Name: Quasi Ajini
Criminal Occupation: Cat Burglar
Classes: Spellthief 12 \\ Fighter 6 \ Tempest 5 \ Shadowdancer 1
This haughty elf carries herself with such bravado those meeting her for the first time often assume her akin to others of her race, but in fact, aside from the physical, her arrogance is the limit of her likeness to other elves. Once an individual proves themselves useful in her eyes, Quasi softens her outward contempt towards them, somewhat.
Those close enough to the elf to be considered a friend, are witness to a determined individual who stops at nothing to accomplish her goals, goals which most often involve chasing a magical trinket or amassing a large sum of coins. When not adventuring for personal gain, Quasi continues to lend herself to individuals who require the assistance of a skilled traveller. She is non-discriminate when it comes to the types of work she is willing perform, as long as the pay is good. She prefers to remain on the outskirts of most situations, using her strengths to her advantage as opposed to charging in blindly.
Obviously of Southern decent, this elf's golden brown complextion and big round eyes the color of the finest jade would cause her to stand out in any crowd. Long golden hair hangs unkempt past her slender shoulders, yet somehow the tussled mess is still an alluring asset. She carries her athletic frame with balance and grace, her movements smooth and fluent. A suit of tight fitting leather armour studded with tiny silver rivets protects her body. A pair of slim blades hang at her hips, the wear of the scabbards alluding to the fact that they have seen much action in her hands.
Depth of Character:The pair worked quickly. Grabbing handfuls of gems and shoving them into the magical pouches that lined their waists. They shared a knowing look before Quasi glanced over her slender shoulder to ensure no one approached. Time was of the essence, it was only a matter of moments before someone would notice the guard they had overpowered was missing from his rounds.
Quasi turned her attention to locating what she had come for, the famed blade was rumored to be stored in Lord Vespar’s luminous vault but she had yet to come across it. Just as she was about to give up her search something in her peripheral vision caught her attention. She approached the empty shelf with caution and traced her finger tips along the rear wall. A smile spread across her face as the revelation of her discovery settled in.
At that very moment she felt the sharp jab of the point of a blade press against her spine, “I truly do regret that things just aren’t going to work out between us my love.” the words did not surprise Quasi in the least. In fact she was preparing to make a similar speech the moment she laid her hands on the magical blade.
“A pity indeed.” she replied dryly.
“I had such great hopes for our little tandem.” the sarcasm dripped from every word.
She used the moment of banter to call her short sword from its pocket dimension with a snap of her fingers. Without the slightest hesitation she crumpled to the ground avoiding the deadly thrust of Vance’s dirk. She brought her blade up defensively and slapped his second thrust wide. Her right hand shot up in a menacing fashion as she uttered a string of arcane syllables. An orb of acid arced from her palm striking the unsuspecting man in the face.
The scream that followed sent shivers up Quasi’s spine. She rolled to her left and didn’t look back. Though she was careful to close the pair of double doors behind her leaving Vance to be discovered by the guards that would arrive shortly…if he survived.
Last edited by Whispers; 10-01-2010 at 06:46 AM.
