Roman53 Thu May 10, 2012 1:55 pmScarn Gol Dolvak
Race: Shield Dwarf
Gender: Male
Height: 4' 7"
Weight: 196#
DOB: 20th Uktar 1324
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Scarn was sixth-born to a wealthy couple of Clan Dolvak in the city of Iron Spur. Named after the mountain peak that shadowed the family silver mine in the foothills of the western spur of the Galena range, he also bears the name of his grandfather, Gol, who founded the family business. The mine stood as a backbone to the business which now prospers from a range of refined precious metals, cut and enchanted gemstones, jewellery, silverware and mining machinery.
The business had expanded significantly through independent prospectors in the Vaasa tundra. By fanning rumours of rich strikes and supplying quality mining equipment on credit, Gol twisted foreclosure on those with promising placers and amassed a host of gem mines and rich iron seams. Now, after more than a century of steady growth, the family trade reaches over Damara, west across Vaasa, south through Impiltur to the Sea of Fallen Stars and is rising in lands further afield.
Being the youngest in the family would have rendered him the default punch bag for three older bothers, but they learned that hitting Scarn had an air of futility about it. Like the fly that batters itself against a glass pane till it dies of exhaustion Scarn would not admit defeat ad nauseum. The behaviour was not the product of some subtle wisdom, it was instinctive and Scarn would feel that though a fist can break his nose a hundred times, the day his nose broke the fist would be a day that they would never live down. Needless to say, the nose never broke a fist, but they would never hit him unless they really wanted trouble.
From a young age and for long years Scarn was set to work in the silver mine. To his father, until they had proven themselves, Scarn and his other children were business assets first and family as an afterthought. They would get every opportunity to learn but would be expected to work all the more to pay for it. It was how Gol had raised Brokk and was a common sentiment among the clan as a whole.
Accepting that hard work was the cornerstone of success, Scarn would apply himself to every recess of the family business that he could stick his fingers in. The family ethic sat well within him too; Wealth and strength are the measure of a true Dwarf, the end justifies any means in law, yet law itself is a tool to safeguard and exploit.
He showed an aptitude for long days labouring with the pick, a passion for Gol's geology teachings and equally for the martial training that every Dwarf was expected to partake in. In his later youth, he worked more with the sappers, becoming increasingly involved with the engineers who built the winches and gearing for subsurface lifts, the mine tracks, heavy doors, smelting pots and even the bodies for the company golems.
While he showed no disposition for magic or rune work and his broad education struggled in the more public or artistic areas such as business, law, masonry, jewellery and silversmithing, it was not just talents for geology, blacksmithing and engineering that carried him forward in the business. His bull-headed and prideful nature gave his loyalty an unshakeable feel and engendered trust enough for him to take guard detail on the more sensitive or valuable areas of the business.
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...and there he stood, proudly wearing the clan colours. The low torchlight gave a golden glow to the ornate silver inlaid upon double doors that lead to Gol's private office and treasury. A lone Dwarf guard, crested partisan in hand, whiling the hours at the end of a silent corridor. His jaw moved slowly as if savouring something and a vigilant looking eye belied his contemplation as his thumbnail scooped the inside of a nostril. He glanced at the fresh bogey, discarding it to the floor in preference to the subtle flavour that already had more of his attention than the empty passage ahead of him. He shuffled a little on his feet and shifted his sweaty grip on the polearm to a cooler section of the wooden shaft.
Crested partisans. They were part of the uniform and, along with the ceremonial half-plate, pleated breeches and tall domed helmets, they were quietly thought of by many house guards as antiquated and pompous. Scarn however would disagree with that, he held his partisan with prominence and looked forward to 'correcting' the next group of merchant guard who would snigger at his attire.
A distant voice muffled by the long stone passages took his attention suddenly. Stretching his back, the familiar bone-like crack gave him pause and he rolled his shoulders as he pondered the long standing mystery of what it was that made that noise. With his posture corrected, he stood in expectation as the flagstones delivered the nearing footsteps.
Scarn had been given no official notification of appointments and as the figure of an older Dwarf turned the end of the corridor, Scarn stepped forward and struck the butt end of his partisan aggressively on the floor.
"Name an bisness, or ya balls'll be treats fer me dog" he announced, staring his father in the eye.
Mucky with soot and dressed in his thick smithing apron, Brokk stopped sharply in front of Scarn and replied with a disappointed look. Opening one hand, he looked back at Scarn.
"Spit it out laddie or I'll be bustin ya jaw fer eatin on duty"
Scarn froze, realising he'd forgotten something. He grumbled briefly and took the piece of brown rock out of his mouth and dropped it into Brokk's waiting palm.
"It's me 'omework" He excused, now caught a bit off guard.
"Suckin 'ornfel on duty?" Brokk paused as he rolled the rock between his fingers, "We'll see wha Gol's got ta say about tha, eh lad?"
