Beolrath's Character Development

The hammer smashed into the ground with a thunderous bang, sending up a plume of dust and a rumble through the surrounding ground. The man, who had been there moments earlier leapt to the side swiping his sword across the flank of the monstrous Troll that in turn gave a roar of pain sweeping his mace sideways towards Beolrath in anger. Dropping to the ground he narrowly avoided the massive crude hammer as it swirled overhead.

The sword fell with a sickening crunch as the Orc Archer fell lifelessly with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes. It was always a grim business, killing, but Beolrath would be lying if killing Orcs didn't give him a sense of personal satisfaction after what had happened to his father and had almost happened to him.

Pipe smoke swirls into the breeze as he gazes out from the hillside in northern Bree town, looking from his elevation over the walls and into the grasslands beyond. He takes a slow draw on his pipe, blowing a gentle stream of smoke into the breeze watching it get dispersed and carried away as footfalls approach from behind.

'So, when are we leaving then?', Wil stabbed his Herald's banner into the ground before taking a seat beside Beolrath.

Wil struck the Orc in the side with his blade causing little more than a flesh wound, but the sting of pain was more than enough to get the wretched creature's attention. With a backhanded fist across his chin the man of Bree was sent tumbling to the ground, both his sword and the banner he held deserting him as if fear had carried them away.