Interestingly (?), along with the Dungeons & Dragons campaign I’m in with my other character, Lhoris, I’m in a second one. This is a completely different group with different people. Consequently, I’m playing a new character.
This character, Pimumo Longfoot, is a halfling (think “hobbit”, but not really a hobbit) fighter – classic “get up close to someone and beat them to death with a weapon” type of character. Since we’re using the “new” D&D rules (known by various labels, but for here, I’ll just call it 5E2024), the method for character creation has changed somewhat, and, beyond the basic ability scores, most of what goes into how a character is constructed comes from their “Origin” – how they came to be the character they are.
Wanting to play at least somewhat seriously (and effectively) this time, I went with what probably could be considered one of the optimal Origins for a fighter – Soldier. As soon as my mind wrapped itself around “Halflight Fighter who used to be a soldier”, I just knew there was an interesting story there.
And, consequently, here it is – Pimumo Longfoot’s backstory.
All through growing up, Pimumo Longfoot had always been aware of the ongoing threats to his small village of Violl’s Garden. The inhabitants were all Greenhands, with none of the adults taller than three-and-a-half feet. Pimumo was not quite fully grown yet, so he was just under three feet to the top of his head.
The threat would come every few years, when, for unknown reasons, the nearby monster population grew large. For a year, or worst times, two years, there would be constant sightings of red eyes and sharp fangs and claws from the forest. Or there would be mysterious giant webs hanging between the trees.
When the threat increased like that, some of the townsfolk would volunteer to take rotating watches on that side of the fields, keeping an eye out, should the beasts come forth. They seemed to be scared away by the nightly fires or the brave peasants, standing with pitchforks and hatchets.
Very occasionally, a lone wolf or giant rat – still bigger than any of the Greenhands – would lope or skitter out from the trees and an alarm would be raised. Nearby people would flock to the site and collectively threaten the beast, and the beasts always retreated, clearly frightened by the show of resistance rather than finding an easy target.
No one ever gave much serious thought to the regular cycle of increasing and decreasing monsters, but there was regular chatter in the tavern about it … while people weren’t busy hoisting their mugs of ale, that is. Pimumo was allowed in the tavern now, but all his red ale was heavily watered, and he could listen in.
“It’s the will of the gods, is what it is. Keep us on our toes.”
“I think it’s one of them evil wizards. Must’ve moved in nearby and is raising an army, y’see!”
“Then what makes ‘em go away again, ya’ drunken fool?”
“Maybe a dragon comes by and eats the lot of ‘em?”
“Have you seen a dragon nearby? Or heard one, ya’ idjit?”
“Champions, I tell you’s. It’s the,” burp, “champions what’re always going on about saving people. Daft buggers, hoping to get a couple of coin from monsters ‘stead of doing an honest day’s work.”
“Here, here!”
Pimumo knew he was now old enough to respond when the next monster season came around, and they were due for one. He imagined himself standing there, with the others, shouting and waving his hatchet at a monster and watching it turn around and flee. The thought brought a smile which he quickly hid. After all, monsters were not something to look forward to.
Sure enough, later that year, the first signs started to appear, and Pimumo was added to the roster of rotating watches.
It was the third night he’d been out there – the young always got the early night watches. He was posted just beyond the boundary of the Longfoot fields, making it easy for him to head home when he was relieved. The campfire was lit behind him and he had a comfortable log to sit on. The horn was next to him, ready to be grabbed and an alarm raised.
A humanoid shape emerged from the forest, a ragged cloak and hood moving with the slight breeze of the early evening. Pimumo thought nothing of it, the thoughts of champions still in his head from the tavern talk earlier that day. It slowly moved towards him.
After a couple of minutes, the shape was standing right in front of him and the head tilted down. Pimumo could suddenly see the red eyes which the hood had hidden from view. He grabbed his hatchet and flung himself at the figure, all thoughts of the horn gone from his mind.
“Pfagh! Too tiny,” and a skeletal hand battered him away as if he were a bothersome gnat.
Rolling with the blow, Pimumo whirled around and again raced towards the figure, screaming in frustration at it.
The creature turned its head and Pimumo’s wildly swung hatchet was easily avoided. “Only one of you. Not enough meat. Too tiny.” Again, a skeletal hand swung and connected, tossing Pimumo several feet away. The creature started to slowly walk towards the town.
Somewhat dazed, he got to his feet and shouted, “I’m not tiny! I’m almost fully grown! Don’t call me tiny!” He tried to run back to the creature, but again it simply casually batted him away with an arm, treating Pimumo as a mere annoyance.
This time, the blow fell too heavily and Pimumo tumbled and fell down, his vision fading as he lost consciousness.
When Pimumo finally regained awareness, the sun had risen. He sat up, wondering why his relief had not woken him. Then he remembered the events of the previous night and began to shake, realizing the possible results of his lack of horn-blowing and inability to stop the creature. The way it had just tossed him aside like he was nothing was humiliating – as well as being repeatedly called “tiny”.
