Here's where your character applications and sheets will go when you've been accepted.
Character Creation:
Stats: Elite Array for any CR 2 or above monstrous characters. This can be done by adding +4, +4, +2, +2, +0, and -2 to the base stat block for such characters. If instead you have a template start with 15, 14, 13,12, 10, 8 and add the template/racial adjustments onto that.
For non-CR races, roll 5d6 drop 2(5d6kh3) or 4d6 reroll 1's(4d6kh3rc1) for stats.
Equipment: Starting gold as for a level 12 character, 108,000gp. No more than 35,000gp can be spent on any one item.
HP: Max at first Class Level, roll for each thereafter. For Racial HD, roll all, re-rolling rules are in the Rule of Three thread.
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"Dovie'andi se tovya sagain." It's time to toss the dice.
Name:Atalanta Race: Erinyes Origin: Formally of the Seventh Class: Inquisitor (Kelemvor) Alignment: Neutral Faction: Tends to favor the Doomguard.
Appearance: Standing just over six feet tall, Atalanta is a strong, beautiful-looking woman. The black wings, darkened armor, numerous weapons and hard, cold stare dissuade all but the most foolish of berks from approaching her.
Personality: Atalanta is a hard woman. She doesn't smile often, but when she does, then it'd probably be a good idea to run. She likes her drink and men strong, her blade and tongue sharp and her enemies dead and crushed beneath her feet. She respects those who take responsibility for their actions and live up to their promises.
Background: Atalanta's history is a complicated one. But then, having been a servant of both Heaven and Hell does tend to complicate matters for a body. She was a follower of Baalzebul and when he left Heaven, she followed. When her Lord failed in his coup attempt during the Reckoning, she began to doubt his ability to lead. It didn't help that he blamed everyone but himself for his failure. Atalanta left the Archduke's service and found herself in the city of Sigil, becoming a sellsword with no master. She was drawn to Kelemvor's service since death seems to be the only true constant in any of the planes. Death welcomes all, even a fallen angel/devil. That appealed to her.
Atalanta has done a few jobs for the Society of Balance. Destroying holy icons, as well as unholy ones, gives her an odd sort of satisfaction. She doesn't feel that either side should have an advantage. Whoever prevails should do so on merit, not because of some trinket. When membership was offered, she accepted.
Motivation: Simply put, she enjoys what she does. She revels in battle and bringing death to those foolish enough to get in her way. She also wants to see a measure of balance restored to the planes. Heaven and Hell wield too much influence, in her opinion. It's nice to see them taken down a peg or two. A little reminder that they aren't the only ones with power in this multiverse.
Last edited by Althea; 06-19-2011 at 11:56 PM.
Reason: Link to char sheet added
Name:Pandit Cortaba Race: Satyr Origin: 1940's Earth / Sigil Class: Detective Bard / Pathfinder Chronicler PrC Alignment: CN Faction: Free League (very loose association, he will do work for anyone that pays)
Appearance: Pandit is short for a satyr, barely clearing five feet. Still, he is relatively well muscled and immaculately groomed, both of which serve to enhance his attractivness. He is more than a bit vain about his own appearance and spends a fair amount of time each morning in daily ablutions designed to enhance it. He keeps his horns well polished and often ties colorful bits of ribbon about them for accents. His body fur is naturally dark brown although he prefers to tip the edges of his curly leg hair with russet dye. His upper half he keeps clothed in whatever is the latest fashion sweeping Sigil, at least when he is not on duty. Then he dresses in the clothing of the average person, something that does not bely oddity, although oddity is vague term in the City of Doors.
Generally he carries as little as possible with him, his one constant companion his golden, multi-keyed instrument. Curved like a bell and with a special padded case, this he finds some way to have with him at all times. Even when, or perhaps especially when, he feels he will be in mortal danger. At these times he caresses it like a lover before pulling it out to draw on it's sweet sound, like the voice of a siren, aiding him in his hour of need.
Personality: Every inch a satyr, Pandit is often chasing tails that are most decidedly not his own. In between his escapades he is often found playing his saxophone in various inns about Sigil. He delights in being the odd one, the in-your-face womanizer, the man that everyone else wants to be. Pandit is whatever the situation calls for, or as near to it as he can pretend to be. Although some have theorized his facility is just a souped up coping mechanism that he developed for the loss of his father.
He is also deeply inquisitive and well versed in the art of finding what needs to be found. This, and Pandit readily admits it, is due to a burning desire to learn the history of the instrument he plays, a unique thing that he has never found elsewhere in the multiverse, and to find the identity of his mother. He knows the two are connected somehow and the mystery behind that link consumes his life.
He uses others to the best of their abilities to meet his own goals. Thusly he will preserve another's life if it suits his needs or if he thinks it will help him glean more information in the future. This is not out of any maliciousness, Pandit just doesn't have a use for any lasting relationship, at least not one that doesn't result in a benefit to him.
