Muireadhach, The Lowlander

Hunter. Wanderer. Survivor.


“What on earth would I do if four bears came into my camp?
Why, I would die for course.
Literally shit myself lifeless."

― Bill Bryson

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Muireadhach stands just over four feet high. His build is stocky, with thick muscles roping through his tattooed arms and deep wrinkles cutting gutters through his leathery face. He smells of the outdoors, of musk and body odor, and his breath wreaks of rotting teeth and spoiled ale. His eyes are blue-black slits, peering suspiciously out from beneath bushy black brows. His hair is a completely unkempt catastrophe, despite being short by most dwarven standards. More unusual, by most dwarven standards, is the fiasco that is his beard: a coal black thatch of grimy wool, spit-sodden, and clipped by the sheer of his bowstring. Those who can reckon a dwarf’s age might reckon him to be in his fifties or sixties: but his general dishevelment makes it a difficult kenning.

Muireadhach moves like a cacophony, booted feet stomping mud holes in his path. In battle, he thunders across the field like a dwarf who has never lost a fight. His tramping feet batter the ground erratically as he dodges blows in a manner more becoming a bar-room brawl than a field of combat. Once the fighting starts, Muireadhach is never still; a tightly packed ball of obscenities and nervous reflex, the dwarf fights spastically and unpredictably, a filthy marvel to behold.

Muireadhach’s backpack bulges, overstuffed with clanking pots, empty tins, and all the necessities of life. The dwarf never sheds the pack—the rounded shape of its over-stretched seams enhancing his sturdy, squat silhouette. The pack sits atop a dark green cloak of rams wool, stained with murk and mud. Beneath these well worn layers, Muireadhach wears a breastplate as black as midnight, a single pauldron wrought in the shape of a fanged skull; the eyes glow with obvious arcane empowerment. Fastened around his belt is an absurdly overwrought belt, burnished black and bronze, whose buckle bears an arcane sigil ringed in runes. A black headband holds back the ever-lengthening tangle of bristle-black hair atop the dwarf’s head, and his arms are encased in bronze bracers as over-wrought as they are massive. Each arm depicts a massive Roc swooping over a mountain top; the sigil of the Freemountain.

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Those who know Muireadhach know him to be of questionable scruples and extreme shrewdness. He has little or no respect for boundaries, or for the law, and is openly derisive of authority figures at every opportunity. Muireadhach is quite willing to squat and ‘borrow’ his way around town, and seems to think nothing wrong with living life to his own benefit. Indeed, he encourages others to do just the same, advocating his own unique brand of rugged individualism.

Muireadhach has been run out of countless towns and villages for offenses ranging from simple rabble-rousing to massive-scale property damage, and he relates his many tales of civil disobedience readily and lustily. Despite his unwillingness to bend his scruples to society, he seems keen on entrepreneurship and surprised when local custom is less-than-accommodating to his business ventures. Muireadhach is unflappable in the face of social catastrophe, and is quite at ease double-talking and passive-aggressing his way through even the most outrageous scenarios.

Wil is Muireadhach’s best friend. The young lad is always first on the dwarf’s mind during battle. Indeed, Wil is perhaps one of the few positive influences in Muireadhach’s long and storied life of adventure. Since befriending Wil, Muireadhach has seemed all-together more concerned with helping the helpless—thought it is unclear whether that’s out of a sense of do-goodery, a desire to pre-empt lynching, or simply to make Wil happy.

Muireadhach’s greatest aspiration is to reclaim the Freemountain, his clan’s homestead in the eastern Fenwall Mountains. Freemountain was sacked by giants some ten years past. Most of the elder Freemountains were killed and Muireadhach and the remaining Freemountain cousins were scattered to the four winds. Never a convivial clan, early attempts to reclaim the land from the giant invaders fell victim to poor organization, in-fighting, and the craven nature of many of the surviving cousins. Ultimately, the few remaining Freemountains were turned away from their homestead to live the life of exiles. Muireadhach has made it plain that he has no love for his cousins and less love for giants.

Muireadhach is a survivalist, an enemy to goblins, a slayer of giants, and a dwarf of great prejudice. He is currently squatting in Wil’s living room.

Party Relations

“So, I’m led t’understand that Askir was Hyacinth, but not, an’ that he’s a she on th’inside, but not, an’ . . . well frankly I don’t give a good gods damn. Here’s what I know: Hyacinth she was a little murdery and damned creepifyin’. But Askir, Askir’s a fine lad and seems out fer th’good. Even if’n he is a little holier-than. Ought t’remember he was a serial killer once-upon, he ought!”

Approval Rating:
+1 (Fine Enough)
Muireadhach totally trusts Askir’s skill at arms.
Muireadhach mostly distrusts Askir’s experience and cunning.
Muireadhach mostly trusts Askir’s lore and learning.
Muireadhach mostly distrusts Askir’s business and social savvy.
Muireadhach totally distrusts Askir’s morals and scruples.

“M’best friend he is! Heart full’a gold, head full’a rocks, but th’best’ve us all th’same! Lad’d do anything fer anybody, sure. Damn’d doe-eyed innocence’a his’s gonna’ get him killed; but not on my watch! I’ll keep th’lad kickin’ long enough for’m t’grow a few more wits! If’n th’head wounds don’t catch up with’im. Mark m’words, y’mess with one’a us, yer messin’ with us both!”

Approval Rating:
+4 (Stouter’n Blood)
Muireadhach totally trusts Wil’s skill at arms.
Muireadhach mostly trusts Wil’s experience and cunning.
Muireadhach totally distrusts Wil’s lore and learning.
Muireadhach mostly trusts Wil’s business and social savvy.
Muireadhach totally trusts Wil’s morals and scruples.

Muireadhach, The Lowlander

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