Ordu Bloodhammer
01-26-08, 07:15 PM
Basic Info
Name: Ordu Bloodhammer
Age: 186
Hair: Rusty-red
Eyes: Black
Height: 4’1’’
Weight: 240 lbs
Race: Dwarf
Appearance:
Ordu is a rather typical specimen of a Xanthian dwarf. His long, red hair is usually pulled back and sporadically braided, but not particularly well combed. Same goes for his robust facial hair from which a pair of braids descends to chest level. His attire befits his rank in the Xanthian society, where he is a son of the warchief of the Bloodhammer clan. His tunics and pants are usually in the dark crimson tones of his house, weaved with strings of gold and silver. To say that he’s stocky is rather redundant because that goes for most of his race, but unlike some of his kin, most of his stature is made of muscle.
Personality:
Dauntless and often foolhardy, Ordu isn’t one to ponder on something for long before he acts. He isn’t quite as loud as his brothers or his father, Urdu, but when his rage reaches boiling point, he is quite possibly the loudest person in the room. There is also an aura of dignity and pride around Ordu, as befits a son of a warchief, but not so much so that it would be considered looking down on people. As unlikely as that sounds from one of his height.
Weapons and Accessories:
The Cracked Moon – A battleaxe made of finest steel and sturdy oak. It weighs about 30 pounds and is almost as high as its wielder. Its name derives from the pair of cracks in the curved blade, intentionally made by the weaponsmiths to allow the weapon to tear the flesh when cutting it, thus making a wider wound.
The Ceremonial Bloodhammer Suit of Armor – This suit of armor isn’t the kind of suit that Xanthians wear in the heart of battle, but rather the kind that they wear in public when receiving audience of sorts. It is consisted of an ornate aegis, a pair of gauntlets, a pair of heavy boots and an accompanying cape. It's made out of steel.
Ivory Pipe – Possibly the only thing that is capable of relaxing Ordu. The pipe is quite unremarkable and comes with two bags of finest tobacco in Xanthia.
Skills:
Heavy weapons proficiency – Ordu’s training focused mostly on rather cumbersome weapons which allow massive damage at the expense of agility and speed. He is slightly above average with axes and hammers.
Toughness – As many of his kin, Ordu is one tough customer. He can usually take slightly more beating and withstand slightly more pain and blood loss then the average man before passing out/dying.
Metalworking – A skill that comes naturally to most dwarves, though some prefer it more than others. As somewhat of a royalty, Ordu never focused too much on this skill, but he can patch up armors and forge simple weapons made of iron, steel and plynt with proper equipment.
Dwarven Legacy – There are several traits hidden within Ordu’s blood, but so far he is only aware of one of them. Ordu is stronger than an average human, as strong as a human and a half as a matter of fact. However, due to his constitution and muscle mass, he is also somewhat slower than most humans, especially since he tends to wield rather large weapons ((0.75 x the speed of an average human)).
History:
The full story of Ordu Bloodhammer of the Bloodhammer clan is too lengthy and ultimately unimportant for the events that are about to unfold. It is sufficient to say that for almost two centuries Ordu lived in the Xanthia Empire, far in the southeast of Althanas. This land, specifically the Riverless Vale, is believed to be the cradle within all dwarves were born and later spread across Althanas. It is a harsh land, a barren land of stone and gravel and dust, but beneath its surface the dwarves thrived for a millennia. The mountains were laden with riches, but more importantly they offered shelter and safety. Humans and elves and other races mostly sought a land hospitable on the surface, so there was scarcely something for them in Xanthia. Here they were left alone and that was the way they preferred.
The idyll didn’t last for long, however. Nobody knew where Brhom came from or what exactly he or it was (some said it was something they awoken in the bowels of the earth, others a byproduct of some vile necromantic sorcery), but centuries ago the Plaguebearer reared its ugly head in the uncharted south. His ghastly legions swept the lands, consuming all living things. The dwarves didn’t initially see this as a threat; what happened on the surface was of little concern to them. However, as time passed on, it was clear that Brhom was intent on extinguishing all life, and it was only a matter of time before he turned his eyes to those that burrowed below his feet.