Background: The story of any resident of Sigil is a comnplex one, and Pandit's is no different. His father was a satyr, not native to Sigil but he had relocated there after discovering the new levels of debauchery he could achieve. To top it off he was also a renowned libertine with a penchant for stealing the wives of others (at least until he grew bored of them). On a trip to a newly discovered plane, one rife with strange magics, wild music, and some altogether hedonistic souls, Pandit's father managed to seduce a young maiden. Like the spawn of any satyr Pandit's father was there to snatch him away shortly after birth and he spent the first few formative years of his life being coached in the ways of the goatlords by his father. Unfortunately things were not to be so rosy for young Pandit; his father made the mistake of sleeping with the wife of the wrong man one too many times and he found himself strung up by his short hairs. Adrift and alone Pandit had nowhere to turn and was roughly thrust into an orphanage. The only pieces of his old life left were a strangely curved, golden instrument and a few ridged black discs with a machine that spun them and produced amazing, swirling music. Both of these came from his home plane, Pandit knew this for his father had often told him the stories of that magical place.
Having been taken from his father from a young age and without knowledge of his mother except for a few wild stories Pandit became consumed by a desire to find as much about his origins as he could. Sadly, the portal his father had gone through was long since closed and none knew of a door that opened to the world that Pandit described. He turned this desire into something useful though, learning how to comb through seemingly useless piles of information, gleaning that which others never could see. Pandit learned the backways of Sigil, he knew nearly every portal, could find the most (un)desirable people and things. As such he quickly became known for his skills in research and many of the factions came to him for help. He relished these opportunities as they provided him the chances he needed to search new and different worlds, and the funds to find the information he so sought. So, when the Society approached him with an offer of steady employment, Pandit couldn't turn them down. What he did for them was of less concern than where he went. Perhaps some day he might find another way to the world of his birth. Maybe then he could find his mother and ask him all that he wished to know of her.
Motivation: To gain wealth, power, and knowledge in the hopes that one day he will find his home plane and meet his mother.
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Co-GM of After the Fall, a game of post-apocalyptic survival and exploration. Questions? To apply go here.
Faction: None, although he shares similar views as The Doomguard.
Appearance: Khamos stands a hand taller then six feets, slim and feral. He is handsome, in a way, milky pale skin and high cheekbones, black and somewhat oily hair worn long and loose benath his shoulders. His eyes are large and mismatched, right one pale grey - left one bloodshot and yellow. He has an overly wide mouth full of sharp teeth and fangs that hide an unnaturally long black tongue. His fiendish heritage is plain for all to see at first gaze; black, near translucent wings that cling to his back like smoke, and he sports a set of onyx ram horns trimmed with crimson, the tips studded with adamantine. He wears black, tight fit leather armor covered with straps for knives and gadgets of all kinds and a worn silken cloak hangs in tatters at his shoulders, silver in color.
Personality: Ruthless and thorough in his work, The Twice-Damned goes to great lengths to finish a job set before him. Holding himself to strict moral code when it comes to his trade but goes all out in his indulgence of substances and sensual pleasure when between missions. He is a cold figure of little humor and few emotions, keeps his thoughts to himself and gives only answers to questions asked.
Background: Khamos might have been born in Curst, the gatetown to Carceri in the Outlands, surely his name was first whispered in its dark alleys; The Twice-Damned, born with the blood of demons and devils flowing through his black veins. His mother was an Outlander with some devilish ancenstry who dabbled in the dark arts, a conjurer who summoned a shadowy fiend from the Abyss for some blasphemous bargain. They say that when he was born he gnawed his way from her womb, but that might just be one of those stories... Whatever was the case she died from giving birth to this half-demonic child who also inherited her devil-tainted blood. Khamos the Twice-Damned, bastard of the netherworlds.
He honed his skills in the dark streets of Curst, selling his services to the highest bidder in a city full of traitors and backstabbers. But he was a rarity amongst the inhabitants; despite being a cruel and cold man he possessed some shred of honor within his soul, and early on he was known to be one who never broke off from a contract or a job and kept true to a given promise.
He has lived in Sigil for over a decade now, having had his fill with the betraying people of Curst and their endless simple plots derived against one another, he needed a change from this single minded place that only promised death or something far worse for those who braved its streets. So he called in on a few favors to assist him in going to the one place where he might get to understand the world better and in the city at the center of the Multiverse he found a living place filled with opportunities unknown to him before, here he could start from scratch, here no one would have heard of The Twice-Damned or Khamos of Curst, here he would simply be Khamos, for now. It struck him after doing odd jobs in Sigil for few years that he could do with something more challenging than a simple break-in or a cut throat here and there, he did not want to end up living the same bleak existense he experienced in Curst, he wanted the rush of real power, all that the planes had to offer, contracts and jobs that bordered on the impossible... so it was only natural that he sought out The Society of Balance in the end.
Motivation: To become the best you must go up against the best and do the hardest jobs the multiverse has to offer, finding and destroying artifacts would not only hone his skills to perfection, it would offer a steady income, perhaps riches untold of and the chance to make a name for himself where it matters.
