Malic Citrate
From Loranon
| Player Character | |
|---|---|
| Malic Citrate | |
| Player | Pete Ferris |
| Affiliations | PC Party, Flamebullion Clan, Church of the Unknown, Faceless God |
| {{{{{campaign1}}}}} | |
Description
Background
Rymlli Flamebullion Deep Dwarf Cleric of an Unknown, Faceless God
Rymlli, a deep dwarf of the Flamebullion Clan, peeked out from the crevice through the tiniest of slits between his fingers. The light was blinding and harsh. If all of the forges of the Flamebullion Clan were made to fire at once (a feat not performed for many hundreds of years), their combined intensity would be nothing compared to this all consuming power. Rymlli rotated his head trying to locate the roof of this new cavern. Much to his surprise there was none. High in the sky burning brighter than any object Rymlli had ever seen was what could only be Moradin’s Sky Forge.
Rymlli had never left the Underdark before. It had taken him over thirty sleep cycles to reach the surface since his flight from the Flamebullion Clan hall. The first nine sleep cycles had simply been a blind flight—an attempt to get as far away from the hall as fast as possible. It was only a matter of time before the council of old men would cease their debate over what exactly had happened during his spellcasting examination. Honor-retrievers would soon be dispatched to bring him back. Rymlli only knew of one person who had ever evaded the honor-retrievers. His great uncle Mekda had also departed when he was Rymlli’s age. Rymlli was pretty sure that Mekda had successfully escaped. Of the five honor-seekers sent after Mekda, only one returned alive—and the survivor had not spoken of the foray to anyone outside of the council chambers.
Rymlli rubbed his eyes and turned away from the light that spewed forth from Moradin’s Sky Forge. As his eyes regained their darkvision he saw the bodies of the two “half an orc” that he had slain during the previous sleep cycle. Rymlli knew all about Gruumsh, the one-eyed god of cruelty, from his religious teachings. Gruumsh was an orc and while the creatures that he had slain fought like orcs, they did not possess the stark green skin, scars, or the stench of years of filth that Rymlli had been told that all orcs possessed. These two creatures smelled more of fear, sweat, and travel than of filth. Rymlli felt that the term “half an orc” fit them well.
During his confrontation with the two “half an orc”, Moradin’s Sky Forge had not been lit. Instead, Moradin’s tears had rained down and it was just as dark outside as it was inside the crevice that Rymlli now occupied. The two “half an orc” had huddled just inside the crevice too afraid to stay in the rain, but also too afraid to head any deeper into the cavern. As he remembered the fierce battle, Rymlli reached out and gently ran his fingers along an arcane symbol that someone had etched into the cave wall long ago and knew why the “half an orc” had not ventured any deeper.
For the final twenty-one sleep cycles (after the original blind flight of nine), Rymlli had in fact been following the arcane symbols etched into the walls during his ascent. Amongst many of the great Dwarven clans—hill, mountain, and deep dwarf alike—wizardry was verboten so it was very unusual to find such items clearly marking a path upwards to the surface from the Underdark. When Rymlli first saw them, he hypothesized that they were Mekda's and he felt full of power whenever he was near them.
Rymlli double-checked that both of Mekda's scrolls were still intact in their case in his backpack. It was these accursed items that had caused him to flee in the first place. Rymlli had been given Mekda's old forge and tools when he come of age to strike the white hot Flamebullion for himself. Tucked away inside a secret compartment below Mekda's anvil were the scrolls. Rymlli made it a point to steal away and study the scrolls whenever possible. He learned many things from these scrolls, but chief among them, he learned words that would make his healing spells more powerful. The words had accidentally sprang from his lips during his final spellcasting examination before he received the blessing of his clan and became an ordained Cleric of Moradin—blessed protectors of the Flamebullion clan. Once the words were said they could not be unsaid and Rymlli had been forced to flee. The penalty for wizardry amongst the Flamebullion was death.
It was just after the third sleep cycle of his blind flight from the clan hall that Rymlli first realized that he had fallen out of Moradin’s favor. No longer were his prayers answered nor were divine magics granted. Distraught Rymlli had fretted endlessly over his now useless holy symbol. He had passed it from hand to hand, turned it over, spun it, shook it, but no matter the action, his spells did not return. It was not long before the holy symbol itself had been worn perfectly smooth from Rymlli’s rough hands. No likeness of Moradin remained. Rymlli’s spellcasting ability returned when he first discovered one of the arcane etchings. His now faceless holy symbol had felt hot in his hand when he first gazed upon the deep scratches in the cave wall. With his newly energized holy symbol in hand, Rymlli ceased his prayers to Moradin, and began his worship anew to this faceless god that had taken pity on him.
Rymlli kicked the body of one of the “half an orc” and began rummaging through its pockets looking for anything of use. He located a few gold pieces for his troubles. He stashed the gold away in his own pocket and turned back towards the opening of the crevice. He knew that his new life on the surface would not be an easy one. Rymlli once again placed his hands over his eyes and opened the tiniest off slits between his fingers. With his eyes protected, he exited the darkness and strode boldly into the world bathed in the light of Moradin’s Sky Forge.
