“Edgy” Munroe, Warforged Ranger 4 (Unaligned) 

Ability Scores: 

Strength 19 (+4)

Dexterity 17 (+3)

Constitution 14 (+2)

Intelligence 8 (-1)

Wisdom 12 (+1)

Charisma 10 (+0) 

At-Will Powers: Twin Strike, Hit & Run

Encounter Powers: Warforged Resolve, Fox's Cunning, Disruptive Strike

Daily Power: Jaws of the Wolf

Hit Points: 46 Healing Surges/Day: 8 Healing Surge Value: 11 Bloodied Value: 23

Armor Class: 19 Fortitude: 19 Reflex: 18 Will: 16

Attack: +8 melee or +7 ranged Initiative: +7

Skills: Acrobatics +9, Athletics +10, Dungeoneering +8, Endurance +6, Intimidate +4, Perception +8, Stealth +9, Thievery +9

Racial and Class Features: Living construct type; does not need to sleep, eat, drink, or breathe; +2 on saving throws against ongoing damage; can take 10 on saving throws against death; two-blade fighting style, hunter’s quarry, prime shot

Feats: Toughness, Quick Draw, Sneak of Shadows, Warforged Tactics

Equipment: +1 armblades (treat as scimitars), longbow with sixty arrows, adventurer’s kit, climber’s kit, thieves’ tools, +1 hide armor, +2 safewing amulet, 520 gold pieces

"These villagers are sheltering our foes. Warforged soldiers of the Empire, leave no survivors!"

Munroe's first memory was not so pleasant as it was for most newborns. Of course, being built rather than born fated him to a different life than you or I. Though he has skin, his is of metal; though he has muscles, his are of wood; though he has a heart, his is of refined arcanite. 

He is a warforged, a living construct, and he's not had a pleasant life.

It wasn't always this way, however. Even the war had its moments of triumph. He learned early the thrill that came from taking on near-suicidal tasks and still emerging victorious. He grew to crave that sensastion, always putting himself at the forefront of any battle. 

"That's why they call me, 'Edgy;' I'm always living life by a razor's edge," he'd say. He enjoyed shooting out his spring-loaded armblades at that moment. "Besides, 'Pointy' Munroe doesn't have the same ring to it!"

He grew to love that laughter, that appreciation. He earned much praise for his execution of his assignments alongside his skills as both scout and assassin. With each successful mission, his fame grew.  "Is this what it means to be a hero?" he mused.

When the war was won, he decided to find out. He joined up with a group of idealistic adventurers, a half-dozen young men and women who decided that they wanted to heal the land after the terrifying aftermath of war. They drove off goblin raiders, guarded caravans, protected settlements and even rescued townsfolk from a burning village once! "I'll never get that soot out of my joints," muttered Munroe. His companions laughed. They didn't always get along, but it was in moments like this that they bonded together. This was what it was like to be heroes: people who strove to do tasks that no one else would simply because it was the right thing to do.

All of this changed when the group was stupid enough to trust Jahev.  

The money was excellent and the task tantalizingly difficult. Infiltrating a group of sorcerous brigands and taking back the artifact they were planning to use to hold the nearby city in an iron grip of terror? It was a job that appealed to everyone in the party, which Jahev must have known well. 

Jahev must have also known how easily they'd fall into his trap. The brigands were far stronger than he'd told the adventurers, and though they fought bravely the torrents of magical fire, murderous arrow volleys and ferocious warped beasts forced the adventurers to fall back Munroe led the retreat towards the brigand's valley entrance, hoping to be able to staunch the wounds on two of their dying friends. The brigands pursued, baying for the blood of their attackers.

Jahev's mercenaries were waiting for all of them. The adventurer's weren't warriors; they were bait. The mercenaries unleashed waves of arrows that crashed upon adventurer and brigand like a maelstrom. On that mountan entrance, Munroe saw a massacre the likes of which he'd not seen since the war occur right before his eyes.

"....or perhaps this is what it means to be a hero after all," he thought bitterly as he fled. Munroe narrowly escaped, a fate none of his friends shared. Though he lived, whether the Munroe those friends once knew made it through the tragedy is questionable.

If anything, he is even more suicidal these days. Perhaps part of him wants to join the friends he's lost. Perhaps he's  been rendered so numb that the greatest thrills are the only thing that make life worth living anymore. Perhaps he  simply wants more glory than he's ever known and is tired of waiting. Or perhaps he's been so embittered by his experiences that none of these things matter anymore.  

Munroe himself doesn't know the answers to those questions. It's only been months since his loss. Perhaps a layer of sarcasm and a drive to glory can see him through the trials soon to come. Or perhaps it will be new allies that can awaken his old dreams to become a hero….

Arm-blades spring into position. It's time for action.