Name: Rask Torn-ear
Race/Class: Beast (Agile) Barbarian
Experience: 62,427
Level: 8
Copper: 103
Silver: 17
Gold: 46
Mats: 29
Special Items:
Professions: Cook, Surgeon
Level 0: One handed Short, One Handed Long, Loot Chest
level 1: Medium Shield, Field Dressing
level 2: Toughness, Light Armour
level 3: Pounce, Fierce Charge, Dual Wield
level 4: Basic First Aid, Thrown Weapons
Level 5: Hearty Meal, Advanced First Aid
Level 6: Bit O,Courage, Ground Traps
Level 7:
Level 8:
Rask Torn-ear Biography:
Rask Torn-ear knows very little about his early life. He can tell you that he originates from the sweeping savannahs of the vast, dark southern continent, but can tell you no names, and recollects little more than that.
In fact, Rask was a member of one of the numerous nomadic tribes of gnolls that travelled the grasslands, fighting one another over territory, hunting rights, slaves and females. Rask’s tribe entered onto a war with a neighbouring rival and came off worst in this conflict. The victors slaughtered the male warriors of Rasks’s tribe or took them as slaves. The females they took as breeding stock. The young, they ate.
Rask’s mother was one of the few to escape. Several other females managed to do the same, and as nature dictates, they ate their young to remain strong and healthy in order to survive. Rask’s mother did not do this, however.
Perhaps due to some peculiar maternal instinct not normally accredited to gnoll-kind, she spared her litter and provided food, milk and warmth to her seven cubs, even as her own strength failed. Patrols crossed the plains, searching for survivors. Rask’s mother laid low- for self-preservation and because she was finding it harder to walk very far.
Eventually, Rask’s mother grew too weak to continue. She made the ultimate sacrifice and gave herself to her children. The seven cubs ate their mother and grew stronger- her final gift to them- so that they might live a little bit longer...
Survival was hard. Natural privations and predators thinned the numbers of the litter. The weakest starved. Some fell prey to wildcats and other beasts, until only three remained- the one who would become Rask, and a brother and a sister. Oldest and strongest, they had the will and the tenacity to survive.
Gnolls mature quickly- only three turns of the year and they are fully mature physically. Rask’s brother sought to challenge his alpha status in their trio. Rask tore out his throat. Rask’s sister resisted his immature attempts to mate with her, so he snapped at her heels and drove her away.
Rask was now alone. He was healthy and strong, quick and ruthless- but primitive and completely savage. He had no language, even by the crude standards of gnoll-kind, and no concept of who or what he was. Rask hunted, and killed, and took what he could from the vanquished.
Rask wandered, and encountered other gnoll bands. He avoided them out of instinctive fear. He observed the dark-skinned human nomads that crossed the grasslands. Through ambush and murder, he came into contact with their metal weapons and leather and hide armour, and took whatever he could take and use from their bodies.
The green-skinned orc tribes offered more sport. Tough and belligerent fighters, they proved better foes for Rask to hone his skills against. Rask killed many and feasted on their twisted bones.
The bane of youth- overconfidence- was to be Rasks‘s undoing. Pale-skinned human slavers captured him in a trap after he had taken their bait and pursued an easy looking target. Trapped, he now became the quarry of a very different hunter.
Stripped of his hunting trophies, Rask was put to work as a beast of burden, pulling a slavers wagon across the sweltering grasslands from one human settlement to another. He was seen as a savage oddity by the furless human weaklings. The slavers named him ‘Rask’, the word for ‘feral’ in their language, and Rask soon learned to respond to it.
None of the other slaves went near Rask. He would maim and kill without provocation. The slavers got tired of their stock being constantly savaged, so they sold Rask on at their next stop, a port on the coast of the world’s vast middle ocean.
A trade galley needed slave oarsmen. Rask’s rangy seven-foot frame held a wiry power, so he was purchased. Shackled amongst a row of six other oarsmen, Rask was forced to eat, sleep and defecate where he sat. Chained to a mighty oar- one amongst hundreds of other slaves- the young gnoll railed against his captivity, biting his neighbours and gnawing at his restraints. Rask was whipped and beaten, starved and abused until his young spirit was finally broken.