Name: Shaw Thunderloft
Criminal Occupation: Serial Killer
Alignment: Truly Chaotic
Cause:And the four angels were loosed, which were prepared for an hour, and a day, and a month, and a year, for to slay the third part of men.A madman, a sociopath, a bringer of death. Is he truly insane, or does he simply know the truth that we all know, but refuse to accept? A servant, nay, but a prophet, of Time, Shaw does her work. For the end of all things is in her mouth and but a few more moments and creation will be devoured. For do not even the gods themselves struggle in vain? And so quiet anger drives Shaw Thunderloft. His is a race to kill before his mistress harvests him.- Revelation 9:15
Physical Traits:Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Depth of Character:Out—out are the lights—out all!Jet black hair, bulging inset black eyes, and purple lips puffed to twice the size they ought to be all set upon a pale face. A scarf around a neck longer than it ought to be hides the marks of a noose, a wound that will never heal. A tall man, lanky and thin, as though malnourished and abused for far too long, Shaw is 6' 2" tall, and 120 pounds.And over each quivering form,The curtain, a funeral pall,Comes down with the rush of a storm- Edgar Allan Poe, The Conquering Worm
Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.He was known as the Night Horror of Novea, the Shambleman of Sant Rudolphe, and the Butcher of Eldonis. His name is Madness, Fury, Suffering, and Hatred. Where he walks, he brings death. The unbridled mind is a terrible thing, powerful, acrimonious, and spiteful in all things. Once awakened to its infinite potential, the unfettered soul is drawn away from this world, the shuttered minds are inconsequential and not worthy of sympathy or mercy.- Job 14:1-2
+1 Keen Great FalchionGold Remaining: 400 gp
Last edited by Benoni; 10-07-2010 at 07:07 PM.
Criminal Occupation: Thief-Assassin
Alignment: Lawful Evil
Classes: Warlock 8/Mindbender 1/Hellfire Warlock 3||Rogue 5/Dread Commando 5/Chameleon 2 (Not in that order)
Personality: Klael is a vindictive bastard that absolutely loves slipping secretly into noble households, stealing everything valuable, then vanishing without a trace. He never finds it hard to evade traps effortlessly and takes a perverse joy in writing little notes to describe how he did so then leaving them in place of valuables. Curiously, he prefers to avoid confrontations whenever possible despite his incredible deadliness... Unless his 'mission' includes killing.
He has a very odd moral code and attitude. Klael owes allegiance to one person only, his Master. His goals are, in order:
1. Obey Master.
2. Acquire a stronger Master.
3. Protect Master.
Generally, whoever kills his old Master he will regard as his new one. If they are weaker than the last Master, however, he will often kill them himself and then wander until he finds a new person to follow: Or if they are regarded as too 'righteous'. The reasoning behind this is simple: Klael cannot deal with the complexity of the world and seeks an ordered, structured life. In the demented landscape of his brain that is the easiest way to achieve it as well as do the things he likes. In his own little brain, killing and stealing are wrong but he still enjoys him: However, if he is ordered to do so then he may be free of guilt. Surprisingly, he is highly inventive and far more effective the looser his orders are. When commanding him, his Master quickly finds it easiest to simply give him a goal and let Klael work from there.
Physical Traits: The Murderer that is Klael appears short, thin and quick. He wears light clothing, carefully chosen to maximise his stealth and speed. But, the moment battle falls upon him, a full suit of armour appears seemingly from nowhere and he carefully crushes his opponents. He is relatively hardy and dexterous, not all that strong, but very intelligent and cunning to make up for it. Klael capitalizes on his ability to change shape as best he can.
Depth of Character: The party was in full swing at Lord Grey's manor. As various nobles were ferried in the guards outside were bored. There were only four, their Captain gone elsewhere with a young noblewoman who wished to have a 'discussion' with him. They were envious, but silent. Meanwhile, in a nearby stable, the Captain was quickly pulling off his chain shirt. He turned to see the young woman, dress loose but still on. "Your turn." He said, eyes aflame.
The young lady walked towards him, placing one hand on his chest. "I think not." Her eyes glowed, and so did his. He froze in place, dully staring into empty air. "Tell me how to get in. Tell me the names of the other guards. Tell me what you call them." The Captain listed off what she asked for, carefully, halting. A vein popped out of his forehead as he seemed to struggle against... Something. "Very good. Now close your eyes for your reward."
A small burst of Hellfire and acid obliterated his heart in a second. He collapsed, and the woman held her hand out: Melting his corpse into the dirt then sweeping hay over it. Quickly she changed, both into the Captain's armour and form before striding back towards the gates. The new Captain made a show of smirking and adjusting his pants as he walked confidently through the gates. The other guards glanced sourly at him, but let him pass.
