D&D: Male Halfling Barbarian

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You arrive at the coastal metropolis of Waterdeep a rainy october evening, when the streets are flooded with rain and the skies dark with clouds. The air is thick with moist and so cold that not even your heaviest fur cloak manages to preserve any warmth. Thankfully the "Slutty Mermaid", a shabby-looking tavern by the harbor, lies just on the far end of the street, and so you quickly march over in order to find shelter from the rain.

The very moment you enter everyone inside, mostly gritty sailors and mercenaries, turn their heads towards your tiny frame in the doorway. Barely three feet tall and dressed in nothing but a loincloth and fur cloak, you must have been a funny sight to the other patrons, because a wave of quiet laughs and chuckling quickly fills the room. However, they just as quickly return to their drinks and conversations, ignoring you as you step up to an empty table in the far corner of the room, waving for one of the bar wenches.

You're used to people laughing at you and your occupation, nobody ever expects a halfling to be a capable fighter, much less a barbarian. But you were born to the untamed wilds of the north, and learned to put your faith in instincts and strength instead of the opinions of lesser men. Ever since you were old enough to grow hair on your chin you've been wandering the world in search of challenges and plunder, with skills that civilized people couldn't master in a lifetime.


The waitress, a skinny blonde in her mid 40's, brings a mug of ale to your table which you then drink while scanning the surroundings. The place as a whole is little more than a dusty shack with hay strewn across the floor and a rickety staircase leading to the rentable rooms upstairs. A fat elven innkeeper stands over by the bar and a filthy dog lies sleeping just next to your table. In general this dump seems to be a sorry excuse for a tavern, and if it hadn't been for the rain you would probably never have entered.

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