Rask deteriorated. He became a pitiful creature, emaciated and sick, surrounded by pitiful furless chattel that he could not understand or communicate with. Life revolved around brief snatches of sleep, meagre scraps of food, tin cups of water not made to fit his mouth that he found hard to lap out of, and rowing. Always rowing!
The skinny human wretch sat to Rask’s left died at the oar. It took the slavers hours to notice his demise. Only the shrieks of alarm and fear from Rask’s neighbours drew them once the starving gnoll had began feasting on the corpse’s shoulder.
Dragged from his oar and subjected to the worst beating of his life, Rask was confused when he was not returned to his place. Instead, he was laid out on a straw pallet in the hold, manacled to the floor, next to a nervous looking old human male.
The old human, through gesture and mime, established to Rask that his name was Davik. He had been charged by the slavers with teaching Rask how to speak mouth-words. Rask snarled and bared his fangs, but Davik always stayed beyond the reach of Rask’s chains.
Through Davik, Rask learnt that he was a gnoll. He learnt his name. He learnt that Davik was a eunuch slave who was also scholar- a keeper of many mouth-words. Davik would be sold to a wealthy noble family as a private tutor to their children at the end of the journey. Rask viewed him with contempt- no man parts- Davik inferior- but learnt his mouth-words and grew to understand why he had been freed.
Rask was to become a taskmaster on the rowing decks, employing boot and whip to ensure the oarsmen pulled hard and true to the beat of the drum. His reward would be straw to sleep upon, better food, plus the corpses of dead slaves to eat when they gave up on their lives of toil.
Rask learnt the human mouth-words as best he could. A poorly reset jaw that had been dislocated during his harshest beating meant Rask would forever talk with a snuffling lisp. Rask took no mockery of his speech and never suffered to be called ‘dog.’ He cracked his whip and feasted well, becoming healthy and strong once more.
Storms were frequent in the middle ocean. The further north the galley travelled towards its destination, the worse they seemed to get. Rowing became difficult, so Rask and the other taskmasters applied the whip more and more. The decks were awash with vomit. Conditions were harsh. Oarsmen died in droves and had to thrown overboard and not take up space. Rask snarled his newly-learned human curse words. Good eating was being wasted.
The crash that came from the rear stern was load and alarming. Shouts and cries of fear carried along the rowing decks. Shrieks and screams cut off as slaves, still shackled to their oars were swallowed by the water gushing in through the hole in the hull. Rask thought they had hit something, but then he saw the armoured prow jutting through the galley’s hull, smeared with the remains of the oarsmen it had pulverised as it smashed through. This was an attack. Pirates!
Rask climbed above deck, drew his weapons and roared a challenge. His hackles raised and his blood raced. He’d not fought toe-to-toe with a foe in way too long. He noticed that the sky was wrong- it was black and writhed like it was alive.
The deck was listing. The pirate vessel had latched onto the galley with boarding planks and grapple-lines. Arrows flew in all directions. Shouts, cries and screams seemed like music to Rask’s ears. He howled in glee and anticipation and rushed into the fray.
Pirates- humans, orcs, red-skinned things Rask had never seen before- rushed at him. He cut them down with sword and axe in a maniacal frenzy. Slaves, fellow slavers, all fell to his blades without recognition or mercy. Rask was exorcising a pain and a longing held deep inside him for too long. It came out like a whirlwind- and woe betide any that got in his way.
Blows struck him, but Rask shrugged them off. He fell, slipping in the blood that washed the deck. It matted his fur and stained his muzzle a deep crimson from where he bit off fingers and ripped out throats. When he bared his fangs, Rask looked like a demon creature- and soon the pirates were fleeing from him in terror.
Pirates carried off stowage and slaves alike to fill their holds. Portable goods and treasures were carried over the gang-planks onto the pirate ship as the slaughter of the galley’s crew drew to an end. Pockets of resistance remained- and Rask was one of them. Cornered by the handrail and surrounded by a wall of blades, he snarled and swung his weapons, but no one came close.
