Drake S.
2015-01-27, 01:20 PM
Just curious here if anyone has created a few interesting character backstories that you'd like to share. I currently have one which I'll share below, and I'm working on another for a character I plan on using maybe later in the future. I wouldn't mind hearing some of yours though to get a bit of my inspiration juices flowing. My current character is as follows:
My character was once named Willem and was the son of a leader of nomadic troubadours, musicians, and entertainers. They performed all over the land and gained a lot of recognition amongst the nobles of the land. Frequently they were called upon to perform for royalty and lived comfortably entertaining the kingdom. When he was 10, however, Willem was called to dine in his mother and father's tent after a particularly lucrative performance a few days prior. The family was enjoying the meal together while his father strummed lightly on the lute, when they heard a commotion outside the walls of the tent.
Shouts of anger quickly turned to screams of panic and as his father stood to see what was wrong, a bolt flew through the door of the tent and hit him in the shoulder. Willem never forgot the shout of pain that echoed from his father. With panic-striken eyes, his mother rushed to his side. "Get out! Go somewhere safe!," he shouted to his beloved. His father stood and drew a rapier with his uninjured arm and ran outside to join the fray. His mother bundled a few things together as fast as she could and lifted a tent flap pushing Willem outside. Willem turned back to help his mother, when there was a loud whizzing sound, followed by a sickening thud. His mother's eyes glossed over as death took her and she fell lifeless before him. He had only a moment to look up inside the tent flap and see the face of his mother's killer. A familiar face. One of the troupe's stagehands. A hardened face that he knew too often could warm even the coldest of nights. Now, however, it was as if he could no longer recognize the man before him, standing there with his bow. The grin that crossed his face, now had a much mroe sinister feel to it.
His dark gaze passed to the boy for a moment as he notched another arrow. Willem didn't waste any more time and dropped the flap of fabric and left his mother. Ahead of him stood a barrel of apples and without a thought, he quickly climbed inside and hid. Through a hole, he saw the stagehand rush out searching for him. Fire then engulfed his tent and lit up the night. Through his hiding place, he saw others. Some familiar faces, others not attacking and slaughtering those he felt were his family. Dante, the propmaster fallen. Lydia, the kind seamstress and costume designer lay still, a greataxe protruding from her back. Finally, his father, the Silvertongued Bard, impaled against a tree, motionless. As the screams and fires began to die down, the carts and mules were laden with the chests that once inhabited his tent. He heard a few exchanges of coin, and suddenly the night was left silent.
He couldn't even remember if he heard the sounds of crickets that night as he lay there still, eventually falling asleep with tear-stained cheeks. When the first light of dawn seeped through the hole in his barrel, Willem climbed out, stiffly. He made his way to where his father's corpse was on display, stuck to the tree. His father was now missing a finger where his silver ancestral ring once resided. Of his mother, there was nothing left but a smoldering pile of ash and bone.
Not knowing what else to do, the child ran from the scene into the woods, replaying over and over the horrific events he had just witnessed. He wanted to remember the faces of the people who brought death to his family and so with each step, he burned their images into memory. He can’t remember how long he was walking when he finally came to a small hut in the woods. The sound of chopping wood filled the air. The boy stopped in his tracks as a shaggy, hermit of a man stood before him carrying an axe. The man sniffed the air, then caught the boy’s gaze. Willem looked at him for a moment trying to see if he recognized the man, but finding that he could not, he fearlessly made his way over and sat down on a nearby stump. The old man harrumphed and continued his work, now with an audience. After awhile, the man reached in his furs and pulled out a sprig of vanilla. He made a motion to the boy to chew it, which Willem did.
Eventually, the man took kind to the boy and helped him get cleaned up before following his tracks back to the remains of Willem’s camp. Without saying a word, the hermit silently dug graves for each of them and buried them all, taking special care of the remains of his father and mother. He then took Willem back to his hut where he cared for him.
The years passed and as Willem remained with the hermit, he began to learn the ways of the forest. Hunting and fishing. Trapping and skinning. Surviving and thriving on what most would consider little to nothing. However, through his growth and training, he never forgot the faces of the men who betrayed him and massacred those he loved. The old man never spoke, but shared with him several books and scrolls that he once kept from his adventuring days. Willem learned that the hermit was once a great hero, renown far and wide, Draketooth, Slayer of Dragons and Beasts. In his old age, he retired to a life of solitude and silence, but chose to pass on his knowledge and legacy to the boy.
When the boy came of age, the old man grew sick and weary relying on Willem more and more for survival and sustenance. Eventually, he died, but not before bestowing upon Willem, his legacy. Through their own way of communication, the name “Draketooth” was now given to the boy. He discarded his old name and took the name of the once-great hero. To honor his father, he took his father’s nickname of the “Silvertongue” as his last name, ironic given the silence he mostly shared with the old man.
He then honored his mentor’s wishes and burned down the hut where they lived before striking out on his own. Eventually, Draketooth came to a nearby town where he decided to try the ways of man for awhile. He went to the local tavern where a boastful thief named Asbarah, would often gather a crowd of people together to speak of his “conquests.” Embellishing his tales of bravery, the crowd ate it up and he continued to deliver story after story. Intrigued, Draketooth returned each night to hear the tales, not out of morbid curiosity, but more than that, there was something in the man’s voice that felt familiar.
