Dukendu Alghizama

Fey bent warlock, ship spellcaster for the Golden Gale.

Description:
STR 15 +2 DEX 19 +4 CON 16 +3 INT 16 +3 WIS 14 +2 CHA 21 +5
FORT +5 REF +5 WILL +6 ARMOR CLASS +8 BAB +4 CMB +6

HP:54 Death@-13hp

Initiative:+3

Perception:+4 (+5 for Migrus)

Bio:
Leaving Home, Excerpt1

It is hot. The smells of heat, smoke, sweat, incense; and a tinge of fear permeate my nostrils. I awaken from one of many cleansing rituals in the sweat lodge that I find myself subjected to by our tribal shaman. He tells me that the spirits find me too easily. That some of them have malign intent, and until I am ready; he shall have to ward me lest I become a threat to myself or others. If only he had come to this realization when I was a boy; playing amongst the fronds surrounding our village with my “invisible” friends. Perhaps if he had cast his ward upon me then, I would not have been possessed and the spirit in my body would not have attacked or attempted to molest my family. I know that exile comes for me; and I feel it looming oppressively, much like the humid noon day air in the sweat lodge.

Leaving Home, Excerpt2 p. Dizzy. My whole world is reeling. For a moment I take inventory of my body, trying to provoke response or feeling from each limb; pausing to listen and discern whether my heart beats or my lungs catch breath. Last I remember, our tribal shaman was trying to teach me to summon and bind an old spirit to assist in today’s endeavor. We drew the lines, filled the circles with symbols; I felt faint and heard the shaman take an urgent and sharp intake of air. He frantically starts muttering, incantations I’ve never heard him use before. Then black...

My head rolls to the left, nothing else moves. As my eyes refocus I see lifeless orbs of one of our tribal warriors stare into mine. I want to scream but nothing comes. His mutilated figure a horror to my senses. I try to avert my gaze by allowing my head to tilt to the right. I see our tribal shaman panting and obviously fatigued, his left arm drenched in blood flowing from a ragged gash in his shoulder. He tells me something, and it’s sounds distant and and as if time itself and slowed to a crawl. They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and in his; for the first time I see fear.

Dukendu Alghizama

Voyage of the Golden Gale jonschu