Rurik Harrgath

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  1. Rurik Harrgath

    Cry Havoc: Stranger. Poet. Thief.

    BLOOD, IRON & ALCHEMY "A delicate balancing act of fuel and activity." [+2 STR, DEX, STA, CON] The Mindful Art of Nutritional Alchemy™: ☐ Sub-quest: Noodle Bowls prepared: ☐ 4 CrossFit classes per week: ☐☐☐☐ [Challenge Total: ☐] Weekly weigh-in: __. THE DEMON WITHIN "Step into the Abyss. Welcome it, know it. It is yours now.” [+5 CHA] Engage in 4 sessions of positive Self-Care per week: ☐☐☐☐ Any Social Networking™ activity once weekly: ☐ ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE The Self-Improvement Junkie. [+2 WIS] Post a daily challenge update 2 of 7 days/week: ☐ Moment of Positivity shared per update: ☐ Ongoing To-Do mini-quests… ☐ Read: [In Progress] Illidan by William King. ☐ Currency: Work [1] overtime shift this challenge. ☐ Sanctum: Finishing touches on kitchen. ☐ Sanctum: Baseboards in Den, Guest and Laundry rooms. CHALLENGE INSPIRATION: My mojo seems many miles away; it could just as easily be locked away in Atlantis or barricaded behind legions of foes and bosses beneath a dark dungeon. Merely seeking out a return to elder days in the sun feels like too much some days, attaining it and reimbuing myself with the inspiration and capabilities of old more so a distant dream than a goal worth aspiring toward. Still, a life spent listing like a man lost on the sea is no life at all when that same man can and should be the Master and Commander of his own Fate. Maybe now just another down-on-his-luck scoundrel selling his skills and wits to the highest bidder, I can’t forget the earlier glories of the barbarian and tomb raider; days before my moral compass ceased to point magnetic north. The demon hunter was born from that bleak miasma; the skull, horns and bow of the Hunter and the black wings of the Raven are carved-in-ink worldly reminders to dark depths which have been plumbed and continue to be narrowly skirted with varying degrees of success in recent days. Though debatable the level of magnificence, the bastard persists; battered, bruised, and a little weary, but stubbornly perseveres and continuing to spit in Fate’s good eye. No matter where life takes me, I refuse to remain merely a passenger. I am the Stranger, the Poet, the Thief. Ass in the saddle, boots on the pegs, and right hand on the throttle once again, dear friends. Death awaits, but first… glory.  Dedicated to Sir Tanktimus for the encouragement to get my ass back on the Forums to at least reap the support network benefits, and maybe feel a slight bit like the Rurik of old once more.