Finally, one night, he heard the story that he wanted to hear. It was the only reason he kept returning afterall. Asbarah bragged this time how years ago, he used to be the court jester, and even once sat at the feet of the king and queen. One day a group of entertainers came to the city and performed admirably for the king and his court. They were rewarded immensely and the jester even made friends with some of those in the troupe. They eventually spoke of overthrowing their leader and striking out on their own with the riches that the kingdom has bestowed upon them. Asbarah readily agreed to join them and with the blessing of the king, he joined the merry band of traveling troubadours.
Suddenly, the man’s face and voice instantly came to Draketooth’s memory. It had not been as fresh as the other conspirators that dreaded night since Asbarah was so new to their company at the time. As if to pour salt into the old, bitter wound, the proud thief then displayed the silver ring that he himself cut from the very finger of the leader. How clever he was to notice it, while everyone else’s eyes were on the other treasures. Sure he would one day sell it for some fine coin, but for now, it was a fine trophy of his former exploits.
Anger surged through his veins as he watched the thief abscond to his room, a whore in tow. He paid for his drink and then left the tavern stealing off into the night. When the lights in the tavern grew dark, he climbed in silently through the window of the boastful thief. Snoring loudly, he lay there unaware of his impending doom. Carefully, Draketooth slipped inside and gently placed the hand of the thief on the nearby nightstand. He placed his axe on the finger just below the ring and then pressed down with a crunch.
A scream of anguish and pain erupted from Asbarah’s mouth as he shot awake in bed. In a tangle of sheets and blankets, the woman at his side screamed and fell on the other side. With his other axe, Draketooth pressed it against the man’s throat. “Your name!” Draketooth demanded. “Asbarah,” he shouted through the pain. “I take your name for the lives that you stole that day when you cut the ring off the hand of my father. Now give me the name of one of your conspirators that day,” he said, the sound of death in his voice. In a panic, the woman tore from the room, blankets in tow. Draketooth let her leave as he turned back to the man. “ANOTHER NAME!” he shouted angrily.
“MALCHUS! Malchus the Forsaken! He-he was the, the caravan driver. He-he set fire to the tents. He was-,” but he was cut short as Draketooth reared back and sheared off the head of the thief. He burned the name Malchus to memory just as the sound of heavy footsteps began coming from down the hall from the stairs. As swiftly as he came, Draketooth slipped back out through the window and into the night disappearing into the woods once more. Taking a silver chain, he looped his father’s ring through and rested it around his neck.
From this time forward, he would travel the land. Taking jobs here and there were he could, but always searching and seeking out the names and lives of those who slaughtered his family. Each time he finds one, he “takes” their name through the taking of their life, but not before getting them to reveal the name of another.
Apologies for the length, but I hope you enjoy it. As I said before, please DO share your backstories as well. I'd love to read them.
Rogue Shadows
2015-01-28, 11:36 AM
Always, and I also usually try to write up a short day-in-the-life story related to the character as well, that takes place some time before the first session.
Hang on, let me dig out Iliira's...okay, here we go. Not long, little less than 6000 words.
“The Three Thieves”
“Ever notice how people never look up?”
Iliira nodded. She sat with her back against a chimney on the roof of a merchant’s home, arms crossed. She was making no move to hide herself from the people in the market below her, which was still bustling even as the sun set. Well, not her presence, anyway. Neither was her companion, Derak, a pale–skinned, blond man dressed in simple clothes and a hooded cloak. At the moment, he had the hood down.
“I’ve always wondered about that.” Derak said. “Just noticed it one day. And it’s not like I’m immune. I never look up, never notice what’s going on over my head.”
“There’s a lot that goes over your head,” Iliira said, smirking.
Derak looked at her. “I know,” he said. “Birds. There’s signs, sometimes. And of course, we use it to…what’s so funny?”
Iliira had a hand at her mouth, stifling a full–on laugh that might have attracted attention to her. “Nothing.” She said. “Something funny I remembered. I agree, there’s a lot that goes over your head.” She stood up, getting behind the chimney’s cover before making any overt actions, like stretching. Derak watched her, and noticed that she wasn’t even as tall as the chimney she was using as cover. She was dressed very strangely for someone her height – dark cloth and leather, soft boots, and a pair of knives, one in her right boot and one in a scabbard on her right thigh. She also wore a long, dark gray cloak with the deepest hood Derak had ever seen, that covered almost all of her face except for her chin.
“Hard to believe you’re twenty,” he said after a moment.
“Elves age slower.” Iliira said. She looked around, then pulled her hood down and shook loose her shoulder–length, white hair and brushed it away from her red eyes. In the waning light and abundant shadows of the evening, her skin seemed darker then it normally was – quite a feat, since it was already black as coal.
“Even dark elves?” Derak asked.
“We’re elves,” Iliira said, turning to look at Derak. She wasn’t simply small, she actually looked young – just over thirteen, as a human would of guessed. “Nasty, evil, sadistic elves, I guess, but elves all the same.”
“How much longer until you look…” Derak began, pausing and thinking of a good way to phrase what he wanted to say.
“Until I look old enough to buy an ale?” Iliira asked. “I don’t know. Some elves who visited my hometown looked even younger than me at the same age. I think about twenty–five.”
Derak nodded a little, looking back down at the market. A moment later, he felt arms around his shoulders, and Iliira’s cheek against his own.
“I only look young, you know,” she said softly.
Derak smiled a little, then remembered something he’d heard. “But…don’t dark elves kill the people they sleep with?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Iliira stiffened a little, then pulled back. Derak looked to her, and saw her pulling her hood back up. “There is a lot that goes over your head,” the dark elf said, turning and walking away, towards another rooftop within jumping distance.
