Men are naturally barbarians, and that will remain forever. The passion, the love, and the lust is intensifying with time. - Fawad Khan
+2 STR, +1 CHA
Poison Breath Weapon:
As an action, I exhale destructive energy in a 15 ft cone. All in the area must make a Con saving throw with DC 8 + Con modifier + prof bonus. It does 2d6 poison damage, half as much damage on a successful save. The damage increases to 3d6 at level 6, 4d6 at level 11, and 5d6 at level 16. I can't use this feature again until I finish a short rest.
Rage (Barbarian 1, PHB 48) [+2 melee damage, 2× per long rest]
Start/end as bonus action; add damage to melee weapons that use Str; lasts 1 min. Adv. on Strength checks/saves (not attacks); resistance to bludgeoning/piercing/slashing/ Stops if I end turn without attacking or taking damage since last turn, or unconscious
Unarmored Defense (Barbarian 1, PHB 48)
Without armor, my AC is 10 + Dexterity modifier + Constitution modifier + shield
Criminal Contact: I have a reliable and trustworthy contact who acts as my liaison to a network of other criminals. I know how to get messages to and from my contact, even over great distances; specifically, I know the local messengers, corrupt caravan masters, and seedy sailors who can deliver my messages.
- Coins: x cp • x sp • x ep • 15 gp • x pp • Other coins: x
- Gems: x
- In Hand: none
- Worn: Greatsword (on back), javelin case (on back), black jacket with shredded sleeves, black pants tucked into black leather boots
- Belt: Shortsword (in scabbard on left hip), coin purse, waterskin
- Backpack: Bedroll, Mess kit, tinderbox, torches (10), rations (10 days), 50' hemp rope, crowbar
- Poor: (2 sp/day)
Jarvin never really gave a flying fuck about his family's "honor" or "upholding their name" bullshit. The fucking "metal dragons" beat the shit out of him because he was chromatic. They did it to all the chromies. His clutchmates got the same treatment, but because they believed in the hype, they submitted to it and tried to just ignore it. He tried to do the same, but after his best friend's head was removed during a "lesson" because he didn't intervene, he vowed that anyone who tried to "teach him a lesson" was going to get one of their own.
A lot of his attitude about familial honor meaning piss-all came from an event as a hatchling. When he was a wee four-year-old, he fell asleep inside a caravan wagon while cleaning it, and the wagon was picked up by Klauth, the great wyrm of the North. Jarvin never really liked heights, and he knew he was going to be yelled at by the gold dragonborn who'd put him to work, so he wasn't happy about what happened. When Klauth clawed open the roof of the caravan and stuck his nose in to see what was inside, Jarvin balled up his little fists and bopped the dragon on the nose, yelling "PUT ME BACK".
The old wyrm laughed heartily at how earnest and brave the little dragonling was, and took him under his wing. He told his worshippers the young dragonborn was to be taught the ways of magic, but after a few had been burnt to a crisp for failing to do so, Klauth, now known as "Uncle Snarl" to the little dragonborn (and only to him), decided to teach him how to fight instead. The stronger worshippers taught the youngling how to punch, kick, and fight dirty, and Jarvin took to this with ease. He grew in strength as well as in boldness, and Klauth saw that he would someday become a great warrior.
Nearly a year later, Klauth decided it was time for the young dragonborn to return to his family, he held a great ceremony with his followers. They had successfully raided another red dragon's lair and stolen 2 of their prized eggs. The first was used in a ritual to increase Klauth's life force, while the second, a nearly-born red dragon, was broken open and drained of its blood and stripped of its scales. Klauth used his claw to carve a sigil of his patronage into Jarvin's chest, then painted with the blood and scales from the dead wyrmling. Klauth was impressed the young dragonborn did not cry out or moan during the ritual (though Jarvin later spent many days crying in pain once Uncle Snarl was out of sight). He then flew Jarvin to a point outside of Mithral Hall, where he dropped him off and pointed him to the dwarvenhold. "Show your mark to the dwarves, and tell them that I order them to deliver you home." Jarvin patted Uncle Snarl on the snout, said thank you, and walked to the Hall. When he showed his mark, the dwarves gawped at him, then ran inside to gather supplies and such for the trip.
Eventually, Jarvin told everyone to piss off when he turned 13 and got big enough to turn the metal's attacks against them consistently. No one, not a single fucking adult, backed him up, not even his parents. When his friend Syrial and he had refused to clear the silver dragonborns' steps of snow in the winter, she was held down and her head was slowly cut off in front of Jarvin to teach him a lesson. As a result of this, the following summer he packed up his clothes and ran from the clutch. A couple of days later, the bodies of five silver dragonborn were discovered, and their eyes had been removed. Shortly thereafter, a flagon of water was discovered that contained the missing eyes.
He spent a couple of years on the streets living rough, getting into fights and using his brawn and ability to breathe poison at folks to scrabble up money and food. Soon enough, Old Kickel took him into his gang as a rough, and he started guarding Kickel and the faster, smaller ones, like Heidi the Dyke and Strop. Him and Shayel did all the heavy lifting when needed. He didn't need armor, he was tougher than that. Hell, he didn't need a weapon either, though when he got his hands on a greatsword after beating the shit out of a couple of "guards" during a heist, he didn't hesitate to figure out the balance of it so he could start applying extra force when someone refused to give their shit up.
Then, he fucked up. Hard. Got greedy while backing up Kickel and Heidi while raiding some magician's house and saw a ring that looked really cool. He could tell it probably could do some stuff, so he grabbed it and put it in his coat pocket. When he got back to his hidey-hole, he put it on, and everything went fucking berserk. His brain felt like it was being squeezed, his arm went hot, cold, numb, all electric, and his guts were being moved around without his permission. This... this PISSED HIM OFF. He'd never felt anger like this before. His vision went black, and he started screaming and punching and kicking and knocking everything around him. He was not in control, but he loved feeling like he was beating the shit out of this thing purely through spite.
When things were said and done, his arm had patterns of glowing lines in various colors, his coat was in tatters, all his shit was broken, he was breathing heavy, and when he looked in a mirror, his eyes had gone pure black, except for a ring of the prior green they'd been around the edges and around the iris.
He looked badass. He needed to take this shit on the road to see what he could do now.
- Old Kickel, leader of Underside Bugbears
- Heidi the Dyke, 2nd in command
- Shayel, the other Heavy
- Baz Landen, the "face" of the group
- Biddie Softfoot, the intel-gatherer
- Strop, the fence