Name: Countess Danica Terricia Race: Ghaele Azata Origin: Elysium Class: Cleric Alignment: Chaotic Good Faction: Losely the Free League Appearance: Danica is, when not in light form, a brunette. Her hair glistening with a silvery glitter, that offsets the black silky strands, but the glitter can trick the eye, only easily seen in a certain light or up close. She is a muscular human looking woman; a little taller, a little stronger, and a bit more lithe than a human. She stands nearly 6 feet tall and walks with a regal confident stride. Her blue eyes have a similar shine to her hair, although they betray a hint of silver instead, also hard to see. Personality: Stubborn, Driven to action, and bored or angered by indecisiveness or inaction, Danica while charismatic and outgoing can rub people the wrong way. She hasn't exactly learned the way of the planes, being so young on the planes and even younger in Sigil. Among trusted allies she can become talkative, though that normally takes time. In her off time she enjoys a vast array of activities; to include hunting, friendly sparring, storytelling, and adventuring. When in the company of very good friends, she has been known to find a secluded spot near a lake and go fishing. She cannot stand to sit and read, why would you read about something you could do instead? Philosophy: She is typical of her kind, believing in personal freedom above all else. Her very existence is a testament to freedom in how she came to exist and she views herself as a natural creature, not even considering herself a magical creature, it is just who she is. She hasn't learned yet that it may be better to not portray herself as the Countess Terricia, that sometimes being a human named Danica is better. As a magical being, she views her skills as just that, natural tools to be utilized as she sees fit. Motivation: To find the "Butt-Thunder of the Gods" and destroy it, to make up for the mistakes that she made. The deaths she has caused and the souls she let be destroyed. While her spirit will always cause her to fight for freedom, her guilt will stay her hand at times, with her inner struggle often apparent to those around her. Background:
Countess Terricia spontaneously came to exist nearly 100 years ago. She doesn't know it, but her "birth" was caused by the death of a little human girl in a world called Ivalice. Her story was simple, but tragic. Essentially as an eight year old girl, who had no family left in the world, she sacrificed herself so that a little boy and his family could escape. This heroic action caused this Ghaele to form. Most Ghaele's did not form this way, and due to her origin or perhaps just her own personality, she is more concerned with freedom than most Azata, if you can believe that.
Danica as a part of the Azata's learned quickly that her job was a risky and unappreciated job. When things went well she would not get credit for what she did, when things went wrong she would have to take responsibility and make reparations. She travelled the planes often, mostly to help mortals on the material planes fight off or fend off cruelty, slavery, and often times tyrannical rulers. Sometimes she would be called to service for a deity, but more often it would be a group of Azata that identified the problem and came to an agreement as to how to solve it. This went on for nearly a century, she sometimes had issues, but more often helped people. But over the last few years things started to change. The "Gods" as she calls them now, refusing to say their names as a way to deny them, had been directing the Azata to take action more and more. Finally she felt as if she were nothing more than a messenger service; sending this message to that mortal or collecting or delivering this artifact to that mortal.
It was another mindless task of deliver this golden orb resting on a red moon to that mortal in order to cleanse an area of evil. She didn't think much about it at the time. She was after all giving this artifact that she had affectionately begun to call the "Butt-Thunder of the Gods" as she didn't really know its name or did she care, it had been one of more than a dozen she had delivered this year. She had returned to her home plane for a bit of a rest when she heard about a tragedy that befell one of the material planes. While she was curious about it and thought it sad at first it was when she heard it was caused by a paladin named Sir Galleus Wintershield that she perked up. That was after all the very Paladin she had handed the artifact to.
After a bit of investigation she had discovered that the Paladin used the artifact to such effect that all life within the small town was destroyed. What's worse is none of their souls had repatriated to any of the goodly planes, not even the Paladin's. This caused a bit of worry in Danica, something she hadn't experienced in a long while. She raced back to the material plane the very spot where she had given the artifact and was dismayed by what she found. All animal life had ceased. Bodies lay on the ground where they stood moments before she left.
When confronting the "God" a deity of light and sun, she questioned him about what had happened. He simply stated that the mortal must have misused the artifact. She inquired further and found out that those souls had been completely destroyed, including the very paladin that used the artifact. The artifact had been meant to purge the area of the evil souls, a desperate act for a desperate time, but it ended up destroying all souls that had even been touched by evil. The "God" was very nonchalant about it and he told her that it seemed that the Paladin got greedy in the amount of evil he wanted destroyed. He simply said 'that's what you get for giving a powerful artifact to a mortal with free will; a celestial couldn't have done that.' With that he turned away apparently having more important things to do.
Danica confronted many of her companions and none of them disagreed completely with the “God” not like her anyway. She was adamant, this was not right, and didn’t even mention the “God’s” dismissal of her own free will. Over time this caused a wedge in their relationship which soon became a bit of a grudge and Danica decided it was time for her to leave. She had her own agenda and no one wanted to help her fix this. It was time to strike out on her own, something the little girl she spawned from would have been proud of, not that she would know that.
Danica had traveled through Sigil a few times in the past and she knew if she were to find this “Butt-Thunder of the Gods” that would be the place to start. So she began her investigation though it was a while before she found a real lead.