Brokk walked past Scarn and to the doors where he stopped and knocked before turning back to his son.
"Ya bein relieved o'ya duty any'ow, time ya stood on yer own feet fer real"
"Yeah, get in 'ere" The familiar voice of Gol came from behind the doors.
Brokk pushed open the doors and walked into the office while Scarn tried to put on the appearance of escorting him. Behind a large desk of brown marble and dark hardwood sat Gol, richly robed, his grey beard reaching his waist and his face weathered by centuries. Gol's pipe lay smouldering weakly in an ashtray and the earthy odour of the Zahekarin rushed them as they entered.
"Brokk?" Gol paused a little surprised, "Summat up?" The old Dwarf glanced to Scarn and pointed to a liquor cabinet before snapping his fingers.
Scarn propped his partisan up against the wall and closed the doors before heading eagerly over to the drinks, he knew what this would be about. As with all his siblings, when they had come of age, each would be sent out to prove themselves to his family. It was expected that each would travel to a new area, seek out new business opportunities and not return until they could bring something before Gol that would be worthy of the family name. There would be no assistance until then.
Brokk dropped the piece of hornfel on the desk, passed a parchment to Gol and took a seat, relaxing into the upholstery and glancing round to Scarn as he went for the drinks.
"Scarn's due fer 'is provin an tha news at Cormanthor" He gestured to the parchment "it kinda makes fer opportunity"
Gol picked up the rock and nodded as he read through the information about the Zhent loss at Shadowdale. A grin slowly spread over his face and he cracked with a deep chuckle.
"No good stinkin Zhents, brains tha size o'peas an balls ta match. Wha d'tha rock taste of Scarn?"
Scarn put three down three ornate silver mugs on the desk and quietly half-filled each with Gol's favourite rum as his eyes flicked between the other two.
"Taste like 'ornfel wi low garnet ana 'int o'coppa"
"Coppa trace, yeah, none so common ta ..." Gol looked at Scarn, his words trailing off as his eyes wandered to the emptied bottle of expensive rum.
"Yer cheeky bugga, drink tha an yer diggin out tha feast'all cesspit wi a spoon" he paused, watching the contemplation cross Scarn's face.
"Eitha way, ya pack yer bags and sling yer 'ook in tha week, ta Cormanthor wi ya. Yer be stalwart ta clan fer sure but ya aint comin back till yer gets tha bisness an be a Dwarf fit fer me liquor"
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Race: Shield Dwarf
Gender: Male
Height: 4' 7"
Weight: 196#
DOB: 20th Uktar 1324
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scarn was sixth-born to a wealthy couple of Clan Dolvak in the city of Iron Spur. Named after the mountain peak that shadowed the family silver mine in the foothills of the western spur of the Galena range, he also bears the name of his grandfather, Gol, who founded the family business. The mine stood as a backbone to the business which now prospers from a range of refined precious metals, cut and enchanted gemstones, jewellery, silverware and mining machinery.
The business had expanded significantly through independent prospectors in the Vaasa tundra. By fanning rumours of rich strikes and supplying quality mining equipment on credit, Gol twisted foreclosure on those with promising placers and amassed a host of gem mines and rich iron seams. Now, after more than a century of steady growth, the family trade reaches over Damara, west across Vaasa, south through Impiltur to the Sea of Fallen Stars and is rising in lands further afield.
Being the youngest in the family would have rendered him the default punch bag for three older bothers, but they learned that hitting Scarn had an air of futility about it. Like the fly that batters itself against a glass pane till it dies of exhaustion Scarn would not admit defeat ad nauseum. The behaviour was not the product of some subtle wisdom, it was instinctive and Scarn would feel that though a fist can break his nose a hundred times, the day his nose broke the fist would be a day that they would never live down. Needless to say, the nose never broke a fist, but they would never hit him unless they really wanted trouble.
From a young age and for long years Scarn was set to work in the silver mine. To his father, until they had proven themselves, Scarn and his other children were business assets first and family as an afterthought. They would get every opportunity to learn but would be expected to work all the more to pay for it. It was how Gol had raised Brokk and was a common sentiment among the clan as a whole.
Accepting that hard work was the cornerstone of success, Scarn would apply himself to every recess of the family business that he could stick his fingers in. The family ethic sat well within him too; Wealth and strength are the measure of a true Dwarf, the end justifies any means in law, yet law itself is a tool to safeguard and exploit.
He showed an aptitude for long days labouring with the pick, a passion for Gol's geology teachings and equally for the martial training that every Dwarf was expected to partake in. In his later youth, he worked more with the sappers, becoming increasingly involved with the engineers who built the winches and gearing for subsurface lifts, the mine tracks, heavy doors, smelting pots and even the bodies for the company golems.