Within, a noblewoman was asked to come with him for a moment. They stepped into an empty room. There was no scream. Moments later, the noblewoman strode out: Adjusting her dress slightly, she returned to the party. The process was repeated with an eager young serving boy whose ashes would never be found. A new boy, quite literally, strode into the kitchen and added a special spice to the soup before slipping out. Lastly, the lock on the Lord's door was picked by a deft hand. Valuables were swept into a bag, tied to a belt. Finally the Captain left the party, pausing on his way out to cleave a noble's head clean off. The uproar at the gates, as the Captain vanished around a corner and the guards sprinted there only to find an angry knight in shining armour pointing them a different way, neatly distracted from all the party guests collapsing inside.
Finally, the knight left the village. The bag was handed over to a cloaked figure on a nearby hilltop. "You have done well, Klael." The knight shrugged. "I live to serve, my Master."
"Klael, help me!" A blade rushed through the air where the man's head had been. He was a Merchant Baron of some small renown, who had acquired the warrior Klael in a game of chance. A pathetic Master. Now, as assassins closed in on him, he could but watch as his supposed bodyguard stood by and stared impassively as he was slaughtered. The one began to loot the body, only to have his fellow ram a blade into the back of his head. "So you're the mighty Klael." The assassin's mask came off, revealing a confident looking elf. "I am your new Master. Do you accept?" It seemed for a moment like the fearsome warrior might object, however...
"I live to serve my Master."
Weeks passed. Klael killed, efficiently and often. His new master was strong. Not strong enough, perhaps, but powerful indeed. He fell on a failed mission, due to no fault of Klael's, and once more there was no Master. It was, again, the time of wandering. He needed something to do. Someone to order him to kill and steal. Someone to give him purpose. Perhaps it would never come. A few attempted to draw him to them. A paladin saw his shining armour, thought him a fellow do-gooder and was quickly dispelled of that notion. A wandering merchant was assisted, protected and forgotten.
Aimless. So aimless.
Finally, finally, someone found him. They were an odd one, like him, born of great power and skill. They wanted him to help them steal, destroy, destabilize. To take down an entire nation. What did Klael think of that?
Last edited by Dragoderian; 09-29-2010 at 06:10 PM.
Name: Rafe "Fang" Vander
Race: Half-Vampire Human
Criminal Occupation: Killer
Alignment: LE (can possibly change to LN, or even LG in game...)
Classes: Half Vampire LA +2, Scout 4, Rogue 6// Monk 5, Dragon Desendant 7
Personality: There is only one rule in Rafe's mind. Only the strong deserve to live. Those that are weak and choose to remain so should die. Everyday, Rafe dedicates his efforts to riding the world of these insects and making himself stronger and stronger. He constantly raises the bar with which he defines the strong and the weak as his own power grows. Rafe uses his harsh and abrasive nature to hide his insecurities with his own weakness; his dependency on blood. Despite this internal struggle, Rafe has learned to use his flaw to aid in his extermination of the weak! After several years in Descendia, Rafe now sets his sights on the government of the corrupted and the weak...
Physical Traits: white ashen skin, white hair and red eyes, with fair attractive features. Seemingly unarmored and unarmed, many underestimate this almost shell of a man...
Depth of Character: Rafe stalked the dark streets of Descendia, careful to stay out of the light of the torches with there feeble attempt to brighten the harsh and icy night. Every alleyway, abandoned building, bridge and even sewer way came under Rafe's scrutiny, until he found what he sought; the blood of one who did not deserve to live anymore.
Two? No three beating another. This will be more than enough for me. Rafe pauses but a moment, refocusing on his ancestral spirit that had made its home in the temple that was his body. Subtle one, make your power my power... Opening his eyes, he approached the group, still careful to stay hidden. Once Rafe was close enough, he charged the nearest assailant, striking him down in on swift blow to the back of his neck, and rushing back into the shadows before either of his companions saw what happened.
Bort! What happened to Flan!?! cried out the half-orc of the group,looking down at the broken body of his shifter friend. Before the human male could even look up, the Half-orc had found out the easy way what had happened.