A war ensued and eventually the dwarves succeeded to push Brhom back. Because of his undead nature, there was no way to destroy the villain, but with the aid of some barbaric shamans, the dwarves succeeded in sealing Brhom in a tomb for eternity. However, eternity didn’t seem to last as long as its name promised.
***
Desolate silence dominated the glorious Halls of Del’Erin. Once a place of vivacious feasts and friendly (and sometimes, after a few dozen ales, not-so-friendly) reckonings, the main hall of the underground city of Zohor had grown inanimate and grim. It was as if the war that ravaged their lands had managed to creep through the cracks of the great Urhas Mountain and seep into the tunnels below, polluting them, sucking the life straight out of the golden subterranean veins. There was no physical damage to speak of – the rigid mosaics of legendary Xanthian heroes and their struggles still stood proudly on the walls, stretching both vertically and horizontally for hundreds of feet before they struck either the arched ceiling or the far walls – but it was as if the light that the chandeliers and the torches cast upon them was grayer somehow, less vibrant. The lack of populace probably played a part in this general deadness as well. Only the green, the ancient and the female seemed to live in Zohor these days, and they seldom made for good company.
Perhaps it was just a matter of perspective. Ordu Bloodhammer had seen so many of his kin leave this hall in high spirit, shouting battlecries and swearing victory, only to see them return on their shields. And those were the lucky ones. Their less fortunate comrades that fell in battle with Brhom and his horde died only to be woken in the aftermath, robbed of their minds and enslaved by the very enemy they fought so ardently. There was no greater curse then to be forced to slay those with whom you stood shoulder to shoulder mere days ago. In such a world, where you slew friend and foe alike, it was hard to bask in the glory of the Xanthian architecture.
Especially with all these grim reports coming in. Sitting in a grand throne chair atop of the seven steps of polished stone at the far end of the hall, Ordu sifted through the unsealed parchments gathered in his lap. “Forced to retreat,” warchief Lgar Oakfist concluded in one of the reports. “Rank fell apart after the chief was slain by a magic arrow,” another stated. “Upper tunnels lost,” came from the city of Belhar and the only living heir of the Bronzeaxe house. They’ve lost battles to Brhom and his undead before, but this was different. This time for every victory they won they lost three, and it didn’t took and strategic genius to understand that they were on the losing side of this war.
His father, Urdu, and his two brothers still held the Three Sisters, though. The trio of passages was the only way through the Skyscrape Mountains and not even Bhrom and his restless horde could circumvent them. The peaks were too harsh, too high, too treacherous. And there was no way under the Sky Mountains either. If anyone knew a thing or three of underground tunnels, it was the dwarves. Underground has been, after all, their home for thousands of years. But still, while the heart of the Xanthia Empire was secure, the rest of it was slowly getting chopped to pieces. It was only a matter of time before their enemies are too many and the last bastion falls. And yet the Council refused to call for aid.
The eight Wisemen that represented the eight clans of the Xanthia Empire were adamant in weathering the storm. Brhom had come upon us many times in the past, they said, and just as many times we pushed him back to his frozen tomb in the South Marshes. This was just history repeating itself. Were they blind to the reports or just ignorant, Ordu couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he couldn’t remain here, in Zohor, sitting on his ass while his kin perished and a cloud of danger grew blacker with every passing day. But what else could he do? His father’s orders prohibited him to travel south and engage their ancient enemy, and even if he disobeyed those orders, there was little he could do with but a single cohort stationed in Zohor.
Grunting in exasperation, Ordu fished out an ivory pipe from the pocket of his tunic and started stuffing it with tobacco. A snap of the fingers and a flash of flame later and the soothing smoke slithered down his throat and into his lungs and then made its way back through his nostrils, just above his combed facial hair. He smoked and pondered, pondered and smoked, and eventually fell asleep once the weed from the pipe was spent and the hour grew dastardly late.