A voice rose from the crowd and the pirates parted. A leader stepped forward- strong and formidable. He told Rask to drop his weapons. Rask curled his lip and prepared to spring. The pirate offered him a job. Join the pirate crew or die, here and now.
Rask lowered his weapons and cocked his head. Become a pirate? Live by fighting? He paused, considering his new prospects.
The club hit Rask square on the back of the head and he dropped. Blurry and in pain, Rask’s last recollection before it went black was of the pirate leader laughing, telling him they would never offer work to a rabid dog like him. Then they threw Rask overboard.
The cold water hit him like a blow and he regained consciousness in a panic. The dark waters roiled and churned. Rask fought to grasp hold of something, anything to keep him afloat. His bloody fingers closed around a stretch of timber and Rask held on desperately, weathering the elements as they battered him back and forth.
Rask awoke lying among the detritus of a high tide line on a blasted shore. Timbers and wreckage littered the sand. Several bodies- slave and pirate- numbered among the debris. Rask rolled slowly over, aching and soggy, and closed his eyes.
When he felt stronger, Rask skirted through the detritus, salvaging anything he could. A pirate’s corpse offered up a long dagger in a sheath, some coins and a carrion meal. Rask picked through what other meagre pickings he could find and then headed inland.
The sky was dark still, yet his instincts told him it was daytime. Rask did not understand. Away from the shore, the land grew hilly and turned quickly into thick woodland. This was new to Rask, who was used to being able to see for miles and miles over undulating grassland or flat seas. His senses quickly sharpened. Danger was all about.
One such danger was new and surprising to Rask. Walking dead men stumbling through the woods drew his attention. They fell easily to his blades, but some rose up again to press the attack once more. They did not taste nourishing. Rask learnt quickly to avoid them with stealth and guile.
A clumsy group of orcs and goblins drew his attention, also. Rask followed them, listening and learning. He watched them make crude poisons from crushed berries and pulped plant leaves, learnt the mouth-words for their names and remembered their distinctive smells. Rask picked them off one by one, relishing the sport these crude creatures gave, and welcomed the chance to reequip himself from their corpses.
‘What ish thish playsh?’ He asked the last orc he had permitted to survive.
The dumb creature stared up at him fearfully. ‘W- whatcha mean?’
‘Thish playsh.’ Rask indicated the land and the sky with one hand, lifting the orc clear off the ground with the other. ‘Wheya am I?’
‘Dis be the Darken Vale.’ The orc quivered, nervously eying Rask’s sharp fangs.
‘Why ish it sho dark heeya?’
‘A curse, so I ‘eard it told.’ The orc stammered, licking his cracked lips. ‘Dark magic. Ve-ery bad!’
Rask sniffed the air. It did taste bad. Something was wrong here in this Darken Vale.
‘Wheya ish de nearesht lowimbwa?’ Rask used a mouth-word from his own land, not knowing a different sound.
The orc frowned. ‘A wha’?’
‘A playsh where people eat and live. Shleep. Lowimbwa!’
‘A village. A tavern.’ The orc’s face brightened. ‘Yeah, yeah. I know...’
He pointed frantically to the south, squirming to break free. Rask held on tighter.
‘A tavern, it is.’ The orc smiled a toothy grin it hoped seemed helpful. ‘’Angman’s Rest. Not been ‘round long. We been attackin’ it a bit, but dey got good fighters dere...’
‘A good fight...’ Rask repeated the words slowly. The orc grinned and nodded.
‘You gonna let me go, doggy?’ It asked hopefully.
Rask rumbled deep in his chest. The orc whimpered and soiled itself.
‘Good.’ Rask snarled into the orc’s ear. ‘Now I shmell you even better. Run little orc. I count now to ten. Then I come after you...’
He dropped the orc to the ground and gave a deep hyena’s cackle. That always made them run. The orc turned and bolted into the tree line. It didn’t occur to him once to turn and fight.
Good. Rask thought. I want you to run. I will catch you, orc. I like de axe you ish carrying...
The orc’s scent was clear to him. Sweat, leather, faeces. Rask fell into an easy loping run and followed his prey at a leisurely pace. No need to spoil the enjoyment too soon...