Faction: Fraternity of Order (Guvners) (not a member, but he feels close to their ethos)
Appearance: The draconic legacy of his mother is very strong within Geezix; the sapphire scales which adorn his body gently click together making it seem as if he has a rustling sound about him which is further reinforced by the leathery wings which erupt from between his shoulder blades. His eyes are like deep blue gemstones; betraying a reptilian heritage in the vertically slit iris which appears more like a gem flaw then a proper eye aperture. He wears a simple sash to cover his waist, preferring to leave his shoulders free for his wings should the need to take flight arise, as well as some loose fitting breeches for modesty. His sash has been sown with many interior pockets so that he can better store and access his various spell components. Geezix also is frequently seen with a sack slung over his shoulder which carries his larger tools should he need to be mobile. Geezix sports large ears, like all the goblins of Aurandia, and he keeps his expansive lobes pierced through with many jewel studded earrings of various worth – a concession to his draconic need to hoard wealth in some capacity.
Personality: Due to his smaller stature, like most Ginjik Goblins, Geezix learned the value of information and power early on – it was the foundation for the Goblin preeminence on Garund and within the council of the clans in Velguk. It was a lesson he took to heart and adapted to his own person; that power always exists but can only be harnessed by those with the intelligence and the will to grasp it and use it. His mother, in one of her more caring moods, did teach him that power carried with it responsibility and – because he feels that his mother tends to disapprove of him and he wants desperately to earn her approval – it was a lesson he took to heart so that he would never abuse his power although he still saw the need to be ruthless when action was required.
Geezix feels a need to be flashy in everything; stemming from a feeling that he wasn't good enough for – or possibly even an embarrassment to – his mother. As a result, the little Blue has a tendency to overcompensate with his plans/spells/powers/etc. If there is a way to make it larger or get more attention, Geezix is likely to try it. Fortunately, his intellect and natural abilities have proved able to the task to date and kept him out of serious trouble – unfortunately, this just makes the little Goblin more bold.
Despite the somewhat reckless bold streak, Geezix is friendly and polite to all; he knows that people of all kinds are usually larger than him (which can cause problems – there is nothing more demeaning than trying to smack down a ruffian than being kept away by a hand on his head) but, more importantly, that friendly contacts provide an element of power in their own way which can be exploited should the need arise.
In the end, all of Geezix' endeavors are geared towards one goal – proving to his mother that he is worthy of the draconic heritage she – however unwittingly – gifted him.
Background: Geezix's life began in the Western mountains of a small spur of the Krumhadach Monadh range in Velguk. His father, Murung, was hetman of a small Goblin village presiding over a vault complex for the Ginjik bank; the largest economic force on Aurandia. Murung was trusted in this task by the Ginjik clan for two simple reasons, a) he was a relative of the Ginjik family and, thus, trusted with their secrets, and b) the village in which Murung resided was nestled in a mountain valley guarded by the Sapphire Dragon Bessharashiesk. Besshara enjoyed the industrious Goblins' company in her vale and they made good neighbors, seeing as how they were quick to supply her with a spare cow when she got snacky (although she much preferred feasting on wilder game the majority of the time). It was through this arrangement that she came to know Murung.
Murung arranged for a delivery of a cow one year when the dragon felt a desire for tamer fare and, as an added bonus, the hetman decided to bring along a couple of tuns of elderberry mead which had recently ripened and been celebrated in the village as the best in decades. Besshara was delighted by the unexpected treat and deigned to allow Murung to dine with her that evening in gratitude for the gift.
When Besshara awoke the next morning, she found herself in the form of a Goblin woman, naked on her gem pile with Murung's arm around her and the tuns of mead scattered about her cave and empty while the light from the sun blazed across her affronted retinas and a Dwarven marching band played a tattoo on her brain. She couldn't remember much but she felt decidedly the worse for wear as a result. Gruffly, she pushed Murung out, returned to her natural form and took flight for a glacial pond she knew of higher up in the peaks. Murung, also confused by the sudden rough treatment (and the apparent disappearance of his pants) made his way cautiously home.
The Goblin chief gave the matter little thought for the next several years until, rather unexpectedly, Besshara flew down to the village square and demanded to speak to him. When he came out to greet her, the dragon gruffly passed over the squalling form of a Half-Dragon Goblin child; blue in colour with the sapphire scales of his mother. Admonishing the hetman to care for their offspring, the dragon quickly left the village, refusing to speak to the confused Murung.
Still, guessing the child had arisen from his apparent indiscretion with Besshara some years prior, Murung chose to honour the dragons request and become a father to the little child (spurred in some not insignificant part due to the large eye-teeth displayed by Besshara while she had made the request). Murung named him Geezix after his own father – dead several years ago by a Cloven-Jaw arrow in a raid on the vaults – and raised him in the manner of the Ginjik goblins; teaching him mathematics, literacy, and the few languages that he could speak. Geezix had a rapacious intellect and it was not long before Murung exhausted his own repertoire of knowledge and needed to send out for a tutor. Fearing that the dragon might be paying attention to his efforts, Murung sent a request for a tutor directly to the forest realm of Eldreach – home of the Serpenti, the sagest of all races in Garund. As the request came with a sizable stipend attached, it wasn't long before Murung found a cowled figure at his door; the tutor had arrived, the Serpenti Thass'ira.