Derak stared a moment, then something clicked. “Hey!” he exclaimed, getting up and chasing after her. “I get it now. A lot that goes over my head. Very funny…”
---
The city was called Drakenmoor. It was the largest of the Three Cities, an alliance of the otherwise independent city–states of Drakenmoor, Cylordath, and Karadale. Karadale was located inland, and was the smallest of the cities, used primarily as a meeting point for farmers and ranchers and also to guard the sole entrance into the cities through the Pyren Mountains. Cylordath was a port city in every sense of the word, maintaining a vast merchant fleet that traveled to far–distant lands, and respectable navy that had never been bested (cynics noted that the navy had also never been used against any foes other than pirates). And Drakenmoor…
…well, that was the question that was oft–debated throughout the Three Cities. What did Drakenmoor actually bring to the alliance of the Three Cities, beyond its name? It was located further north on the coast than Cylordath, and had a decent navy and merchant fleet of its own, but it hardly compared to Cylordath in that respect. It was located closest to the richest parts of the Pyren Mountains, and so had the most mines for iron and other metals, but the Karadel and Cylornian mines were hardly lacking themselves.
Usually the debates didn’t last overtly long. Drakenmoor one of the Three Cities, and that was that. The Karadel and Cylornians weren’t apt to drop Drakenmoor just because it served no poetic purpose. The Draken contributed their share of taxes to the collective treasury of the Cities, and so they remained.
Iliira found it oddly fitting, that she was an outsider in a city that was considered an outsider itself. Although, she had never really belonged in her home town to begin with. The circumstances of her departure, however, were not something she liked to think about these days.
No, these days she liked to think instead about how rich she was becoming.
“It’ll be easy.” Alton said later, as he, Iliira, and Derak crouched in an alley outside of a magistrate’s office, behind a small stack of rain barrels and out of sight of the main road. Alton was a tall, handsome man in his late twenties, with a full goatee and the look of someone who’d cheat his own mother.
Iliira held up her hand at that. “Never, ever, ever say that,” she begged. “The only time anyone ever says ‘it’ll be easy’ or ‘so far so good’ or something, is right before everything goes wrong.”
Alton sighed. “Okay,” he acquiesced. “Well, it won’t be easy, then. All I can promise you is blood, sweat, and tears.”
“And my share,” Derak noted.
“Right, and that,” Alton said, looking out the alley. “Now, this magistrate, he doesn’t keep guards, so we won’t have a repeat of last month.”
“Thank the gods,” Iliira said, remembering the near-catastrophe the break-in to the Liadon estate had been.
“Here’s the difficult part, though,” Alton continued, spreading his hands apologetically. “I’ve got no clue what the inside of this place looks like.”
Derak and Iliira stared, open–mouthed. “You haven’t checked it out?” Iliira demanded. “You want to hit a magistrate’s office, and you don’t know what it looks like?”
Alton shook his head. “Wasn’t time.”
“Why not?”
“Because a smuggler of black lotus was just caught this morning. He was bringing in the lotus and being paid by the distributor in gems rather than gold. When he was caught, the magistrate appropriated all his belongings, and for now it’s all sitting in here,” he patted the wall of the building, “but it won’t be forever.”
Derak stared at the wall, as though he were mentally assessing its value. He closed his eyes. “Value,” he demanded.
Alton shrugged. “It was black lotus,” he said. “Has to be a lot.”
Iliira bit her lip. “No, it doesn’t,” she pointed out. “A major shipment came in a month ago, remember? Hydwen was ecstatic because that would drive the lotus costs down, and he uses it. And Devereau was ready to kill him because Hydwen’s already falling behind on his tithe.”
“What doesn’t Hydwen use?” Alton asked. “Look, I’m going in. I could use your help, but if you don’t want to, well…” he shrugged, “if I got caught, it’s your fault.”
“No, it’s yours.” Derak replied. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, alright. Maybe there’s some lotus in there as well that I can sell to Hydwen.”
Iliira shook her head. “You shouldn’t take advantage of him like that. Hydwen’s got enough problems already.” She vividly remembered the last time she had seen Hydwen, strung out on lotus, coming down from a lotus high to the sight of Devereau loudly discussing with his lieutenants how best to eviscerate him for falling behind on his tithe and making it abudantly clear, even through the fog of lotus smoke, that Hydwen had only one more chance. Devereau was normally a patient man, even a forgiving one, but only up to a point. One did not become guildmaster by being overly lenient – or squeamish.
Derak smirked a little at Iliira’s concern for Hydwen. “You’re a terrible dark elf, you know that?” At an insistent look from Iliira, however, he held up both hands. “Alright, alright, fine. It’s not like there’s a shortage of lotus-smokers in this city. I won’t sell to Hydwen.”
Iliira suppressed a sigh of relief as she turned back to Alton. “Fine, fine. I’m in.” She jabbed a finger at him. “But you should have cased this place first. You owe me.”
“Sure,” Alton said, though he wasn’t paying much attention. Instead, he glanced out from the alley again, then frowned. “Did either of you see the magistrate leave yet?”
Iliira groaned, walking the other way and to a window. She had to stand up on her toes to steal a glance inside. “Candle’s still burning inside,” Iliira said, walking back over and hunkering down again, “so no. Gods above, Alton, if I was as bad at being a dark elf as you are at being a thief, I’d be albino and be a priestess of Lord Sol.”
“Oh, come on, I’m not…” Alton moaned. “I’m just used to other areas. Devereau’s the one that’s got me breaking into places to pay off my debts. It was this or…” he grimaced. “Selling myself.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Derak said with a smirk. “Handsome man like you, Alton, I bet you could make it all back in just a few nights.”