Race/Class: Beast (Agile) Barbarian
Experience: 62,427
Level: 8
Copper: 103
Silver: 17
Gold: 46
Mats: 29
Special Items:
Professions: Cook, Surgeon
Level 0: One handed Short, One Handed Long, Loot Chest
level 1: Medium Shield, Field Dressing
level 2: Toughness, Light Armour
level 3: Pounce, Fierce Charge, Dual Wield
level 4: Basic First Aid, Thrown Weapons
Level 5: Hearty Meal, Advanced First Aid
Level 6: Bit O,Courage, Ground Traps
Level 7:
Level 8:
Rask Torn-ear Biography:
Rask Torn-ear knows very little about his early life. He can tell you that he originates from the sweeping savannahs of the vast, dark southern continent, but can tell you no names, and recollects little more than that.
In fact, Rask was a member of one of the numerous nomadic tribes of gnolls that travelled the grasslands, fighting one another over territory, hunting rights, slaves and females. Rask’s tribe entered onto a war with a neighbouring rival and came off worst in this conflict. The victors slaughtered the male warriors of Rasks’s tribe or took them as slaves. The females they took as breeding stock. The young, they ate.
Rask’s mother was one of the few to escape. Several other females managed to do the same, and as nature dictates, they ate their young to remain strong and healthy in order to survive. Rask’s mother did not do this, however.
Perhaps due to some peculiar maternal instinct not normally accredited to gnoll-kind, she spared her litter and provided food, milk and warmth to her seven cubs, even as her own strength failed. Patrols crossed the plains, searching for survivors. Rask’s mother laid low- for self-preservation and because she was finding it harder to walk very far.
Eventually, Rask’s mother grew too weak to continue. She made the ultimate sacrifice and gave herself to her children. The seven cubs ate their mother and grew stronger- her final gift to them- so that they might live a little bit longer...
Survival was hard. Natural privations and predators thinned the numbers of the litter. The weakest starved. Some fell prey to wildcats and other beasts, until only three remained- the one who would become Rask, and a brother and a sister. Oldest and strongest, they had the will and the tenacity to survive.
Gnolls mature quickly- only three turns of the year and they are fully mature physically. Rask’s brother sought to challenge his alpha status in their trio. Rask tore out his throat. Rask’s sister resisted his immature attempts to mate with her, so he snapped at her heels and drove her away.
Rask was now alone. He was healthy and strong, quick and ruthless- but primitive and completely savage. He had no language, even by the crude standards of gnoll-kind, and no concept of who or what he was. Rask hunted, and killed, and took what he could from the vanquished.
Rask wandered, and encountered other gnoll bands. He avoided them out of instinctive fear. He observed the dark-skinned human nomads that crossed the grasslands. Through ambush and murder, he came into contact with their metal weapons and leather and hide armour, and took whatever he could take and use from their bodies.
The green-skinned orc tribes offered more sport. Tough and belligerent fighters, they proved better foes for Rask to hone his skills against. Rask killed many and feasted on their twisted bones.
The bane of youth- overconfidence- was to be Rasks‘s undoing. Pale-skinned human slavers captured him in a trap after he had taken their bait and pursued an easy looking target. Trapped, he now became the quarry of a very different hunter.
Stripped of his hunting trophies, Rask was put to work as a beast of burden, pulling a slavers wagon across the sweltering grasslands from one human settlement to another. He was seen as a savage oddity by the furless human weaklings. The slavers named him ‘Rask’, the word for ‘feral’ in their language, and Rask soon learned to respond to it.
None of the other slaves went near Rask. He would maim and kill without provocation. The slavers got tired of their stock being constantly savaged, so they sold Rask on at their next stop, a port on the coast of the world’s vast middle ocean.
A trade galley needed slave oarsmen. Rask’s rangy seven-foot frame held a wiry power, so he was purchased. Shackled amongst a row of six other oarsmen, Rask was forced to eat, sleep and defecate where he sat. Chained to a mighty oar- one amongst hundreds of other slaves- the young gnoll railed against his captivity, biting his neighbours and gnawing at his restraints. Rask was whipped and beaten, starved and abused until his young spirit was finally broken.
