Default social – befriend good, intimidate evil. Look for some common ground and establish rapport. Failing that, buy the guy a drink!
Default combat – flank, attack with heavy pick. Use dirty tricks (sand in eyes, tripping, biting, to gain any possible advantage once locked in combat.
If a friend is in serious trouble, rush to his aid.
Favorite tactic is to attack the weakest looking and to coordinate companions attacks to pick off opponents one at a time.
A scurrilous ruffian, a ne’er-do-well with a penchant for trouble. Kind hearted but rough, often frequenting wretched hives of scum and villainy
Odric the Stout is a kind-hearted but troubled giant of a man. He spends most evenings regaling his bar mates of the tales of glory and adventure, the conquests and triumphs that he will have some day. Odric drinks to excess most nights and spends most mornings with a hangover equal to his stature. His stature being his distinguishing feature. Odric is large and doughy. He’s a big man with big appetites – food, drink, and more food. He towers over most around him when he is standing up straight. His thick hair is a greasy, unkempt black mane which covers the entirety of the back of his pasty white neck.
Often bleary-eyed and unshaven, Odric however has a vivid picture of himself as a revered hero, famed member of the Pathfinder Society known far and wide. He sees a statue, carved in his likeness, with his steely eyes looking out from the Heights and fixed on the horizon, a sword in hand in a triumphant stance. He has great and vivid dreams of his impending greatness.
Odric’s life today shouldn’t be the way it is. He was a promising young man at one time, with the strength of a bear and the physique of a god. At one time he was apprenticed to a master brewer and had begun to show some promising skill at the craft. He enjoyed his work and he enjoyed the fruits of his labor. At some point though, the lure of those fruits at Ye Olde Tavern, with its dimly lit warmth, sticky floors and pleasant bonhomie became too much for young Odric. There was no great tragedy, no easily identifiable point at which this strapping lad turned from the path of a productive citizen initially. He was simply lured by the siren song of a mug of ale.
Odric is a kind hearted man, his parents raised him with a strong sense of right and wrong. Even now he visits his aging mother occasionally and avoids the disapproving gaze and stormy brow of his stone-visaged father. He is the kind of man who would break up a fight if he saw boys ganging up on a smaller boy, but he is also the kind of man who would gladly and happily start a barroom brawl if the mood struck him.
He is a rough and tumble, physical man with no compunctions against doing what has to be done in a fight. At the first sign of trouble, Odric is the guy smashing chairs over brawlers’ backs, chucking clay mugs into a melee, tripping attackers or leaping into a fray with a not-insignificant haymaker. As a result, Odric has more than a passing familiarity with the Korsovan Guard and the inside of the local drunk tank.
In recent months, Odric has earned his coin for drink with short, uneventful contracts as a guard for merchants in Midland. He’s also occasionally hired on for unskilled day labor on construction projects over on South Shore, but regular work does not agree with Odric. He has the unfortunate tendency to consider work as a drudgery that won’t lead him to the greatness he believes should be his someday.
The kindness and good nature Odric has is readily extended to those he sees as friends, potential friends or even possible friends. He draws the line at evil. Odric cannot abide by evil and has on occasion gotten himself embroiled in trouble over it. One man in particular has earned the abiding hatred of this otherwise friendly giant. Gaedren Lamm. About a year after he left his brewmaster, Odric received a panicked message from the man, Master Bartleby. Begging Odric’s help, the old man sent word that his son Kip had been taken by Lamm’s cronies because Master Bartleby had missed several installments of Lamm’s protection payments. Alas, Odric could do nothing. He asked around, investigated most thoroughly for a month or so, but eventually without success his efforts tapered off. A burning anger, mixed with shame and guilt for his part in the tragedy has survived buried deep in Odric’s heart. He blames himself for leaving the brewmaster, thinking the protection payments could have been made if he had been there to help. He is ashamed at his ineffective investigation, so he has redoubled his efforts to pickle his liver.
Since his rescue of Kip from the hands of Gaedren Lamm and his employment as a champion for Field Marshal Kroft, Odric has rediscovered what it feels like to be worthwhile. He has curbed his drinking for the most part and is eating less. His newly active lifestyle is starting to show in his fitness. He looks a bit trimmer and he has gained a bit of the muscle tone he had before his downfall.
Odric is a large man. He towers over most others around him and he carries quite a bit of extra bulk as a result of his sedentary, gluttonous lifestyle. Of late he has been trimming down a bit, and has lost about 1 stone. He keeps his curly dark hair short on top, with a longer portion in the back. Business in front, party in the back, he likes to say. Odric dresses like an adventurer, regardless of what he is doing. He has taken to heart the role he now fills. Although his business with the Field Marshal was temporary and is currently suspended, to hear Odric talk one might think he is her personal assistant.
His arms and armor are impressive for one so young. He has a beautiful masterwork heavy pick, fashioned into the likeness of an Eagle. The weapon is aptly named The Eagle. He hides a war razor in his dark leather boot and has a beautiful falchion strapped to his back. He has recently taken to wearing a well-made and sturdy War Kilt in lieu of pants. He takes ribbing regarding his skirt in stride, and will occasionally make fashion critics pay with a quick peek at the alternative to wearing the kilt. The overlapping leather stops are studded with steel studs, giving the appearance of a black pleated kilt with silver accents along each pleat.
His studded leather armor, of which he is enormously proud is (according to him) finely crafted from Rhinocerosauras hide harvested from one of Her Majesty’s champion’s coming of age hunt in distant lands. Odric is reluctant to allow close examination of the armor though, so this claim is unsubstantiated. The armor is indeed beautiful. It is black, has many well-crafted buckles and artfully interspersed studs. The armor is comfortable and does not creak or jingle the way his last set did. The reduction in creaking is probably due to his recent weight loss, while the lesser jingling is a result of fine workmanship. Odric doesn’t usually miss an opportunity to remind those around him that this suit of studded leather was a personal gift from Field Marshal Kroft for services rendered.
Odric will not usually wear a hat, preferring to allow his hair to remain on display. He is not a vain man, but is proud of what he has earned and accomplished.