Trevoby Flintwood (Trev or Flint for short)Race:
Revealing clothing, bosoms, posteriors, female anatomy in general, sultry whispers, lusty moans, and the overall willingness to boneOffs:
Apathetic monotones, concealed clothing, priestesses (always so covered in robes, they are), sharp and pointy things aimed at him, sharp and pointy things aimed at his nethers, pain in general, bestial lower bodies, and hiccups. God damn those annoying hiccups!Favorite Mode of Attack:
Lean muscle from work as a blacksmith, hardly the winner of the Conan the Barbarian Award for Most Ripped Abs Sporting a LoinclothDescription:
Short hair that's still long enough to reach past his forehead, with a tattoo on his breast that in any other setting would mean he's the "chosen/prophesied/destined one". In this world? It means he's always being asked about it and no he doesn't know what it means, thank you very much. Hairless chest and abdomen, and thank goodness because he singes his eyebrows often enough. Hands are a bit rough and calloused from burns and work.Personality:
A bit of a dreamer, but a lecherous one. His dreams of heroism focus purely on the financial and sexual rewards with little consideration towards the heroic acts required to obtain them. Got a story to tell of a far away land? His first thought is what sort of lady creatures are there to potentially romance. Though it's not like he has much romance on the mind. Even so, complain as he does about his work, he does enjoy it and finds it a great way to focus one's mind and find satisfaction. It's that whole bloody "motivation" that keeps interfering. Despite all this, he's often described as a "good boy, just button yourself up if you want him to look you in the eyes".Story:
Some children destined for greatness never know their parents. Left upon the stoop of a monastery, a castle, or some innocent peasant's home... yet Trevoby was left upon the porch of an inn. Wait, was it the porch? Perhaps it was the back door. Wait, left in one of the rooms? Goodness, not the stable, was it? Well, wherever it was, there was baby Trevoby, and there was the Gnomish innkeep left without a clue of what to do. He tried to make the baby work, but the baby couldn't even stand on its own feet, let alone hold a broom! It was with great fortune that the bar maids stopped their Gnome employer from placing the babe into a boiling pot, and together they took turns mothering the boy.
He grew up surrounded by stories of adventure and wonderment, but none of that interested him. It was the blades that they wielded that ensnared his mind. The craftsmanship so exquisite, and each so different from the next. Even your basic short sword held small little notches and nicks that set it apart from its mass-produced brothers. Adventure? Pah! Let the chumps do the walking and fighting. An adventurer is just a man and bound to die, but the blade? The blade will live forever, passed on from one great legend to the next. It's not the wielder, no, but the blade that is the myth.
Unfortunately, by time he was sixteen and old enough to apprentice, he was on the wrong side of the Blacksmith's favor. Trevoby had some run-in with his daughter, y'see. In fact, he had run-ins with many of the daughters of the village, some ending happily for him, others... not so much. You develop an odd relationship with women when all of your mothers are barmaids that do a bit more than maiding the bars, if you catch my meaning (and if you do, would you kindly explain it to me?) So he was forced to grab his pack and set off down the road to the town over... and the town after that... and then the next, until finally, at Amberdale, he found a blacksmith without a daughter with whom to run into (or fall into (or hammer into (this could go on for a while))) and happened to be looking for an apprentice. It's been a good home for the past few months, and the work has been enjoyable and the women are gorgeous. Most of all, enough keep passing through that any reputation means rubbish! Now if only he could develop his debonair technique...