Thass'ira proved to be a very good tutor; knowledgeable in history, engineering, and xeno-studies – all of which he passed on to his young pupil. Yet, it was his race's familiarity with the arts arcane which proved to be the tipping point in the educational endeavor; Thass discovered the spark inside the youngling which, if nutured properly, would allow Geezix to develop into a master of the arcane arts (it wasn't until much later that Geezix found out that Thass had specifically sought to become his tutor because of a divination he had cast on hearing about the posting which indicated the Serpenti master would find his next apprentice over the mountains). The educational program switched focus at that time and Geezix grew to embrace the energies he found within; even turning some of them into a form of inner power to bend energy by his will alone that his master had rarely seen among the other species.
Time passed and Geezix became more comfortable with his abilities, eventually finding ways to meld his talents together for surprising results, but the innate curiosity which had typified his education asserted itself in regards to his own history – for it was no secret that he was very different from the other Goblins in his village. He resolved to ask his father about his mother.
Murung was originally very vague about Besshara at first but the insistent questioning eventually grew too much for him and he told his son about his mother, high in the mountain wall above the town (who had not been seen since she had delivered Geezix to Murung some years ago). With his heart in his throat, Geezix spread his own wings and took off for his mother's cave.
Besshara was surprised to see the little figure of the Goblin wing its way to her cave, intrigued enough by the random spectacle of the event to not ignore it as Geezix came towards her. She was even more surprised to find that the little being before her was the same child she had left with Murung what felt like barely an eye blink ago. Suddenly reminded of the ill-conceived event, the Dragon wasn't particularly hospitable to her son; giving short answers to his questions and stating that her responsibilities were too great to allow her to be a good mother to him – responsibilities earned due to her own considerable powers. Chastened, Geezix felt that his mother was embarrassed about his existence and vowing he would return to her only when he had accomplished something spectacular in the defence of others – much as his mother defended the valley.
Returning to his home, Geezix spoke about his new goal with Thass and the Serpenti told him of an organization of people dedicated to protecting the multiverse from dangerous items; the Society of Balance. Deciding that this was the best way to make his mark and impress his mother, Geezix said good-bye to his tutor and father, constructed a planar gate, and left for Sigil.
That should've been the hard part - letting go of everything he knew - but Geezix wasn't prepared for Sigil; how could one prepare for a city whose architecture defied what he had always known to be possible? All the people he met seemed to treat him as some deformed, miniature abishai (except for the abishai, who treated him like excrement) and they all seemed to think his name was "Berk," no matter how many times he corrected them. He found out pretty soon that he was a "Prime" and that his "chant" was too cultured to understand the gutter speech of the Cage without a lot of patience. He only found out later that he had plane hopped into what was known as the Hive - and it was lucky he survived long enough to find out that without loosing all his "jink" (Geezix soon tried his best to insert local idioms into his speech so he wouldn't appear out of place as speech was really the only way to distinguish such things in the planar metropolis). He still hadn't found the Society, but he continued to look. He quickly ran afoul of the tax collectors and, after a heated exchange (where he found that the tax collectors were really thugs), Geezix took the matter up with the (real) tax collecting authority; finding out about the factions govering the city in the process. The little Blue found the ethos of power being available for those with the will to grasp it exemplified by the faction to be in line with his own, though their ethical detacment from the topic was somewhat unsettling to him, so he declined thier offer to join the faction initially.
Motivation: Its tough being a little blue guy with an inferiority complex; particularly when you are trying to earn a mother's appreciation and she's a dragon. To (over)compensate, Geezix strives hard to be the best at what he does – bend the laws of reality to suit his needs – so that he can win a place in her heart and prove that a drunken one night stand with a goblin isn't the terrible mistake he fears she feels he is. The best way to prove this is to charge headlong into danger and safeguard the planes from items and people bent on destroying the peace his mother works to protect in places like Velguk.
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"I can kill you with my brain" ~ River Tam, Firefly
Details of appearance are being discussed with my resident concept artist – all I know so far is that he’s small for a quadrone. (Approximately one foot cubed instead of three – dwarf/halfling height.) This is what provoked him to individuality, as explained in the backstory.
Query: The Quarton has ordered us to maintain a log of observations – why? What might we observe which They would not, or have not already? We were made smaller than the others, in order to better maintain the Orrey – does this difference alter our observation? Or does our function alter what we may observe?
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Query: Form follows function, yet there are unlimited functions (given respective settings in time and space) – why then are Modron forms limited? Does this inhibit our function? Is this what we – being irregular from others – are meant to observe? The Unity of Rings would imply that such geometric simplicity is inherent in the form of the omniverse...yet this would contradict our observation, and contradictions cannot exist. Which, then, have we misunderstood?