Rask deteriorated. He became a pitiful creature, emaciated and sick, surrounded by pitiful furless chattel that he could not understand or communicate with. Life revolved around brief snatches of sleep, meagre scraps of food, tin cups of water not made to fit his mouth that he found hard to lap out of, and rowing. Always rowing!
The skinny human wretch sat to Rask’s left died at the oar. It took the slavers hours to notice his demise. Only the shrieks of alarm and fear from Rask’s neighbours drew them once the starving gnoll had began feasting on the corpse’s shoulder.
Dragged from his oar and subjected to the worst beating of his life, Rask was confused when he was not returned to his place. Instead, he was laid out on a straw pallet in the hold, manacled to the floor, next to a nervous looking old human male.
The old human, through gesture and mime, established to Rask that his name was Davik. He had been charged by the slavers with teaching Rask how to speak mouth-words. Rask snarled and bared his fangs, but Davik always stayed beyond the reach of Rask’s chains.
Through Davik, Rask learnt that he was a gnoll. He learnt his name. He learnt that Davik was a eunuch slave who was also scholar- a keeper of many mouth-words. Davik would be sold to a wealthy noble family as a private tutor to their children at the end of the journey. Rask viewed him with contempt- no man parts- Davik inferior- but learnt his mouth-words and grew to understand why he had been freed.
Rask was to become a taskmaster on the rowing decks, employing boot and whip to ensure the oarsmen pulled hard and true to the beat of the drum. His reward would be straw to sleep upon, better food, plus the corpses of dead slaves to eat when they gave up on their lives of toil.
Rask learnt the human mouth-words as best he could. A poorly reset jaw that had been dislocated during his harshest beating meant Rask would forever talk with a snuffling lisp. Rask took no mockery of his speech and never suffered to be called ‘dog.’ He cracked his whip and feasted well, becoming healthy and strong once more.
Storms were frequent in the middle ocean. The further north the galley travelled towards its destination, the worse they seemed to get. Rowing became difficult, so Rask and the other taskmasters applied the whip more and more. The decks were awash with vomit. Conditions were harsh. Oarsmen died in droves and had to thrown overboard and not take up space. Rask snarled his newly-learned human curse words. Good eating was being wasted.
The crash that came from the rear stern was load and alarming. Shouts and cries of fear carried along the rowing decks. Shrieks and screams cut off as slaves, still shackled to their oars were swallowed by the water gushing in through the hole in the hull. Rask thought they had hit something, but then he saw the armoured prow jutting through the galley’s hull, smeared with the remains of the oarsmen it had pulverised as it smashed through. This was an attack. Pirates!
Rask climbed above deck, drew his weapons and roared a challenge. His hackles raised and his blood raced. He’d not fought toe-to-toe with a foe in way too long. He noticed that the sky was wrong- it was black and writhed like it was alive.
The deck was listing. The pirate vessel had latched onto the galley with boarding planks and grapple-lines. Arrows flew in all directions. Shouts, cries and screams seemed like music to Rask’s ears. He howled in glee and anticipation and rushed into the fray.
Pirates- humans, orcs, red-skinned things Rask had never seen before- rushed at him. He cut them down with sword and axe in a maniacal frenzy. Slaves, fellow slavers, all fell to his blades without recognition or mercy. Rask was exorcising a pain and a longing held deep inside him for too long. It came out like a whirlwind- and woe betide any that got in his way.
Blows struck him, but Rask shrugged them off. He fell, slipping in the blood that washed the deck. It matted his fur and stained his muzzle a deep crimson from where he bit off fingers and ripped out throats. When he bared his fangs, Rask looked like a demon creature- and soon the pirates were fleeing from him in terror.
Pirates carried off stowage and slaves alike to fill their holds. Portable goods and treasures were carried over the gang-planks onto the pirate ship as the slaughter of the galley’s crew drew to an end. Pockets of resistance remained- and Rask was one of them. Cornered by the handrail and surrounded by a wall of blades, he snarled and swung his weapons, but no one came close.
