The Chronicles of Astoria
A 24 year old human male Warblade. With bacon on top.
A Warblade is meant to be a machine. Kain, Oba’s mentor had taught him from the first day of training that his order does not train fighters, they train killers. There is no feeling, no questions and no hesitation. Kain held particular disdain for the flowery fighting styles of the elves. Oba reflected his master’s scorn with a fighting style that was quick, efficient and ruthless. There were no jumps, twirls, spins or flippant loops of the sword. From point A to point B with nothing in-between. Feints and dodges where simple steps back or to the sides. While monks use their opponents force to whirl around and allow them to unbalance themselves, Oba liked to stand firm and let them realize their mistakes after they’ve broken their own nose on his pauldrons. Oba had been trained from an early age to be a machine of death. But being a thoughtless, soulless organ of murder was not his lesson either. The mastery of a Warblade over his weapon could come not only from strength, but the mind as well. One does not kill at a whim. Rather one thinks about the alternatives to death, and when none is found, the machine takes over.
Oba was the son of a blacksmith. His family was neither poor, nor rich. He learned everything his father had to teach, and Oba was a very lucky son. His father was a fantastic craftsman, and Oba was an attentive student. To this day he still has a passion for well-made and fantastical armor and weapons. He never knew that one day, he’d be putting some of the finest examples of craftsmanship to use.
Oba’s father met Kain while the middle-aged Warblade was having him repair dented armor. After two hours of chatting while the smith’s hammer rang, Kain finally asked Oba if he’d like to see his helmet. Oba, thinking himself safely hidden behind barrels of water was startled to think that this man knew he was there when Oba hadn’t made a sound. Oba HAD been looking at the Warblade’s armor for the majority of the hours, and eagerly (and easily) hefted the helmet. Kain was instantly impressed with the twelve-year-olds strength. But what would the son of a blacksmith be, if not strong? After having him lift every piece of his armor, he finally let him wear all of it that would fit him. Everything but the breastplate, upper arm cannons, and upper leg cannons fit. With the armor on and the Warblade’s six foot sword in hand, Kain had him hold the sword straight out for as long as he could. After a full ten minuets and no sign of Oba letting up, Kain got bored.
Oba learned many lessons during his ten-year tutelage under Kain. When he was twenty-two, he decide that he’d make a name for himself, and see what all this training was for. While on the road he discovered many new lands, people and most importantly new armor and weapons. Another of life’s lessons hit him while admiring a very fine (and rather wicked looking) sword. If he wanted his own collection of armor and weapons, he’d need money. And a place to put them in, which also takes money. The most important lesson of the day, life takes money. Another item of great interest to Oba, that also takes money, was food. In particular, pork. His mother made it for his father after working the bellows and hammer, and when he was ten he got the honor of eating what his father ate. Since then, he’s never held any food higher then pork cut into strips and fried in a pan. If money made the world go ‘round, bacon made the machine within Oba work.
Oba has traveled far and long from home. While staying in Balduer’s Gate he found a discarded paper called The Herald. Apparently a newsletter from a distant land with all kinds of interesting happenings. Intrigued by a general call for adventurers and irritated with the large port city, he left for the town of Port Glow. From there he was directed to a local baron who had a simple request, with curious results.