Ezekiel Stronghammer
03-31-08, 03:28 AM
Name: Ezekiel Stronghammer
Race: Dwarf
Sex: Male
Age: 44
Height: 5'7"
Weight: 235lbs
Physical Description: Stout, very stout, much in the dwarven fashion, "built low to the ground for stability" as dwarves often say. Even so, his four foot seven frame is a bit on the 'tall' side. Keen, wise, blue eyes display a warmth mirrored by a smile only partly visable through his gloriously maintained beard. Golden-bronze in tone his beard matches his full head of hair, one magnificent braid, three inches in diameter (yes he's measured it) reaches his waist and past. His braid is cynched with an engraved steel ring, on it an anvil is flanked by a series of runes. Light complection reflect his time spent underground, when he's not covered in the soot that marks his trade that is. Large powerful arms betray a familiarity with manual labour, and the ways of the hammer and anvil. Here and there are scars, marking the inherent dangers of bending metal and fire to one's will.
Ezekiel travels in the vestiments of his order simple robes of a golden color, trimmed in red, they represent the fires of Vulcan's eternal forges where the dwarves believe that stars and worlds are forged. Simple leather longboots, and and a satchel complete his attire.
Background: Ezekiel, son of Bradon, grandson Jacob, and on through the lineage of the Stronghammers, priests for Eighty-seven generations. His fathers have served the priesthood of Vulcan diligently for an entire age of the Dwarven bible. Vulcan, the dwarven god of strength and knowledge, often called the great smith or great crafter, has blessed his family for their many generations of servitude. Among the priests of the crafter, the number eight is revered as sacred, even moreso eighty eightth. The priests of vulcan consider the eighth son to be blessed, the eighth generation even moreso. There is an expectation of greatness laid upon the eigth generation, an expectation that he will bear great promise among those of the faith. This is only a shadow of the expectations laid upon the Eighty-eighth son. Ezekiel is the eighty-eighth, and from birth the eyes of many an important person have been upon him. The expectation of greatness ways heavily on him, and speculations of how the blessing of Vulcan will manifest itself started even before he was born.
This would be all well and good, if Ezekiel showed any sign of that greatness. Not to say that he doesn't show promise as a smith, and as a member of the order, but certain people might have expected something a bit more 'supernatural'. As for Zeke, he is perfectly content to simply pine his time away at the forges, for while working the metal and fire he communes, he worships his god:
Ting-ting-ting... Clank! Ting-ting-ting.... Clank!. Oh the sound, loud as it may be was harmonious to his ears, it soothed his spirits and lifted him above the pettiness of daily matters. "Come now ye imperfection, I know yer marks, I'll work yah out soon enough." His right arm swung rythmically as he folded the metal once more. It wasn't entirely necessary, but he couldn't the thought of leaving the metal blemished, even in such a small manner. "Alright, and one more time for perfection." In his mind it, if he was going to craft something, he would do it to the absolute bests of his abilities. For now though, he wasn't even sure what it was he was making. "Hrrmmm...", muttering to himself, "perhaps a candlestand, aye, I could twist it for a nice spiral effect, that would look nice I think." He turned the folded rod over and over, imagining the possibilities, "if I were to bend this portion... maybe..." he began to work the metal again, now using the horn of the anvil to add a curve. Ting-ting-ting... Clank! And he went about in this fashion for some time quite merrily. When a portion was quit to his liking he moved on, tapering an end here, causing just the right curve there. After some time A satisfied look appeared upon his face and he laid the metal aside. "Now only 2 more just like it."
There were several more bars of iron close at hand, he had brought several from the church's storeroom, but the site of a small white block lying on a nearby workbench caught his eye. With a sigh he looked at the iron, and then back to the white mold. "I suppose I should finish," this mold had been giving him trouble all morning, he simply wasn't satisfied with it. He fished a certain tool from a pouch in the leather apron he wore and hopped himself up onto the workbench, grabbing up the mold he took one half and inspected it. "Now if I can just..maybe," concentrating he carefully carved at a small portion of the embossed design. A look of displeasure crossed his face, and he applied a bit more pressure, "Oh well hell death and damnation!" The mold quickly found itself in the fires of the forge, as a much disgruntled dwarf, cursing as he went, stomped across the shop floor to retrieve another blank mold from its shelf. "Blast and damn, worthless thing... Well, I suppose eighth time is the charm."
Some time later a much more pleased dwarf sat smiling at a much more pleasing mold. "Ah, here's the right ticket. This will do nicely." Zeke sat the mold down and found himself a crucible of appropriate size. From a pocket he procured a rotund little pouch that made a distinct sounds as it was tossled about. Gold coins, fourty-four of them to be exact, they had been a gift from his father on his recent birthday. 'Forty-four is a big year Ezekiel, I want you to take these, and use them wisely. Prepare youself for you journey, I'll need all the preparation you can muster.' Zeke smiled as he recalled the words of his father, turning the coin over in his hand. The coins were precisely one dwarven ounce, and of a very pure quality. Dwarves hadn't used coins like this for some time, each one with the Anvil of Vulcan embossed in the center. "He must've made these himself, must've melted down nearly a hundred coin, refined it, and cast them." He marvelled at the works of love for a moment longer.
