Male Corinthian Soldier/Thief

Male Corinthian Soldier(3)/Thief(3) Experience: 3000
  • Str 11 (+0)
  • Dex 14 (+2)
  • Con 13 (+1)
  • Int 15 (+2)
  • Wis 11 (+0)
  • Cha 13 (+1)
  • Hit Points: 33/33
  • Fate Points: 5/5
  • Reputation: 2
  • Initiative: +2
  • Attack: Power +3, Finesse +5
  • Defence: Dodge 14, Parry 12
  • Saves: Fortitude +4, Reflex +5, Will +1
  • Damage Red: 3
Short Sword
  • Normal: +6/+6 (1d8/19-20×2, AP1)
  • Flanking: +9/+9 (3d8/19-20×2, AP1)
  • Normal: +6 (1d8, 20×3, 40ft, AP1)
  • Flanking: +9 (3d8, 20×3, 40ft, AP1)
  • Corinthian
  • Aquilonian
  • Stygian
  • Zamorian
  • Shemtish
  • Kothic
  • Nemedian
  • Brythunian
  • Zingarian
Skills (rank/stat/other/)
  • +10 Hide (5/2/2)
  • +10 Move Silently (5/2/2)
  • +12 Search (5/2/4)
  • +10 Open Lock (5/2/2)
  • +8 Climb (5/0/2)
  • +6 Spot (5/0)
  • +7 Disable Device (4/2)
  • +7 Tumble (4/2)
  • +9 Gather Information (4/1/2)
  • +4 Swim (1/0/2)
  • +5 Survival (3/0/2)
  • +3 Jump (3/0)
  • +8 Knowledge (Architecture) (5/2)
  • +8 Knowledge (Local) (5/2)
  • Total Ranks: 58. (Excluding educational ranks)
  • Background Skills: Move Silently, Hide, Climb, Search
  • Adaptability Skills: Survival, Swim
  • Weapon Focus (short sword)
  • Gestalt: Training as Thief
  • Gestalt: 1st level Thief
  • Gestalt: 2nd level Thief
  • Combat Reflexes (prereq. for Vexing Flanker)
  • Gestalt: 3nd level Thief
  • Two Weapon Fighting
  • Sneak Attack Style (short sword)
  • Sneak Attack +d8/d6
  • Trap Disarming
  • Eyes of the Cat
  • Trap Sense +1
  • Formation Combat

Equipement Short sword (x2), dagger, sling, 10 bullets, thieves’ tools, quilted jacket, belt pouch, kit bag, belt. Normal clothes: cloak, doublet and hose, work boots, shirt and braes, hood, costral

Winter clothes: cloak, doublet and hose, work boots, shirt and braes, hood, costral 72 Silver pieces


I have seen them wither and die. It is horrific if you can see the picture as an outsider as I have always been. Their entire lives, they dug in the mud from dawn to dusk. They battled the harsh sun, the cold rains and winds. They pleaded with the seasons and elements to have compassion. What little the farm would eventually yield, was then stripped by the baron’s tax collector. And what was their gain? Few precious moments of joy. A lifetime of agony. My mother, undernourished, died from the fever-plague when I was eight. My father was hung for poaching during the year of the great famine before my fifteenth summer. My brothers enlisted into the baron’s ranks. The very same baron that had our father hung. My sister ploughs the wharves of Kishan nightly, hoping to earn a few coppers from passing sailors.

Being the youngest of four siblings, I packed what little belongings I had, sold the remnants of the farm’s tools, and thus purchased my way to freedom. I was young and naive when I joined a mercenary group called “The Lions”. The Lions were commissioned to help fortify the city of Arsillia. It was poorly managed – late wages were common, insufficient food supplies, pathetic accommodations in the barracks and greedy leaders who would squander every one of our coppers on their pampered fetishes. Even the diseased whores would not get two silver Drachmas at the auction blocks – not to mention favours for a night’s entertainment. I had to pick up some useful non military “skills” in order to survive.

The only blessing was the harsh winter that fell upon the city four months after my recruitment. Rations were limited to a two bowls of soup and half a loaf a day. The mounting sick that came from the freezing cold because of a lack of firewood. News of marauding troops was only too grim to bear. I remember the day that fat general Felias walked out of his steam bath and announced that wages will not be paid that month, and that rations need to be conserved (again). Oh the sweet memory of the bloody mutiny that took place. Every surviving officer was blinded and the town that we were hired to protect was looted. We each took to our own way. When the raiders arrived, all they could find was a town in ruins, anything of worth long stolen.

I had just crossed into Brythunia and decided to hide in a forest in case pursuit was coming. On my third day as I was about to come out of hiding, a squadron of soldiers were chasing an outlander from the barbaric lands right towards me. From my vantage point it seemed it to be no more than a game of sport for them to hunt him down. I don’t know what possessed me to react. Perhaps I felt he should be given a small chance to survive, or perhaps I just woke up with an aggressive streak that day; whatever it may have been I decided to awaken my sling and let loose the stone that found their leader’s skull, and a few more stones thereafter. Panic broke among the soldiers momentarily – but only so. As they were about to run the barbarian down and charge into the woods, the gods themselves have fortunately decided to release their hounds that day. A second group came out of nowhere and charged the right flank of the first, sending them fleeing in all directions. As the chase began, the barbarian recovered his wits and run towards the woods. His name was Cael from Cimmeria. A man of my age and temperament. We decided to head off together for our added protection.

I am not angry at the hand that fate has dealt me. On the contrary, I can feel the chains that have wrapped and strangled, have finally been torn asunder. I am now free to stretch my unwelcomed hand into the fleshpot of the wealthy and suck the marrow that life will offer. There is no turning back to the mud hole that bore me.


Hyborean Steel DireHammer Nir