The sleep brought no answers to Ordu Bloodhammer and the next day brought no better news then the last one, so Ordu found himself once again the Halls of Del’Erin, observing the walls he knew by heart. He knew the story behind all these battles and motifs, especially the one that adorned the wall behind the crimson throne. The story of Ferden and his bloodied hammer. He was the first of their house, the first of the Bloodhammers. It was said that his hammer was forged by the gods and that it was the weapon that struck the final blow to Brhom. But the weapon was lost together with Ferden. And unlike Brhom, they didn’t come back.
“Like father, like son,” a voice snapped Ordu from his silent reverie. The dwarf snapped his head sideways, surprised at the intruder that came into the Hall unannounced. The man that looked back with gentle eyes was aged, but not haggard, as if the years haven’t taken their toll on him. His hair was white and long and his beard was white and long, and he spoke in a soothing voice that barely echoed in the massive halls. “He certainly spent his share of hours gazing at that depiction. Ferden and his Hammer of Fate.”
“Who are you, old man, to venture into my halls uninvited?” Ordu asked. He didn’t eye the Cracked Moon that was leant on the throne, but he knew it was there, ready just as he was. However, the man didn’t seem to have hostile intentions. He merely bent a bit harder on his staff and continued as if he didn’t hear the question.
“They say his hammer sealed Brhom’s tomb.”
“An old wives tale,” Ordu insisted in a gruff voice, sitting back onto the throne. “That story changed as many mouths as that of the Plaguebearer, losing a bit of truth every time. Nobody really knows what happened in the South Marshes. Now, let me repeat for the second and last time. Who are you?”
“No need to get angry, oh brave son of Urdu. I am Gereth Viscath, an envoy of sorts.” He bowed shallowly, as if either his back or his pride didn’t allow him to bow lower.
“An envoy? On whose behalf?”
“On behalf of those who want to see Brhom stopped just as much as you do. As you might’ve noticed by now, Brhom has grown much stronger since the last time you fought him. He’s not only a threat to Xanthia now. No, the occupation of Xanthia is but a first step on his journey.”
“And let me guess? You come bearing gifts to help us poor dwarves in a battle against Brhom?” There was sarcasm in that voice, even a smirk. They were both wiped clean when Gereth replied.
“In a matter of speaking. I come bearing the information of the location of the Hammer of Fate.”
Name: Ordu Bloodhammer
Age: 186
Hair: Rusty-red
Eyes: Black
Height: 4’1’’
Weight: 240 lbs
Race: Dwarf
Appearance:
Ordu is a rather typical specimen of a Xanthian dwarf. His long, red hair is usually pulled back and sporadically braided, but not particularly well combed. Same goes for his robust facial hair from which a pair of braids descends to chest level. His attire befits his rank in the Xanthian society, where he is a son of the warchief of the Bloodhammer clan. His tunics and pants are usually in the dark crimson tones of his house, weaved with strings of gold and silver. To say that he’s stocky is rather redundant because that goes for most of his race, but unlike some of his kin, most of his stature is made of muscle.
Personality:
Dauntless and often foolhardy, Ordu isn’t one to ponder on something for long before he acts. He isn’t quite as loud as his brothers or his father, Urdu, but when his rage reaches boiling point, he is quite possibly the loudest person in the room. There is also an aura of dignity and pride around Ordu, as befits a son of a warchief, but not so much so that it would be considered looking down on people. As unlikely as that sounds from one of his height.
Weapons and Accessories:
The Cracked Moon – A battleaxe made of finest steel and sturdy oak. It weighs about 30 pounds and is almost as high as its wielder. Its name derives from the pair of cracks in the curved blade, intentionally made by the weaponsmiths to allow the weapon to tear the flesh when cutting it, thus making a wider wound.
The Ceremonial Bloodhammer Suit of Armor – This suit of armor isn’t the kind of suit that Xanthians wear in the heart of battle, but rather the kind that they wear in public when receiving audience of sorts. It is consisted of an ornate aegis, a pair of gauntlets, a pair of heavy boots and an accompanying cape. It's made out of steel.
Ivory Pipe – Possibly the only thing that is capable of relaxing Ordu. The pipe is quite unremarkable and comes with two bags of finest tobacco in Xanthia.
Skills:
Heavy weapons proficiency – Ordu’s training focused mostly on rather cumbersome weapons which allow massive damage at the expense of agility and speed. He is slightly above average with axes and hammers.