“Absolutely not,” Alton said firmly, cutting the air with one hand. “I don’t care how angry Devereau is with me. Though I would like to protest it again anyway, I really feel I’m being singled out here.”
Iliira pulled back her hood, enough to show her face, which had a mocking look on it. “Mean old Devereau, making you pay off your gambling debts. You’re the one stupid enough to try and cheat the Guildmaster at cards! You’re lucky he didn’t kill you!” Fortunately for Alton, it had in fact been a game played amongst thieves. Alton’s crime wasn’t cheating so much as getting caught – but it was getting caught by Devereau himself just as he had been about to sweep the board.
Alton scowled at Iliira’s tone. “Look,” he said. “Not everyone’s a favorite of the Guildmaster like you. Just because you’re his personal dark elf, he treats you – ”
“It’s got nothing to do with that!” Iliira exclaimed. “I pay my tithe – my two tithes, actually, since I board at the Guild as well – I keep my head down, and I don’t go into debts by trying to convince the Guildmaster that a deck of cards really does have five knaves. That’s what he likes about me.” She sighed, pulling her hood back down and ignoring that at least a little of it really did have to do with the fact that Iliira simply being in a room tended to be an intimidating factor against those who didn’t know her and instead saw only an armed dark elf. “Maybe if you – ”
“Maybe,” Derak interrupted, “we should keep our voices down as long as we’re in an alley outside of a magistrate’s office.”
Alton and Iliira both did the same motion – cross their arms and lean against the wall of the building. Alton stared intently at the ground like it had just insulted him. Iliira just pulled her hood down more, and sighed. It was going to be a long night…
---
The magistrate’s office was, fortunately, relatively simple in design. They entered through its back door after it got dark, a few hours later – the magistrate had apparently been pulling a late shift, and didn’t leave until the stars had already starting to shine in the sky. The office’s first floor was simply a lobby and a small meeting room, and a second, larger room for, Iliira guessed, larger meetings. Or something. Iliira hadn’t ever stood before a magistrate, and had little desire to do so, and so had no idea what any of the rooms were for.
The building had several upper stories, as well, but they didn’t interest the three thieves. What did was the basement, which would be where any evidence or appropriations would be. The door that they assumed led down there was in the smaller meeting room, which was still dimly lit by the moons outside. It was made of metal, and had a solid, built–in lock of unusual design for the three thieves: a series of numbers on five separate dials that had to be rotated into the right position in order for it to unlock.
The three thieves stared down at this lock. “What is this?” Alton asked, frowning.
“Combination lock,” Derak provided. “I’ve seen a few of them. No key, so no lock to pick.”
“So how do we get into the basement, then?” Iliira asked, one hand at her belt, where she kept a number of tools that were perfectly legal to own – if you were a locksmith. She wasn’t sure how any of them would be useful here, though.
“Simple enough, you’ve got big ears so – ”
Iliira’s jaw dropped, and she looked at her companion. “You did not actually just say that,” she interrupted, one hand going down to the knife at her thigh. “Because when I was young, that was all I’d hear from every other child in town. So you’ll understand that I’ll have to kill you if you actually said that.”
“They made fun of your ears?” Alton asked, eyebrow rising.
The dark elf woman shrugged. “Children make fun of everything,” she said, then looked at Derak. “I do not have big ears. I have perfectly normal–sized ears for an elf.”
Derak held up his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know and didn’t mean it like that.”
“Start explaining.”
“Well,” Derak reasoned, “If I’m right, then there should be some sort of sound when you get to the right number on each dial. Something will slide into place. Think about like with a key and its teeth fitting into place.”
Iliira looked at Alton, who shrugged. “Makes sense, I guess,” she said, taking her hand from her knife and getting down onto one knee so that she was eye level with the dials. Pressing one ear to it, she began turning the first dial. When it reached the number ‘1,’ there was a click, different from the one caused by her turning it.
“I think that’s it,” Iliira said softly, beginning on the second dial. When she heard a similar click, she moved to the next, and the one after that – and eventually ended up with a number sequence of 1–2–3–4–5. With a more audible click on the number five, the door creaked open a few inches.
Iliira stood up, staring at the sequence of numbers. “I feel stupider for not trying that first,” she said.
“Me too.” Derak admitted.
“Not as stupid as the magistrate will feel,” Alton chuckled, swinging open the door enough so that the three could slip on through and into the lightless basement. Iliira blinked a little as she did so, her vision naturally slipping from the mundane one of most creatures to the black–and–white of darkvision. She saw stairs before her, that led down to a stone floor and a second door, this one wooden and with a more conventional lock. The walls to either side were solid stone.
“So…” Iliira said, “I’m going first, I guess?”
“If you want,” Alton said. Iliira turned to look at him, just as he struck a long, thin stick off a wall. There was a flare of hot, white light, and Iliira cried out and stumbled away, covering her eyes with her arm as pain shot through them, right to the back of her skull.
“Cira take your eyes!” she exclaimed, as loud as she dared as she reached out blindly, felt her hand close on Alton’s shirt, and grabbed hold. “Give me a warning next time!”
Iliira peeked out from behind her arm, blinking spots out of her eyes. She saw, vaguely, Alton holding up the tindertwig in one hand, the other grabbing her wrist. The tindertwig was one of the longer ones, almost as long as the man’s forearm. She couldn’t make out his face yet, but for Alton’s sake it better have been a look of regret.
“I thought…” Alton said apologetically. “I thought you didn’t mind light…”
“I do when I’m going from complete darkness to a damned inferno!”
“Voices…” Derak reminded the two in a low voice, and in the same tone he might use to scold children. “Guards patrol this area of town at night.”
