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.

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 War paint just then, one of the identifying marks of his Guild.

He was wearing a barbarian's black eyepatch covered in vulture feathers to simulate a bird of prey, some thick gold hoop earrings, a dark dragonwood beer barrel with onyx-hide straps, a sleek black longcoat with seaglass buttons, a formidably spiked Dwarven iron pauldron secured by crossbody leather straps, a dark iron armlet engraved with aged symbols and inset with an etched crystalline sphere, a black leather vest with anchor-shaped gold buttons, an agonite dragon's talon clutching a chakrel globe, a sleeping sungold dragon curled around a huge orb of green and blue starglass, a dark snakeskin baldric fastened with a ka'hurst river boa buckle, a fitted heretic black satin shirt with silversteel buttons, an intricate kertig bracelet studded with an ivory owl, a gold ring, a Musparan silk belt sash with a boarding axe and a tunneler's axe hanging from it, a soft leather sporran dangling a trio of brass-capped tassels, 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.