Toughness – As many of his kin, Ordu is one tough customer. He can usually take slightly more beating and withstand slightly more pain and blood loss then the average man before passing out/dying.
Metalworking – A skill that comes naturally to most dwarves, though some prefer it more than others. As somewhat of a royalty, Ordu never focused too much on this skill, but he can patch up armors and forge simple weapons made of iron, steel and plynt with proper equipment.
Dwarven Legacy – There are several traits hidden within Ordu’s blood, but so far he is only aware of one of them. Ordu is stronger than an average human, as strong as a human and a half as a matter of fact. However, due to his constitution and muscle mass, he is also somewhat slower than most humans, especially since he tends to wield rather large weapons ((0.75 x the speed of an average human)).
History:
The full story of Ordu Bloodhammer of the Bloodhammer clan is too lengthy and ultimately unimportant for the events that are about to unfold. It is sufficient to say that for almost two centuries Ordu lived in the Xanthia Empire, far in the southeast of Althanas. This land, specifically the Riverless Vale, is believed to be the cradle within all dwarves were born and later spread across Althanas. It is a harsh land, a barren land of stone and gravel and dust, but beneath its surface the dwarves thrived for a millennia. The mountains were laden with riches, but more importantly they offered shelter and safety. Humans and elves and other races mostly sought a land hospitable on the surface, so there was scarcely something for them in Xanthia. Here they were left alone and that was the way they preferred.
The idyll didn’t last for long, however. Nobody knew where Brhom came from or what exactly he or it was (some said it was something they awoken in the bowels of the earth, others a byproduct of some vile necromantic sorcery), but centuries ago the Plaguebearer reared its ugly head in the uncharted south. His ghastly legions swept the lands, consuming all living things. The dwarves didn’t initially see this as a threat; what happened on the surface was of little concern to them. However, as time passed on, it was clear that Brhom was intent on extinguishing all life, and it was only a matter of time before he turned his eyes to those that burrowed below his feet.
A war ensued and eventually the dwarves succeeded to push Brhom back. Because of his undead nature, there was no way to destroy the villain, but with the aid of some barbaric shamans, the dwarves succeeded in sealing Brhom in a tomb for eternity. However, eternity didn’t seem to last as long as its name promised.
***
Desolate silence dominated the glorious Halls of Del’Erin. Once a place of vivacious feasts and friendly (and sometimes, after a few dozen ales, not-so-friendly) reckonings, the main hall of the underground city of Zohor had grown inanimate and grim. It was as if the war that ravaged their lands had managed to creep through the cracks of the great Urhas Mountain and seep into the tunnels below, polluting them, sucking the life straight out of the golden subterranean veins. There was no physical damage to speak of – the rigid mosaics of legendary Xanthian heroes and their struggles still stood proudly on the walls, stretching both vertically and horizontally for hundreds of feet before they struck either the arched ceiling or the far walls – but it was as if the light that the chandeliers and the torches cast upon them was grayer somehow, less vibrant. The lack of populace probably played a part in this general deadness as well. Only the green, the ancient and the female seemed to live in Zohor these days, and they seldom made for good company.
Perhaps it was just a matter of perspective. Ordu Bloodhammer had seen so many of his kin leave this hall in high spirit, shouting battlecries and swearing victory, only to see them return on their shields. And those were the lucky ones. Their less fortunate comrades that fell in battle with Brhom and his horde died only to be woken in the aftermath, robbed of their minds and enslaved by the very enemy they fought so ardently. There was no greater curse then to be forced to slay those with whom you stood shoulder to shoulder mere days ago. In such a world, where you slew friend and foe alike, it was hard to bask in the glory of the Xanthian architecture.
Especially with all these grim reports coming in. Sitting in a grand throne chair atop of the seven steps of polished stone at the far end of the hall, Ordu sifted through the unsealed parchments gathered in his lap. “Forced to retreat,” warchief Lgar Oakfist concluded in one of the reports. “Rank fell apart after the chief was slain by a magic arrow,” another stated. “Upper tunnels lost,” came from the city of Belhar and the only living heir of the Bronzeaxe house. They’ve lost battles to Brhom and his undead before, but this was different. This time for every victory they won they lost three, and it didn’t took and strategic genius to understand that they were on the losing side of this war.
