[Edit: 6th level; changes in red]
Flail, Male Human (Rgr2/Ftr4)
played by: MacPhail
Spd: 30 ft.
AC: 18 (Dex, MW chain shirt, +1 amulet of natural armor, Defense)
(AC Flat-footed: 15; AC Touch: 12)
Base Attack: +10/6 melee, +8 ranged
+12(10)/+7(5) melee, +1 light flail of frost, 1d8+7+1d6 cold (20)
+11(9) melee, small light flail, 1d6+6(4) (20)
+9 ranged, +1 light crossbow, 1d8+1 (19-20), range 80 ft.
+9 ranged, masterwork light crossbow, 1d8 (19-20), range 80 ft.
+10 ranged, masterwork light crossbow with +1 bolts, 1d8+1 (19-20), range 80 ft.
+8 ranged, sling, 1d4 (20), range 50 ft.
+8 ranged, bolas, 1d4 (20), range 10 ft.
Save: Fort +8, Ref +6, Will +3
Attrib.: Str 18 (gauntlets), Dex 14, Con 12, Int 13, Wis 14 (L4), Cha 10.
Skills: Climb (5) +7, Heal (1) +3, Hide (3) +4, Jump (5) +7, Intimidate (3) +3, Handle Animal (2) +2, Knowledge (arcana) (2) +2, Knowledge (dungeoneering) (1) +2, Knowledge (nature) (1) +2, Knowledge (religion) (4) +3, Listen (5) +7, Move Silently (3) +4, Ride (2) +4, Spot (5) +7, Survival (5) +7.
Feats: Expertise, Improved Trip, Two-Weapon Fighting (virtual), Track (bonus), Two-Weapon Defense, Quick Draw, Rapid Reload, Weapon Focus (light flail), Weapon Specialization (light flail).
Languages: Common, Abyssal.
Favored Enemy: Undead (+2 to Bluff, Listen, Sense Motive, Spot, Survival)
Wild Empathy: Improve animal attitudes (1d20+2)
Equipment: Explorers outfit, MW chain shirt, +1 light flail of frost, light flail, small light flail, +1 light crossbow, masterwork light crossbow, 5 +1 bolts, 10 bolts, 8 bolts tipped with concentrated dranrune poison, dagger, silvered dagger, cold iron dagger, wooden dagger, sling, pouch of 10 bullets, bolas, gauntlets of ogre power, +1 amulet of natural armor, ring mail coin pouch, backpack, winter blanket, flint & steel, bullseye lantern, steel mirror, lock with no key, oil (5 pints), sack, torches (2), silver holy symbol of St. Cuthbert, spell component pouch (with salt, garlic, iron and various other herbal and mineral items rumored to be of use against undead and the forces of evil; also most of his potions), waterskin (3), trail rations (10), holy water (4 vials), potion of cure light wounds (4). (carry weight: 137.9 lbs including treasure; 34.7 lbs [silver, water, rations] packaged separately to drop encumbrance to light)
Dranrune poison (concentrated): Injury, Fortitude DC18, 1d4 Con/ 2d4 Con, 1200 gp.
Treasure: 6 pp, 571 gp, 885 sp, 8 cp. (29.4 lbs)
Flail is a middle-aged man, broad-shouldered and calloused from a lifetime of farm labor. His hair is streaked with silver, resulting from a life of toil and immense personal sorrow. He is clad in travel-stained leather, age-darkened mail and a steel cap. The heavy wooden handles of two spiked flails are tucked into his belt, along with four sheathed daggers.
