Jasmine Clahn

Half-Orc Drunken Master Virago and owner of the Grub and Grog brewery/restaurant.

Description:
  • 72 Hit Points
  • STR 22 [+6]
  • DEX 14 [+2]
  • CON 14 [+2]
  • INT 12 [+1]
  • WIS 12 [+1]
  • CHA 10 [+0]
  • SPEED 50

SAVES

  • FORTITUDE +13
  • REFLEX +11
  • WILL +8
  • +2 to enchantment effects
  • BASE ATTACK 8/3
  • INITIATE +6
  • GRAPPLE +14

ARMOR CLASS

  • AC 23/24/25 (AC/dodge/swaying waist)
  • TOUCH 17
  • FLAT-FOOTED 16

Cash On Character

  • 2,985 gp

WEAPONS

  • Unarmed 14/9, 13/13/8 2d6+6 x2 20 magical
  • Improvised 14/9, 13/13/8 2d6+6+1d4 x2 20 b, p, or s
  • 1 drink 15/10, 14/14/9 2d6+7(+1d4)
  • 2 drinks 16/11, 15/15/10 2d6+8(+1d4)
  • 3 drinks 17/12, 16/16/11 2d6+9(+1d4)

Armor

  • Robe of armor +4

Other Gear Equipped

Non Equipped Gear on Character

  • Heward’s Handy Haversack with 116/120 bottles of Jasmine ale.
  • A Sai, for disarming purposes.

Items Not On Character

Feats and class features

  • Unarmed Strike
  • Flurry of Blows
  • Stunning Fist
  • Deflect Arrows
  • Dodge
  • Evasion
  • Still Mind
  • Ki Strike (Magic)
  • Great Fortitude
  • Slow Fall 40
  • Purity of Body
  • Wholeness of Body
  • Improved Disarm
  • Improvised Weapons
  • Drink like a Demon
  • Stagger
  • Mobility
  • Improved Initiative
  • Swaying Waist

Weapon Group Proficiencies

  • Monk

Flaws

  • Shaky -2 ranged attack bonus

Skills (only doing those that I have points or synergies in)

  • Balance +4
  • Hide +13
  • Jump +7
  • Bluff +11
  • Knowledge Religion +12
  • Move Silent +13
  • Spot +13
  • Tumble +15

Physical Description

  • Sex: Female
  • Age: 31 years
  • Height: 6’6"
  • Weight: 240 lbs
  • Looks: Not a particularly attractive specimen of the half-orc heritage, Jasmine’s olive-green skin and long, whispy tendrils of wavy black hair are sharply contrasted by her blazing yellow eyes. Being taller than most men, it is not unusual for men of any race to notice her bountiful bust at their eye level before they notice her face. Men have lost teeth for this, and those that know her quickly adapt.
Bio:

In the city of Athkatla, the capital of Amn, Jasmine Clahn owns and operates a restaurant and brewery called the Grub and Grog. It rests half on the land and half over the water, the brightness of its red paint offering sailors and merchants at the enormous seaport an obvious haven to grab a meal and restock their consumed stores of rum, beer, and wine before heading to an inn or back to their ship. But the Grub and Grog is not just a brewery. It is closely tied to the sect of Windsailors, and the profits do not end up in the pockets of Jasmine Clahn, but in the pockets of the Windsailor organization. Ms. Jasmine, a surly-looking half-orc, complains frequently to the Windsailors about her need for cash to renovate in order to make more room for patrons and to repaint against the elements, and the Windsailors would probably be more than happy to release a portion of her offerings back to her, but she rarely takes more than absolutely necessary. Her personal sacrifice is a compensation for her vices. She contents herself with being a backslidden monk of Ilmater, being dedicated in her efforts to at least loosely follow his teachings. She expects little in return from the deity or his monks or paladins, and instead focuses on the joy of helping others, and finding pleasure in the thanks of those that share it. Her “loose dedication” to Ilmater is most notable in the way she runs her business. Known across Faerun for its orc-green colored label, Jasmine’s self-named ale is a viciously potent, dark roasted ale. While the flavor may not be among the top labels of ale, Jasmine-the-brew has thrived on the in the gullets of sailors and in drinking games and wild parties across the land for almost a decade. Perhaps most noted for its fearsome burn on the way down, many Jasmine addicts claim that, despite its intensity, they can drink nearly endless amounts of it and never get sick, even if they are so drunk they cannot stand. This is because each bottle is polished off with a single drop of a curing potion to calm the stomach, but only a select few in the kingdom of Faerun know this to be the case. And while that single drop of curing ointment does dramatically increase the cost of Jasmine-the-brew, Jasmine-the-half-orc has a far easier time of accessing and affording her curing ingredient than anyone on the docks of Athkatla might guess. Not only is the Grub and Grog a brewery of Jasmine and a restaurant for sailors and merchants, hidden in its underbelly is another brewery, a brewery of magical potions. Jasmine’s connections with the Windsailors runs deep, and several wizards of no small power frequent her establishment for a brew of an entirely different nature. Jasmine provides everything except the magic, and in return for her services, the wizards proffer her with a percentage of whatever they make. In exchange for her loyalty and services, The Windsailors eventually promoted her to a position of leadership within their organization. She now commands a cell of their members from the cover of her business, and sends messages out abroad through her thousands of yearly Jasmine-the-brew shipments. Some of hear business associates are also members of the Windsailors, and shipments of raw materials prove adequate for her to acquire almost anything she might need to perform her true work. Jasmine hopes that someday, between her assistance to the goodly wizards of the Windsailors, and her constant funding of gold pieces to the organization, and her thus-far successful leadership, Ilmater might find it right to overlook her tendency make her own way and bless her once more with re-acceptance into one of his monasteries.

