The Life of Lonni Grimtooth

The start of a character working her way through the Way of the Wicked, a campaign known for allowing and encouraging outright evil characters.

The Life of Lonni Grimtooth

Childhood

Several years into the reign of Marcus of House Darius, crowned King Morkadian IV of Talingarde; I was born to two loving parents in the port city of Daveryn.  The exact day or even year are lost to me...

I remember my father as a big man with a bulbous nose framed by long coarse black hair and beard, which might have been why my mother called my father 'Aklaq' which means black bear in her native tongue.  I remember the smell of smoke while I rode around on his back or we sat on the floor together by a warm fire playing with wooden building blocks, which covered in large letters and images.

I remember my mother as a small round woman with a warm smile and a contagious laugh. She was always cooking, cleaning, or mending clothes; during which she was always throat-singing haunting melodies. In the afternoons, while she mended clothes, she'd have me practice string figures. Mostly when I think of her I remember the smells of fish cooking or spiced pies cooling.

My father was Iago Grimtooth, a dockside trader, and my mother was Atiqtalikwa, his Yutak wife. 

Close to the end of King Morkadian IV's reign, they were killed during one of the last purges...

Having been hidden away beneath the floor boards, I survived.

The memory of cold and hungry...

My next recollection, it was wandering the street hungry.

It's hard for me to to forget my hunger in a port city filled with the smell of fish. They seemed everywhere and there never seemed to be one for me. To this day I still occasionally wake from the nightmare of a large fat fish merchant's spit sliding down my neck and the tears on my cheeks on a particularly cold day.

The Orphanage of St. Mararius

Though I do not recall how I ended up in St. Mararius's; the series of realizations that followed seem sharp to this day.

The first was the smell of cinnamon and bland taste of thick clumpy porridge. Though lacking in cinnamon which was only given to the brothers and sisters that took care of us, the porridge fed to the scores of children and myself was warm and filling. I was no longer starving.

The second was of being pealed out of rags and scrubbed by a big bristly brush... and the sudden shocked expression of the monk before he hurriedly retreated from the room. Although I do not know why he had done what he had done, the look on his face evoked a long bout of laughter. Such surprise.  The laughter reminded me of my parents. When a sister returned, it was to my tears.

The next was the rows and rows of bunk beds. The blankets were mended almost to the point of being quilts and were ever so warm. What couldn't be mended was torn to shreds and then used for lumpy mattress filler. It all smelled of soap. I remember feeling safe as I fell asleep in them.

The last was that they would teach me. The sisters taught me how to take care of myself and others. They expanded upon my read and writing, even exposing me to other languages including my mother's language. They also taught about religions, particularly of Imodea (Mitra), the Shining Lord, whose portfolio includes sun, bravery, honor, justice, and charity. Lastly, they taught me about caring for myself and others.

For years I thrived under their care and teachings.

A random encounter with Yutak traders

Years later while walking around a growing crowd of people on an errand to replenish medicinal supplies for St. Mararius's, I heard a squeaked shout from the center.

“Ahu!”

I froze. In my mother's tongue, it meant stop. I turned to the source and stood looking at the crowd I was nearly around. With my curiosity growing with each step, I ducked and dodged through the crowd until I was in the front.

A rider stood waiting with a acolyte whispering in his ear while four smiling Yutak men stared at them.

The Yutak were known as a resilient resourceful people able to settle in the most inhospitable lands to the north, where agriculture was impossible. They tended to be a short and stocky people, with dark hair and tanned leathery skin. Though tolerated for the ivory and animal furs they bring to trade, it was their wiry strength and skills with a knife which had earned them respect. On the rare occasions a hunting party came to Daveryn, it was only to trade their ivory from walrus tusks and narwhals, cured leathers, and fish bone scrimshaw for harpoons, spears, knives, tobacco, coffee, tea, sugar and flour. They never traded for money, as it was useless to them. These were my mother's people.

As I examined the Yutak, I realized another pair of eyes were upon me.

The rider was of above average height, long brown hair streaked with gray, and his riding leathers covered in dust and sweat. Although he was keeping his arms crossed with his hands patting the opposite shoulder in a very nonthreatening gesture among the Yutak, his brow raised in worry or sadness. His gaze kept sweeping the Yutak and returning to the oldest of them. The short sword on his hip was not peace bonded and the dust upon the handle's leather wraps had recently been scuffed.

The acolyte was young; his thick robes still dyed bright, and his prayer beads were large, rough, and unpolished. His vows must have been spoken very recently. His head was cocked with ear raised at the Yutak as he continued whispering; he must have been translating.  His eyes though were wide and he had stepped to the riders side where a quick shift of his weight would put him behind the rider.