1250 XP at character creation
100 XP for escaping the dungeon of Modros
30 XP for locating lodging in the city
465 XP for battling scorpions encountered en route to Eduar
50 XP for dream-sequence encounter with the Master
210 XP for bashing ex-comrades-turned-flesh-eaters
910 XP for desert travel and storming of kobold outpost.
550 XP for combat in the locked room
100 XP for roleplaying with the new party
225 XP for the combat with the half fiend
900 XP Room 2 miscellaneous award
445 XP Room-balancing award
766 XP DM Discretionary award
To 14,625 XP Post-battle Discretionary award
415 XP Day One / Prologue to Part X
From the account of Horace Black, formerly of the village of Southreach, as recorded by Brother Ignaz, Devoted of Tyr.
Flails story is a simple one for the most part, but I must relate that it takes a most terrible turn.
His true name was Samel Grath. He inherited the family farm at a young age, married within his village and fathered two children, both of whom survived infancy with a hardiness uncommon for that social class. Together he and his family tilled their small plot, marketed their produce and tended a small flock of sheep in the foothills above their village. Life was hard, but satisfying, and the peaceful course of his existence was of great pleasure to him.
Two years ago, Samel returned from the village market to find his wife pale with distress. Their children had not yet returned from the pastures when they had gone to retrieve the flock, and darkness was coming on quickly. Samel took up lantern and cudgel and sent his wife to find a neighbor, for wolves were known to descend on the pasture after dark. But what he found was far worse than any wolf was capable of.
His children, a boy and a girl aged 10 and 12, were unrecognizable as human when he came upon their remains. They had been torn horribly limb from limb, their blood splashed upon the earth and their lights ground into paste. Samel managed to keep the reality from his wife, but he gathered his shattered offspring into baskets himself and laid out what was left of them in the church for burial. Neighbors said he returned to his home then, walked past his sobbing spouse and returned to his task of the previous night: mending a broken flail by the fire.
His wife eventually cried herself into an exhausted sleep, but Samel sat, bleary-eyed and shaking, long into the night. The flail was mended, and still he sat, turning it over and over in his hands, when a faint knock came at the door. His wife awoke from her fitful slumber quite beside herself with grief and cried out for her lost babies. To the great amazement and horror of the parents, the childrens voices cried back from beyond the oaken door. Flail staggered up from his seat by the fire, but his wife beat him to the door by several steps and flung it open, reaching out for her children.
What reached back at her I know not how to describe, as I only saw the aftermath of what followed. The bones of the children were reanimated, bound together with strips of flayed flesh and hung with bits of scalp and entrails. They moved of their own will, and apparently with unnatural speed. They clawed at their poor mothers face, dragging her down screaming before Samel could reach her. They ravaged the breasts that had nursed them, tore out the throat that had sung to them what sense Samel had left abandoned him at that moment. With his flail, he destroyed his younglings for the second time that evening, smashing their bones as they clawed and shredded his skin. By the time I arrived from my own farm, all was broken bone and spattered gristle, and the bloodied corpse of his wife lay at his feet. Samel and I had not a second to consider the unspeakable occurrence before the village came alive with cries of terror for Samels children were not the only dead that walked that night.
The churchyard was emptied, generations of villagers revisiting their progeny with sinister intent. Samel and I saw each other only intermittently after that, through that long night of fighting, fleeing and hiding. The walking dead did not relent until dawn, by which time Samel and I had struck down many we had once called friends. When the sun rose, only he and I remained of a village of 68. He still held that flail in one hand. Without a word to me, he turned and walked away from it all, bloodied and without provisions, dragging the flail behind him.
I havent seen him since that dreadful morning. I have heard plenty, though, of the man that could only be Samel Grath, the man they call Flail. They say he has a knack for seeking out the walking dead, and that he fights them with a passion unknown to all but the most devout holy warriors. Last I heard he was headed for Modros, seeking to wring further knowledge of the dark arts from those stained streets and alleys. You see, I have been running since that day, running from an unseen enemy, from the undead things that failed to kill me two years ago. They will find me someday, I know, and finish the job. Flail runs too, but he does not run away. He is running towards the bones, towards the walking dead, knowing only a consuming need for knowledge about them, understanding of them, and most of all, vengeance against them.