His father, Urdu, and his two brothers still held the Three Sisters, though. The trio of passages was the only way through the Skyscrape Mountains and not even Bhrom and his restless horde could circumvent them. The peaks were too harsh, too high, too treacherous. And there was no way under the Sky Mountains either. If anyone knew a thing or three of underground tunnels, it was the dwarves. Underground has been, after all, their home for thousands of years. But still, while the heart of the Xanthia Empire was secure, the rest of it was slowly getting chopped to pieces. It was only a matter of time before their enemies are too many and the last bastion falls. And yet the Council refused to call for aid.
The eight Wisemen that represented the eight clans of the Xanthia Empire were adamant in weathering the storm. Brhom had come upon us many times in the past, they said, and just as many times we pushed him back to his frozen tomb in the South Marshes. This was just history repeating itself. Were they blind to the reports or just ignorant, Ordu couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he couldn’t remain here, in Zohor, sitting on his ass while his kin perished and a cloud of danger grew blacker with every passing day. But what else could he do? His father’s orders prohibited him to travel south and engage their ancient enemy, and even if he disobeyed those orders, there was little he could do with but a single cohort stationed in Zohor.
Grunting in exasperation, Ordu fished out an ivory pipe from the pocket of his tunic and started stuffing it with tobacco. A snap of the fingers and a flash of flame later and the soothing smoke slithered down his throat and into his lungs and then made its way back through his nostrils, just above his combed facial hair. He smoked and pondered, pondered and smoked, and eventually fell asleep once the weed from the pipe was spent and the hour grew dastardly late.
The sleep brought no answers to Ordu Bloodhammer and the next day brought no better news then the last one, so Ordu found himself once again the Halls of Del’Erin, observing the walls he knew by heart. He knew the story behind all these battles and motifs, especially the one that adorned the wall behind the crimson throne. The story of Ferden and his bloodied hammer. He was the first of their house, the first of the Bloodhammers. It was said that his hammer was forged by the gods and that it was the weapon that struck the final blow to Brhom. But the weapon was lost together with Ferden. And unlike Brhom, they didn’t come back.
“Like father, like son,” a voice snapped Ordu from his silent reverie. The dwarf snapped his head sideways, surprised at the intruder that came into the Hall unannounced. The man that looked back with gentle eyes was aged, but not haggard, as if the years haven’t taken their toll on him. His hair was white and long and his beard was white and long, and he spoke in a soothing voice that barely echoed in the massive halls. “He certainly spent his share of hours gazing at that depiction. Ferden and his Hammer of Fate.”
“Who are you, old man, to venture into my halls uninvited?” Ordu asked. He didn’t eye the Cracked Moon that was leant on the throne, but he knew it was there, ready just as he was. However, the man didn’t seem to have hostile intentions. He merely bent a bit harder on his staff and continued as if he didn’t hear the question.
“They say his hammer sealed Brhom’s tomb.”
“An old wives tale,” Ordu insisted in a gruff voice, sitting back onto the throne. “That story changed as many mouths as that of the Plaguebearer, losing a bit of truth every time. Nobody really knows what happened in the South Marshes. Now, let me repeat for the second and last time. Who are you?”
“No need to get angry, oh brave son of Urdu. I am Gereth Viscath, an envoy of sorts.” He bowed shallowly, as if either his back or his pride didn’t allow him to bow lower.
“An envoy? On whose behalf?”
“On behalf of those who want to see Brhom stopped just as much as you do. As you might’ve noticed by now, Brhom has grown much stronger since the last time you fought him. He’s not only a threat to Xanthia now. No, the occupation of Xanthia is but a first step on his journey.”
“And let me guess? You come bearing gifts to help us poor dwarves in a battle against Brhom?” There was sarcasm in that voice, even a smirk. They were both wiped clean when Gereth replied.
“In a matter of speaking. I come bearing the information of the location of the Hammer of Fate.”