Reaches of Altharion
Characters
Reaches of Altharion
Dungeons & Dragons 5e
Gold:
33
Species:
Orc
Class:
bard
Starting Grace:
Grace of Steel
Age: (34)
Starting level:4
Backstory:
For years, Squeak—a name given to him ironically because his booming voice could rattle the fillings out of a tavern full of dwarves—was the heartbeat of the Blood-Stained Vanguard. He didn’t carry a greataxe, nor did he ride a war-aurochs. Instead, his weapons were a pair of mammoth-bone mallets and a massive, twisted bronze horn that required the lung capacity of three lesser men to sound.
His job was simple but brutal:
When Squeak beat his war drum, the ground trembled. When he blew the horn, horses threw their riders in panic. He was a master of psychological warfare, orchestrating the terrifying symphony of a rushing orc horde.
The turning point came at the Battle of Red Ridge. The Vanguard was charging a fortified hill of defenders. Squeak was at the absolute front, hammering out a frantic, blood-pumping assault rhythm. Caught up in the bloodlust, and arrogant in his own brute strength, Squeak had charged into battle completely bareheaded, having left his helmet back at camp.
He never got the chance to sound the final charge.
Crack.
A jagged stone, hurled from a defender's sling with lethal velocity, caught Squeak squarely on top of his unprotected head. The world spun, the thundering drums in his ears fell instantly silent, and he collapsed into the mud. His heavy war drum rolled away, and darkness took him. His comrades, rushing forward in the frenzy of battle, trampled right over his unmoving body and left him for dead.
When Squeak finally opened his eyes, the battle was long over. The sun was setting, casting a bloody red glow over a field littered with the broken banners and bodies of the Vanguard. The horde had been utterly crushed.
Squeak crawled to his feet, dizzy and bleeding, clutching his throbbing, cracked skull. He wasn't dead, but a worse fate had found him: shame. He had missed the fight. While his brothers-in-arms fought and fell, he had been sleeping in the dirt all because of his own foolish vanity.
Crying out in disgrace, Squeak staggered back to the ruined camp, found his discarded, rusted iron helmet, and jammed it onto his bleeding, swollen head. He swore a solemn vow to the gods of war that he would never, ever take it off again.
Years later, he has kept that promise. The helmet is practically a part of his anatomy now. It shelters his deep psychological trauma—and a truly horrific odor. Between the dried sweat, old swamp water, and years of camp cooking, Squeak's helmet smells like a carcass wrapped in old cheese. His party members always know when he’s approaching, well before they hear the drums.
Squeak didn't stop drumming, but his rhythm changed. The shame of that missed beat haunted him, turning his music into something deeper, heavier, and strangely magical. He realized that the same resonance he once used to terrify enemies could be channeled to ensure his new allies would never fall the way his old horde did.
He repurposed his war gear for a new life as an adventurer:
Today, Squeak is a towering, scar-tissue-covered College of Valor Bard. He doesn't sing sweet tavern ditty ballads. Instead, he uses his massive voice—muffled slightly by a very stinky, unremovable iron visor—to orchestrate the battlefield, fiercely protective of his new party. He is determined that this time, he will be awake to play until the very last note.
Background: soldier
"Origin" Feat:
Starting Grace:Grace of Steel
Your walking speed increases by 10 feet.
At Level 5: When you are hit by an attack, you can use your reaction to move up to half your speed.
At Level 13: Your movement does not provoke opportunity attacks.
At Level 17: You gain one additional reaction each round.
How you rolled:
2. "used standard+ array"
No items in inventory.