Into the crucible Zeke put the coins, all but one of them, that one coin he put into his pocket for now. "I can think of no better way to prepare myself for this journey, this adventure. Than to arm myself with the blessing and mark of the Crafter." He wasn't sure how his father would react, but he was fairly sure it was the right thing to do. "After all, food perishes, and can be earned through a little work. What do I need with weapons, I have my hammer...." He talked to himself in that manner for some time as the crucible sat in the forge. He fiddled nervously with the mold, careful not to mar it even on its outter portion.
Then, it was done. The gold smelted, and ready to pour, the mold held in place by a vice. "Bless me Vulcan, crafter of the stars, and bless that which you have allowed my hands to create." The molten gold rushed into the mold, filling it perfectly. The lighting was poor, for Zeke hadn't replaced the oil in the lamps, and the fire shed a flickering unstable light, but even so he was fairly sure that the liquid metal pulsed once with a golden light. "I've been at it for too long, my eyes are playing tricks on me." He finished his work and placed the finished medallion within the pouch the gold had come from. He felt the last of the coins within his pocket and drew it out. "Now friend, we'll have to make you into a fine wraught chain. But that is a project for another day."
Items:
Zeke carries with him the hammer of his trade, though not really much of a weapon as of yet never used as one, it wouldn't necessarily feel good were he to crack someone over the head with it.
Prized among all his early possessions is the amulet that adorns Zeke's chest, easily three pounds in weight the golden amulet is visually simple: An Anvil, embossed in the center of the golden disc, the outer edge of which is richly etched in runic script.
Food, just enough provisions for the several days journey to the nearest of human settlements. At which point he intends to work for his food.
Waterskin, standard, wooden plug, couple of liters of water.
Abilities:
Cure Disease: As a priest in the dwarven church he is granted the ability to cure diseases, though at this time common cold and chicken pox are about as much as he can handle. One person at a time, this takes much concentration upon his part. The process involves Ezekiel actually stealing the disease from the afflicted person and purging it from himself.
Heal wounds: Zeke can heal very minor wounds, about once an hour he can heal a minor wound or cut.
Knowledge of the crafter: As Ezekiel grows in favor with Vulcan, and as he grows in his abilities and skills, he will be granted the knowledge of different secrets of his trade. ((He doesn't know this now, and as of yet it has no real bearing on his character.))
(( I understand there might be some issue with the amulet being gold. I hope that I can use this story to justify substituting this item for my allowed starting gold.))
Race: Dwarf
Sex: Male
Age: 44
Height: 5'7"
Weight: 235lbs
Physical Description: Stout, very stout, much in the dwarven fashion, "built low to the ground for stability" as dwarves often say. Even so, his four foot seven frame is a bit on the 'tall' side. Keen, wise, blue eyes display a warmth mirrored by a smile only partly visable through his gloriously maintained beard. Golden-bronze in tone his beard matches his full head of hair, one magnificent braid, three inches in diameter (yes he's measured it) reaches his waist and past. His braid is cynched with an engraved steel ring, on it an anvil is flanked by a series of runes. Light complection reflect his time spent underground, when he's not covered in the soot that marks his trade that is. Large powerful arms betray a familiarity with manual labour, and the ways of the hammer and anvil. Here and there are scars, marking the inherent dangers of bending metal and fire to one's will.
Ezekiel travels in the vestiments of his order simple robes of a golden color, trimmed in red, they represent the fires of Vulcan's eternal forges where the dwarves believe that stars and worlds are forged. Simple leather longboots, and and a satchel complete his attire.
Background: Ezekiel, son of Bradon, grandson Jacob, and on through the lineage of the Stronghammers, priests for Eighty-seven generations. His fathers have served the priesthood of Vulcan diligently for an entire age of the Dwarven bible. Vulcan, the dwarven god of strength and knowledge, often called the great smith or great crafter, has blessed his family for their many generations of servitude. Among the priests of the crafter, the number eight is revered as sacred, even moreso eighty eightth. The priests of vulcan consider the eighth son to be blessed, the eighth generation even moreso. There is an expectation of greatness laid upon the eigth generation, an expectation that he will bear great promise among those of the faith. This is only a shadow of the expectations laid upon the Eighty-eighth son. Ezekiel is the eighty-eighth, and from birth the eyes of many an important person have been upon him. The expectation of greatness ways heavily on him, and speculations of how the blessing of Vulcan will manifest itself started even before he was born.
