White wall

Where the corrupt seek to conquer the small, That is the place where the White Wall stands tall.

The White Wall is an amalgam of short stories of a Fighter in 4E which the player wants his char to be immortalized. Awesome ensues.

He also got his char immortalized in a way, clever girl...



In OP's word:

So, /tg/, my 4e group just got characters we've been playing for about two years now to hit 30 with no cheats and no obvious level grinding.

We did it.

>Divine character is now an Exarch fighting the good fight for his god. He was lifted in a pillar of light as soon as the final fight was over

>The Primal character disolved into a pile of "Primal-ness" and is now a Primal spirit herself, fully connected with nature.

>The Arcane character, after giving my character a final handshake, stepped through a portal to a tower at the edge of the elemental chaos where he plans to spend his days studying that plane and how to harness it's great power

>My martial character is just left standing there

I'm not sure what do with this guy... My group is having a "epilogue" session next week so I need to think of something.

My guy never wanted power, never wanted to fight, but forced himself to in order to protect his hometown (And things spiralled from there). He's at the peak of human ability... and it's all downhill from here.


I think he'll start a farm back in the hometown

How to use him In GameEdit

The White Wall as a roving force for good, but evil forces managed to disassemble it and weaken the animating magics. Once the heroes re-assemble it, they find that, while it can no longer move completely on it's own, it can assist a wearer with it's own strength, acting kinda like magical powered armor (the setting I'm using has all kinds of little magitek bits, becaust our whole group really likes magitek). I've been coming up with endgame items for the various party members, and this'll be perfect for the party's Paladin (uses the Paladin Of Freedom variant class from 3.5, so he's not a total moralfag).

The White Wall Greater Deity

Symbol: A suit of full plate Armour seemingly made of pearl white bricks.

Home Plane: The Cross Roads

Worshipers: Those who would stand against Darkness, Oppression and Evil, Fighters, Warriors, Paladins and Good Humans.

Cleric Alignments: Any non Evil

Domains: Good, Protection, Community, Strength and Nobility

Favoured Item: 'The White Wall' Full plate Armour


Number IEdit

"And then he returned to his village, and hung his great armor in the entry hall, and it gleamed like a star. He settled down, and wrote his memoirs, and live a quiet life...for a few years. But there were new wars, new evils, greater dangers, and the world needs saving."

The old man closed the dusty old tome, and slowly stood, bones creaking as the child scrambled forward to help his grandfather up.

"And somewhere, in the wide world, amongst the planes even, there stands 'The White Wall'. For those who cannot stand for themselves."

Number IIEdit

One average day on the farm, the fighter tilling the field and enjoying the peace he worked so hard to acquire, sees his young children rushing towards him. They're scared about something and beg him to rush to the town square. It takes only a moment for what are old bones and tired muscles to snap back to the readiness of the all those years ago. In full sprint he makes for the square, dreading the possiblities. Have the orcs gotten so bold? Has an old foe come to enact his revenge? Is his wife alright? All these questions fly through his mind as he leaps over the towns fence in a single bound. Dashing he makes his way through the streets, over carts and past surprised onlookers. But as he reaches he reaches the square there is no death or pain, only confusion. The statue in the town square, upon which his impervious armor "White Wall" stood for years, was missing.

Although the fighter had many powerful friends, they could find no thief of the armor, none of their old allies could find even a trace of someone who would have even dared remove it. Especially though their magical protections they had placed on it all those years ago. It was if the armor itself had simply gotten up and walked away.

It was a few years later that the fighter heard a strange tale from a traveling bard. He'd grown accustomed to hearing his own tales of his adventuring days, the glory of the white wall and his defense of all things innocent. All that poetic stuff, but this tale was one he'd never heard before, because he was never in the east and didn't recall ever fighting off a pair of blue dragons. After his story the fighter asked the traveler where he heard the story. It came from a man he met crossing from the east, in a caravan, only a few months ago.

