Thrones of Dust
Mosilli "Moss" Oakhammer
Outlaws and patriots are often the same thing; Paranoid.
(Player’s notes: Moss began life as a Warden, filling the second Defender role within the Reclaimers. Since his departure, the Leader role has had a worse track record than the Defense of Dark Arts position at Hogwarts. At the DM’s urging, Moss has been “retconned” into an Artificer. His propensity towards insane concoctions and fantastic means of protection and his slip into complete insanity have given him a mad connection to the arcane – his belief that something will work actually makes it work. This insane genius is the result of Moss’ latest encounter with what he believes is the Dwarven State Government of Ilbakov, or at least a shadow arm of it. During his time with the Reclaimers, Moss was abducted and tortured, in a likely attempt to break his mind for good. Likely because it succeeded, as well as stripping Moss of many of his powers as a Warden.)
Mosilli “Moss” Oakhammer, level 9 Dwarf, Artificer
FINAL ABILITY SCORES Str 13, Con 20, Dex 10, Int 18, Wis 13, Cha 8.
STARTING ABILITY SCORES Str 13, Con 16, Dex 10, Int 16, Wis 11, Cha 8.
AC: 23 Fort: 22 Reflex: 20 Will: 18 HP: 72 Surges: 11 Surge Value: 18
TRAINED SKILLS Arcana +13, Heal +10, History +13, Perception +10, Dungeoneering +12
UNTRAINED SKILLS Acrobatics +3, Bluff +3, Diplomacy +3, Endurance +10, Insight +5, Intimidate +3, Nature +5, Religion +8, Stealth +3, Streetwise +3, Thievery +3, Athletics +4
FEATS Artificer: Master Mixer Level 1: Dwarven Weapon Training Level 2: Focused Expertise (Craghammer) Level 4: Armor Proficiency (Hide) Level 6: White Lotus Riposte Level 8: Arcane Implement Proficiency (Hammers) (Houseruled)
Artificer at-will 1: Unbalancing Force
Artificer at-will 1: Magic Weapon
Artificer encounter 1: Scouring Weapon
Artificer daily 1: Caustic Rampart
Artificer utility 2: Use Magic Item
Artificer encounter 3: Force Infusion
Artificer daily 5:
Corrosive Sigil Dancing Weapon (retrained at 9)
Artificer utility 6: Regeneration Infusion
Artificer encounter 7: Gale-Force Infusion
Artificer daily 9: Lightning Motes
ITEMS Ritual Book, Inspiring Craghammer +2, Deep-Pocket Cloak +2, Survivor’s Hide Armor +2, Rousing Throwing Hammer +2 RITUALS Brew Potion, Disenchant Magic Item, Enchant Magic Item, Make Whole FORMULAS Noxious Grenade, Grayflower Perfume, Goodnight Tincture, Clear-Path Mist, Acidic Fire, Rust Bomb, Lockburst Chalk, Eyesting, Herbal Poultice
“The lords of Ilbakov have contacted the seven demons of Lower Arbanith to monitor my activities, but I happen to know that the dried berries of a mullberry bush can serve as a ward against demonic scrying. (Moss, lay off the sauce.) Also, there’s good evidence that the elves have constructed the means to prevent me from contacting the Mother Spirit of far-off Fang Forest but I can fix that, I just need the essense of Archroot and some virgin’s bloo… (Okay, we’re done here, Moss. Go plant a tree. Seriously, put the hammer down. Oh… Pelor save me, he’s biting my ankles!)”
Few would suppose that the name that has resonated within the Great Halls of Ilbakov, both in reverent (but hushed) tones and screeched in outrage, belongs to a hairy, squat (even by Dwarven standards) smelly little creature with Class A paranoia and a hammer to back up his wild theories. (And when we say smelly, we’re talking festering here. Rancid. Hell spat him back out levels of stench.) As far removed from the gilded lords of The State as one could be, Moss has been fighting a one-man war against The State’s regime for nearly his entire life. His victories have become legend, but at a dear price: his mind.
Perhaps it wasn’t always this way. Perhaps once Moss held a fine tactical mind and appreciation for the “Wild Dwarf” lifestyle. Communion with nature. Roaring fires and creature comforts. Wood craft and simple adornments. Who’s to say what normalcies lay in his shrouded past. For the now all that exists is the addled mind of genius/madness, an insane intelligence that has time and time again stymied Ilbakov’s finest.
Is he truly that mad? Does he mourn what of his mind has been lost? Does he even know? Within these questions lay the path within madness. Tread carefully, traveler.
Overheard in the dense woods of Rivemar
“Demons. Always demons. Demons and wicked dwarves, elves and humans. All of them. But at the heart, demons. I have seen much in my many years, much evil, and have fought it all. The Lords of the State are duplicitous in their wicked ways, they craft and scheme and have not equal in their guile. But I have seen through their lies. They call me Outlaw. A “Wild” Dwarf. Wild only because they can’t control me. Oh, they have tried. They once called a demon from the sixth circle of K’Binith to infect my mind, but I purged it with infused oak berry juice and thistle down. Ate mountainberries for five weeks straight to get right. I don’t bathe in any shadows now, I know the the water demons are always lurking in the muck and mud that lay in shadow. Nearly stepped on an ilgalth once like that, no more. I designed this ward, this special helmet that keeps them out of my thoughts. Its their one weakness, you see. They can’t get in here. Makes me unpredictable. Makes me invincible. Let’s see them try, shall we?”
Sometime after Moss’ disappearance from The Reclaimers
It was dark, and there was the sound of water dripping.
Drip. Drip. Drip. A staccato drumbeat of doom. A forewarning. A torture, perhaps? Its monotony was addictive, dangerous. It spoke of awful things to come. Chaos, perhaps. Pain. Torture. Death?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He shook his head, or tried, had it not been restrained. He could feel the moisture, imagined it could be blood, or his brains, or something far more vile. What had they done to him? Was it just water after all? He dare not attempt to taste it.
He was of course bound. Hands and feet, head and chest, legs and shins. To move even a fraction of an inch was a victory. He had won many victories, but they all came with a cost. Most of the price was paid in pain, either by the moving itself or upon discovery. Vicious, calculated pain. Inflicted upon him in the most cold and efficient way possible. They knew how to hurt him. They knew everything. They had a plan coming into this, how to break him.
Had they won? Was he broken? In his more lucid moments he imagined so. In other, shamefully dark times, he imagined himself invincible. This was the last act, he romanticized. The final attack of a desperate villain, attempting vainly to assert control, authority. He would look deep within, right when they thought they had won, he would break his bonds and defeat the villain of his life. All would be right. They would carry him upon their shoulders into the Great Halls and proclaim him the Liberator, the Victor. His mother would…
He stopped. He could feel another moisture. Tears. He tried vainly to taste them. How long had it been since he had been given water? Could he even trust his own tears? It was then he knew they had won. He couldn’t even trust his own body any more.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Tears or water. Alcohol or urine. Blood or bile. It didn’t matter.
They had won, after all.
And in the Dark there, they watched. He lay, strapped to his back, silently crying, proud, yet broken. His resilience had been legendary. But they would win. They always won.
“It is time, comrade. Release him.”