Knowing the horn would be meaningless now, but holding tight to the hatchet, he raced towards the village, worried about what he would find.
Out of breath, he stumbled into the village center. Where there should already be many people walking around, heading to their work buildings or setting up market stalls, the entire village was eerily quiet. It was as if even the wind was unable to penetrate the area.
His first hint of just how bad it was came when he noticed the blood splatters on the stones of the central well. The bucket had also been ripped off and only a tattered rope was hanging.
“No, no, no…” he cried out, falling to his knees. He’d tried to fight instead of alerting everyone, failed miserably, and this was the result. He bent over, his stomach heaving but with nothing to expel, and pounded the well-trod path with his fists.
Some time later – he was unable to determine how much – he stood up again, with no more tears to shed, and began slowly walking out of town, along the main road, such as it was. His mind was blank and he was plodding along aimlessly, one foot in front of the other, as if hoping he would just pass out and never wake from this nightmare.
Several hours later, he’d reached the mixed species town of Penmawr. He hadn’t remembered anything about his journey. As he stumbled through the outer areas of the town, he vaguely heard marching feet in the direction of the center of town. Still in a daze, he moved towards the sound.
Once he reached the edge of the town square, he saw a column of human men, four across, all just in plain peasant clothing. There was one lone man in front of the column carrying a banner. Pimumo recognized it as the banner of the Wenem Kingdom. Another man was standing next to the column, wearing Wenem-decorated scale mail and a sheathed sword at his hip. He was shouting at he marching men.
Realizing this was probably men marching to be trained for duty, Pimumo half-ran / half-stumbled to the armored man and tugged at his sleeve.
“Please, sir. I want to learn how to fight.” His voice cracked through the last part of his plea, becoming barely a whisper.
He glanced at Pimumo, then shouted, “Pla-toon! Halt!” The marching men raggedly stopped marching, none of them at the same time as any others.
The man looked down at Pimumo, his full attention on him.
“Did you just call me ‘sir’? Do I look like some poofy-ass rich kid in fancy clothes with a feather on my hat, riding on a horse daddy bought for me? I work for a living, son! I am Sergeant Rhizal. And I am currently in charge of this here 2nd Platoon, 5th Company, 27th Battalion of the 41st Regiment of the Wenem Army.
“But you, son, will always address me by my rank, and call me ‘Sergeant’! Or, if you are about to tell me that you caused me problems so you are about to ruin my day, you will call me ‘Sergeant Rhizal’. Do you UNDERSTAND me?”
“Ye-yes, Sergeant.”
“Now, son. What was so important that you had to rush out here and interrupt me, making me stop this platoon from marching to their barracks to get some rest?”
“We-well, Sergeant, I …”, his voice caught again. “I want to learn how to fight…”
“You want to what? You got something to say, speak up, son! Otherwise, I’ll think it was a gust of wind that vaguely sounded like someone was talking.”
“I want to learn how to fight!”
“That’s better, son.” Rhizal looked him up and down, a quick action given Pimumo’s dimimutive height compared to a human. “You think you can keep up with the march with those short legs of yours? We keep things moving in this man’s army.”
“Ye-es, sergeant! I can march just as well as everyone else! But, p-please? Don’t call me ‘Tiny’.”
“Well, we’ll see if you can, son. Fall in. You keep up with everyone else, and we’ll get you squared away once we’re back to camp.”
“Fall in?”
“Get your short legs and scrawny ass to the back of this column of marching men who are going to camp so they can learn how to fight, recruit!”
“Yes, sergeant!”
Once Pimumo had reached the end of the column, he heard the sergeant call out, “Pla-toon! March!”
A season later and Pimumo realized just how much of a fool he’d been to try and take on … whatever it was that had shambled out of the woods that day. Even now, having spent almost every day since then in training or in combat exercises with the rest of his squad, he still was very unsure about taking on that challenge.
He’d become stronger through the training all soldiers received and, in a surprise to himself and those around him, had integrated well into his squad and the platoon overall.
All things come to an end, though, and there was constant whispering about how they were about to be deployed to the north. The ongoing hostilities along the border between Azterfor and Wenem were heating up and they were about to get tossed into the mill – to be ground up like all the rest of the fresh wheat.
No matter to him, though. He’d joined to learn how to fight and he was well on his way along that particular path. In any event, he was certain it would be announced to the platoon as a whole once it was definite.
A week later, sure enough, at mid-day, the platoon was ordered to assemble in the central space of their training campground. Everyone easily bore the weight of their chain armor with swords and warhammers slung. As soon as Rhizal exited his tent, all quiet murmuring ceased. They’d learned what happened to those who continued talking, even at a whisper.
At the call of “At-ten-SHUN!”, all the men snapped straight, heads high and eyes on the sergeant.
“As I’m sure you have all been gossiping and nannying around about, we are going off to war! This is what you joined for, and this is what you trained for!” Rhizal’s eyes slowly scanned the faces of each and every one of them.