As the man aged, he heard more tales. People claiming to see the White Wall and his heroic efforts to save them. But all this time he was here, home on the farm. Did someone steal his armor only to continue his great quest to save others? It seemed impossible, his armor was so enchanted no other creature could wear it but him.

As the time came, as it does to all men, the fighter rested in his favorite chair, overlooking his prosperous farm and marveling at how his hometown had grown. He smiled a wrinkled grin and enjoyed the sun warming his old bones. He heard footsteps coming from around the corner of his old home. Even now he was still alert, and in a moment up on his feet and ready with his cane, though it was too much for him, and he began to tumble. The footsteps turned to a rush of armored clanking, and before he could fall to the ground he was caught in cool metal hands. He thanked the stranger, and looked up, only to see his own armor had caught him. But what was stranger, was that behind the faceplate there was no eyes. No face nor head, the armor was moving of it's own accord. It placed him down in his chair and handed him his cane. The fighter couldn't hear the armor, for it didn't speak, but knew that it had returned only to say farewell. Although the fighters time had finished, there were always towns that needed protection, wars to fight, and innocent people who needed help. His body could no longer continue the fight, but his armor could and so it would. The White Wall will always fight, until the end of days it will fight, and when that day comes it will fight still.

Number IIIEdit

"The soldier looks around. His foe lays motionless at his feet. His allies have all have left for brighter futures and promises of tomorrow, and for the first time in a long time, he stands alone.

With the death of his last remaining foe, so too dies his purpose. His single reason for being, snuffed out with a stroke of his sword. He turns to leave, but finds himself unable to take a step. They called him brave, they called him fearless. He had charged into battle against a thousand demons without hesitation, and had stormed the castle of the master of all that is evil without a single thought. But this, his first step away from the life he has always known, is the hardest thing he has ever had to do.

Mustering his strength he steps forward, and does not stop walking."

"It had been a long time since the soldier had returned home, and finding nowhere else to go he had found himself once more standing in front of the charred remains of the orphanage he had once called home. He remembers the hatred he had felt all those years ago when the raiders came and took from him what little he had. Now looking at the ruins, however, he finds no sorrow; No anger. Just tranquility, and an orphanage needing to be rebuilt. Picking up a hammer and nails, he gets to work."

"It was a peaceful life, working the land to pay the bills. The events that seemed so important not even fifteen years ago slowly started to blur in the soldiers mind. Replaced with thoughts of peace and happiness living and caring for the children of the orphanage. While the Great War felt like a distant memory, it's effects were still visible in the faces of those who were left without parents. It was a feeling he couldn't express, as he was never a man of words. But in his own way, he felt like he was still fighting for peace and justice. He quickly found that he preferred the smiles of his surrogate children to the bloody battles that had once been so common place. Occasionally though, late at night when he was sure the children were asleep, he would sometimes unlock the cabinet that now holds the armor he wore on that fateful day. He would put it on and feel the weight of his trusted blade in his hand. Listening to the sound of the intricately designed plates rubbing against one another as he moved was like listening to an old but beloved song. However as time moved on he found it harder and harder to remember the words. Eventually, years would pass at a time between visits to his old friend. When he would open the cabinet door he would see the dust accumulated on the glimmering plate, and it would fill him with sadness. As valuable as this armor would be, he could not bring himself to part with it. A memento to who he once was, hidden away from the rest of the world."

"It was a night like any other, dusk had just fallen as the soldier was walking back to the orphanage from the neighboring town with a basket full of bread and meat for supper. However, unlike any other night, this night there was a distinctive rustle in a bush along the road he was traveling. Spotting it instantly, the soldiers mind snaps back to a time long ago. Preparing for an ambush he continues to walk cautiously down the path when out from the bush springs a single cloaked figure brandishing a rusted short sword. After preparing for the worst the soldier is surprised to see the face of a ragged youth, no older than 17, demanding that he drop the food or perish. Without meaning, the soldier barely manages to stifle a laugh. Enraged at the perceived mockery, the boy thrusts forward with his shoddy blade only to be easily disarmed by the practiced hands of the soldier. Surprised by how easily he was defeated, the boy slowly backs away when he's suddenly approached by the soldier. The boy stares in confusion as the soldier hands back his blade without a word, and proceeds to adjust the boys arms and feet into a stance more befitting a warrior, before stepping back a few feet as if to say try again. Again, the boy swings at the man standing before him, but this time faster and with more power. Quickly side stepping his swing, the boy tumbles forward onto his face. Smiling, the soldier bends down. Offering a loaf of bread from his basket to the boy, the soldier speaks in a gruff voice. 'Come, son. You have much to learn.' "

