Rothgar MacRothgar II

Would you be opposed to me taking 1 level of trapper ranger and the rest fighter?  

Either way,here is my HP rolls.


QmgzO1No1-101-101-10·1-10

Upon further review, I'd like to take this as a trait if you'll let me.

Trap Finder

My grandfather, Rothgar, was a great hero of Ishmaera, fending off a band of Trolls from the north.  For this feat, he was given a small plot of land and a minor title.  His son, Rothgar MacRothgar, was also a great hero, defeating an army of Centaur from the north.  For this feat, he was given a larger plot of land and a second minor title.  I am Rothgar MacRothgar II.  I am not a great hero.  When the attack came to the lands of my fathers, I was in the woods hunting.  When I returned home, I found everyone dead and the manor burned to the ground.  I lost everything I once held dear.  On that day, I vowed to avenge my family, but first, I must find out who is responsible for their murders.  

good backstory. Minor notes, based on things I haven't quite written down yet (but soon, hopefully). Orcs do not live in the Badlands, they live beyond the Barrier Mountains.

The most feared race in the Badlands are the Centaur. Who live a nomadic lifestyle. They are fierce and skilled warriors. They will frequently raid Ishmaera, as it is close. With the last few years however, the Centaur raids have been slacking off. Few raids, usually with smaller bands. Nobody knows why, some fear that disparate tribes are uniting. Others theorize the opposite, the tribes can't raid south, because they busy fighting each other. As an Ishmaeran and a warrior. You know the familiar signs left by a Centaur raid. Your home, had none of these. No horse tracks, no arrow shafts. Within the buildings, you (or other searchers) found few bodies, a lot of blood, but few bodies. Those bodies that were recovered did not appear to be killed by any weapon used by the centaur. The centaur favor bows, and quick slashing weapons. These people (your people) were killed by something else. Some of the bodies had signs of wild animals, teeth and claw marks, others have severe blunt trauma. Wild animals, however, would not likely break into a house, and kill armed men.

Ishmaera is also fairly equestrian. Think Poland or Lithuania in the 1400-1500s. Even if he isn't focused on mounted combat, Rothgar would be familiar with horses. Perhaps as a profession.

You have spent the last few months in every seedy bar, tavern, inn, cantina, and roadhouse you can find in eastern Ishmaera. You have been searching in vain to find companions to join you in your quest for vengeance. Your father is gone, his house burned, his possessions taken. Your own wealth and renown can scarcely cover your travel expenses. It is a an uphill battle for you. You cannot afford to pay anyone upfront, and there is little hope for a golden reward at the end of your journey. Your own passion doesn't seem to ignite anything in the half drunk mercenaries you find.

Near the border with Forlinde, you happen upon a roadside inn. You make a silence prayer to the Angel of Justice, and walk in. The place is lively enough, and you feel a tiny sliver of hope return. You walk up to the bar, order a drink and ask the bartender if he knows if there are any men or women in the area who know the Badlands, who can swing a sword, and would be willing to do either in the service of Rothgar MacRothgar II. The bartender smiles, If there are, you would likely find them here, but I wouldn't be too hopeful. Most who come through here work the lumber camp down the road. For some gold, the men can swing an axe, and the women can swing open their legs, if you know what I mean. he he he. You cringe when you realize how proud the bartender is of his joke. You spend most of the night asking around the bar for volunteers, with no luck. In the center of the bar, a halfling has set up an impromptu poker table. You don't remember seeing him come in. As the hours pass, your night seems to be getting worse, while the halfling seems to be getting better and better. You suspect he may be drunk, or maybe he is just being a halfling on a winning streak, you aren't sure.

As the evening begins to draw to a close, you hear a commotion coming from the poker table. Apparently one of the other patrons felt the halfling was 'too lucky'. You see a flash of steel in his hand, a look of feigned protest on the halfling. Before you can turn back to your drink, an errant fist connects with your jaw. Suddenly all the frustration and anger of the last few months is all you can think of. With relative ease, you are able to drop two drunken barflies. You wrestle a third to the ground and smash his nose with your elbow. You look up and see the most bizarre sight of your life. Standing over you is the halfling, grinning from ear to ear. His clothes are still clean and orderly, showing no sign that he was in a fight. With a tip of his garish hat he says, Sembo Tery, at your service


This scene will continue. I will pause here to give you a chance to respond.