir with a smirk.

//A tribute to Teneas originally written in Lonesome Road. Also a reminder to everyone that Torgeir is alive and kicking and he thinks of his friends of Cormyr all the time, wherever he may travel. *smiles*

[Panros]

The rattling satchel landed with a thud sending a few gold coins to spill over the side onto the table. A long grating note of metal against wood accompanied one of the coins as it wheeled along its side off the table onto Torgeir’s lap. “Consider tha’ a tip for carrying the heavy load all the ways back here giant man,” giggled Karina as she lowered her hand. With a puff of her cheeks she blew the front of her auburn bangs away from her green eyes and offered Torgeir a genuine smile.

“All the work would have been for naught if we didn’t have you to sell our finds, Karina,” politely added Jaineen in her commanding yet gentle voice flourished with a southern accent from her seat at the table. Where Karina was a cute pale skinned and petite roguish girl with an adores and mischievous grin, Jaineen was a beautiful and curvy dark skinned Calimshite beauty who emblemized the ideal woman. “And yes, Torgier, thank you for carrying our burden.”

“Are all men as big as you in Cormyr, barbarian?” questioned Geralt with a smirk. The rugged outdoorsman was almost always clad in brown leathers of some sorts. He gave Torgeir a smirk as he pulled from a large wooden mug. The four often found themselves inside the Old Skull Inn drinking the house brew after successful campaigns such as the one that had come to past.

With a shake of his head, Torgeir could only smile and take it all in. He was fortunate to find companions such as these in the Dalelands just north of Cormyr. The four were fast gaining a reputation amongst the adventurers in Shadowdale in all parts thanks to the addition of the large Uthgardt barbarian.

“So tell us, who’s this Stacy girl who’s asking around for you?” pried Karina as she slid into her seat. She produced an unrolled peace of parchment and wagged it teasingly before Torgier. With furrowed brows and a grunt Torgeir snatched the letter from the girl’s hand much to Geralt’s and Jaineen’s amusement. “It be a letter from Stacy Sianer,” explained Karina, “from all the way down in little ol’ Cormyr. An old lover maybe?” she teased.

Jaineen’s smile washed away at the prospect of that while Geralt leaned towards Torgeir with a coy smile and much more interest.

“No,” Torgeir gruffly stated as he starred annoyed to the rogue girl. “She is an elf friend of mine.”

“Sure,” Geralt added doubtfully while wearing a grin, always ready to aid Karina whom he secretly liked.

“What does she,” Jaineen hesitated and lowered her gaze as she considered her next few words. “What does the letter say?”

Torgeir was finished reading by then and looked up from the letter with a grin. “She and Rastan are wanting to find treasure.”