Today Jenn and I went up to the jeweler's to see our rings. I'm wearing mine now, I'm going to have it on for a while to see if I need it resized before we get it engraved. I also did a bunch of invites (immediate family and wedding party), but I need Jenn to be awake before I do more to doublecheck spelling.
I finally got around to making some fried peanut butter banana sandwiches. They weren't bad, but they seemed like they were missing something to me. Maybe I should use real butter instead of margarine on the outside, or mix the peanut butter and mashed banana together before I spread it on the bread next time.
Furthermore, last night I made up my D&D character for the game I've been invited to play in: a half orc paladin named Bammin. I'm about to email the character history to the storyteller, so here's a copy of that email (if you're in the game and don't want to know, stop reading now!):
Here it is. Like I said before, I don't care what the mace actually is, rusty or ornate, blessed or cursed, or totally normal. You don't even have to include in the story if you don't want to, dropping off it and the registry at a temple can be the first thing I do. Likewise, this story is just what happened according to Bammin. Anything that Bammin didn't witness is fair game for being turned upside down and twisted if you feel so inclined.
Given the history, I'd like to start Bammin off with not actually realizing he's a Paladin, and make his special abilities either latent or subconcious. I think he won't have a lot of confidence to begin with, and that can be something he works on as the game progresses.
Please excuse the cliches and obvious "gamer-ness" quality of this story. (the pungent stench of mildew emenates from the wet dungeon walls...)
BAMMIN'S CHARACTER HISTORY
Alongside a stream amidst green, rolling hills stood a tiny village of humans named Sparrow’s Tail. At the centre of this village stood a temple of Ilmater, built long ago by a holy knight who decided to spend his twilight years in this pleasant farming community. When the knight passed away he was buried among the common graves, as was his humble final request. However, his mace was enshrined in the cellar of the temple by the village priests, so that Sparrow’s Tail would not forget the brave man who had come to them. Many years passed, and little changed in the village. The population grew slightly, the crops were rotated on the fields, and the stories of the holy knight’s deeds were polished and embellished by each new generation of priests.
Decades after the hero’s passing, a marauding band of orcs descended upon the village. They destroyed crops and homes, killed all who stood against them, and left with as much food and gold as they could carry. Less than a year later, the priests of the temple of Ilmater found a leather pack outside the entrance to their home, containing a baby boy, obviously of orc lineage. They made no attempt to discover who had left him there, and instead took it upon themselves to raise the child to the best of their abilities. They were amazed by how quickly he grew, and named him after the first noise he produced: “Bammin”. The priests tried to nurture and teach Bammin using passive methods, but he was too angry and unruly to control until the priests finally resorted to physically disciplining him with switches from the trees in the courtyard. As Bammin grew, he learned to control his anger, so as to avoid the phrase “Fetch thee a switch and return to me.”
Once Bammin was old enough to learn to read, the priests began to teach him the dogma of Ilmater, so that he might join their order. Because of his natural strength, the priests also assigned him the most difficult chores and leant his help to the enfeebled and elderly of the village, telling him that it was everyone’s responsibility to use their abilities to help others. The one thing Bammin was not asked to do was to turn out horses, due to the fact that on his first encounter with a horse he accidentally spooked it and was kicked in the head, leaving a crescent shaped scar above his right temple.
Aside from his errands, Bammin rarely left the temple grounds. The memory of the raid that preceded his birth was slow to fade from the memories of the villagers who survived it, and their children were told stories about the terrible things the orcs had done to frighten them into behaving, which inspired the children to tease Bammin whenever he tried to join their games. Even some of the priests were at best cool and distant in their demeanour when dealing with Bammin, as their faith forbade them from showing their distaste outright. There was nothing preventing them from not allowing him to join the choir, though, and even though the reason that they gave was his terrible singing voice (and it was terrible), Bammin believed that they just didn’t want to include him. There was, however, a very old priest named Simpkins who was very kind, and almost fatherly to Bammin. On Bammin’s twelfth birthday, Brother Simpkins gave him a leather pack. “It’s the pack we found you in,” he explained, “we assume it belonged to your mother. The women of Sparrow’s Tail use packs like these to collect sweetgrass among the hills, which they burn as an offering to Ilmater.” After that, Bammin took to sneaking out late at night to collect sweetgrass himself, and burnt it by the window in his room, imagining that it was the scent of his mother. Brother Simpkins passed away when Bammin was fourteen, which saddened him greatly, although in the end, Bammin decided it was more merciful that way.
Two years later, the orcs returned. The women and children of Sparrow’s Tail were brought inside the temple of Ilmater, and Bammin stood alongside the men of the village protecting the front door. The orcs laughed as they fell upon the defenders, who were soon slaughtered, and Bammin received the beating of his life from an orc with a wooden club. When Bammin regained consciousness, he discovered that he was the only survivor. Every home was burning or destroyed, with the exception of the temple itself, the only stone structure in the village. Nonetheless the temple was not unscathed, all of the altars and pews were broken, the tapestries were torched, and the inside was littered with blood, corpses, and filth. Bammin took the only course of action he could think of: he set forth to bury the entire population of the village. He dug and filled every grave, and with a tome of Ilmater which he had found gave last rites to everyone. Bammin used the village registry to account for all that he could, and saw that indeed everyone who had not left the village earlier was dead. Among the bodies were two small orcs, which Bammin stripped and burned. Bammin decided that the only thing left for him to do was leave, and began to fill his leather pack. While scrounging through the temple, Bammin discovered that the area of the cellar in which the mace of the holy knight was hidden had been overlooked. Inside was not only the mace, but the temple’s coffer as well. Bammin decided immediately that he had to take the mace and registry to a major temple of Ilmater in a large city so that the town of Sparrow’s Tail would never be forgotten. He wrapped the mace in a clean priest’s cloth, emptied the coffer into his pouch to help him make his pilgrimage, and gathered clothes, rations, and what little survival gear he could find. For fear of coming across the orcs again, Bammin decided to arm himself. One of the men of the village had owned a heavy mace, and another a short sword, both of which Bammin decided to carry. Of the two dead orcs, one had been carrying a large wooden shield, and the other was wearing studded leather armour which Bammin thought might fit him. He washed these items to remove the smell, as well as the symbols of their horrible gods, which had been crudely painted on. Bammin prayed over his new shield and armour to remove the taint of their former owners, and with a stick of pitch drew the symbol of Ilmater on the shield.
Bammin was now armed and packed to make his journey to find a final resting place for the mace and town registry, and began along the road away from the village. A quarter of a mile further, he saw a patch of sweetgrass. The weather was turning cold, and it was likely to die soon. This final image was too much for Bammin to keep his composure any longer, and he wept, and fell to his knees, and beat the ground with his fists. He bellowed at the sky for the loss of the only home he had known and the injustice of the villagers’ fate, until his throat was raw and his voice hoarse. Some time later, he got up to continue his journey. He took two steps, and removed his pack. He cut a strip of cloth from the wrappings of the mace, and gathered all the sweetgrass he could fit into his nearly full pack. With this final memento, Bammin began his journey away from the ruined village of Sparrow’s Tail.
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