As the male gnome merchant laid on the ground, moaning from his wounds, Bort turned to see his friends both on the ground, their bodies broken, and discarded like ragged dolls. As fear stuck him,he cried out, Who's out there!?! Why don't you show yourself!?! his dagger in hand, shaking furiously.
Very well weakling. Those who prey on the weak because they themselves are weak disgust me... AS Bort peered into the darkness trying to make out this unknown attacker, he could hear a faint whisper, Enduring one, make your strength my strength..., and before he could let out a yell/scream, Rafe came out of the shadows baring his fangs, one hand going to bort's neck, and the other striking Borts stomach. Barely able to react, Bort desperately tried to stabbed the half-vampire. The blade surprisingly sunk into the vampire's belly, but as bort looked on in horror, Rafe only smiled, and remarked, now its my turn, and the last thing Bort saw was the Fangs of Rafe Vander...
Thank you, thank you. What can I do to repay your kindness!?! cried out the gnome, still kneeling over from the beating.
After the soft sucking noises, and muffled cries of bort, Rafe straightens out, letting the lifeless body before him fall to accompany those who were his friends in life. Rafe turns his neck towards the gnome and sneers, Discard your weakness, otherwise, the next time i see you... you will join those on their way to meet Wee Jas..., and as quickly as he came, he left the gnome amongst three dead bodies, confused, but afraid... very, very afraid...
Last edited by morALEXception; 10-04-2010 at 03:45 AM.
Name: Marric Renar
Criminal Occupation: Forgery Expert, Short Range combatant(Normally not Melee, but can easily do so if necessary), Stealth and Acrobatics Expert.
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Classes: Gestalt Class progression by level;
Level 1: Swashbuckler 1/Scout 1
Level 2: Swashbuckler 2/Scout 2
Level 3: Swashbuckler 3/Scout 3
Level 4: Rogue 1/Scout 4
Level 5: Rogue 2/Scout 5
Level 6: Rogue 3/Scout 6
Level 7: Rogue 4/Scout 7
Level 8: Master Thrower 1/Scout 8
Level 9: Master Thrower 2/Scout 9
Level 10: Master Thrower 3/Scout 10
Level 11: Master Thrower 4/Scout 11
Level 12: Master Thrower 5/Scout 12
Description: Marric is fairly short for a human, topping off at a mere 5'6", though those few he is friends with often make jokes about him stuffing his boots just for that extra inch, and that he is more rightly 5'5". His hair, a shade of black that seems darker than the feathers of a raven, ends just below the shoulders tied back by a simple peace of cloth to keep it out of his eyes save for what bangs occasionally free themselves from the makeshift prison. His eyes themselves are heterochromatic, or two different colors; the right, a light brownish shade of amber and the other a shade of almost polished silver.
His skin is the unnatural pale of those most often out in the evening or night, rather than the day. The skin on his face is marred by a scar that stretches from the middle of his right cheek to just before his ear, like something sharp that had been thrown at him that he hadn't quite managed to dodge. Regardless of setting he is usually found wearing a light armor of some sort, and no matter what tends to have a knife or dagger somewhere on his person, even if not easily seen.
Personality: Depending on how you first see or meet Marric you'd most likely find him with a mischievous grin on his face and a spark in his eye. And indeed that is very much like his usual mindset, a sort of thrill seeking free spirit of sorts. He has a love of challenges and frequently gambles, but only ever bets on himself, refusing to do so if his own abilities have no say in the outcome. This attitude can quickly change to an ice cold mask with no expression whatsoever, save for whatever story his eyes tell. Such a change is usually only brought on by a scarce few topics, nearly all of which revolve around his family. However in recent years since his reconciliation with his father, this has begun to ease, though it may take a while for it to heal fully. In the end though, once he gets it set in his mind to do something someone would find it near impossible to change it.
