The Druid

Folcrum Sandscorcher

The Barbarian - Provenance and History

Folcrum’s mother Weladith and father Lotherild were part of a free, Half-Giant village named Invermoor, at the edge of the desert of Ellarand. The village was one days walk from the mountains of Strathgate, which the villagers used for resources. One dark summer day a malicious, Elven sorcerer Thrandil Horfind found this peaceful village. It made him long for the days of his youth, when Half-Giants served sorcerers. His memories of days gone by drove him to conceive a hideous plan to recapture the past and enslave the village. With his powerful magic, he brought terror and pain down on the quiet people of Invermoor. Folcrum’s parents were enslaved with the other villagers, by the elderly Sorcerer. A year of hellish slavery passed and Folcrum was born, he was brought into a world of hard labor and pain, but the love of his parents and stories of the past comforted him. Thrandil kept an eye on Folcrum from an early age; he noticed Folcrum’s incredible strength and tenacity, exceptional for a Half-Giant his age, it made Thrandil weary. As time passed, Folcrum was put to extreme labor, especially hard for a child, but he was determined to not let Thrandil break him. Many years passed filled with sadness, except for the love of his parents and Folcrum grew bigger and stronger, into a powerful adolescent Half-Giant. He dreamt of the stories his parents told, of freedom where their kind was able to do as they pleased. He remembered the tales of his ancestors who broke the chain of slavery which the original evil sorcerer kings had tethered to his kind.

Late one day while Folcrum’s father was in a pit moving boulders, Folcrum was being tortured by Thrandil, part of his plan to break the tenacious young Half-Giant. Folcrum’s mother working near by could not stand it any longer, she risked all and charged Thrandil. Not caught off guard, he raised his hands and cast out streaks of electricity from his boney fingers, but the love for her son kept pushing her through. Strands of electricity crawled over her body, smoke rose from her skin, her legs started trembling with every painful step she took, but the need to save her son willed her to push forward. Weladith had slowed down quite a bit, but she had enough energy to run down the powerful sorcerer. While Thrandil was knocked to the ground and stunned, Weladith managed to untie Folcrum before she collapsed. He picked her up and ran through the mountain paths towards the pit his father was in, all the while yelling to the villagers to help, but nobody would; they were scared of the consequences. Folcrum ran over any guard who posed a threat, or blocked his way and finally found Lotherild. He put his mother down where he and Lotherild tried to comfort her, but they knew she would not survive; she was in a terrible state. She whispered to Folcrum “Come closer…”, he knelt down further and put his cheek to her burnt and cracked cheek. She mustered her strength and said “Free… yourself… don’t let… me die in… vain…”, she gasped for another breath, “Don’t let it... continue… remember our... pa… past.”. Weladith let her last breath flow from her lips, eyes open, fixed on Folcrum’s face, a face that turned from sadness and tears to anger and hatred. He stood and looked down at his father weeping over his mother. Too old to do what was ringing in his head, Lotherild looked up at his son and saw the rage, the anger and pain welling up inside him and whispered one word, “Yes”. No sooner was the word out of his father’s mouth that Folcrum turned and ran towards the sorcerer’s torture area while an uncontrollable, resounding yell escaped from his chest. The yell was heard from the base, to the top of the mountain and every Half-Giant felt his pain. Those who were close enough followed and watched. Folcrum entered the torture area where Thrandil was just standing back up and shaking off his unbalance. He looked at Folcrum with piercing eyes and said “Today you will join your ancestors.”, raising his hands and muttering strange sounds the sorcerer sent a blazing fire forth. Folcrum stepped into the oncoming blast of fire, his clothes burning, skin scorching, he charged straight into Thrandil. All that could be seen was a ball of fire and smoke, then, a loud CRACK was heard by all. When everything settled Folcrum could be seen on his knees, scorched and spent, with Thrandil lying broken on the ground in front of him. Nobody understood how Folcrum was able to survive such an onslaught, how could he still be intact with barely a mark? The answer was unknown, but the sight of the fallen sorcerer made Half-Giants all around cheer and turn on the guards who were motionless in disbelief from seeing what had just happened. With the sorcerer dead the magic which augmented the guards was dispelled and the rebellion spread like wildfire, guards fell like trees under the lumberjack’s powerful axe.

Once the villagers overtook the last of the guards and reclaimed their village as their own, Folcrum and his father began to prepare for Weladith’s burial. The following night they started their long healing process and set Weladith to the ground. Folcrum turned towards his father, the look on both of their faces spoke a thousand words and each knew that the other could no longer live in this place that had taken so much from them. They decided to set out in search of a new home, one that did not remind them of what had happened in Invermoor and Strathgate. So the journey began.

Both Folcrum and Lotherild searched for a peaceful place, away from most, but close enough to get necessities and aid if needed, as long as they would be accepted for what they were and left alone. Many nights passed, for Folcrum some were sleepless nights and some were nights filled with images of his mother’s last moments. The image of electricity crawling over and through her, charring her from head to toe, haunted Folcrum. Every night he shivered and sweat, disturbed by the scene that played over and over in his head until he would be woken by screaming… his screaming. From that point in time forward Folcrum was at great unease during thunderstorms, the sight of lightning made his skin crawl, his teeth would clench and he would freeze in his tracks until the white streaks disappeared.

