The Realm of Joroin
Once a simple farmer, the half-elf outlaw druid known as Black Paws died protecting his companions. Now he walks the far paths of the world neither alive nor dead...but suffering still.
Initiative: as Black Paws
AC: 21 Fortitude: 18 Reflex: 18 Will: 18
Perception: +14 Passive Perception: 24
Faithful pack Hound Aura 1
Enemies grant combat advantage while in the aura
Animal Attack-At Will
Attack: Melee 1
13 vs. AC
Hit: 1d8 + 8
Str: 14 Dex: 20 Wis: 14
Con: 17 Int: 2 Cha: 6
Ghostdancer is the spirit of a mighty wolf grafted onto Sarlane Dersenara’s essence. As such, it is a manifestation of thier collective souls in the material plane. However, dark forces have taken root in the wolf spirit…possibly allowed by the undead nature of its host. It now appears as a great abberation of a wolf that briefly demonstrates terrifying changes of form when observed indirectly.
They killed his family. They hadn’t come for them specifically; Sarah and Rebecca were simply in the way of the orcs as they advanced through what was left of the world outside of Dauos. The orcs campaign during The Elemental Wars left a black tide that washed over everything in its path in the years that followed. As Sarlane Dersenara sat cradling his young daughter’s head in his lap staring into her unblinking eyes, he looked up to see that a horribly wounded black wolf, crude hand axe still protruding from its side, had padded into his isolated cabin. A black-shafted arrow sprouted from Sarlane’s shoulder, and a similar one from his gut. If the wounded animal had come to lash out at the only target it could find in its pain, the wounded half-elf had not the strength to resist. Sarlane’s eyes locked with the beasts for a moment, and in that instant something passed between them. Both had lost their packs. Both were wounded, nearer to death than life. Both held rage in their hearts. The wolf laid down next to Sarlane’s daughter and as his muzzle touched her side, his eyes…like hers… saw nothing more. Sarlane howled at the moon with the pain of two souls, one of man and one of wolf, locked inside him.
Later, as Sehanine’s Grace shown it’s full majesty upon the great oak in The River Cemetary, a man stood before three freshly covered graves. The names Rebecca, Sarah, and Sarlane were etched onto simple wooden planks in charcoal, along with the date “15th of Spring’s Night”, that day’s date. The man would forever after regard spring and the rains it brought as a Season of Sorrow. Pulling a grey cloak tightly about the faded grey hide armor passed down to him by his father’s father’s father, he felt a wet nose nuzzle his hand. A great female wolf had stolen up to his side, her deep green eyes large and somehow…knowing. He did not question the appearance of his companion. He merely turned and loped into the cool night air towards the gate that would lead him from the Farm Belt and towards the orange firelight of an orc camp along the highland ridge near The Icy River, seeking their shared quarry.
Three days later a patrol loyal to Baron Heidelman Grumstein, one of the local noblles governing the Farm Belt, found the remains of several butchered orcs lying inside his personal lands. The patrol leader’s scouts were able to ascertain that the orcs were waylaid outside the Farm Belt wall and brought to their current location. Oddly, a mix of weapon and animal wounds were found to be the orcs undoing. When a farmer and his family were questioned as to what they might have seen or heard, they replied that they had heard “…only screams and the howling of wolves, till only the howls remained.” coming from beyond the wall.
Similar stories would be repeated many times over the months, with the only description of the orc’s bane being an elf or possibly half-elf wearing a grey cloak and hands and feet bound in strips of black leather. Always…ALWAYS…in the company of a large black wolf. The Baron, having made clandestine agreements with several orc tribal chiefs to give them goods taken from the local farmers in return for services or coin, has issued a reward of 100 gold for the capture or death of the insurgent the locals call Black Paws.