Background: Marric never had a happy childhood. His father, Marcus Renar, was a wealthy man. Marcus, as had many of the Renar family before him, had spent his life building up the Renar family fortune. The Renar family had over the course of many generations both made, and on rare occasion, lost, many great fortunes in the merchant trade. In truth, not all of these fortunes were made legitimately, but really, money was money after all. Marric and his father had never seen eye to eye, even before the death of his mother, Adriana Renar. Marric was after all, a thrill seeker from birth. In his father's opinion he aught to be learning how to take over the family fortune and making contacts and other skills that were needed, not staying out very much past sundown tramping around with the lower class kids in the alleys and streets of the city.
Things took a turn for the worse after his mother was poisoned in an attempt to kill the Renar family during the winter of Marric's tenth year. As his mother had always been a sort of peacemaker between the two, things rapidly deteriorated to the point of near daily arguments between father and son. This reached a boiling point by the time Marric had turned twelve. The night's argument led from one thing or another until Marric blamed his father for the death of his mother and was in turn rewarded by being struck by a backhand and simultaneously knocked to the floor. The two stared the other in the eye from their respective positions before Marric eventually stood and left the room, and unknown to the father, to pack a bag of food and whatever else he thought he might need before he left his home for good.
The nighttime romps his father had so disproved of now came into their worth as he hid out in the multitude of alleys that had been his childhood playground. What friends he had made in the lower class districts of the city helping him when they could, also proved valuable. But it would be one night, roughly six months after he had fled his father, that would forever stick in his memory. It had started when he found himself rudely awoken when the empty crate he had been using to sleep in was knocked over by a tossed body. Sleeping in the alleys had taught the boy to be a light sleeper and so Marric found himself fully awake rather quickly. The man that had been tossed at the crate's face Marric easily recognized as a wanted member of a rather violent gang. The rest of the members of said gang that had been displayed in additional posters seemed to be fighting a slim dagger wielding individual.
What really made the man stand out was the way he was using the daggers and knives. He was throwing them. And while that wasn't really unusual, as Marric had occasionally seen this done before, but what made it unusual was the skill he was doing with them. The clouds drifted out of the way of the moon and in a shard of moonlight Marric glimpsed many sheathed daggers in places all over the man, which he was quickly grasping and throwing, and using them to somehow pin one thug to the wall, another to knock a small sword out of the hand of another and in many other ways continue to incapacitate his attackers, or perhaps targets. By the time it had seemed all over the then young Marric found himself suddenly held around the neck by an arm, a small blade at his throat. The thug that had first been knocked into his crate had gotten up it seemed. The boy quickly went stiff, absolutely still with the knife held to his throat.
The dagger thrower across the alley had turned to face the man who was currently using Marric as a shield, and a rather scared shield at that. The man's eyes then met Marric's briefly, quickly flicking slightly to Marric's left a few times before quickly drawing another blade as the boy tried to grasp what the man was meaning. His eyes lit up just as the man's hand became a blur, quickly leaning his head to the left, yet not quite quick enough. The thrown blade cut his cheek as it grazed him, before continuing on past into the thug behind him's head. The man then went on to quickly collect his thrown blades and incapacitated foes, obviously for the bounty, stopped next to Marric, the dagger that had hit the thug behind him wiped clean in his hand. He passed it to Marric with a slight smile, perhaps of remembrance, before walking away, never saying a word. That night set Marric's goal in life, to become like the man of whom he had never learned his name.
As the years past, Marric was able to get by doing various odd jobs, most of which, the legitimate ones at least, were various pest control and later on cashing minor bounties. However most of his work was a bit more, shady. In addition to contract thievery such as stealing a specific item, and pickpocketing, he found he had quite the talent for making forgeries. As the years went on and his skills improved, earning himself a reputation of being able to get things done, he became quite skilled with thrown weapons, especially daggers. He had after all kept the dagger given to him by the stranger to the present day, though now it was only one of many, it remained his personal favorite.