Iliira muttered something in a low voice as she let go of Alton, eyes still fluttering to try and get her vision back to normal. “I want first pick,” she demanded as they descended the stairs. “Alton still gets his half, but I want first pick for him blinding me like that.”
“What?” Alton demanded. “No. That’s not fair–”
“I think it is,” Derak interrupted again. He was at the door and looking the lock over. “Now will you two shut up? Alton, get that light over here.”
Iliira leaned against the wall, as Derak set about picking the lock. She lowered her hood – something she was only comfortable doing when she was sure no one who didn’t know her could possibly see – and rubbed her eyes.
“I’m lighting another one,” Alton warned, as his tindertwig was reaching its end.
Iliira breathed in deep and let out a long sigh. It didn’t matter now, since she was accustomed to it. Still…
“Thanks,” Iliira said, covering her eyes with her a hand for show. She heard the twig flare up, and took her hand away when she supposed would be an appropriate time. A few moments later Derak finished with the lock. Beyond the door was an open basement, filled with bookcases and cabinets. They could only see a few feet forward in the dim light of the tindertwig, but they could already guess the size of the room.
Iliira looked around as soon as they entered, and spotted the oil lantern she knew would be in the room, on a table a few feet away. She grabbed it and handed it to Alton, who lit it and substantially improved their field of view. The room was just as big as they had thought – a good sixty feet from end to end – and just as packed full as well, with a row of bookcases on their left and several rows of tall cabinets on their right.
Derak sighed. “This is going to take a while,” he said, walking up to one of the cabinets and trying to open it. It was locked. “We don’t even know where anything valuable is.”
Iliira looked the room over. “Maybe,” she said, going instead to a bookcase and looking over the books in there. “But maybe we can cheat.”
“I’m all for cheating.” Alton said, coming up to Iliira and holding the lantern up. “Let me guess: records. Find the record on the lotus smuggler, and we’ll find where his goods were stored.”
“Exactly.” Iliira said, moving over to another bookcase and scanning the titles scrawled on the tomes’ spines. They were dates, and got steadily more recent as they got further from the door. After confirming this, she stopped looking at individual books and just walked towards the other wall, Alton in tow, stopping every now and then to check spines. “And since our boy was caught today, the most recent book will have his stuff in it. Here we go,” she stopped at a mostly–empty book case, and picked out a book dated for this month. It was mostly blank, and the magistrate’s handwriting was terrible, but she was able to find the lotus smuggler easily enough. “Here we go.” She repeated. “It’s marked as 14–12–4.” She looked at the cabinets, then back down at Derak. “You figure that one out.”
The fourteen, as it turned out, was the row number, the rows going from the left of the room to the right, with row one being near the door and going as far back as fifteen. Twelve was the number of the specific cabinet in that row, the one furthest to the right, and again the cabinets in each row were fifteen. Four was the drawer number – and the drawers, the thieves noted, were quite large – out of six on each cabinet. After that, it was a simple matter of picking it and sliding the drawer open.
Inside were two cloth bags. One was heavy, and full of hard objects that grinded against each other with the satisfying sound that gemstones made when they did such. The other was lighter, and full of something that made a very slight crunching sound, like dried leaves…or black lotus petals.
The drawer also had a few scattered silver pieces – which Alton took for now – and other personal effects that the three left untouched. Sliding the drawer closed again, Iliira lifted the cloth bag of gems, which was bigger than her head. “Alton, I take it all back,” she said, smiling. “Except the first pick part.”
“How much is black lotus worth?” Alton asked, looking at the lotus-filled bag that Derak held. It wasn’t very large, no more than both his fists together.
“A lot?” Iliira asked.
“Four silver per one-fourth ounce,” Derak said. The two looked at him, and he shrugged. “I’ve sold it before, like I said. Price goes up or down, but four silver a quarter ounce is generally about what it’s worth.”
“How much is that?”
Derak held the bag in his palm, looking into space as he thought. “Maybe a pound,” he said, “pound and a half.”
Iliira let out a low chuckle, and the two started walking away. Alton, however, stayed in place. “Wait,” he said, and they stopped. “Wait. Iliira, bare minimum, how much do you think that bag’s worth?”
“The bag?” Iliira wrinkled her nose. “A copper. Maybe two.”
“Iliira…” Alton groaned.
“I know, I know,” Iliira said, smiling. “I don’t know how much the gems will be. A few hundred gold, I’d guess. Three hundred, minimum.”
“Then we have a problem,” Alton said, coming forward, “because that’s a lot more gems then that lotus is worth.”
The other two thieves looked at the bag of gems. “No,” Derak said. “No, we don’t have a problem. Whoever paid the smuggler has a problem. We have a big hit.”
“Or maybe the gems are all flawed,” Iliira said, opening the bag…and pulling out a perfectly cut lapis lazuli the size of her thumb. Not the most valuable gemstone in the world, but there was nothing wrong with it. She put it back, and next pulled out as fine an example of a zircon as any of them had ever seen. Again, it was no star sapphire, but there was still a good fifty gold in a gem that was smaller then Iliira’s eye.
“Maybe he was doing something else,” Iliira guessed. “Besides smuggling. Mercenary, bounty hunter, missionary work, I don’t care. I’m rich, you’re rich, Derak’s rich. Devereau’s getting rich off of us, but that’s fair because he’s letting me live in the Guild, didn’t kill you for cheating him, and…” she looked at Derak. “I’ve got nothing for you,” she admitted after a moment. “You’re just giving him money.”