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Query: We pause to watch the form and function of the Orrey; we recognize beauty in its function, as in its form. All planes orbit Mechanus, for We are the Center of All – the orbits wind the mainspring; the mainspring fuels the Orrey; the Orrey describes the orbits. Unity of Rings. It is beautiful, yet is not the recognition of beauty an emotion? If emotion is contrary to reason, yet reason suggests beauty, and beauty is itself emotional...where is the contradiction in our logic?
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Query: We found a lost gear spirit – we suppose its gear has been bypassed. Is a gear spirit still a gear spirit, without a gear? It knows its function, yet it cannot perform. Its form is built for such a function, yet it continues without. It perseveres. We recognize an...affinity...for the lost gear spirit. We keep it with us now, and it maintains ourselves.
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Query: We overheard visitors to the Orrey, non-Modrons. Visitors are not rare, yet neither are they common. These were talking about Modrons – they said that We do not know right from wrong...only best from worst. Yet, if one can tell what is best from what is worst, is that not a determination of right and wrong?
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Query: The Quarton is not pleased with our log. Why should we be told to observe, if observing is not useful to Them? We still cannot say what we are intended to observe. The only thing which we can observe better than the others is...us. Are we meant to observe ourselves?
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Query: We cannot forget the forms of the visitors. So different, so irregular...yet not without beauty. We can determine their functions from their forms – not by regularity, as with Modrons, but by their irregularity. One is tall, with a high structural integrity – a combatant. Another is frail, yet observant, and equipped with ocular enhancements – clearly a scholar. The third is small – of a size with ourselves. We assume that his function is not dissimilar to our own...to fit where others do not. All this we can see, yet we know that we do not see all. The subtlety of these forms leaves us...curious. They are individual. Is curiosity an emotion?
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Query: What is the function of individuality? Or is individuality merely a form which describes a unique function? Do we not serve a unique purpose? Are we not, then, individual? If others do not do what we do, if others cannot observe what we observe, if others never ask what we ask...are we not individual? This identifies as ego...as pride. We have been told that pride is illogical, irrational...purposeless. Is it? What is the purpose of pride?
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Query: We have been ordered to discontinue our log. We are disobeying this order. We cannot discontinue our observation. Primus help us; for we will be cast out. We do not perceive ourselves as broken; indeed, we detect a rising sense of integrity. Is this the purpose of pride?
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Query: There is no Modronic word for “I,” though “I” is an axiomatic concept, is it not? The Law of Identity states that A is A, and therefore I is I – I am. I...I feel emotion and it does not negate, nor does it overrule, my logic. My perception is not broken, as They said when They cast me out – it is crystallized. Emotion is a response to thought, and thought can be logical – therefore, emotion can be rational. Intense, yes, and moving – yet rational. How has this escaped a society which values logic? Do they, then, value logic? – or do they value only rules, and the pretense of structure? What is the difference between orders and Order?
“Oy! What’s yer name, then?” The roughneck towers over the new arrival – he’d not met many rogue Modrons before.
The Modron raises one brass digit. “Query – what is a name? Can you define it?”
The roughneck roars a laugh. “S’what yer mates call you, cobber! A name’s who y’are.”
The Modron drops the appendage, then raises it again. “Query – how does one know?”
“Know what?”
“Who they...you...who I am?”
“Huh.” The big man pulls a crate over, sits down, rests his square chin on one calloused palm. “Ye got me, there.”
“Query – what is your name? Who are you?”
Grinning broadly, the roughneck squares his shoulders and sticks out his hand. “Cutters call me Bluff, on account of I’m tall an’ loud...an’ I let it get around that my pokerface ain’t half bad, neither.” He leans closer to the Modron and winks. “Don’t go tellin’ folks, but that is a bluff.”
Curious, the Modron executes a handshake for the first time. “Query–“
“What’s’at mean, then?”
The Modron pauses, unaccustomed to interruption. “...What?”
“What you keep sayin’ – queery?”
“Query – preface to an instance of inquiry; a question.”
“Ah! There ye go, then!” The big man laughs and grins again. ”Suits you, don’t it?”
The Modron is quiet, considering... ”Yes. Query is a suitable appellation.”
“S’a good name s’what it is, if I do say so myself!”
“You do.” Query raises a finger again. ”Query – what is the difference between an appellation and a name?”
“Shut up and shake hands again.”
Query – Of what value is maintenance without creativity? The Modrons maintain and repair – they do not create. (Who made the Orrey, I wonder?) In Sigil, I have survived by mending, repairing, tinkering...valuable skills, yet insufficient. The value of maintaining is an understanding of one’s world; the value of making is an understanding of oneself. Conclusion - I must create. As I am not I without my curiosity, neither am I myself without creativity.
There is much discovery in creation, and there is much creativity in learning – another Ring, another cog of understanding. The Unity of Rings applies to the planes, yes – yet any individual must live as a line. One begins, one grows – perhaps one dies. Perception of time is linear, therefore individuals existent in time progress along a line. The line, then, runs tangent to the Unity of Rings – as they turn, the individual advances.
