Dorak Grimface of the Bofcral Clan

Norska Dwarf Priest of Thorain

Dorak Grimface of the Bofcral Clan
CHARACTER NAME .xxxxx0xxxxxxxxx0xxxxxxxxx0xxxxxxx
Cleric/Rune Priest of the Dwarfen Pantheon
CLASS .xxxx0xxxxxxxxx0xxxxxxxxx0xxxxxxxxx0xxxxxxx
Thoraín Silverbeard
.xyzxyzxyz .x TOTAL .x .x TOTAL DEX MISC
14 +2 HP
+2 +2 0
14 +2 1-to-9
14 +2 AC
27 10 +11 +5 +1 0 0 0
22 +6 1-to-9
8 -1 SPEED 20 .x DR 0 .x SR 0
+9/+4 +7/+2 +2 0 0 FORTITUDE
+12 +9 +3 0 0
+9/+4 +2 0 0 REFLEX
+4 +2 +2 0 0
+9/+4 +2 0 0 WILL
+15 +9 +6 0 0
Stained Axe (Dwarfen Waraxe) +11/+6 1d10+2 x3
n/a 15lbs S M Masterwork, others (unknown)
Armour of the Unsung Hero Hvy +11 +1
-3 35% 20 80lbs Magic +3, Others (unknown)
Sun Shield Hvy +5 +2
-1 15% - 15lbs Magic +3, Others (unknown)
.x .x .x .x
.x .x
.x .x .x .x
.x .x

Dorak Grimface is a young Norsca Dwarf. He is very tall for a dwarf, with light skin, deep hazel eyes, and thick blond hair braided into one strand that reaches his waist. He also keeps a neatly braided beard, which is kept unusually clean for a dwarf.

Class: Priest of Thorain
Prestige Class: Rune Priest of the Dwarfen Pantheon
Domains: Strength, War
Fav. Weapon: Dwarven Waraxe
Languages: Latin, Dwarven, Giant, Ruus


Dorak, known then only as Son of Bofcral Clan, began his life, as much as nearly all Norsca dwarfs do. He was born and raised in the cradle of his clan-warren – in Karak Belgrin – the “Polished Rock” of the North: the great stone guardian of the southern marketplaces, and jewelry capital. In this place Dorak’s early life was indeed typical if not prototypical. Perhaps too much so.

As the grandson of Balin Iceaxe and eldest son of Theurg Redstone, the patriarchs of the prominent Bofcral clan, he was well on his way to becoming one of the more notable members of Karak Belgrin. He spent his youth and early years typically enough, and apprenticed to the family’s goldsmithing arm, as expected. Upon completion, he expressed interest instead in gem-cutting if not outright mining. He left for his expected time in the militia, learning the ways of hammer and axe, as all good dwarfs do. Over the years his craft skills reached journeyman level (by dwarfish standards), and by the time he reached adulthood (40yrs old) his skills with the hammer at the forge matched those of the axe on the battlefield.

As Dwarfen traditions go, each dwarf, upon reaching adulthood, must accomplish three things. First, he must show that his craft skills have reached adequate level, by dwarfen standard, and that is done during the Kurnst Festival. Second, he must undertake a coming-of-age quest proving his worth as a member of dwarfen society. And last, he must choose a name for himself (or, in the noble clans, have one chosen for him) – a name which will mark him as an adult in the eyes of his people. Son of Bofcral Clan new this, just as he knew that his status expected him to enter the prominent Dwarfen Defenders when all is said and done.

And so Dorak did as expected, following the traditions and laws of his people. First, he displayed his gem-cutting skills to 12 masters, gaining their approval and finishing his craft apprenticeship with honors. The quest, however, would be a different story…

Having been brought up with certain expectations, Son of Bofcral Clan chose to prove himself beyond any doubt by choosing an unusual and fairly difficult quest. It was his decision to go to the ancient tombs of his ancestors in a Karak Ild, a city built on the side of a vulcano far into the Northern Wastes – a city that fell to the fire giants millenia ago. It was his choice to honor his heritage by singing songs on Thoraín Díy in the presence of those that came before him. And so he set out on the long journey mid-Rosemont, knowing it will be long and hard.

At first his quest went as well as expected. He traveled for two months through the harsh and barren lands, avoiding trouble as best he could and enjoying the long days of Sollys – it was, after all, high summer, or as high as it gets in these lands. But such luck could not last forever, and soon his troubles began. First, a band of reavers crossed his path, and though Dorak emerged victorious, it took toll on his equipment and armor. Deteriorating weather conditions made things worse and eventually he had to abandon much of his gear. But that did not stop him, for he was getting close, moving past the sharp edges of stone and ice, the Spine of the World, and fixing his sight on the Aska Mountains.

