Karturis

Karturis Ironfistk
Status	Active
Race	Dwarf
Gender	Male
Guild	Barbarian
Instance	Prime

I am Karturis the Dwarf. Folks call me Kart. My future is more clear to me than my past. I was born, so I am told, on the 28th day of the 9th month of Dolefaren the Brigantine in the year of the Iron Toad, 305 years after the victory of Lanival the Redeemer. A hairpin is the sole item I have to remind me of my parents. Ma put it in my hand just before she pushed me off the wagon that day on Clanthew Boulevard. I ask for the Favor of Everild. I have never seen a weapon I didn't admire, and my home is filled with those silent friends. I was a member of The Order of the Black Fox for years, and must say that the Order helped me learn and appreciate the ways of other races and professions.

Recently I had occasion to look over the side from my Brigantine, the Open Grave, and this is who I saw staring back. An old dwarf with an undulating scar across his cheek from a slash he must have failed to dodge. His mustache was long, and his beard a full one, split into thirds, and woven into three thick braids hanging down to his waist. Wound around each of beard plait was a wide kertig ring graced with a fractured spear of night black zephyr's heart. His forearm was graced with a tattoo of a skeletal hand wreathed in red flames. He wore a faded coat of Warpaint just then, one of the identifying marks of his Guild.

He was wearing a crimson leather mask set with a mohawk fashioned from iron spikes, a light plate sallet with hollowed bone horns, an elongated steel hairpin, a barbarian's black eyepatch covered in vulture feathers to simulate a bird of prey, some thick gold hoop earrings, an onyx nose stud, a gold and ivory pendant of a brigantine with billowing sails, a sleek black longcoat with seaglass buttons, a black leather vest with anchor-shaped gold buttons and a helei leather weapon harness with a heavy flame-tongue warsword and a tunneler's axe secured to it.

Over his shoulder he wore a broad-bladed Dwarven iron voulge with a stout hickory haft. He bore a gladiator's combat kit of hardened leather with carved dragonwood toggles, a fitted heretic black satin shirt with silversteel buttons, a Dwarven iron bracer studded with kertig spikes, a gold ring, a purple turnip-shaped gem pouch topped with verdant wool leaves, a blood-red leather war kilt tooled with Trothfang's centaur, a miniature oak keg with riveted Dwarven iron hoops and some Dwarven stomping boots crafted with black leather and steel soles. Altogether a fine looking fella, he was.

Food and drink of every flavor and smell are my friends. Cheese and turnips are fuel from the gods, and frequent mugs of Dwarven ale help me see the way of it all. Speaking of ale, I must be away now for a wee drop. Perhaps my way will be more clear after a few drinks.