I’m Jasmine. I like ale. I dunno, there’s not much else to tell. What? Where was I born? Who the fudge cares about that? It was in uhh… um… It was… I can’t remember. See? I told you that’s all there was to tell. The past is fudged, live for the next drink, I always say. What? Earliest memory? Fudge. Drinking by the fireside of Elder Pal. What? Why the fudge are you laughing? It’s a great fudgin’ memory. His monastery was fudging blessed by being next to a brewery. Why do I have to do this without a drink? Yeah, Brother Pall was the guy that raised me. I don’t think he was my father, that would have gone against his vows, but you never know. He did alright with me, I ‘spect, though I was happy whenever he drank, which was every night. It always mellowed him out and made him seem like more of a guardian and less of a fudgin’ monk. Yes, he’s the one that put me into Ilmater’s monastery. It was his, he ran it, what else was he gonna to do with me? He told me I could chant the basic rites by the time I was three. I sure do remember chantin’ a lot, but I don’t remember bein’ three. By the time I was 12, I was a right capable little monkess and a full-blown alcoholic. I chanted in the mornin’ and drank and pissed in the evenin’. The afternoons I learned all the other fudgin’ stuff that monks are known for besides chantin’. Some afternoons I skipped and sneaked down to the brewery to watch them make my favorite thing in the world. Fudge, that was a good brew. No way in fudge the monastery could have afforded it. Did I mention the owner was kind of a sucker for the monks of Ilmater? Yeah. Fudge. The age of 15 was the worst time of my life. The monks started staring at my chest about this time, and I bled once a month as is the way of women. Fudge, I had no idea what was going on. Everything in my life changed, or at least, I thought it had. One of the monks fudgin’ tricked me into his quarters and had me half-naked by the time I could start swinging. He knew what he was doin’, but he didn’t know how strong a half-orc is. I punched his lights out, and finished my combo with a gorgeous uppercut that sent him out the window. Hahahahahaaa, the Fudger. I can still see his grimy, sweaty face smeared with his own blood, and that look of surprise as he sailed head first out the window. Well, his fudgin’ quarters was on the fourth level of the monastery, and his brains splattered twenty feet across the courtyard. When I looked out the window and saw monks running toward his body from every direction, I was gripped with panic. I knew for sure that Ilmater would forsake me for killing one of his monks. I was supposed to be absorbing people’s hurt, not making the ground absorb their brains. I fled the monastery in tears, and ran all the way to the one other place I knew in life, the brewery. My robes must have been torn up real good that night and I didn’t realize it, ‘cause people would stand to stare at me from across the room. I just sat at the bar and cried and drank and cried some more. The owner recognized me and put me to bed in a storeroom, or I’m sure I’d have been fudged by a mob of hungry men. The next years were confused. I took a job at the brewery and hid from the monks of Ilmater. Elder Pal nearly found me, but I sneaked out the back door as he came in the front. Then, after several years of learning the business and sucking down ale, Elder Pal died. The brew master came to me that night and said something I’ll never forget. He said to me, Jasmine, you sure are helpful around here. He said, You do everything we ask you to, and then some. You clean the floor when it’s not even dirty, you wait tables when even you’re off-duty, and you watch over my brew better than I do, he said. Jasmine, why did you run away from the monastery? You’re the best monkess of Ilmater I’ve ever met, but I think you’ve missed out on helping the one that needed it most. Go back to the monastery, Jasmine, he said. Give your Elder the ceremony he deserves, and be reunited with Ilmater, he said. The broken god requires the strong…. Especially half-orc strong… to do more, and your journey is just beginning. His words were like a flash of light, as thought I’d been listening to Ilmater himself speak, rather than the furry brew master. I picked him off the ground as I hugged him, and then ran all the way back to the monastery. The new elder of the monastery welcomed me back on the conditions that I give up ale and that I attempt to obey every nuance of Ilmaterian teaching I’d ever learned. I agreed, overjoyed that the monks were willing to overlook my murdering one of our brethren. That lasted a week. After seven days of being dry, I had no more power to follow the will of Ilmater than I had to keep myself from diving back into the barrel. Three days later, the elder found me passed out in my quarters with bottles all around, and shook me awake, yelling loudly. I’m not sure what happened next. I thought he tried to hit me. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, I don’t know. I was so drunk. Next thing I know I’m bobbing and weaving around him as he tries to grab me and hold me still. I don’t think he ever touched me. I was so worried about touching him or letting him touch me, the flashback from my last experience in a living quarters with a monk loud in my mind. After several attempts to lay hands on me, the Elder finally started shouting for assistance. Three monks rushed into the room, and I ducked and scuttled and dodged and meandered past all four of them, sometimes bent doubled, sometimes upside down, but always moving, made it to the hallway, and ran out of the monastery. I think, in his own way, Ilmater felt sorry for me. He recognized that I meant to follow him, and appreciated it enough to grant me a way to serve him in my own way. Whether that be true or not, from that moment on, alcohol treated me differently. Or rather, my body reacted to alcohol differently. I didn’t know what it all meant, though, for several more years. I wandered into Athkatla, found a job as a fudgin’ bar wench, and might have stayed there forever were it not for the Windsailors. Two of them frequented my place of employ, and through them I achieved contact with a sect of Ilmaterian monks known as the Broken Fist. When I inquired why they broke away from the highly respectable order of the Broken Ones, they replied with the one word that made all the difference in my world: booze. Through them I learned the fighting style of the drunken master, learned to channel alcohol into different parts of my body, even to allow the haziness of my mind and the clumsiness of my inebriated body to transform into a furious fighting fudgetard. The next time I saw the two Windsailors, I thanked them over and over again and offered to help them in anyway that I could. Their answer surprised me. They wanted me to join them. I did. And my journey of service for Ilmater truly began. The Windsailors were just beginning to establish a foothold in Athkatla, a small tavern on the docks, and they thought I could work there as a bar wench and support the illusion. In a step of blind stupidity and boldness, I told them I could do more than that; I could run the whole show. I knew how to brew, I knew how to wait tables, I knew how to cook, I knew how to fight, and I knew how to keep secrets. They could search all over Amn, I told them, but nobody was as fit for the job as I was. They looked at each other across the table, looked back at me, and said, you’re right. The Grub and Grog started as a nameless, two-room shack. My first two choices as a new business owner were to paint the exterior the brightest red I could and name it something quick and easy. Within a year, I had retrofitted the inside to look as nice as the exterior and filled the front porch with as many tables as I could. They invariably filled every night, and sailors took to lighting a fire just past the porch and drinking on the sand of the beach when there was no more room inside. A year later, I purchased the warehouse next door and attached the two structures. I had my brewery, and it took me all of a year to perfect the Jasmine Brew, though I never would have were it not for the continued mutual support of the Windsailors. The more money I made, the more money I gave them, and the more willing they were to take risks within my establishment, both in the knowledge they shared with me and smuggling shady goods through my doors under the guise of being components of Jasmine-the-brew. Six years after I opened the doors, the Windsailors dug a secret compartment underneath the warehouse and begun a brewing station of their own: magical potions. About this same time I shut down the bar for two months while I tripled its size and added another bar. Not long after that, the leadership of Windsailors approached me with congratulations on my outstanding accomplishments and service, and offered me a Windsailor cell of my own. The offer came as a surprise, as I did not think I knew enough of the House of Quidove and other enemies to really be an asset in the way of leadership. They said, Jasmine, if you work this cell like you worked the Grub and Grog, we fear for your enemies. Life has been good since then, despite the nagging feeling in the back of my head that I am not the monk I should be. I still try to follow the teachings of Ilmater as much as I can, and I see my Broken Fist brethren as often as I can. For now, I have much to do, and I pray that I have Ilmater’s blessing, whether I fight this battle as he would want or not.

Jasmine Clahn

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