Some Have Greatness Thrust Upon Them
Sasha Wormsbane, local jackbooted thug and disturber of the peace
Human Scout 2 / Barbarian 1
Strength 18 (22 in rage)
Constitution 16 (20 in rage)
Also, the best goddamn feat in the game.
Big fucking axe.
Flowing green cloak.
Sasha spent the first fifteen years of her life in the forests surrounding Berem, learning to care for and survive in the wilds under the tutelage of her father, Darryl. Despite her notorious lack of social graces, her friends would occasionally get her into town for some new misadventure. This led, as she grew up, to her growing fascination with, and- though she would never admit to such a thing- aspiration to, the heroic tales of the past, including stories of her grandfather, the folk hero Valdmund One-Axe (despite Darryl’s insistence that his father was a strange and troubled man who, in addition to the fact that he could neither read nor write, was prone to bouts of profound and destructive fury, not to mention a lack of personal hygiene and dietary preferences that bordered on the alien).
As time went on, the misadventures turned to adventures in proper, and not without their fair share of danger. While she escaped her first few scrapes with true violence largely unscathed, that would not be the case on one summer’s day when she and her friends followed, in hot pursuit, a group of what they regarded to clearly be thieving lowlifes to a low fortification at the base of a cliff. Ignoring a warning shot (and egged on by the incorrigible rapscallion and malingerer of the party, one Marten Kestrel), she began a slow, blustering swagger to the keep, insisting (truthfully) that she “just wants to talk to them”, only to be caught off guard by a searing pain as she was shot in the shoulder.
Sasha came to a scarce minute later, the keep empty of foes and splattered in gore, a bisected young woman at her feet. It was then that she learned that she had inherited that same fury that her grandfather had been, for better or for worse, so renowned for. Sasha has kept the head of the arrow which her victim (Nora, as she later learned) shot her with as a reminder of the price of losing control (the rest of the arrow, she was later informed, she snapped off in her fury, a feat regarded by most competent healers and anatomists as a foolish way to destroy the vasculature and nerve centers of the shoulder).
In the weeks and months since, Sasha has grown somewhat more troubled and distant, though she has not stopped adventuring. Though she has proven herself (on more than one occasion) capable of remarkable feats of heroism, cunning, and pertinacious fortitude, her newly discovered capacity for rage continues to be a problem, with Sasha in one instance having publicly knocked a friend unconscious in response to a tasteless remark. Time will tell if she learns to control- or harness- her strength.