"They say you can judge the measure of a man by who comes to visit them on their death bed. The soldier slowly opens his eyes. No Kings stand to greet him. Nor dukes, dragons, dignitaries or demi-gods, but the space around his bed was not empty. Instead, it is filled with those who he so proudly calls his children. Fighting back tears they look down at the aged man laying in his bed, their hands out stretched to rest on his cold frame, fruitlessly trying to warm his weakened body. Strength left the soldier quite suddenly weeks ago, and he knew his time was short. Smiling up at his children and reassuring them that everything will be alright, the elderly soldier thinks back on all the good times, his mind never once settling on the war. His life as a soldier had ended long ago when he took that first step, and he has been walking ever since. But now, as he prepares to take his final step, he is reminded of one task left undone. Searching for a particular set of eyes, the soldier pulls a single, ordinary looking brass key out from around his neck. The boy who once tried to rob him on the side of the road is standing closest to his head, unable to suppress his tears as they flow soundlessly down his cheeks. No longer a child, the mans eyes seem confused as the brass key is pushed into the palm of his hand. The elderly soldier smiles weakly, and in an almost sing song voice recites the phrase every person in that room has heard almost a thousand times while growing up.

'Where the corrupt seek to conquer the small, That is the place where the White Wall stands tall.'

There, surrounded by his beloved children, the soldier closes his eyes for the last time. And right as his consciousness fades into darkness, he can't help but notice how this final step is infinitely easier than the first."

Number IVEdit

He was a man called to the fight, not drawn to it. His cause was true and his intention was pure; to protect that which he cared for. There is little that cannot be said for a man willing to commit himself to such a life. The end came for him, not by the sword, spell, or some fell creature but in reaching the pinnacle of man. He made the ascent past the mundane and became something greater; an idea. The White Wall, a perfection of man’s ability to defend, in this he found peace of a kind. The man was allowed to return to that which he loved and fought for and bask in the simple joys his hometown had to offer, the joy of a peaceful life. The idea was allowed to flourish and spread. It struck the fear so rightfully needed into the hearts of the wicked and evil. It inspired lesser men to greatness. It consoled the meek and timid, telling them there were champions to fight for them. The man was given his peace, and the world was given The White Wall. A fitting end to the tale, right kiddo? The man finished the story for his son, after being begged to tell it once more. He had lost track of how many times he’d retold it.

Someday I’ll wear that armor dad…I’ll be just like you. Not if your mother has anything to say about it, kid, she’s the one thing even The White Wall couldn’t stand up against. Now go play, it’s a beautiful day…

Number VEdit

"And may I stand today as I have stood always under your eyes...proud....kind...and strong so that this day those I protect rest well."

There was a soft echo as the voices spoke her words in unison. Her squad always said their prayers together hoping against hope that those words resounded louder across the shining realms to the ears of the White wall.

Jettar stood up from her prayers and cast her eyes over the young men and women of the 1st Legion many were barely past their seventeenth years but all looked up into her eyes with the same determination that she herself held over these many years.

"They come for us in their thousands." - She spoke softly.

"We will deny them ground." - The squad shouted back, their combined voices causing a tear of pride to well up.

"They are endless like the deep ocean of stars." Her voice raised a treble.

"Then they shall break against us." Their voices sounded off once more.

"They seek to destroy all that we cherish." She shouted back into their awaiting faces.

"BUT ONLY THEY WILL BLEED." They howled back at her rising up and unsheathing their weapons of war.


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