This would be all well and good, if Ezekiel showed any sign of that greatness. Not to say that he doesn't show promise as a smith, and as a member of the order, but certain people might have expected something a bit more 'supernatural'. As for Zeke, he is perfectly content to simply pine his time away at the forges, for while working the metal and fire he communes, he worships his god:
Ting-ting-ting... Clank! Ting-ting-ting.... Clank!. Oh the sound, loud as it may be was harmonious to his ears, it soothed his spirits and lifted him above the pettiness of daily matters. "Come now ye imperfection, I know yer marks, I'll work yah out soon enough." His right arm swung rythmically as he folded the metal once more. It wasn't entirely necessary, but he couldn't the thought of leaving the metal blemished, even in such a small manner. "Alright, and one more time for perfection." In his mind it, if he was going to craft something, he would do it to the absolute bests of his abilities. For now though, he wasn't even sure what it was he was making. "Hrrmmm...", muttering to himself, "perhaps a candlestand, aye, I could twist it for a nice spiral effect, that would look nice I think." He turned the folded rod over and over, imagining the possibilities, "if I were to bend this portion... maybe..." he began to work the metal again, now using the horn of the anvil to add a curve. Ting-ting-ting... Clank! And he went about in this fashion for some time quite merrily. When a portion was quit to his liking he moved on, tapering an end here, causing just the right curve there. After some time A satisfied look appeared upon his face and he laid the metal aside. "Now only 2 more just like it."
There were several more bars of iron close at hand, he had brought several from the church's storeroom, but the site of a small white block lying on a nearby workbench caught his eye. With a sigh he looked at the iron, and then back to the white mold. "I suppose I should finish," this mold had been giving him trouble all morning, he simply wasn't satisfied with it. He fished a certain tool from a pouch in the leather apron he wore and hopped himself up onto the workbench, grabbing up the mold he took one half and inspected it. "Now if I can just..maybe," concentrating he carefully carved at a small portion of the embossed design. A look of displeasure crossed his face, and he applied a bit more pressure, "Oh well hell death and damnation!" The mold quickly found itself in the fires of the forge, as a much disgruntled dwarf, cursing as he went, stomped across the shop floor to retrieve another blank mold from its shelf. "Blast and damn, worthless thing... Well, I suppose eighth time is the charm."
Some time later a much more pleased dwarf sat smiling at a much more pleasing mold. "Ah, here's the right ticket. This will do nicely." Zeke sat the mold down and found himself a crucible of appropriate size. From a pocket he procured a rotund little pouch that made a distinct sounds as it was tossled about. Gold coins, fourty-four of them to be exact, they had been a gift from his father on his recent birthday. 'Forty-four is a big year Ezekiel, I want you to take these, and use them wisely. Prepare youself for you journey, I'll need all the preparation you can muster.' Zeke smiled as he recalled the words of his father, turning the coin over in his hand. The coins were precisely one dwarven ounce, and of a very pure quality. Dwarves hadn't used coins like this for some time, each one with the Anvil of Vulcan embossed in the center. "He must've made these himself, must've melted down nearly a hundred coin, refined it, and cast them." He marvelled at the works of love for a moment longer.
Into the crucible Zeke put the coins, all but one of them, that one coin he put into his pocket for now. "I can think of no better way to prepare myself for this journey, this adventure. Than to arm myself with the blessing and mark of the Crafter." He wasn't sure how his father would react, but he was fairly sure it was the right thing to do. "After all, food perishes, and can be earned through a little work. What do I need with weapons, I have my hammer...." He talked to himself in that manner for some time as the crucible sat in the forge. He fiddled nervously with the mold, careful not to mar it even on its outter portion.
Then, it was done. The gold smelted, and ready to pour, the mold held in place by a vice. "Bless me Vulcan, crafter of the stars, and bless that which you have allowed my hands to create." The molten gold rushed into the mold, filling it perfectly. The lighting was poor, for Zeke hadn't replaced the oil in the lamps, and the fire shed a flickering unstable light, but even so he was fairly sure that the liquid metal pulsed once with a golden light. "I've been at it for too long, my eyes are playing tricks on me." He finished his work and placed the finished medallion within the pouch the gold had come from. He felt the last of the coins within his pocket and drew it out. "Now friend, we'll have to make you into a fine wraught chain. But that is a project for another day."
Items:
Zeke carries with him the hammer of his trade, though not really much of a weapon as of yet never used as one, it wouldn't necessarily feel good were he to crack someone over the head with it.
Prized among all his early possessions is the amulet that adorns Zeke's chest, easily three pounds in weight the golden amulet is visually simple: An Anvil, embossed in the center of the golden disc, the outer edge of which is richly etched in runic script.
Food, just enough provisions for the several days journey to the nearest of human settlements. At which point he intends to work for his food.
Waterskin, standard, wooden plug, couple of liters of water.
Abilities:
Cure Disease: As a priest in the dwarven church he is granted the ability to cure diseases, though at this time common cold and chicken pox are about as much as he can handle. One person at a time, this takes much concentration upon his part. The process involves Ezekiel actually stealing the disease from the afflicted person and purging it from himself.
Heal wounds: Zeke can heal very minor wounds, about once an hour he can heal a minor wound or cut.
Knowledge of the crafter: As Ezekiel grows in favor with Vulcan, and as he grows in his abilities and skills, he will be granted the knowledge of different secrets of his trade. ((He doesn't know this now, and as of yet it has no real bearing on his character.))
(( I understand there might be some issue with the amulet being gold. I hope that I can use this story to justify substituting this item for my allowed starting gold.))