It was one night, shortly into his seventeenth winter, that he ran into his father, whose hair was filled with far more grey and white streaks than it should have had, in a tavern Marric regularly frequented. That night brought about something Marric had never suspected would happen one day, or that he would want it to happen. A reconciliation with his father.
Depth of Character (Roleplay them): The talk of the Empire's rapid militaristic expansion had always been just that, talk. What with several other kingdoms and city states between Marric's own home city and the frontlines any worries had over it were mild. That changed the morning the city was woken up by the horns and calls of battle in the predawn hours, and Imperial Army on their doorstep having nearly completely surrounded the city's walls. His father found him gearing up in the old manor's entrance hall. A long, silent, look was shared between the two, Marcus Renar clearly wanting to say something, anything, to keep his new found son from leaving to fulfill whatever plan he had concocted to deal with the problem. In the end he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he did so. "I suppose there is nothing I can say to keep you from risking your neck out there. So I'm left with this, good luck son."
Marric nodded back, not saying a word as he strapped on his last set of sheathed daggers across his shoulders. His glance to his father was filled with words enough. Double checking his assorted gear and potions Marric walks to the door, opening it partially, the sounds of battle increasing, before turning to give his father one last glance and walking out the door. A short while later found Marric on the top of a shadow covered portion of the city's outer wall by virtue of a combination of stealth, climbing, and other acrobatics. A sense of rage filled the young Renar's very being at the sight that lay in view from atop the wall, filled as it was with soldiers running about, at the great army the greedy empire had assembled to devour yet another kingdom. Not this day, not if Marric Renar had anything to say about it. And he intended to make his grievances known. His mismatched eyes narrowed at the sight of his target, the large command tent well beyond bow or ballista shot from the walls. Stepping back a few quick steps Marric down a quick potion, just before taking a running jump, leaping from the height of the city walls.
Thankfully his potion of fly was a good one and he soon found himself soaring in the blackness of the predawn hours towards the brightly lit command tent at the rear of the army, counting roughly a score of guards standing near the tent. As he began to dive the first of his daggers were thrown, striking necks, hearts, lungs, and other assorted vital areas, dropping six of the guards before he even landed, ducking around the lunge made by one guard with his spear, who had caught on quicker than the others, only to be stabbed twice by Marric's current dagger, once beneath the arm, the second in the back. Two guards charging towards him from the right were rewarded with a thrown dagger to the chest, both of which from the ones used to stab the now dying guard with the spear.
Moments later, inside the tent, the assorted general and command staff eyed the entrance to the tent, some fearfully due to the sounds of a brief and bloody fight just outside. The entryway flaps were shove open by the kicked back bloody body of the guard captain, already dead with a knife buried hilt deep in his head. Marric entered, stepping across the freshly killed corpse and into the tent, his eyes drilling into all the others one by one, his hand a blur, dagger thrown into the chest of one of the commanders who had tried to draw a sword. His gaze turned to the head general, made obvious by his place at the table. Playing idly with a dagger in his hands he spoke.
"I take issue with your army's presence here. And for the sake of my home city, and the others you have no doubt conquered, I intend to do something about it." The screams of the dead and dying began.
Last edited by Yuul; 10-05-2010 at 04:13 PM.
Criminal Occupation: Healing and Surprise Muscle (Its only a halfling. Holy crap it turned into a friggen raging brown bear!)
Classes: Druid//Barbarian/Master of Many Forms
Personality: Pretty laid back about everything but nature and people trying to hurt him and his friends. Dislikes cities, but realises he needs to be in them to get decent money, and needs money to pay for his private projects. No issues about his height, unlike most other halflings, considering humans to be too tall. When people try to hurt him or his friends he occasionally flies into unstoppable frenzies.
Physical Traits: Fairly small, covered in tiny scars. When angry eyes turn a violent red color and gain slits. Tends to dress in heavy leather armor, but doesn't carry around any weapons except for a dagger he uses to chop up food. Teeth have been filed into sharp fangs.