While he showed no disposition for magic or rune work and his broad education struggled in the more public or artistic areas such as business, law, masonry, jewellery and silversmithing, it was not just talents for geology, blacksmithing and engineering that carried him forward in the business. His bull-headed and prideful nature gave his loyalty an unshakeable feel and engendered trust enough for him to take guard detail on the more sensitive or valuable areas of the business.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
...and there he stood, proudly wearing the clan colours. The low torchlight gave a golden glow to the ornate silver inlaid upon double doors that lead to Gol's private office and treasury. A lone Dwarf guard, crested partisan in hand, whiling the hours at the end of a silent corridor. His jaw moved slowly as if savouring something and a vigilant looking eye belied his contemplation as his thumbnail scooped the inside of a nostril. He glanced at the fresh bogey, discarding it to the floor in preference to the subtle flavour that already had more of his attention than the empty passage ahead of him. He shuffled a little on his feet and shifted his sweaty grip on the polearm to a cooler section of the wooden shaft.
Crested partisans. They were part of the uniform and, along with the ceremonial half-plate, pleated breeches and tall domed helmets, they were quietly thought of by many house guards as antiquated and pompous. Scarn however would disagree with that, he held his partisan with prominence and looked forward to 'correcting' the next group of merchant guard who would snigger at his attire.
A distant voice muffled by the long stone passages took his attention suddenly. Stretching his back, the familiar bone-like crack gave him pause and he rolled his shoulders as he pondered the long standing mystery of what it was that made that noise. With his posture corrected, he stood in expectation as the flagstones delivered the nearing footsteps.
Scarn had been given no official notification of appointments and as the figure of an older Dwarf turned the end of the corridor, Scarn stepped forward and struck the butt end of his partisan aggressively on the floor.
"Name an bisness, or ya balls'll be treats fer me dog" he announced, staring his father in the eye.
Mucky with soot and dressed in his thick smithing apron, Brokk stopped sharply in front of Scarn and replied with a disappointed look. Opening one hand, he looked back at Scarn.
"Spit it out laddie or I'll be bustin ya jaw fer eatin on duty"
Scarn froze, realising he'd forgotten something. He grumbled briefly and took the piece of brown rock out of his mouth and dropped it into Brokk's waiting palm.
"It's me 'omework" He excused, now caught a bit off guard.
"Suckin 'ornfel on duty?" Brokk paused as he rolled the rock between his fingers, "We'll see wha Gol's got ta say about tha, eh lad?"
Brokk walked past Scarn and to the doors where he stopped and knocked before turning back to his son.
"Ya bein relieved o'ya duty any'ow, time ya stood on yer own feet fer real"
"Yeah, get in 'ere" The familiar voice of Gol came from behind the doors.
Brokk pushed open the doors and walked into the office while Scarn tried to put on the appearance of escorting him. Behind a large desk of brown marble and dark hardwood sat Gol, richly robed, his grey beard reaching his waist and his face weathered by centuries. Gol's pipe lay smouldering weakly in an ashtray and the earthy odour of the Zahekarin rushed them as they entered.
"Brokk?" Gol paused a little surprised, "Summat up?" The old Dwarf glanced to Scarn and pointed to a liquor cabinet before snapping his fingers.
Scarn propped his partisan up against the wall and closed the doors before heading eagerly over to the drinks, he knew what this would be about. As with all his siblings, when they had come of age, each would be sent out to prove themselves to his family. It was expected that each would travel to a new area, seek out new business opportunities and not return until they could bring something before Gol that would be worthy of the family name. There would be no assistance until then.
Brokk dropped the piece of hornfel on the desk, passed a parchment to Gol and took a seat, relaxing into the upholstery and glancing round to Scarn as he went for the drinks.
"Scarn's due fer 'is provin an tha news at Cormanthor" He gestured to the parchment "it kinda makes fer opportunity"
Gol picked up the rock and nodded as he read through the information about the Zhent loss at Shadowdale. A grin slowly spread over his face and he cracked with a deep chuckle.
"No good stinkin Zhents, brains tha size o'peas an balls ta match. Wha d'tha rock taste of Scarn?"
Scarn put three down three ornate silver mugs on the desk and quietly half-filled each with Gol's favourite rum as his eyes flicked between the other two.
"Taste like 'ornfel wi low garnet ana 'int o'coppa"
"Coppa trace, yeah, none so common ta ..." Gol looked at Scarn, his words trailing off as his eyes wandered to the emptied bottle of expensive rum.
"Yer cheeky bugga, drink tha an yer diggin out tha feast'all cesspit wi a spoon" he paused, watching the contemplation cross Scarn's face.
"Eitha way, ya pack yer bags and sling yer 'ook in tha week, ta Cormanthor wi ya. Yer be stalwart ta clan fer sure but ya aint comin back till yer gets tha bisness an be a Dwarf fit fer me liquor"
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