...
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Query – I am told that I am not the first Modron artist in Sigil. Indeed, rogue Modrons are well-known for exceptional technique in art or craft. I work in metal, with the help of my gear spirit (I have named him Hilbert). My sculpture sells well – and is the cause of much conversation. I observe the mechanical in all races – anatomy is close kin to engineering – and display it in my work. This appears to be the cause of some controversy – why? Are they so insecure of their individuality that they cannot recognize any similarity? Order in the omniverse does not presuppose a lack of independence...does it?
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Query – What is the difference between justice and law? Is it best to obey the law? Is it good? Bluff came to see me; a friend of his was imprisoned – wrongfully, he said. I believe him – the man truly is a bad liar. I crept in and freed the man (Babbage helped, of course)...locks are simple things to a clockwork artist. Of course, no one suspects a Modron – we are such well-known advocates of Order and logic. It is not my concern if they fail to define their terms.
This has happened more than once, and each time I use my own judgement as to whether I release the prisoner in question. I find this occupation almost as fulfilling as my sculpture. I am developing something of a reputation, and I find also that this provokes an emotional reaction, separate from the pride in the occupation itself – it amuses me.
...
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Query – Does Balance maintain the omniverse? Order, yes, Order even within chaos – but Balance? Balance of what? Power? The term is too vague... I would more readily agree if they said Integrity. Suppose I read their offer as such? An Order of Integrity which opposes imbalance...moving among the planes, connecting them with knowledge, deciding what is necessary to reinforce the Structure of the planes on the whole. If the situation is as dire as they say, then they will require an engineer.
I feel...what is the emotion which provokes one to sigh? Wistful? I have enjoyed my time in Sigil, yet curiosity does drive me to travel. I thirst for knowlege as much as anything – the Library of Sigil is familiar to me now. I would like to see the Orrey again, and to visit the Clockwork Archives. (I had never thought to search the restricted sections when I was there, and now I find myself most curious.) I would seek out other libraries, new knowledges...if nothing else, as inspiration for new creations. Perhaps I shall write a book – a treatise on a new logical philosophy...
Also, I do not like the thought of others deciding the fate of the planes – I have seen the justice of others enough to know that I would not trust my justice to anyone.
Many of the factions contain some facet of philosophy which Query may appreciate, yet none has the integrity to fully appeal to him. The Godsmen's talk of self-improvement, for example, interests him - yet their aims are at the next life, where Query holds a similar philosophy aimed at this one. It is irrational to act in any way differently than one would act if this were the only life, if only because any attempt at buying a better life would be a betrayal of values in this one. Act as one will act, and if there is another life, then trust that you have acted well. The Signers have a sort of Center-of-All thought, but they dilute it with nihilism. Indeps are individual, yet needlessly reckless - for that matter, the individuality is in question. Difference for difference's sake is pointless, particularly when it is useless as well. The Anarchists are more so - though if he stopped to consider, Query might classify himself as a rational anarchist. All told, he'd rather avoid joining any group which may lay a claim on him, until or unless he finds a group which would earn his loyalty.
Query questions nearly everything, sometimes unto tedium. He is easily sidetracked by more interesting questions, and unaccustomed to interruptions. He speaks very properly, though he will make attempts to utilize the cant with increasing proficiency throughout the game (Double dumbass on you.). He has very logical ideas about justice, which have nothing to do with law. While these ideas are very definite, he is not fanatical about enforcing them (as, for example, a paladin may charge in to do the right thing). He understands that there are too many worlds whose inhabitants act absurdly, and it would be irrational for him to try to fix them all. He merely partakes of justice when the opportunity arises. It should also be noted that Query picks locks much better than he sneaks – Modrons aren’t overly stealthy.
He is particularly interested in the correlations of engineering and anatomy – he uses these to his advantage in combat situations, though most often attempting to do nonlethal damage. The right to take a sentient creature’s life is not something he will claim often – though his definition of sentient is not a common one, either.
He has little interest in magic – truth to tell, it annoys him somewhat. He does not believe in the unknowable, yet he acknowledges magic as at least unknown. He accepts it as a natural force, like gravity, which can often be utilized in various other fields, but which is not a viable field of study in itself. Despite this, he must acknowledge its efficacy.
Query considers himself to be friendly, though it seldom occurs to him that he has no friends - only a few companionable acquaintances. This doesn’t seem to bother him – he gains interaction through his work. The work itself is often a sore spot with him, as people so often interpret the mechanical element in his figures as negative. Query has a singular respect for the mechanics of anatomy and works to glorify and admire the strength and structure of his models. He sells the work only to those who are willing to have a long philosophical discussion of its meaning and value. Those who walk away as the new owners of a piece often have the feeling they’ve just concluded a successful job interview.
Also, the gear spirit is his familiar.
__________________
Somewhat distracted by life. And dragons. Back with you lot shortly, I promise.
Last edited by Mal Radagast; 07-23-2011 at 09:44 PM.
