Ngithol

Ngithol
User: Matt
Race: Mountain Dwarf
Gender: Female
Class/Level: Fighter/1
Description:
Ngithol stands approx. 4'1" and for the most part seems unassuming to most. A keen eyes observer will notice that almost all skin not covered by armor is wrapped in cloth bandages. She typically wears a cloak with a hood that hides her face and cropped hair. Though some would consider this a sign of disease, it is actually to hide burns that cover much of her body.
Background:
Anticipation. It courses through me as I feel the reassuring weight of my plate armor, a veritable fortune of steel carefully formed and fitted to my body. My shield rests lightly on my arm and I feel the heft of my longsword, a mithril blade inscribed with numerous runes upon it's blade. A blade that has seen the death of countless creatures and titans that would threaten my home, a blade that again will be the instrument through which I guarantee the safety of my home and the safety of those that cannot protect themselves. I look to Meb and get a grin. He is an avatar of our strength, his hands adorned with little more than a pair of knuckle gauntlets. Gauntlets that when combined with his immense strength allows him to shame even the wielders of our mightiest warhammers. We hear the enemy coming and charge forth, scattering them like snow in the wind. We show our resolve and commitment to safeguarding our home by putting to the blade any that aren't fast enough to escape us. I move to strike down one particular enemy when green flame suddenly erupts near me. There is one standing now, staring at me. Though his face is cowled I can clearly see his eyes and the fact that fear is absent there. It is with a seemingly casual gesture he throws more green flame at me, a veritable wave of it. I cannot scream as it sears the air from my lungs. I cannot stand as it scours the flesh from my bones. I can only fall.

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Ngithol wakes with a start, pain flaring across her entire body as though she again were on fire. She reaches for wine that isn't there and swears as she realizes she will have to face the results of her nightmare with another nightmare... sobriety. It has been almost 60 years since that day. The day when she woke in a field, burned and scorched and alive. Alive and completely alone. She knew not where she was, nor did she recognize the human language of the farmer that found her. The farmer however was a good man and nursed her back to health and taught her his language. Her isolation was reaffirmed when she began questioning him in hopes of finding how to get home and found out that he knew nothing of the lands she spoke of, just as she knew nothing of the lands he spoke of. Lands called "Kalimar" He had been sad to see her go but understood the necessity of it.

She has roamed the lands, searching desperately for any sign of information that might lead her home. She has become proficient with the history of many parts of the lands of kalimar and has garnered a reputation as a reliable if not surly researcher. One willing to take on risk if it might mean getting information she needs.

Her sanity has been called into question more than once, as has the veracity of her tale. Currently she has managed to successfully learn the basic tenets of the arcane. She hopes that in pursuing such arts she will end her traveling. Whether or not she succeeds can yet be said.
Details:
Her burns and the hoarseness of her voice leads many to be put off by her. This has resulted in her having somewhat stunted social skills. She also has little patience for idiots as they generally do nothing more than waste her time or mock her.

Despite her grasp and understanding of the languages she speaks she still has a habit of insulting people when she speaks, generally from not thinking things completely through.

She is incredibly driven though to try and find her home again, though at this point in time she'll simply settle for proof just to show to others (and herself) that she isn't insane.