<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://www.dfwd20.com/photopost/data/522/medium/Human_Fighter1.jpg)</td><td><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: edwardian;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 2.65em;">Alfreic Slate, Soldier</span></span><br/><em>In Combat</em><br/></strong><hr/><strong>OOC:</strong>  Mr. Slate rolled a 13 initiative.  <br/><br/>He is going to charge towards S2, as he is nearest, gaining a +2 to attack and a -2 to AC (+7 to ATK, 11 to AC).  <br/><br/>I am declaring my action:  I rolled a natural 10, for a total of 17 for my initial attack against S2.<br/><br/>If success, I rolled 7 damage with a 1d8+3 longsword.  All terribly average, I'm afraid.<br/><hr/><br/>Mr. Slate appeared positively like a devil now, screaming obscenities as he barreled towards the two soldiers.  He had been running for a healthy length of time now at break neck speed, but hadn't tired yet.  By this time, he had his masterwork longsword in both hands, his massive melon-sized shoulders beaming with musculature and his rippled abdomen shining now as he twisted his torso with each stride.  He was fleet-footed, this Alfreic Slate, a machine conjured by fate to do war and be good at it.<br/><br/> "Betide ye, vagrants!  Away ye, varmint!  Know terror and perish!" he bellowed like a seething dragon, and then let out a terrific roar that was something less than human.<br/><br/></td></tr></tbody></table>