"Tavvauvusi." The gray haired elder said, his face deadpan except for his smile.  

"Tavvauvutit." replied the acolyte as the elder began pushing through the crowd.

The other three Yutak looked at the elder, then one another, and then the acolyte.  Each in turn mirrored their elder's actions but said instead "Tavvauvutit." before leaving.

The crowd parted slowly.

Then, in a group, the Yutak left.

I followed.

The Faded Fisherman

Their next stop was at a tavern in a section of town I had never been to.

The tavern was a two story building, several chimneys climbed out of the roof.  It had a horse trough and tether post out front.  The glass in the partially boarded windows was cracked and filth covered.  Despite the late afternoon sun, an alley running beside the east wall had already darkened with evening shadows.

For a long moment, I studied the sign hanging above the door. Likely cut from drift wood and once painted to look like a bare chested fisher holding a trident high, the sign had not aged well.  A swath of paint, which had included one of the tridents prongs and the fisherman's hair and part of his face, had cracked and peeled off. What remained looked more like a wrinkled sun bleached old man shaking an oddly shaped spear.

And I don't know why I stood outside so long...  Questions began surfacing.  Why wasn't I finishing my errands?  Why did I stop?  That was easy to answer, because of a shout.  Why did I follow them?  Why was I out here when they were in there?  Was I scared?  I realized I was.  But of what?

I had somehow walked into a hazy daydream, one where I felt like Iago and Atiqtalikwa...  My parents... No, not the right words.  My mother and my father.  Yes.  They  were with me, just on the other side of that door.  If I left, they would be gone. If I entered, the illusion might shatter.  Both outcomes I feared.

Did I have a choice?

I walked up to the tavern, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

Air thick with wood and tobacco smoke and the smells of burned meat, old beer, and older sweat assaulted me as it escaped out the door.  Music and laughter, increasing with every step, pulled me forward through an oddly shaped and mostly empty cloak room and into the the tavern proper.

There were dozens of people in the tavern...

--- Everything below this point is outline, ideas, false starts, and unfinished snippets...  so I have access to them from anywhere. ---

The rider pulled the acolyte to the side of the road. His eyes scanned his surroundings, briefly pausing on me, and with a nod moved on.  After several minutes had passed, the rider turned to the acolyte and asked, “What happened?”

“I believe it to be a bargaining ploy. They wish to buy time to hear other offers or perhaps drive up your price.”

“Really?"

The acolyte did not answer for a moment, his face paling, before replying; I can think of no other reason for their odd behavior. 

The rider immediately replied "Tell your master that your services are no longer required." as he pulled forth a pouch and tossed it to the acolyte.

The acolyte hastily withdrew.

The rider had sent messenger to the temple.  The priest in charge had been busy, so had cast share language upon the acolyte and sent him in his stead.  The spell does not convey knowledge of the people nor their customs.

My New family

Several years later I encounted Vrak the Explorer, who had previously encountered the Yutak people, and translated between him and a Yutak trader. Enamored with my ability to speak Yutak, he adopted me.

Vrak taught me of the Asmodean Purgings.  He suspected my parents died very close to the end, when the combination of opportunity and corruption had resulted in the deaths of thousands. King Morkadian IV (the Zealous or Zealot).

Vrak, was a follower of Irori and taught me of other gods. I followed in his foot falls for several years.

Sometime after my 17th birthday, Vrak became sick...

I desperately tried to heal him and praying to Irori to heal him... and Irori rewarded me.

But it was never enough. Vrak's painful debilitating illness was beyond my abilities. He sank into unconsciousness that lasted days and I became worried.

Imprisonment

So came the fateful day of all my crimes... I stole one of my Vrak's most precious items and fetched a member of the church of Imodea. The cleric tried several spells and eventually declared Vrak as un-healable.

For hours I wept and not knowing what else to do; decided to put Vrak out of his misery. I put my hands around his neck and strangled him to death...

Little did I know that the item given to the temple of Imodae had been a signet ring of note as it marked Vrak a royalty and in line (very distantly) to the throne. The clerics returned and upon finding Vrak dead investigated and found the items of Irori.

Without any other record of who I was; they assumed that I had been trying to bring down the temple by producing an heir to the throne that was un-healable and by leaving items of Irori about in the possession of a distant heir to the throne. I was easily captured and imprisoned where I have been distraught.

Escape

How did we escape?  A magic scarf from an unlikely source.

Meeting a priest of Asmodeus

Refreshed, we're tested.

Cold Water

How it's not enough to survive, and cold water sucks. Little explanation of party members dying or some such.