A voice rose from the crowd and the pirates parted. A leader stepped forward- strong and formidable. He told Rask to drop his weapons. Rask curled his lip and prepared to spring. The pirate offered him a job. Join the pirate crew or die, here and now.
Rask lowered his weapons and cocked his head. Become a pirate? Live by fighting? He paused, considering his new prospects.
The club hit Rask square on the back of the head and he dropped. Blurry and in pain, Rask’s last recollection before it went black was of the pirate leader laughing, telling him they would never offer work to a rabid dog like him. Then they threw Rask overboard.
The cold water hit him like a blow and he regained consciousness in a panic. The dark waters roiled and churned. Rask fought to grasp hold of something, anything to keep him afloat. His bloody fingers closed around a stretch of timber and Rask held on desperately, weathering the elements as they battered him back and forth.
Rask awoke lying among the detritus of a high tide line on a blasted shore. Timbers and wreckage littered the sand. Several bodies- slave and pirate- numbered among the debris. Rask rolled slowly over, aching and soggy, and closed his eyes.
When he felt stronger, Rask skirted through the detritus, salvaging anything he could. A pirate’s corpse offered up a long dagger in a sheath, some coins and a carrion meal. Rask picked through what other meagre pickings he could find and then headed inland.
The sky was dark still, yet his instincts told him it was daytime. Rask did not understand. Away from the shore, the land grew hilly and turned quickly into thick woodland. This was new to Rask, who was used to being able to see for miles and miles over undulating grassland or flat seas. His senses quickly sharpened. Danger was all about.
One such danger was new and surprising to Rask. Walking dead men stumbling through the woods drew his attention. They fell easily to his blades, but some rose up again to press the attack once more. They did not taste nourishing. Rask learnt quickly to avoid them with stealth and guile.
A clumsy group of orcs and goblins drew his attention, also. Rask followed them, listening and learning. He watched them make crude poisons from crushed berries and pulped plant leaves, learnt the mouth-words for their names and remembered their distinctive smells. Rask picked them off one by one, relishing the sport these crude creatures gave, and welcomed the chance to reequip himself from their corpses.
‘What ish thish playsh?’ He asked the last orc he had permitted to survive.
The dumb creature stared up at him fearfully. ‘W- whatcha mean?’
‘Thish playsh.’ Rask indicated the land and the sky with one hand, lifting the orc clear off the ground with the other. ‘Wheya am I?’
‘Dis be the Darken Vale.’ The orc quivered, nervously eying Rask’s sharp fangs.
‘Why ish it sho dark heeya?’
‘A curse, so I ‘eard it told.’ The orc stammered, licking his cracked lips. ‘Dark magic. Ve-ery bad!’
Rask sniffed the air. It did taste bad. Something was wrong here in this Darken Vale.
‘Wheya ish de nearesht lowimbwa?’ Rask used a mouth-word from his own land, not knowing a different sound.
The orc frowned. ‘A wha’?’
‘A playsh where people eat and live. Shleep. Lowimbwa!’
‘A village. A tavern.’ The orc’s face brightened. ‘Yeah, yeah. I know...’
He pointed frantically to the south, squirming to break free. Rask held on tighter.
‘A tavern, it is.’ The orc smiled a toothy grin it hoped seemed helpful. ‘’Angman’s Rest. Not been ‘round long. We been attackin’ it a bit, but dey got good fighters dere...’
‘A good fight...’ Rask repeated the words slowly. The orc grinned and nodded.
‘You gonna let me go, doggy?’ It asked hopefully.
Rask rumbled deep in his chest. The orc whimpered and soiled itself.
‘Good.’ Rask snarled into the orc’s ear. ‘Now I shmell you even better. Run little orc. I count now to ten. Then I come after you...’
He dropped the orc to the ground and gave a deep hyena’s cackle. That always made them run. The orc turned and bolted into the tree line. It didn’t occur to him once to turn and fight.
Good. Rask thought. I want you to run. I will catch you, orc. I like de axe you ish carrying...
The orc’s scent was clear to him. Sweat, leather, faeces. Rask fell into an easy loping run and followed his prey at a leisurely pace. No need to spoil the enjoyment too soon...