Khodrin Emberhelm is a Mountain Dwarf fighter, that I’ve created for a DnD e5 campaign. In a group of mostly mages and rogues, as a fighter, Khodrin’s job is to withstand damage in close combat, and hopefully deal some damage out himself.
Outfitted in a full chainmail, and donning a shield and a warhammer, Khodrin’s a force to be reckoned with, once he gets close. He keeps a light crossbow for ranged combat.
Starting stats (level 3):
Strength: 16
Dexterity: 8
Constitution: 17
Intelligence: 10
Wisdom: 13
Charisma: 12
Hit points: 28
Armor class: 18
Initiative: -1
Speed: 25
Allignment: Lawful good
Life in a Dwarven stronghold isn’t particular flashy for a young Dwarf, you work, you eat, you work some more, and then you likely eat again. But to most Dwarves this is just fine. Ask a Dwarf if his work is dull, and you’ll find a Dwarf considering you as the lazy and unproductive type.
Born into a clan of mine-workers and prospectors, Khodrin’s upbringing was pretty common. It wasn’t glorious as it would be for higher class Dwarves, but with the Dwarven communities through work, no-one was ever truly “low-class”.
At the age of 50, Dwarves are “mature”, this is normally marked with a feast for the entire stronghold. Roast pig, mead and ale in un-measurable amounts. Of course, Dwarven tradition and laws are rather strict, so it’s not exactly unusual that fines or other punishments are handed down after such a feast. Despite Dwarves normally being keen on keeping rules, alcohol (and especially Dwarven ale in large quantities) can alter that in a Dwarf. Alcohol also lifts the filters that keep you from calling someone something that you normally wouldn’t utter out loud.
Unfortunately, Khodrin’s boss, a wealthy prospector from a high-ranking family within the stronghold, was quite the tyrant. Miners having their pay withheld for vague reasons, work-hours being beyond reason (even for the hardy and strong Dwarves). Many of Khodrin’s workmates used the boss’ name as means of swearing, under their breath of course. During a toast, Khodrin proclaimed that “He was proud, despite working for a dirt-digging sleaze-bag.” Considering the miners normal work of picking through stone and minerals for ore and gemstones, dirt was one of the most degrading terms, as it served no purpose to a mountain Dwarf. Even worse, of course his boss eventually caught wind of Khodrin’s mishap.
One fateful day, Khodrin, now aged 72, was called to see his boss, his own clan-leaders were there as well. No words where spoken, the clan-leaders just shook their heads and pointed towards the door. Khodrin had to leave the stronghold behind, having brought shame onto his clan. Bitter he quickly packed his belongings. As if the news had spread through every single tunnel, every holding, every home of the stronghold, no-one uttered a goodbye, even tried to get eye-contact.
As the large iron gate shut behind him, Khodrin had his first encounter with the outside world. The light of the sun was harsh the first couple of days, day and night cyclus, something not at all present within the mountains. Following the simple and mostly unnused trade road leading out of the mountains, through winding passes and down into steep gorges, Khodrin made flat land within a couple of days of marching. The soft soil of the hillsides, wet and muddy, made him uneasy. Here the path up into the mountains molded with a larger trade road. With no idea where to go, Khodrin decided on waiting. And so he did for several days in fact. Until a trade caravan came through, stopping and asking Khodrin, if he wanted hire as a guard, despite not really having any combat experience, he shrugged, nodded and hopped on the back of a wagon.
For several years, Khodrin was known as “The Silent Dwarf”, as he hardly ever spoke. A nod here, a grunt there, that was the extent of conversation the merchants and the other guards had with him. Even compared to other Dwarves that the caravan occasionally met, Khodrin remained as silent as the mountain he was born under. Khodrin worked double, guard while the caravan was moving (and when needed in towns and villages) and smith while in a town. While the tools were lacking, to a Dwarf’s standards, his ancestral skill of metal and stone had him level with most town smithies.
One night, on route for Athlin, the wagons were ambushed, on the outskirts of the Silver Oak Forest. Three guards and two of the merchants were taken out by arrows, before anyone could even react. In the darkness, Khodrin’s Dwarven eyes allowed him to see a sight of horrors; the Undead, several zombies and a few skeleton archers was closing in on the remaining wagons. In the distant, under the moonlit shades of the trees, a hooded figure with an eerie looking staff. With a crooked finger the figure directed the corpses. Something within Khodrin told him to stay still, and to say nothing. A coward’s choice perhaps, but neither the zombies nor skeletons seemed to notice. To Khodrin’s luck, the hooded figure didn’t really seem to care, or it thought everyone to be dead.
In order to ensure no-one was near, Khodrin waited until the first glimpse of sunlight broke through the trees. While none of the merchants or any of the guards where particular close, it was still some kind of family. And Khodrin had done nothing to even attempt to save the others, he just froze, which, in hindsight, probably saved his life. Leaving the wagons behind, Khodrin walked the road towards Athlin, where he arrived three days later, carrying only his clothes, rations and his smithing gear. Through grunts and sign-language, Khodrin managed to secure himself a job at Amduhr’s Armory. Silently, of course, he woved to never freeze up like that again, to protect those around him, if at all possible.
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