Kurik Everly, Battle Master
This grizzled veteran still chases the shadows of a figure from his youth
Kurik Everly
Kurik grew up on a lonely farm east of the Friendly Arm Inn. HIs Mother and father were common, god fearing folk. The family kept to themselves, did their work with top-shelf practicality, and lived a quiet life.
At the age of 14, during a particularly savage storm, a traveler visited the farm, seeking shelter and aid. With a welcoming disposition Kurik’s parents accepted this man into their home. Kurik, however, is distrusting of this stranger.
After dinner Kurik’s parents and the man warmed themselves by the hearth, while kurik was sent to bed. Shortly into the night, Kurik awoke and crept through the darkness down the stairs, he heard murmured voices from the sitting room of the small country cottage. As he approached, he could discern more of what was being said.
“...Change you know? You could have more.” A voice he did not recognize, the stranger, his voice smooth. Compelling. Sweet, like honey, yet a drug that he felt he must resist.
“What more would we need?” His father, with all the rock steady practicality he had practiced his entire life.
“No need to fear sickness, no need to go hungry?”
“My wife can care for most ills, and we do not starve, we eat what we produce here” His father again, steadfast.
“..and your boy? You want him to grow up in this harsh life? Suffering the demands of the nobles and paying for wars that aren’t his?”
“..what could you do?” His mother, a catch in her voice.. Worry for Kurik, or for herself?
“Offer you more. Would you accept?”
“N-” his father was cut short
“Yes we accept” His mother. Clearly not pleased with the life that lay before her son.
At this point Kurik had crept close enough to see into the room, his father and mothers back to him, the stranger addressing them. A soft red glow began from the strangers forehead, it grew with intensity, the air itself seemed to thrum around him, and heat seemed to radiate off him. With a flash, the glow on the mans forehead turned into a third eye, burning in intensity so great that Kurik had to turn his eyes away. Something in that glow stuck with him, he had to avert his gaze.
His parents were not so lucky. They stared at this phenomenon before them, and as the light faded, the mans skin was red. His eyes a jet black, his teeth pointed and sharp. His parents stood. And in unison they spoke.
“What is thy bidding, O Lord”
“Slay the boy, burn the home, salt the earth and join me below” The stranger commanded, gutterally, his voice now deep and ragged, no longer smooth and compelling.
The stranger waved his hand, and a doorway opened, glowing red, flowing like freshly spilled blood.
Kurik fled. He trained on the streets of Baldur’s Gate. He joined a gladiator’s ring and fought to strengthen himself.
At the age of 24, with the aid of some stalwart companions, Kurik founded the Band of the Prancing Marmot. He grew his force, fighting for various lords across the laqnds. All the while searching for his parents, and for the stranger.
At the age of 30 the Band of the Prancing Marmot had grown strong in force, after a particularly fierce battle a small half-orc child was found wandering the battlefield, scrounging for anything she could take. Kurik approached her, and spoke slowly, and kindly, as only one who knew the pain of the loss of family could speak. He found out her name was Moriki, though he took to calling her Pickle, because she was green. He took her into the band, and raised her to be a mighty warrior. She grew to be one of his most trusted companions within the band.
Hired in defense of the Lord of Berdusk, the Band of the Prancing Marmot arranged themselves on the field, prepared to meet whatever opposing force was to siege them, an orcish horde whipped into a frothing fury to crash upon the walls like a wave of steel and blood. The Band, however, was prepared, hardened, and sharp. Ready for this assault.
The orcish horde hurled themselves into the Band, but they could not fully break through, Kurik’s band of mercenaries was well trained in the ways of war.
During the fervor of battle it was hard to hear the horn sound. They couldn’t hear the hooves pounding. And from the western flank charged, banner whipping in the wind, purple and green swirls behind the image of a weasel. The Band of the Beguiling Weasel charged.
Though better trained, and better equipped, with the two forces charging, the Band of the Prancing Marmot was ground against the walls and thrown across the cliffs. Routed.
Kurik, struck down but not slain, rose after the madness and surveyed the field of the dead and dying. He identified some of his most trustworthy companions amongst the slain. He could not find two. He could not see Moriki, nor could he locate Brongrjim.
There was sorrow in his heart for the loss of his band, but more so for the loss of his army. He had to start again. And for that he needed to find at least one of his companions. So he left, seeking onward to find his lost pickle.
Alignment
Neutral
Age
46
Children
Sex
Male
Gender
Male
Eyes
Deep hazel
Hair
Brown, Shoulder length, with streaks of white in them
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
Tanned
Height
5' 11"
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