Pathfinder Scales of War
Khavar is a gruff but passionate pyromancer
Khavar is a half-orc, slightly larger than the average human, but average for his race. His dirty, tanned skin is covered in ritualistic scars and dark tattoos, bearing religious glyphs and superstitious incantations. He has two prominent teeth, though one is broken and does not reach a full point. His eyes are a golden brown, but flare and flicker with a variety of orange and red hues as he casts his spells.
He wears a coarse, burlap robe in the priestly fashion, over which he wears two lengths of iron chain in a crossed pattern over his chest. His holy symbol is an iron padlock engraved with the image of a volcano, and it hangs over his sternum where the chains are crossed. Beneath his robe, he usually wears studded leather armor, including bracers and boots. His garments are a dusty gray, caused by the ashes he regularly sprinkles over himself during meditation.
Khavar is very lucky. Lesser men would not have survived the ordeals that made Khavar what he is today… or at least, that’s what he tells himself. Khavar began as a slave, toiling away in the iron mines of Ur’strad. He was sold into slavery at a very young age, and remembers nothing of his live before the mines. At night, he would listen to stories and legends passed down by the older laborers, and he began to dream of a life free of his shackles, traveling the land in search of adventure. He always felt out of place, more so than the other slaves, as though he were part of some grand destiny. He began to pray, though he knew very little about the gods.
He prayed for freedom, but his prayers were unanswered. His spirit began to wane, and despair gripped him. He felt a sense of dread, as though something dire were going to befall him.
He then prayed for joy, some solace in the dark depths of the tunnels. But again, his prayers were unanswered. His sorrow turned to rage, and he began to dream. Always, the dreams were of disaster, of cities and people burnt alive. The dread gripped him tightly every night as he tried to sleep.
He finally prayed for vengeance, begging any god to end his suffering, one way or the other. He contemplated taking his own life, but he faltered every time he attempted the act. His dread became a waking terror, and he collapsed intermittently while working, catatonic and in shock.
His task-masters, dissatisfied with his work handicap, ordered him to the old tunnels as punishment. He would work in solitude, with only a single foreman coming by periodically to whip him into activity. Days passed without a friendly conversation, or any progress to appease his masters. The beatings grew more severe, and Khavar began to fear for the worst.
And then came the cataclysm. One of the mountains nearby, a towering gray monstrosity known as the “Ember Peak” exploded, belching forth dry stone, hot magma, and bitter ash. The volcanic eruption consumed everything for miles around, laying waste to the city and much of the forest. Trade routes were upended as the mountain passes became clogged with new stone and obsidian flows, and Ur’strad was forever erased from civilization.
Deep in the tunnels, hundreds perished as the molten wrath poured in, and everyone that Khavar had known was incinerated, or buried alive. Khavar, alone in the old tunnels, was the sole survivor; a dip in the earlier stretches had trapped the lava flow and kept it from reaching his elevated position. He was alive, but buried underground. As this realization dawned on him, he turned his pick upward, and began to work.
His burden had been lifted; the dread he’d felt had been washed away with everything else, and all that was left was his sense of destiny. He felt chosen, as though fate had conspired to save him from the disaster that befell everyone he’d ever known. The ancient spirits, the ones the oldest orcs and shamans would speak of, had answered his call. They had delivered him from slavery, cleansing his slate with the volcanic power of the Ember Peak.
After three days of digging, Khavar broke free into the surface. Everything was black, gray, and dusted with a thin layer of white ash. Khavar picked up a handful of the dry powder, and rubbed it ceremoniously across his scalp. He envisioned the power of the Ember Peak flowing into him, shrouding him with fiery power. He wished to carry the essence of his deliverer with him as he departed this place. He broke the padlocks from the chains around his ankles, and etched into them a crude image of the volcanic mountain. He set out into the woods, searching for food and water, but barely managed to survive. He continued to travel, always with Ur’strad at his back, in hopes of finding society and the destiny that awaited him.
As he traveled, he continued his crude worship of the deadly mountain and the power it held, and he began to feel a spiritual connection growing within him. He saw things in the flames of his campfire, visions of beasts lurking nearby or images of loved ones lost in the eruption. He continued to nurture that connection with a fresh dusting of ashes every morning, a practice he continues to this day.
It has been a few years since the annihilation of Ur’strad, and Khavar has come to terms with a bit more of his history and power than when he’d first set out.
He is eager to see where fate will guide him, and what adventures await.