Level 20 Striker
Medium natural humanoid, human
HP 149; Bloodied 74; Surge Value 37; Surges 14
Action Points 1
Greataxe • At-Will
Melee 1; one creature.
+26 vs. AC; 23 damage.
Throwing Axe • At-Will
Range 9; one creature.
+26 vs. AC; 20 damage.
Rage Strike • Encounter
Melee 1; one creature.
+26 vs. AC; 47 damage.
Great Cleave • Encounter
Close burst 1; each enemy in the burst.
+26 vs. AC; 23 damage.
Howl of Fury • Encounter
Close blast 3; each enemy in the blast.
+24 vs. Fortitude; 10 thunder damage.
Press the Attack • At-Will
Shift up to 2 squares. You can move through an
enemy’s space during the shift but you can’t end there.
Skills Athletics +22, Endurance +20, Nature +15
Str 24 (15)
Dex 11 (10)
Wis 11 (11)
Alignment Unaligned; Languages Common, Dwarven
Equipment greataxe, handaxe, dagger, hide armor,
crown of vrechan kings, adventurer’s kit, potion of
The trouble started as soon as Hargash appeared in the village. He was all flourish and pomp. However, he spoke of things like duty, glory, blood and vengeance—words that could incite any crowd of Vrechan warriors to form a warband. The warriors of the Snow Leopard tribe, Ice Serpent clan were no different. All of them, born with axes in their hands and rage in their hearts. They had just slaughtered the wintering stead of the White Drake tribe and were eager for more blood, more women, more treasure. Kjern shared in their victory, but not their present manic euphoria while being massaged by the Outsider. He knew when his backside was being licked, and unlike the other night, during a particularly decadent session with Hala Grimsdottir, he did not like it.
Hargash had appeared out of the driving Vrechan snow on a bjelklan (horse-drawn sleigh), pulled by a majestic quartet of mighty workhorses. Yet, even with this sign of royalty, he offered no lineage of any sort when introducing himself to Warchief Grim Fang. He offered no proof of his experiences (no trophies, no rare pelts), nor did he offer any explanation for their absence. Kjern had been eyeing him suspiciously the whole time he had expounded on the need for the clans to unite under one banner and sweep the Southlands of their weak, pitiable inhabitants. As the Snow Leopard warriors howled and cheered his words, Kjern could not help but find himself questioning the oddness of the whole event.
It wasn’t but a fortnight before Kjern found himself marching south with the rest of the Leopards. Any good Vrechan warrior will tell you, you don’t question the Chief once the order’s been given, and the sacrifices to the Gods and spirits were made. The most important thing to the Vrechan warrior was the anticipation of battle. The blood and the rage were all that mattered now. All that was left was for the Chief to point them in the direction of their enemies. Kjern did, however, find it quite odd that the Remorhaz Warriors, who until shortly after Hargash visited were sworn enemies of the Snow Leopards, accompanied them on the longships that were their eventual destination. Weirder still, were the rumors of orcs, hobgoblins and other subhumans that were supposedly fighting on the side of the United Clans! A flight of white drakes had even been seen flying purposefully south over the miles of marching (and now sailing) Vrechans. Despite the oddness of it all, one thing was certain: the Southlanders were doomed.
Many months and many vicious battles later, Kjern had gained the rank of WarCaptain and led his company of men on many charges. During an especially brutal engagement, the barbarians of the Snow Leopards, using the cover of night, had set upon the encampment of the Gold Plains company. The sentries were dispatched by daggers to their throats. Blood ran freely after that, Scolian soldiers were slaughtered in the tents they slept. All would’ve been lost for the Gold Plains company had not a particularly adept Southland commander not rallied his remaining troops to fight a surprisingly difficult fighting withdrawl to the penninsular town of Urkhette, in southeastern Scole. The battered Snow Leopard warriors returned to camp to inform Warchief Grim Fang who praised the god of war at the “cowardice” of the Southlanders. They would attack in 2 days, after moving forces south to cut off the penninsula, isolate and slaughter both the town of Urkhette and the Gold Plains company completely.
Despite Grim Fang’s determination and anticipation of victory, Kjern had strong doubts. The commander of the Gold Plains company was no amateur warrior, despite the unfortunate location of his birth. He had witnessed the man turn a slaughter into a fighting chance for the retreated soldiers. Surely he wouldn’t just be waiting for the Vrechans to come and slaughter them all in a new location! Although the Warchief was not to be questioned, Kjern confronted him anyway—calling into question the wisdom of running blindly into what could be a trap. Grim Fang immediately accused him of cowardice and insulting the traditions of their ancestors and stripped him of rank, duty and weapon. He would not be joining the tribe for the assault, he’d be staying with the camp women to wash loincloths while the battle was being fought.
Two days later, tragedy occured in the form of the sneak attack on the Vrechan warriors by the Gold Plains Company. It had been a trap, just as Kjern had thought! The Vrechans, never allowing themselves to be captured, died to a man in the battle. Feeling helpless, Kjern fled to the east. He couldn’t return home to the shame of being the only survivor of a losing battle! Such a thing was unheard of. You win, or you die trying to win—that was the way of every Vrechan.
The next few years saw Kjern joining many adventuring companies and mercenary groups across the Midlands. His employers found his skill with the Greataxe to be considerable and many foes, both monstrous and natural died by his hand. A particularly gruesome dungeon claimed the lives of the Heros of the Stone Chapel, his previous adventuring group. This led Kjern to the capital of Scole where many mercenaries of all ilks were being hired as caravan guards, frontier troops or sellswords to deal with rampaging humanoid infestations in the wake of the Midlands War—particularly in the central and northern areas of the country. While travelling northward, the Vrechan heard repeated whisperings of a particular lord who ruled his barony with fairness and righteousness. Many fighting men were needed to face unspeakable horrors from beneath the earth and otherwise in the town of Harrenshire.
Kjern arrived in Harrenshire thirsty and tired. He just wanted to drink his mead in peace. He should’ve known that a 6’4" Vrechan would’ve stuck out like a volcano on the steppes. A group of caravan guards surrounded him in the tap tent where he was enjoying his mead. After several disparaging remarks about his parentage and the whole of the Vrechan people, Kjern snapped. Within a minute, 3 of the men lay headless, blood gushing from their neck stumps, while the other three had lost limbs or members and were now moaning quietly in the wake of the hurricane of violence. It wasn’t long before the Prince’s mages and the Royal Guard had him in custody—jailing him in the very place he’d come to seek employment.