Time passed and the journey was long, but Folcrum and his father finally found a place they could call home. A place different enough to not remind them of their terrible past, but one they were comfortable in, one their beloved Weladith would have been pleased to settle in. It was a forested area on the outskirts of a city called Sharn in the land of Khorvaire. The people there did not seem taken aback by the large size of Folcrum and his father and they were left on their own for the most part, but these times were times of war and Sharn was calling on all to fight for the freedom of their lands. Lotherild was now far too old for battle, but Folcrum at the age of 30 was in his prime and willing to battle to keep his new home free from treachery and slavery, so he joined willingly. The Khorvaire army was pleased to add such a powerful ally to their ranks and gave Folcrum the choice of two weapons with which he would be trained. He selected the great axe and the great club, but requested a larger version of both, larger than any other could wield. Folcrum became a master of these weapons in a very short period and entered battle fearlessly. He fought along side many men and many of them fell at the hands of the goblins they were fighting, but not all fell and not all kept distant. One Dwarven fighter, a hardy Dwarf, fought bravely, without fear of the numbers in front of them. This Dwarf was Serin Diamondear and for some reason this odd pair became close friends over the next two years. They fought feverishly, side by side, cutting down the enemies with ease until one fateful day. The two were in the midst of a heated battle with two hundred goblins closing in on their beaten down battalion. Only Folcrum and Serin were holding their own on the front line, the others were being overtaken by the relentless enemy. Folcrum had 10 goblins pushing and turning him, as did Serin. The goblins were aware of the strength these two had when side by side, so they plotted to separate them in order to deviously backstab and kill them while several attacked from the front and sides. As distance grew between the two warriors Folcrum became concerned for his half height friend who could no longer see over the vast number of goblins between them. He yelled “Serin, are you still counting? I have 38!” Alas there was no response; Folcrum swung his great axe in a whirlwind motion cutting three of his foes to the quick. With this brief moment of reprise of battle he was able to turn towards Serin to notice he was being brought to the ground, there were too many goblins. All that Folcrum could now see were spears and falchions poking and swinging down onto his fallen friend. It was a moment of disbelief, for a split second Folcrum thought he was dreaming, but the gasp that came from his friend shook Folcrum back to reality. He remembered this feeling welling up inside of him, an anger he felt once before, blind rage that pushed him beyond his abilities. With a mighty stomp of his leg 20 goblins in front of him toppled over like cards. Folcrum raised his great axe and swung with all of his might at a feverish speed; goblins fell to the ground like dead leaves from an old tree in a storm. A goblin horseback rider charged at Folcrum, spear pointing forward. With axe raised and fluid like motion Folcrum twisted out of the way as the rider came upon him, his axe drove down slashing into the enemy, cutting the goblin in half and severing the horse’s head. Following the path made by the rider, Folcrum ran towards his fallen friend hoping beyond all hope he was not too late. He dropped his axe, reached back for his great club and bashed the mound of attacking goblins from Serin. The battle raged on for two hours and when reinforcements arrived, they drove back the enemy forces. Finding his way back to his friend, Folcrum say Serin was lying in a pool of his own blood. He knelt to see if his heart still beat in his chest, but he knew there was nothing that could be done. Reaching down, with a heavy heart, Folcrum cut a braided lock from Serin’s beard to keep as a reminder of the fierce warrior he had befriended. This was the last battle of the war, but it had taken a heavy toll on Folcrum. Distraught at the events of the battle, he headed back to Sharn to find his father and his home and hopefully the comfort of forgetting the terrible scene.

Once back in Sharn, the only thing on Folcrum’s mind was Serin and the anger at not being able to help him. The solution was to drown his sorrows in ale, so he wandered to the Blue Falcon Tavern. It was crowded, there was a bard playing music and mostly humans as patronage. A brief silence came over the tavern when Folcrum walked in and then came back to life as if nothing had happened. Folcrum sat down, called for a keg of ale and then another. A patron at the table next to him seemed curious and prodded for information, but Folcrum was in no mood for chatting with a stranger so he called to the bard to tell a story. It was a very strange story about the death of a drunk which did not play well with the tavern’s keeper, but it was entertaining none the less. Two more kegs of ale and some well played lute music helped ease Folcrum’s pain. The bard, the tavern keeper and the nosey patron all asked Folcrum what was bothering him. With a bit of insistence and ale, Folcrum told the tale of his warrior friend Serin and how he fought to his death defending Khorvaire. From that day on the bard, the patron and Folcrum kept meeting at the Blue Falcon Tavern, sharing stories and drinking ale, forging a friendship. Not one that replaces the friendship Folcrum had with Serin, but a new one that helped him remember and honor his fallen friend with less sorrow.