“It just bothers me,” Alton said. “That’s too much money. It’s like walking into some country inn and finding the Duke of Drakenmoor there.”
“Hey,” Iliira objected. “I grew up in ‘some country inn.’ I worked at ‘some country inn.’ My father owns – ”
“But you get the point, right?” Alton interrupted.
Derak sighed. “And it’s a good point,” he conceded, “But what’s it matter? Unless you’re saying you’ve led us into a trap, in which case I vote that you die first.”
Alton shook his head. “If there was a trap, it would have been sprung by now.”
“So there’s no actual problem.” Iliira reasoned. “You just feel bad about getting a huge payday?”
Alton opened his mouth to say something, then shut it and just shook his head. “You’re right,” he conceded, pointing at the door. “You’re right. Let’s just go.”
---
“And another lapis lazuli for you,” Alton said, sliding it across the table to Iliira. “And another lapis lazuli for Derak, and two more for me. Etath’s tits, this man liked his lazuli.”
Iliira smiled at the rapidly growing pile on the table before her and the rapidly decreasing center pile that Alton was drawing from. They were at the Grinning Maiden, the largest tavern in Drakenmoor’s slums district, and also the unofficial tavern of the Company of the Fallen Star, as Drakenmoor’s thieves’ guild was officially called – or at least as ‘officially’ as anything got amongst a guild of cutpurses and ne’er-do-wells. The Grinning Maiden tended to be occupied most heavily during the wee hours of the night by all manner of characters, both guild members and otherwise. It was smoky, it was raucous, it smelled of spilled drinks and other scents better left unidentified, and it was intimately familiar to Iliira, reminding her of good times when she was younger.
The three sat in a private stall, a comfortable, if somewhat worn, leather–bound, half–circle booth underneath them and a curtain separating them from the outside. A mug of Pyren mead sat before Alton. Derak was a sterner man and preferred the native beer of Drakenmoor. Iliira could outdrink them both on their best nights – it came with being the daughter of an innkeep – and had set before her nothing more nor less than a foaming, dark, and thick mug of dwarven ale.
Iliira sipped from her mug (a dwarf would have scowled at the sight of someone merely ‘sipping’ dwarven ale, but fortunately there were none about), watching Alton’s hands carefully. The Company of the Fallen Star was more than simply burglars and cutpurses: it counted racketeers and con men, among others, as part of its fold, and Alton was one of the better in the Guild. She had no doubt that he had already pocketed some of the gems, but as long as she got more or less her quarter, she was happy. Alton himself was, by guild law, entitled to the largest share, a full half in this case, since he had concocted the hit, and Iliira and Alton had technically only ‘tagged along.’
“And another lapis,” Alton said, sliding the gem over, “and another for you, and another two for me. Iliira!” He exclaimed, after taking a swig from his mead, “I’d like to apologize for everything tonight. Everything. The eyes and everything. You’re my favorite elf.” He winked at her.
“You’re not getting it back,” Iliira said with a smile, patting just above her left breast, where she had put a red garnet, the most valuable of the gems, in a hidden pocket within her shirt. “I sat out for a full four turns to get this.”
Alton sighed. “Damn it,” he said. “I’d try and come up with a clever and sensuous way to tempt you to give it back, but I have a feeling you might take offense.”
“Good use of intuition,” Iliira said, leaning back and slinging an arm over the back of the booth, the other holding her mug before her. She had taken off her cloak and vest and hung them on a rack inside, and had at the door turned in her daggers, so she wore only her white, loose shirt, black pants, and shoes. Had she any breasts to speak of and looked about five years older, she might have been quite inviting in that posture.
“Plus,” Alton said, leaning back himself, “you look young enough to be my daughter. Or at least the daughter of my older brother, if I had one. And I’d rather not explain that to anyone I met. So, sadly, you’re going to miss out.”
Iliira shrugged. “I’m going to survive your great–grandson,” she said matter-of-factly, “and still look fabulous when I do.”
Alton looked mildly insulted for a moment, then let out a laugh. “Well played,” he conceded, raising his mug in toast. “Well played. Another lapis lazuli for the dark elf.”
“Not a happy thought, is it?” Derak asked, drinking from his ale as Alton got back to divvying up their loot. “You’re going to outlive everyone you ever know, unless you go live with other elves.”
Iliira shrugged. “I’ll outlive my father,” she said. “But that’s the way it’s supposed to be. After that…” she thought a moment, then shrugged again. “That’s just how things are going to be, I guess. I could be like most elves and treat everyone around me like children.” She pointed at Derak after sipping again at her ale, with the hand holding the mug, and took on a stern voice. “Speaking of which, you need to clean your room, young man. And wash your face. And put out the cat. And Alton, please put that bloodstone back in my pile.”
Alton smirked, holding the stone up in his hands. “Only if Derak gives me back my jasper.”
“Iliira better give me my quartz first,” Derak said, producing a jasper and staring at Iliira.
The three thieves looked to one another, Iliira taking the quartz out from her breast pocket, the one opposite the one holding her red garnet. Almost as one, the three returned each gem to its respective owner. “No honor amongst thieves,” Derak observed with a smirk.
“Eh,” Iliira said, shrugging. “I steal from you, you steal from him, he steals from me…we end up with the same. So it’s not that bad.” She looked at the center pile now, down to just a few baubles now, the black lotus having already been divided between them before they started with the gemstones. “I call the three fake pearls, then I’m done.”
“They’re real,” Alton objected as he slid them over. “Freshwater, but real.”