By the time he got to the base of the vulcano, he was getting to be low on food and had to ration every meal. It took him a week to find the entrance to the Lost Karak, but that only made things worse. The dwarfs had collapsed it completely, and millenia of ice and snow made it impossible to enter. But Son of Bofcral clan would not give up this easily, despite being partially starved and unable to enter the city, and so his stubborness was rewarded by a twist of fate. “Trust in thy gods!” the dwarfs say, and many-a-time that proves to be the answer. One night, as Dorak made camp, a pair of fire giants noticed his tracks and ambushed the lonely dwarf. Grabbing only his axe he stood his ground, felling one of the giants. But as he was dodging the attacks of the other, a mighty swing of the other giant threw the dwarf into a crevice, and the crumbling stone opened a fissure deep into the ground. Dorak barely had the strength to slow his fall, but not before crashing into the floor beneath him. The fall broke his right leg, and shards of debris punctured his left arm. Everything went black.

Hours later the dwarf woke to total darkness. The giant, in his fury for not being able to reach the dwarf, buried the fissure under a pile of stone & snow, trapping him. In great pain and without any gear, the dwarf lay there for three days, slipping in and out of consciousness, his mind hounded by strange dreams and visions of far-away places. Neither dead nor alive, his mind visited ancient places, his eyes laid sights on majestic dwarfs tall as humans and broad as giants, sitting, laughing, and singing in a crystal hall. and his feet traveled long and far in his dreams. The scope and grandeur of what the images, places real and imagined, is hard to decribe. Yet his thoughts kept coming back to an image of a golden sun, and an axe engulfed in flame hovering in front of it. In his dreams he saw a mighty dwarf wearing such an emblem, with long silver hair and ice-blue eyes that could pierce the soul. And though Dorak was not the religious sort, he eventually recognized the ancient-form of the Thorain’s symbol! Could it be? Could he have seen an image of Thoraín himself?!

When his fever finally broke, he woke up to discover that his surrounding had changed, and that he was now in a well-lit smithy, near a massive forge. An ancient-looking dwarf seemed to live here, as if tending to the fire. It was this old dwarf who had apparently moved Son of Bofcral Clan and had tended his wounds, providing food and water. The old dwarf spoke quietly of his existence in the Karak. Something wasn’t quite right, but Dorak was too grateful to notice, and still in a haze from the recent events, pondering the images and thoughts of his dreams. The dwarf spoke of Karak Ild as if he had lived there, and of the Forge as if it was his home. When asked for his name and clan, the old dwarf would dismiss such things with a smile, leaving any such questions unanswered. And Dorak was in no shape to argue.

Lying on his back, his thoughts would drift away, trying to remember the visions of his dreams. But these were always elusive, as if just beyond his grasp. Soon many of the details faded, except for the image of the golden sun and the flaming axe, as if burned into his soul. He lay there, grateful for the old dwarf’s care. And so when the old dwarf asked what brought Dorak to this forsaken place, he explained his coming-of-age quest, and the old dwarf seemed to approve. Strangely, there was no surprise in his eyes, as if he knew the answers before asking the questions. When Dorak was finally able to move again, the old dwarf provided exact directions to Bofcral tombs, but he refused to go there himself.

When Thoraín Díy finally arrived, Dorak, on a set of impromptu clutches, made his way to the tombs of his ancestors, intent on completing his quest. With torch light and detailed instructions from the old dwarf as his guide, he was able to find the area. Upon entering the tomb, however, he stumbled upon a suit of armor and a large round shield lying by the shattered entrance, surrounded by broken arrows, crushed stone, and remnants of axes and shields. A battle must have taken place here, but who fought it or why was lost now to relentless time.

Dorak stood there, fascinated by the quality and condition of his find. The armor, in such fine condition after centuries of waiting, and a shield from his dreams! He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded and striken, his eyes outlining the magnificent sun on a dust-covered shield. It called to him, it beckoned to be worn again, it pleaded to see the daylight once more! It is, however, against Dwarfen nature to take something from its resting place, and Dorak stood there long, trying to decide what to do. He eventually decided against touching the items and moved past them into the tomb, and sang with his dwarfen voice long and hard, until his voice could sing no more. The chambers vibrated, the halls rang with the melodies they have not heard in millenia, and for a brief moment the city was whole again.

