Count Parsival Von Hohenheim

Age: 17
Class: 3rd level Fighter
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Description: A big, beefy blond kid in ruffly clothes that look really stupid on him. He'd be a natural in chainmail, or for that matter, a loincloth. But at least he has a greatsword.
Secondary Skill: Riding, Court Dancing

Weapons: Greatsword 1d10, dagger 1d4

Keys: Welcome at most noble's houses and all bravos' pubs

STR: 18-00

INT: 7

WIS: 13

CON: 18

DEX: 10

CHA: 14

COM: 11

Hit Points: 31

Wealth: 20 gold allowance per week, from Imperial purse

You know everything about swordplay, at least that you can learn in the fencing studio, but have never been field tested. Which is really too bad, since you know that you'd make a great warrior, if everyone weren't always deferring to you. Or maybe that's just getting out of your way. You're pretty big, and you have an unfortunate habit of breaking swords, and for that matter, fencing masters. Your only repeat swordplay partner is your friend, Maxie (Lord Maximilian Von Kirkegaard), who's a skinny little guy, but has always been able to take his licks. You've been afraid you killed him a few times, but he always wakes up sooner or later. You don't know what you'd do without Maxie, and you're glad to have him back now that you're at court, even though he's technically a student at the University.

You also don't know what it is with all this new passion about pistols--you refuse to carry one, preferring your strong sword arm and an old-fashioned greatsword. You just shattered your latest one, and since you didn't have time to go buy a new one (the swordsmiths just love you), so you went down to the palace armory and found this great old sword that some idiot had wedged in a rock. Morons! Didn't anyone know how to treat weaponry? You swore up a blue streak trying to get it out of that rock. But once you did, you took some steel wool and oil to it, it polished up a treat. Plus it feels like an extension to your arm, and you really don't want to give it up.

Except Max (who's a lot sharper than you) noticed that your new sword looks an awful lot like the one used by Baron Gorkiz, "The Ogre," back in the Suzereigna's grandfather's day, at least to judge from the tapestries in the great hall. Even though it's obvious romantic hyperbole--barons are not nine-feet-tall killing machines. Most are just fat old men with gout, like your father.

You'd also be a much better fighter if you hadn't led such a sheltered life. You don't know jack about magic, or politics, or much of anything except swordfighting and horses and a little bit of court dancing. Your main trouble is that you're a hopeless romantic. You wish you were back in the age of Baron Gorkiz, instead of this confusing modern age, where there are no dragons, very few marvels, and witch trials seem to be done as a mere political expedient. After all, you've never seen any actual witchcraft or magic, and if you haven't seen it, it must not exist, right?

The Sword of Gorkiz the Ogre (Artifact Sword of Sharpness +1)

+1 strength

+2 protection

Sheild when held or worn, 3x a day

Major powers

Giant Strength twice a day

Minor curse

Weight gain of 10-40 lbs

Major curse

User Grows 1/4' taller every time primary power is used

Primary Power

Tenser's Transformation 2x a day

The Sword of Gorkiz is an ancient runic sword, forged by the dwarves, or maybe trolls, or perhaps mad wizards. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that the sword's powers are activated not by command words but by oaths and blood. Giant strength will activate by loudly and creatively cursing, swearing against one's enemies, insulting their ancestors and so on. The Tenser's Transformation is activated only by blood, specifically the blood and pain of the weilder, and tends to activate in battle after the giant strength has already been triggered and the weilder is still screaming.

The Sword is also sentient, with a 14 INT and a 20 EGO, but is NEUTRAL CROTCHETY. It's an old sword, it's seen far too many battles, and it's not going to stir itself to possess any young fool to go out and slay dragons. Been there, done that. It was very content to keep itself wedged in the stone in the armory until young Parsival came in and honored it with a string of curses it hadn't heard since it was forged by... who was it? The dwarves? The trolls? It was a long time ago anyway, but after that, it seemed only right to reward the young one for making it remember. It may reward him a few more times if he continues to honor it the same way.

Parsival doesn't know any of this, except that he's packed on some extra weight since he found it, which is nothing unusual with the way he eats.

Further Investigation...

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