“That’s what I’ll tell the fence, anyway,” Iliira supposed as she pulled a small cloth sack from her cloak and started putting her gems into it, after finishing her mug of ale. “So. There is one question in this. One question that is absolutely critical, that demands an answer. One question upon which the rest of the night hangs. The question, gentlemen, is simply this: who is buying the next round?”
Quicker than the uninitiated would have been able to blink, three hands slapped the table – and, surprisingly, Iliira came up last, fumbling over her bag. “Rats,” she cursed sliding out from the booth – and taking her gem bag with her as she did so, of course, as well as her cloak. “Same drinks?”
“Here here,” Alton confirmed, raising what was left of his mead in salute, draining it, and passing it to her, Derak doing likewise. “All the same all around.”
Iliira ducked out from the stall, steeling herself somewhat as she did and tucking her gem back into a pocket in her cloak, her other hand clutching the three mugs by their handles. The only people in the inn were members of the guild, and so everyone here knew who she was and that yes, she was a dark elf – but that didn’t stop them from staring, nor from the room becoming noticeably quieter as she went up to the bar. She pulled up her hood not to hide her features, but rather to give herself that extra bit of security.
As she approached the bar – she was, at least, tall enough that she could rest her arms on it – she saw the barkeep break off in mid-order with another patron to look at her. Iliira grimaced at that. “Same all around,” she said quickly, passing forward the mugs. “The local, Pyren mead, and Dwarven ale.”
“Yes’m,” the barkeep replied, taking the mugs and turning to the kegs behind him.
Iliira grimaced again, looking at the patron who’s order she had interrupted. “Sorry,” she apologized. Devereau may have liked using her to intimidate people on occasion, but that didn’t mean that she herself liked it. In fact, she hated it.
“No, no, it’s alright,” The man replied. Iliira could tell two things by looking at his eyes: it was not alright, but he wasn’t going to make even a peep over it. After all, not only would challenging her mean challenging Devereau’s ‘pet’ dark elf, but it would mean potentially angering said dark elf, and surely that was the quickest path towards death by spider venom – nevermind that Iliira was deathly afraid of spiders and had been ever since she was eight.
Iliira turned away, biting her lip and wishing that the mugs could fill faster, even as the part of her that had grown up behind the counter of her father’s inn knew that they were filling as fast as was possible. When she finally got them, she simply handed forward a pair of gold pieces and headed back to the stall with them, ignoring that she should have gotten four silvers and two coppers back in change. As she slid back into the stall and closed the curtain behind her, she let out a long sigh of relief.
“Trouble?” Derak asked as he took his mug.
“No,” Iliira lied, shaking her head. She pulled her hood back down, but didn’t take off her cape, instead clutching it tight to herself. “No. My own fault for calling slappers.”
Alton shook his head, a tired smile on his face. “You’ll outlive their great-grandchildren,” he reminded her.
“Yeah,” Iliira said. “Yeah, that’s true.” She took off her cloak and took ale in hand again, then forced a smile. Screw the rest of the guild, and Devereau too. She had Derak and Alton, and that was all she really needed. “So…what are you doing with your share?”
Prophet_of_Io
2015-01-29, 04:53 AM
I knew what my first character was gonna be the second I saw Paladin of Vengence in the Players Handbook. Ladies, Gentlemen and others I give you, and I'm slightly proud of this one, the Batman Paladin:
Name: Bruce
Race: Human (variant)
Class: Paladin
Ser Bruce of the Waynelands, heir to Castle Mountain Drive, was born to a noble family in the Kingdom of Gotham. Centuries earlier, Gotham's royalty was overthrown by an ancient vampyr by the name of Ra's the Ghoul, so named for his love of creating thralls. Some hundred or so years ago Bruce's Great-Grandfather (for whom he was named) sley the creature and reinstated the last living heir to the Hamilton throne. In appreciation King Hamilton knighted him, made him nobility and married him to his youngest sister. The king also gave Bruce the first the former castle and it's surrounding lands, now called the Waynelands, as a home. The King wanted nothing to do with it, as the Castle had been occupied by a vampyr for decades and was considered "cursed", and instead built a new castle in the center of his kingdom. The old castle was built upon a large cliff, originally to dissuade would be raiders and sieges. After years of corrupted dark magic from the ancient undead the cliffs have become hollow and filled with a maze of numerous caves, and each year pieces of the cliff fall off into the sea, hence it's nickname of "the Waynelands" since the entire land is slowly waning away. The sole heirloom that Bruce the first left behind was his Longsword, Nightfall, a blade forged with Black Ore from the mountains of Lazarus, which oddly enough was the birthplace of Ra's the Ghoul himself. The sword was broken during the fight with the Vampyr lord. The broken blade still dealt the final blow but ever since it has been stained with streaks red and folks say it is the blood of Ra's himself, clinging to the blade that slew him.
Bruce was born to Tomas and Marta. Tomas was a renowned Surgeon in the Kingdom of Gotham who, despite noble birth, seemed to find most comfort in the common people. He was well received by the surfs of Gotham which did not always sit well with some of the other noblemen. When Bruce was born he was 26th in line for the throne. He was raised alongside the son of his Wetnurse, Alfred, whom Bruce refers to as his "Bosom Brother". Alfred would grow into a remarkable man in his own right, eventually earning himself a surname (something unheard of for those in the servants class) Penceworth, during an amusing story when he bet his entire worth on a single pence, but that is a story for another time. When Bruce was just shy of his ninth year his father took him and his mother to see a theater troupe put on a show entitled "The Grey Ghost; Justice Everlasting" telling the tale of Simon of Trent, a knight who was killed by a corrupt king and returned as a Ghost to deliver Justice, striking fear into the hearts of the corrupted. This thrilling play was enthralling to Bruce, and sharing it with his family will be what Bruce considers to be his last truly happy memory. In the carriage home from the play that night, Bruce's carriage was attacked by roadside bandits his parents were killed in front of him and through Bruce himself was saved by a, then squire, would be knight James of the Gourd Lands, Bruce himself was forever changed. The Kingdom morned the death of it's Golden Noble, as the Waynes Family were always seen as a hope for the present citizen and King Hamilton the Hill took a personal interest in Bruce's upbringing giving him the best of Tutelage the kingdom had to offer.
