Character Name – Graham Paulson
Lifepaths – Village Born, Lead to Religious, Itinerant Monk/Nun, Temple Acolyte, Priest
Age – 28
|PTGS||Su: B3||Li: B6||Mi: B7||Se: B8||Tr: B9||Mo: B10|
- I must spread the doctrine of the Wanderer
- I must prevent my fellow captives from despairing
- If I must, I will meet my death with temerity
- When in doubt bluster.
- When the White God is mentioned I must interject.
- Always take the gamble.
Gear – Clothes, Shoes, Traveling Gear, Religious Trinket, Walking Staff
Affiliations – 1D Church of the Wanderer
Reputations – 1D Story Teller
Spells or Rituals -
Traits – [C-O] Charismatic, [Dt] Faithful, [Char] Genial, [Char] Obedient, [Dt] Tonsured, [Dt] Vested, [Char] Sarcastic
|Weapon Type||I||M||S||Add||VA||WS||Strike Dist|
1 Two-handed, may not be used with a shield
2 May Great Strike
“My father was a fur trader. Frankly, the title does him to much credit though. He was a fur traveler. His income was made in transit, carting pelts from trappers and hunter out on the edge of civilization to the furriers of the market. Furrier, always found that a funny word. Oh how he would glare, my father, as I giggled through tiny hands.
It was dreadfully boring, you know, caravan life. Well, the way our father wanted us to behave. Raphael took to it, still does really. I couldn’t have cared less about the merchant of so and so whose prices have raised and how we would surely perish if we sold at that price good sir. I can see that you have pegged me as possessing a rebellious streak in my youth. Well, yes. But you must admit, the road has so much to offer a man, let alone a child. Trees, bushes, animals, and people. The people especially. Fascinating folk on the road. So many stories.
Anyway, my father would take us to these wonderfully strange towns. Really, a loose collection of buildings then towns, but there you have it. Due to the noblest of upbringings that the trappers and hunters had, we invariably did businesses in the tavern or pub. I can still remember those times so well, Raphael glued to my father’s side, brow knit furiously as he tried his utmost to learn our father’s ways. I, on the other hand watched the people. And there, in those ramshackle pubs, I met the most interesting of men. A priest of the Wanderer. He isn’t very popular, you know, the Wanderer, but he serves his purpose, as do we all. And out there, were a sudden frost, a change in migration, a mishap in the forest, could spell ruination. Not to mention the caravan culture. Bandits and ambuscades can make one a believer, if only for a moment. Well, suffice to say, the Wanderer had his followers out there in the forests and roads.
I spent long hours with what priests I could find. They never stayed in one place, but time to time our paths would cross, on caravans and in taverns. My father, practical man that he was, thought it frivolous, but it did make us popular with our main source of income. My burgeoning, reedy piety and the occasional story lent new crassness from a youngsters mouth influenced enough haggles to be an asset. Never with the furriers of course, but it was useful to him. My brother hated it. He’s taken over for our father now, falling old patterns, taking on old clients. It is, in many ways, amusing to see. We both wander the country, each for our own personal god. His, I fear, is himself. Mine? Well it should be obvious really. I serve the Wanderer, in my little ways. You think me bald by choice? I’ll have you know it was my greatest sacrifice in His service! Why, my mother thought herself to be carrying the get of a bear when I was born, so hirsute was I! That reminds me, have I mentioned the tale of…”