This was fun to write!
I had never DM'ed or played a Warforged (I did not care for the Eberron game world).
But it's cool that the Warforged have carried over.
Someone else in here had a Warforged character background; so that was my first time taking a stab at that.
Naturally the Warlock mentioned comes from someone else's origin I wrote
on here. I love leaving strings for DM's to tug on for additional adventure ideas.
Also if you're familiar with Dragonlance you should probably catch the reference (there's a few; two fairly obvious; one a little more hidden).
As always, please give feedback! Whether you liked it, loved it, hated it - I want to hear the honest truth!
In the meantime, enjoy!
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The legend states that Moradin, God of the Dwarves, was born of stone and metal and that his soul was the eternal fire that lit the furnace for which he forged the world.
I look at my hands, decorated in the blood of my enemies, flexing my fingers. I am alive, and yet I am not. I pick up my war hammer and wipe the blood of the orc lying on my feet on his tattered leathers, his skull crushed so hard that his spine had ripped out of his back.
I was born of stone and metal.
My name is Powerhammer and I am a Warforged.
I do not have a heart or organs, but inside me burns a fire that keeps me alive.
I do not need to eat, drink, breathe, or even rest. I was made by the strong and powerful Dwarven Clan known as the Embers of the Forge. It had been Moradin’s Chosen, Clerics known as Sonnlinor, who had spent months forging me into what I am now; a living weapon.
Prime Directive: Protect what is good. Defend what is right. Destroy evil. Create beauty.
The Dwarves who forged me treat me as one of their own; and though I need not drink, they designed me so that I am able to process liquid. I do not suffer from the effects of intoxication but I understand the merriment and joy.
The battle cry of another charging Orc brings me back to the present. The Red Eye Orcs have long been trouble for the Embers of the Forge. The marauding Orcs have made constant attacks on our home; their leader, an Orc Warlock named Oragin Doomhammer believes that the Embers of the Forge is hiding some great secret.
As the Orc charges, I raise my shield and bash it into him as he charges me. Stunned he falls backward, trying to regain his senses. At my side “a weapon of the forge” directly powered by the flame inside of lit up. It’s a weapon called a pyroconverger, and with a simple press of the weapon, it’s like a venomous snake spewing fire. The orc screams as his dry, crumpled leathers immediately catch fire.
As he flailed about on the floor, I picked up my war hammer and silenced him forever. The Red Eye Orcs were retreating now but they would be back. They always come back.
For tonight, we celebrated at Old Man Flint’s Fireforge, a small tavern with a tremendous amount of heart. Dwarves clanked their mugs in celebration, each describing how many orcs that they had killed tonight; and each time they repeated their version of the story, the amount of kills went up by one or two each time.
While the others celebrated, I sat in the corner. There was something wrong. I couldn’t explain it. One of the Sonnlinor had once described the sensation of “knowing something wasn’t quite right” as a sense called Instinct.
I was having an Instinct.
Despite having fought off the Red Eye Orcs, yet again, I did not find the typical satisfaction I normally felt. I could not celebrate with those who had called my “brother.”
As the night progressed, the celebrations slowly waned, and Dwarves left to stumble their way back home. Jasper’s voice awoke me from my internal thoughts as I delved into this sensation I was feeling. Jasper placed his hand on my shoulder, “Are you not going back to the Cathedral?”
I looked up at Jasper and could not answer him.
Jasper smiled warmly. “Do not worry, my friend. You are always welcome to sleep here.”
Sleep. Jasper knew I did not sleep, but when it was peaceful, I would disconnect from myself and “shut down” – similar to “sleeping.”
When Jasper blew out the last candle, I let the darkness swallow me whole.
Then I saw it; a horde of undead; a horde of demons; and brave warriors fighting against friends who had been raised as a part of this undead army.
“It is time,” I heard a voice whisper. “Your hidden prime objective is now activated.”
My eyes flared open and I found myself walking, almost uncontrollably, in the middle of the night.
This horde of demons; this horde of undead; they would pay.
I will put them down and send them to their maker.
Just as my own maker had whispered those words in my mind.
“It is time.”