D100 Dungeon: Book 1 - Introduction (Cayleb)

D100 Dungeon Base Game Only

Name: Cayleb the Cold
Race: Dwarf
Hero Path: Warrior
Weapon: Baton (-2 Dmg)
Armor: Pavise Shield (S4), Scale Mail Hauberk (A3), Studded Leather Chausses (A1)
Core: Strength: 65, Dexterity: 35, Intelligence: 20 (Ability: Mighty Blow)
Skills: Bravery 5, Escape 5, Locks 5, Lucky 5, Strong 5
Belt: 1 x Potion of Healing
Backpack: 2 x Potions of Healing

The Journal of Cayleb the Cold

The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the tavern walls as I dipped my quill in a small container of ink next to a chipped tankard of ale. The scent of smoke and stew mingles with the laughter of other adventurers, a stark contrast to the icy silence I expected from this backwater village. But for now, this is home, the last oasis before I plunge into the frozen maw of the Frostfang Peaks.

My name's Cayleb, Cayleb the Cold, and these scribbles are my testament to what awaits inside that mountain. Some call it madness, seeking treasure in a glacier's gut. But madness thrives in warmth, while I, I'm as comfortable in a blizzard as a fish in a frozen lake. It's in my blood, the chill, the grit, the stubborn refusal to yield to anything, even death.

Aye, my skills are honed like the icicles that hang from my beard. Locks picked with practiced ease, years of tinkering with dwarven contraptions giving me a knack for disarming any contraption, magical or mundane. Escape? I can vanish like a snowman in a spring thaw, thanks to years of dodging frost trolls and outsmarting yeti patrols. And when all else fails, my weapons speak a language even the dumbest troll understands.

But skills ain't the only tools I carry. My trusty pavise shield, forged from the scales of an ice drake, can shrug off a dragon's breath like a winter breeze. And hidden in my belt pouch, two vials of healing brew, my best and closest friends.

What drives me into this icy hell, you ask? Glory? A dragon's hoard of glittering trinkets? Nah, lad, those fade quicker than morning mist. My reasons aren't carved deep, like the scars on my face. It's simple. There's a darkness festering in the Peaks, a whisper of ancient evil that threatens to choke the life out of these lands. I may be as cold as a glacier, but my clan has always fought critters we know should stay buried away.

So raise a tankard, comrades, to those who walk the frozen path. To the mad, the brave, the foolish enough to stare into the heart of winter and spit in its face. I, Cayleb the Cold, am heading into the Frostfang. It's time to face the blizzard, one frozen step at a time. Now, refill my ale, the ink's gettin' thin and the mountain awaits.

P.S. Keep my seat warm, lads. There's plenty of tales to tell when I return, if the frost doesn't claim my tongue first. And if anyone asks, tell them Cayleb the Cold went out like a snowman in the sun, blazing bright before he melted away. Now, cheers to that!