Bruce spent his formative years finishing his education. His tutors and trainers were astonished at the level of dedication he took. Bruce sped through his lessons on History and Politics, Swordsmanship and Horseback and was primed and primed as fine young noblemen could be. By the Age of 13 Bruce was deemed fit to begin to govern his family's lands, under the supervision of a Royal Advisor of course. At 14 Bruce began to apprentice as a squire to a Knight, James the Gourdlands Knight. At 16 Bruce was knighted, earning his knighthood by saving King Hamilton from assassination at the hands of a mad court Jester. As a Knight Bruce was given short leave to explore surrounding kingdoms on a two year expedition. Bruce looked and acted as the perfect gentleman. A much desired suitor for many noble daughters, still loved by the commoners in his province and many of the Nobleman thought him much easier to deal with than his rather liberal father. However, underneath his mask of courtesies and appearances Bruce holds a great deal of resentment to the level of scheming and corruption amongst the Great Families. The abuse of the Kingdoms Surfs is abundant, crime among the commonwealth is almost encouraged, and Bruce is almost certain that his mother's death was almost incidental in what he assumes was his fathers assassination by one of the other noble lords (though he does not know whom and he has never again seen the man that did it (he does has suspicions)). In the two years he spent traveling he saw that injustice is a common occurrence in the world. Not just small crime or simple scheming, but cruel acts of gods and incarnate evil still roam the earth. Bruce became bitter with the gods but still sought out a way to deliver some kind of retribution to this dim world, but he was torn. His father, whom he admired above all, was always seen as a symbol of hope. Something to keep the people from losing their way. He wanted to bring that back to Gotham, but he held on to so much anger. He wanted to hurt those that hurt him, and since he could not yet know for certain who his anger was to be directed to he turned it instead on to all those who reminded him of it. Corrupt Politicians, petty thugs, cruel acts of the gods. He wanted them to feel the same pain that they and people like them caused him. His cause brought him at last to the Pit of Mount Lazarus where Bruce was confronted by two visions, A hushed Phantom of Justice and a dark Spectre of Vengeance. They spoke to Bruce, through the pieces of his ancestral sword and through it Bruce saw visions of a truer path. Using the same black ore that originally forged his sword Bruce had was able to reforge Nightfall, it's Black edge has returned though it still looks like it's tinted red in some lights, and create a matching Shield and Full Plate to go with it. A Dark imposing piece with a chest plate depicting a sign that anyone from Gotham would find as a chilling omen, A Vampyr Bat.
When he returned two years later Bruce made known that he was going to travel for a long while. He was given a pardon by his king in exchange that upon his return he will bring something of immense value to the kingdom. To govern his lands in his stead Bruce has left the only royal advisor that has truly earned his trust, a Former Slave turned court advisor named Lucius but he is known throughout the court as "the Fox" for his quick wits and guile. Along side him on his journey is his attendant and longtime friend and bosom brother, Alfred Penceworth and a young boy Bruce has taken on as a squire Robin Grayson. By day Bruce travels in a noble fullplate using his lineage and knowledge of nobility and courtesies to travel to and from. But, wherever Bruce goes the common folk tell tales of a Dark Night that seeks out injustice and see's it delivered. Some say it's a demon that only feeds on the wicked, others say it's a spirit sent by the gods to punish evil men. Strong and kind for the weak and helpless, but cruel to any evil do-er that enters his path. So if you steal, or scheme or kill he'll hunt down your wrong til it's right. The Moon in the sky is the signal to his call, so evil Beware the Dark Knight.
A Black longsword that looks consistently like it's tinted red with blood under the right light. Nightfall is a blade forged with a mysterious black ore that can house the spirits of two beings, Bruce the First and Ra's the Ghoul. Bruce was a man of Justice, he slew the Vampyr because he was evil, reinstated the rightful king simply because it was his right, and spent the last part of his remaining years fighting against the spirit of the very vampyr he slew. Ra's the Ghoul was originally an elf that had grown up by a refugee camp of survivors who had fled the forest they had come from to a nearby mountain range when their forest was overrun by human conquerers who defiled their ancestral woods for it's resources. The elves did not fare well in the mountain caves and Ra's sought out unholy power to reap vengeance upon those that drove his people to death. His first victims were the conquerers that had settled upon his peoples old lands. Since they saw his forest as nothing but a well spring of resources, so too he thought of human sacks of flesh as a walking unrefined resource, waiting to be utilized. He built a massive army of ghouls and took over the human empire that had first sent these conquerers, Gotham. Ra's went down a dark path but his spirit was very much one of sorrow and unfulfilled justice. When Bruce the first slew him his essence clung to the blade and took refuge in it. To prevent him from perverting his sword, Bruce the first also managed to somehow imbue his spirit in the blade upon death. Bruce's soul speaks to them both, it's sense of honor speaks to his ancestor and his rage and despair speak to Ra's. The two souls in the sword fight for control over Bruce's destiny, one ushering him to seek justice, the other encouraging him to deliver vengeance.
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