“When you first got here, I saw weaklings! … Those afraid of their own shadow! Afraid of a slight rustle in the woods!” His eyes locked with Pimumo’s for a moment. “Little runts, trembling with fear.
“But now? Now, I see warriors! Fighters ready to tackle anything in front of them and destroy it!” The men cheered, and Rhizal waited for them to quiet down again.
“And it’s time to show those stinking Azterfor scum what real men can do! At sunrise, we break camp to march north to the border. Not that I expect anyone needs to be reminded, but make sure all your gear is prepped and ready for combat. That means checking everything, as you all know. Straps, chains, padding. Make sure those blades are sharp and thirsty.
“Any questions? No? Good. Platoon, dis-MISSED!”
From the moment they had arrived at the northern border with Azterfor, it had been semi-continuous combat. Unlike the open-field battles they had trained for, everything was skirmishing and probing attacks along roads, through fields and even along barely-present paths through dense woods. It was nasty and brutal and bloody.
Pimumo still didn’t know how he’d managed to avoid some of the insanely close calls he’d had and could do nothing but mark it down as pure dumb luck.
The worst, and closest, approach of his own personal death – even more so than that fateful night watch back in Violl’s Garden – had been two seasons into the fighting. He’d been knocked down and was staring at an enemy soldier holding a spear. Pimumo hadn’t had time to react to the charge and had been knocked down by this enemy who’d appeared out of nowhere and was about to skewer him on that spear.
The only thing which saved him was Rhizal popping up next to him, bashing the enemy in the face with his shield and then, with a grunt, lopping off the arm holding the spear. His only words had been, “Get off your lazy ass, son! You didn’t come this far just to get turned into another tally mark of those who didn’t make it back!”
Somehow, that gruff and growled comment had been enough to energize him out of his fear and he’d been able to rejoin the fray, even helping to make a difference – which had earned him a promotion to Corporal.
During the entire campaign, once or twice a season, they got leave and were rotated off the line for a few days to one of the nearby towns or villages. Every soldier going on leave would get a pouch and a warning to make sure they came back. The time spent in a town or village was always just a combination of getting cleaned up, drinking heavily, and, if you were lucky, taking a tumble with one of the tavern wenches or a farm girl who was willing. No matter what you did, you knew it was better to spend the coin now since you didn’t really expect to be around for the next leave.
The fighting lasted for a year and a season after they’d first arrived, with neither side making any advances or gains which lasted more than a month. Sure, they might grab some land – a push into Azterfor – but shortly thereafter the other side would push back, or push elsewhere and they’d be force-marched to reinforce that section, giving up what they’d gained. Sometimes it was the other way around.
But, no matter what happened, there were always fewer and fewer familiar faces week by week. The predicted mill grinding through wheat was doing its job and, sure as the river runs to turn the wheel, men’s lives were being chewed up like they were nothing.
It had been a chilly autumn morning when the entire unit, what was left of it, was called to form up in camp. The unusual aspect of this particular morning’s formation was they’d been called out without full packs – meaning they weren’t about to be on the march.
Rhizal stood at the front, holding a parchment, and waiting for his men to quiet down.
“Men! I have received notice that the war between us and Azterfor has been concluded.” Everyone started looking around, since they were all unaware of any major changes recently.
He continued, “Yes, you’re all wondering if we won or lost. And the answer is – neither. The nobility on both sides got tired of fighting and want to go back home to play with their horses and hunt boars or something like that. Everyone’s agreed to restore the borders as they were before all of this started.”
The soldiers stood in shocked silence as they all realized just how many lives had been lost to nothing.
“In addition, seeing as there is no need to keep this many soldiers around looking pretty …”, Rhizal’s head turned slowly as he looked at his remaining men, dirty and knowing how battered their shields and swords had become. “Many of the units currently active at the front are to be disbanded upon return to their base camps. You get to go home, sons.”
A barely muttered, “Dismissed” could be heard as he turned away and headed back to his own tent.
Pimumo’s mind had gone blank on hearing he would no longer be fighting like this. Trying to understand, he went to the Sergeant and asked to speak with him.
“Sergeant … you, you said we get to go home. I don’t have one any more. It’s why I’m here. I don’t know where else to go.”
“Corporal … son, you wanted to learn how to fight. You did and now you’ve learned the unfortunate lesson that just because you can, doesn’t mean you’ve necessarily got something to fight for. And, sadly, knowing how to fight definitely doesn’t mean you win. You can say you made a difference. Some of the men out there? They’re still here because you did make that difference.
“As for what to do next? Well, for me, I’ve got a wife and a son I haven’t seen in years.” Rhizal waved his hand to stave off the anticipated interruption.
“I know you don’t have a home or a family waiting for you. But you’ve got skills and I know there are others out there who would appreciate those skills and you using them. When the unit is disbanded, you’ll have a tidy pouch to hold you over. See more of the world. Have some good food and some better ale along the way. Maybe find a good lass somewhere out there and start a new family of your own – one you know you’ll be able to protect.”
“Y-yes, Sergeant.”