When he was done, satisfied at completing his quest, Dorak proceeded to leave. But fate had different plans. As he was passing the entrance, a pack of goblins, attracted by the noise, pounced on the dwarf, knocking him down and into the rubble. With the speed of a fox Dorak grabbed the nearest thing to protect himself from the incoming arrows, barely deflecting a deadly short. With his right hand, he combed the dust until his fingers stumbled upon an old rusted waraxe made of some strange reddish metal. He didn’t realize it, but his left hand held the sun shield, guarding his life. Slowly he noticed the runes on the back, and as he read the passages, the whole shield flashed a bright light and burned off all dust and dirt. Emboldened by the words of the dwarfen warcry, Dorak stood up, shield in his left and the axe in his right, and regaining his voice sang out the words on the back of the shield, words he knew since he was a child, staring definalty at his prey:

”’Lo, there do I see my father. 
‘Lo, there do I see my mother, and my sisters, and my brothers. 
‘Lo, there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning. 
‘Lo they do call to me. 
They bid me take my place among them, in the halls of Thoraín, where the brave may live forever.”

And with that, his injuries forgotten, he charged the globlins. His fury was Dwarfen fury. His anger was Dwarfen anger. He called upon the might of his ancestors, the strength of his blood, and resolve of his heritage, and raged through the goblin horde without pause or hesitation. These creatures had not seen a dwarf in their lifetime, nor did they understand the grandeur of the race that build this city, and so they fell, surprised, beaten, and unprepared. When the axe finally silenced the screams of the last goblin, its strength finally gave out and it cracked into three pieces, rust & metal stained by the blood of goblin and dwarf. The only noise left was Dorak’s heavy breathing. His pain returned, and loosing his footing he fell to the ground. He lay there, looking up into the rafters, smile on his face, and a shield at his side. He let the moment sink in – yes, there was an arrow sticking out of his torso, and yes, there were fresh cuts on his face and arms, but he was among his ancestors, and they witnessed their kin – still alive – honoring them on Thoraín Díy. It was more than he could hope for.

Eventually it was time to get back. He moved to lift himself and his hand landed on the magificent armor he had previously seen but chosen not to disturb. It shook for a moment, and fire-red runes glew for a moment, filling the patterns and intricate designs with red light, as if awoken. To this day Dorak doesn’t know why, but something prompted him to pick up the armor and shield and take them with him as he left that day. He also took the broken waraxe, for it had saved his life, and you don’t abandon such things.

When he finally got back to the forge, the old dwarf seemed pleased, and a glint in his eyes betrayed a secret, though its meaning was lost on Dorak. He did not seem at all surprised that Dorak found such items, much less that he brought them back with him. Patching his wounds, Dorak’s gaze kept glancing at the items he found, lazily outlining each emblem, each surface, each rune, with the eye of a craftsman. He immediately knew the quality of such things. His eyes sought flaws and dents and damage from combat and time, but none could be found. His thoughts pondered on the owner of these things, often returning to difficult questions in the months that followed.

Having rested a few days, Son of the Bofcral clan found himself staring at the sun shield, thinking about his dreams, visions, and luck. Knowing the cold winter is coming and going home wasn’t an option, he found himself drawn to the forge, and before long the old dwarf suggested ‘repairing’ the broken waraxe that had saved Dorak’s life. The old dwarf seemed to suggest that while he was here, Dorak should forge himself a new weapon, as the old one was beyond repair. It seemed like a reasonable thing to do, and with all the tools and ore one could ever hope for, Dorak proceeded to mold the strange red metal into the shape of an axe. And the old dwarf didn’t seem to mind. The forge rang, and the old dwarf guided Dorak, suggesting this tool or that technique, always with a mystical smile and quiet approval.

Dorak worked as if in a dream. His thoughts were too occupied with questions to notice that the old dwaft was guiding him like a mannequin, telling him this or that. And Dorak didn’t even notice – he methodically followed instructions to the letter. He didn’t even notice that the old dwarf had not touched a single tool, weapon, or item in the entire time they were together. And he would disappear, going off into the lost city, for hours and days at a time. During those times Dorak found himself exploring the city. Aware of the presence of foul things, he got into the habit of wearing the armor and shield, and using his old axe, as the new one wasn’t finished. He tried as hard as he can to find information about the warrior that might have worn this armor, or who the creator might have been. He found tomes, well preserved, and learned much about Karak Ild and the dwarfes of old, but not once did he discover the identity of the owner of the armor.