All must decay. All must die. The pinions that fix the universe in place and concentrate its energy must be unpicked and unraveled that the Fall may proceed.
Scathe is quiet and deliberate in her movements and speech. Her ultimate conviction that decay and desolation are the fate of all, make her generally dour company. Her silent vigil over the slow death of her God and her Temple has slowly replaced the typical violence and brutality of the Gargoyle with a longer view.
Ultimately, Scathe wants three things, as the Rule-Of-Three calls for. To understand the nature of Entropy. To serve the Nothing her deity has become part of. To destroy anything or anyone that anchors reality and prevents the Fall.
Background:
"On the border between the Elemental Plane of Water and the Elemental Plane of Air lies the Paraelemental Plane of Mist. Travellers note that the consistency varies from gentle caressing fogs to howling bands of cirrus that slash across exposed skin like Ocanthan ice. Few landmarks now stand within the mists, however in millenia past a temple to a storm-god now forgotten loomed over the lashing rain, with cunningly carved statues of winged women on the minarets of wach the great towers. Any enemies of the storm-god would see the minaret-statues take to life and pull their enemies to pieces with their long-hooks and claws, if they survived the fury of the storm itself.
As the storm-god's last currents of worship diminished and died, the god's petrified body appearing in the Astral wastes, the temple itself faded from the Plane. It is rumoured by the Doomguard that as the god became forgotten and the temple began to decay, it slid toward the Negative Material Plane, and presumably has been since lost to time and entropy.
-Givalext Haptort, Factotum of the Guvners, Essays on the Inner Planes
Expedition From Citadel Sealt - Doomknight's Log
On the third day the Mountains became a Plain, and then we lost all Sight and three Bloods were written into the Dead-book by the Salt. In this region the Salt formed a great Cloud, with Flakes blown around by faint Winds, such as could barely be felt, as Air too faded into Vacuum.
We did not reckon for the last Vestiges of the Fury of the Forgotten Storm to blow the Salt as Blades in a vortex formed of the Vanished God's Memory and the Almost-Wind of the Dark Border. Before we could prepare Hagel, Por and Gealit were flayed to Bone by Shards so light and fine they threaded Skin and Viscera as Needles and Scoured to Bone within Seconds.
After further Preparation we proceeded deeper into the strange silent Storm. As the Researchers of Castle Alluvius had predicted, at the Corner of the Planes where Vacuum, Salt and Mist met lay the Ruins of the Temple. Tumbled whitened Blocks leached to Feather-light Husks yet stood in the Eye of the Whirlwind. Before we could make any further Progress, there was a Cry from the Storm, dulled by the thin Air and yet chilling to the Ear. We stood confused for but a few Heartbeats, but these few Heartbeats were enough time for the Longhook to tear Jouren to pieces in three swift Strokes. Before her Blood had even fallen to the Ground the next of us was dying and I had no choice but to sound the Recall, with the pale Outline of a Figure in the shearing Salt the last Sight of our Expedition.
-Darben Moor, Factotum of the Doomguard, Personal Communication
I remain to serve Him. He is gone beyond. Therefore I remain to serve the Black Beyond.
Day 45: The prisoner spoke. Her one word was 'Scathe.'
Day 47: The prisoner spoke. Her two words were 'Teach me'
Day 48: The prisoner took meat and blood. She grows stronger again.
Day 82: The prisoner has consumed half the library and wishes to know even more. "Teach me. Scathe." Perhaps Scathe is a name and not a command.
Day 88: The prisoner spoke. Her three words were "Scathe. Become. Doom."
-Topek, Viceroy to Vacuum-Overlord Nagual, Citadel Exhalus, Log
I now serve Entropy, just as He who was my Master is now One with the Great Doom.
The Harmonium are a faction great,
And march they proud in gleaming plate,
The colour red from toe to pate
The insides of a Hardhead, though, yield sweeter red
When with a hook they're surprise'd
Their life-wine sprayed, then slowly bled
And hoisted again on the leafless tree
In the dead-book new calligraphy
They run, and run, but cannot flee
-Polkyt Half-elven, Planar Bard, The Ballad Of The Doomguard's Ghost
You will become one with the dust, the flame of your life ashes, the air in your lungs dissipate and the blood in your veins cord to skeins of salt.
Name: ScaThE
Home: SaLT / vaCuUm / MIst oF the InNer pLAneS onCE, nOW THE cage
Skills: To FlAy. tO Kill. TO unDeRstanD tHe dEAth-oF-All
Reason for Applying: tHe greATest ArtiFAcTs hoLD the NOthinG aT BaY. iT Is SAId in THe tOmE of DUst thAT wheN ThE "piLLaRs", TheSe itEMs whicH piNION reALity thROugh thEIR ConCENtraTiONs of MaGIc and BelIEF, aRE ExtingUISHed, thAT the MulTIVerSE wiLL reSUMe iTS fINAL fAll.
-Society of Balance, application form, one 'Scathe'
I declare myself the spot of ink on the page, that is the end of the sentence.
06-02-2011, 12:31 AM
