Hellish Haymaker

A stout, weather-beaten fighter with a face like a hewing block, and a crude, boistrous manner that belies a sharp (if not overly learned) intellect.



Like most of the men in Perrenland, Pa did a stint as a mercenary before settling into the quiet life of farmer and prospector. I apparently inherited much more of the former skill-set than either of the latter. He always said I was way better at making things dead than keeping them alive (starting with Ma, who expired while birthing me), and could find a neck vein far easier than an ore vein.

He wasn’t wrong, and at 15 I set out with his old flail and shield and never looked back. And though I’ve faired better than Pa ever dreamed of, and carved out my own little piece of the world, there’s nothing that feels righter than setting foot to trail with a pommel in my hand and a red purpose in my heart. If blood is the tithe the gods demand from me, then let them drown in it. Life is hell; Death is Hellish.


Ever since I ventured into the questing biz, I’ve had this crew at my side. We call ourselves the Wyvern Brotherhood, and they are indeed my brothers in every respect but blood (and there’s been enough spilled over the years that I may as well count that too…):

Blaze: I never had much truck with mages prior to throwing in with this red-headed lunatic, but anyone who’ll stand his ground in a fight with little more than a thin robe and reality-bending confidence has my respect. For a skinny, fancy-talkin’ bookworm, he can be a scary muthafucker. The man works with fire like a limner works with paint. He burns me again though and Ima hafta smack a bitch!

Gregor Palin: Our resident holy man is as stalwart and stable as a rock…and about as interesting. I know its never wise to speak ill of one’s healer, and he’s brought me back from the brink more times than I can count, but by Beelzebub’s balls if he blathers on one more time about his beautiful family, precious temple, or glorious god I swear I’m gonna slice off my own ears (of course he’ll just heal ‘em, so no release for the wicked).

Keane Huddlestone: I’ve come across a fair share of contradictory characters in my wanderings – the idiot scholar, the generous merchant, the virtuous whore – but none more surprising than this “honorable thief”. Though the fellow can get a disturbing gleam in proximity to shiny baubles, I can always count on him to have my back (without stabbing it, even!), and I trust him with my life…just not, you know, so much with my coin purse.

Sarian: The biggest goddamn fairie I’ve ever laid eyes on (not that there’s anything wrong with that) – or more accurately, half-fairie. Now that he’s been called away from the Brotherhood to serve a “higher purpose” (like receiving “penitence” from pretty alter boys), I’ll lay my wager that the other half of his parentage was hill giant. He IS gone now, right (glances over shoulder nervously)?

Hellish Haymaker

Highfolk: Return of the Wyverns Daldude