Dorak also found himself spending time in an old temple of Thoraín . It was surprisingly close to the forge, where he spent his days, and so he would sit there, asking questions of the empty walls. The silence of the city was calming and soothing, and time stood still. He studied the runes on the walls, depicting much of the dwarfen faith as it stood strong in his people, as it flew through his ancestors’ veins. He learned the traditions as they were, the dwarfen resolve as it ought to be. And it changed him. Ambition seemed to fade. His roots grew strong, and his faith hardened. He no longer desired to become the Thane of this Karak. Deep in his heart a feeling sprang that everything that happened had happened for a reason, and if that was the case, then he was meant to find the armor, and that he was meant to carry the shield, and thus, if his dreams were real, then his destiny lies far away from his home. He would often speak with the old dwarf about his thoughts. And the dwarf listened, intently, always with a smile on his face.

And so months went by, and Sollys was upon them. The reddish metal proved particularly difficult to work, and only thanks to the uniqueness of the forge and expert guidance was Dorak able to work with it at all. The axe was almost complete, and he was putting in the final touches. As he was hammering, he was thinking about going home. It still didn’t seem right to be taking the armor and the shield however, and he asked the old dwarf what to do. This was the only time he saw the old dwarf’s face grow sad, and again Dorak felt that something wasn’t right – this time more so than ever before. The old dwarf simply said “Take it – its yours now! It is meant to be yours.” And he sat there, staring into the fire – with his ice-blue eyes and long silver hair – staring deep into the red fire of the forge. He spoke very little, and his vigor diminished with each passing moment, as if fading into the shadows.

Thus the hammer hit the axe for the last time, and final sparks flew from the forge, and at that moment Dorak realized something that had been bothering him for weeks. Looking at the old dwarf he realized that this old dwarf looked exactly like the one from his dreams months ago, when he fell into the city! He gasped, eyes wide open, staring at the fading image of the old dwarf. But before Dorak could say anything, the old dwarf looked up at him and stood up, slowly, as if time did not matter. And as he did so, his entire body turned translucent, fading in and out of sight. But now, he was no longer and old dwarf smiling at his charge – he was a fierce warrior, wearing the armor and the sun shield, with a flaming red axe in his right hand – an axe that looked like an exact replica of the one Dorak’s been forging for months! The warrior raised his axe, hit it against the shield, and, looking straight into the eyes of the young dwarf, rushed straight into him. Before Dorak had a chance to react, he felt a cool mist permeate his whole body, and a whisp of wind cooling his face. And then, all was silence. The old dwarf was gone, and Son of Bofcral Clan stood alone. And he stood there still, shocked, frozen, cold sweat running down his neck – trying to understand what is not understandable, trying to imagine the imaginable, asking questions with no answers.

When he finally came to, he immediately grabbed all his belongings, new and old, and high-tailed out of the City. It might have been afternoon, and a bad time to start a journey, but he wasn’t staying one minute longer in the city than was necessary. Dwarfs do not believe in ghosts. Dwarfs do not dwell on such things. And Dwarfs certainly do not speak of such things. He put on the armor, and grabbed the shield (not wanting to anger anyone, or any thing), and the axe that was now cold to the touch, and tying up a loose bag of food and water, he made for the exit he found weeks ago. And just like that, he left Karak Ild, hoping never to return again.

And so Son of Bofcral clan returned home nearly a year long quest. He reached his homestead just in time for the Kurnst festival, coincidentally held in Karak Belgrin. When he walked into his clan’s home, it was the axe, and not the armor or the shield that caught the attention of his elders. Though he never knew why, when his grandfather saw it his face went pale, and his eyes looked upon their ‘son’ with newfound respect, and… something else. He simply said “Dorak shall be your name! Dorak, like the red axe that he carries!” And it was done – and he was now an adult.

Years later his grandfather asked to see the axe, and when he did, he studied it carefully, glancing over each rune, each formation, and each motif, tracing them with his fingers, as if looking for something. Eventually he looked up at Dorak and said “Magnificent. Simply magnificent. The best replica I have ever seen! You’ve more in you boy that you let on.” A few days after his grandfather packed for a journey, and wearing his Defender armor, went off into the North, seeking that which all dwarfs seek when they reach his age.

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Dorak Grimface of the Bofcral Clan

The Fall of Faith slavjhp