Arstan Malchior

Strong of body and pure of heart, the young minotaur Arstan wanders the world to spread the glory of Bahamut and to quench the oppression of evil over the weak

Description:

Minotaur, Cleric of Bahamut

Attribute Score Modifier
Strength 19 +4
Constitution 14 +2
Dexterity 10 0
Intelligence 11 0
Wisdom 16 +3
Charisma 12 +1
Bio:

Arstan was captured and taken from his people at a very young age by a vile necromancer. Forced into slave labour, he eventually matured into a large and powerful minotaur adult. Due to his natural size and strength, he was eventually forced into gladiator combat. Arstan learned the ways of battle and slaughter for the amusement of his evil master, but he never enjoyed killing the other prisoners and eventually rebelled by becoming a pacifist.

Before the necromancer’s wrath could be exacted, the dark fortress was stormed by an army of holy warriors. Sensing his opportunity to escape, Arstan fought against his captors and helped the Paladins destroy his evil master. The warriors of Bahamut took pity on the young slave and brought Arstan back to civilization. There he was feared at first, but eventually was accepted for his pure heart and his devotion to Bahamut, the Platinum Dragon. Now, after many years of study and prayer, Arstan leaves the quiet confines of his new home in order to spread the word of the Magnificent One to all those stranded in darkness. He seeks to free all of those suppressed by evil and to hunt down the undead with the fierce hatred of divine retribution.

Campfire tales…

Loud voices shouting in drunken revelry and song, mixed with the sounds of food being plated and eaten. Candlelight illuminated the busy tavern as the last rays of sunlight were disappearing outside.

The door swung free to bang loudly against the wall. In an instant, all eyes in the raucous common room were trained on the bulky figure standing in the opening. Pulling his outstretched furry hand slowly to his side, the monstrous figure looked back sheepishly. His beady dark eyes scanning the crowd, he noticed the widely varying responses to his startling entrance. From the looks of shock and horror, to the reflexive grasps for weapon hilts, there seemed to be a moment of indecision. But no sooner had he made a half-step back, when his companions barrelled past him and into the crowded tavern. Half a dozen Knights resplendent in shining plate marched in, with their helms tucked under their arms.

The stranger at the door, having moved aside to let his companions enter, awkwardly turned and shut the door to the elements. The knights stood in a half circle, challenging stares meeting all inquiring eyes with cold disdain. A battle-scarred human with wild black hair standing at the centre of the formation shouted out to the curious denizens, “We be paladins of the Platinum Dragon.” The knights snapped their fists to their hearts in salute with military precision. “This creature…” he continued, pointing back at the stranger, “we have liberated from captivity. He is a minotaur indeed, but fear him not. He is a kind soul. And I will challenge any individuals that wish him ill will or bodily harm at the end of my sword.” The room, fallen hushed as the commanding voice spoke, broke out in a flurry of hushed voices. “Arstan!” The knight called to the stranger. ”... yes? Yes sir?” The minotaur responded, his voice like rumbling thunder. “You are hungry, are you not?” he asked.

Arstan nodded in silent acknowledgement. The paladin called for a table and a meal to be served to his companions. The nearest table of dwarves sat up and spat on the ground in disgust. They stalked away from their half-eaten meals with dark looks for the minotaur, but otherwise kept their comments to themselves. The paladins claimed the table and removed their raiment for their meal. Walking slowly over, his hooved feet clacking on the wooden floor, Arstan seated himself gingerly at the table with them. The patrons returned to their meals and their ale, and soon enough the room had returned to it’s original state.

The serving wenches arrived with the hot platters of food. “Don’t worry about them, Arstan. They’ll come around,” the knight at his side muttered. The huge figure looked sadly around the room at the many conspicuous stares drinking in his appearance. The ebony curving horns extending from his temples flickered in the candlelight. The utensils in front of him looked impossible to handle with his three massive fingers. He felt as alien and unwanted as he had ever felt in his entire life. “And Arstan…” the knight continued, “perhaps I should open the doors from now on,” he smiled.

Arstan Malchior

Rada-Shen Arstan