Depth of Character (Roleplay them):
Entering the bar with a confident swagger, the bar goes quiet. He has been here a few times before, liking the wooden furnishings and strength of the ale. Against standard logic the alchahol in dives tends to be better rather than worse. Thats because while a midend bar might lose custom if they serve watered ale, a low end barkeep might lose teeth and the use of their arms or knee caps.
A few of the customers, big brutes give him welcoming, respectful smiles and he shares them back. The rest of the customers simply give him incredulous looks. Orcs and larger humans are the mainstay of this establishment, and the occational Ogre walks carefully here. But a halfling walks in calmly?
A particularly drunk, and therefor suicidal Orc steps in his way. "Oi! What ya think ya doin? Shouldn't you be in a hole somewhere playing with fairies..? Heh heh heh..." he doesn't notice several of the nearby patrons moving away from him quietly.
"A hole? Why would I be in a hole? I was just in a house actually. With your mother. Bit fugly for my usual tastes, but you know..." replies the halfling with a confident grin. "Now turn around, my lad, unless you want me to get angry..."
The Orc roars, drawing his sword.
He wakes up the next morning confused, not entirely sure what happens. He is in pain, his entire body feeling like its been used as a giant cat scratching post. He also can't seem to move...
Its then he discovers he is buried neck deep in a hole.
Name: Akelha Xa'Vius__________________
Occupation: Mercenary "Special Forces" - elimination of "hard" targets, whether individuals or facilities.
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
Classes: Dread Necromancer/Rainbow Servant//Ranger/Wizard
Personality: Serious, no-nonsense, and not particularly personable, Akelha focuses on her magic and her job, shying away from most personal relationships and tends to be somewhat distant. She likes conversing, but she doesn't get close, tending to treat it more as an interesting 'duel of words' even when it's a casual conversation. Once she has accepted a job, she focuses on it nearly to the exclusion of all else, other than things that will improve her ability to complete the job. She analyzes things logically, but doesn't hesitate to go on hunches or her gut when she lacks data. She particularly likes being known for her reliability, and she has very specific criteria for accepting jobs, but once she has agreed to something she always completes it, doing absolutely anything necessary in order to achieve the goal.
Appearance: Tall, with long black hair and chalk-pale, Akelha dresses in blacks and greys and plays up her command of the undead to scare the faint of heart and help her cultivate a stronger reputation. She carries a large scythe and has made minor magical alterations to herself to enhance her appearance, making her skin appear even paler-white, and causing her eyes to appear blank white. Among the skulls decorating her outfit, exactly one of them is always colored red, and when she needs light, uses one enchanted with continual flame.
RP Sample: The woman was sitting in a side-room of the tavern, which she'd been offered - insisted that she use, more like it - because she was frightening the other customers. She had no issue with this and took up the side-room, sitting so she could see out the open door, then extinguished the lighting inside the room, leaving only the glowing sigils around her head providing her illumination.
It was not long after she arrived that a man in a heavy cloak concealing his armor showed up, ducking into the room and taking a seat across the table from her. Her blank white eyes studied him, and he glanced back at the open door, then at her again, seeming nervous - though whether of the possibility of being caught or because of the woman sitting across from him was difficult to tell. He pulled out a scrollcase and rolled it across the table to her before speaking quietly. The woman made a slight gesture toward the room behind the man and intoned a syllable even as he began speaking, and as she did so, the sounds of the tavern beyond the door were instantly silenced. The man barely got a word out before glancing back, uncertain. Akelha simply said, "Ensuring the privacy of our discussion." before waiting for him to proceed with his explanation.
Composing himself after a moment, the man nodded. "The target is a small fort in the mountain pass on the map." The woman opened the scroll case and began studying the documents inside as the man explained. "It typically has between one and two hundred men, but it's defensive position is nearly perfect - there are no approaches that are not well guarded, and our best strategists suggest it would take a weeks-long siege to crack their defenses with our forces. It needs to fall in time for the army to march through that pass, six days from now."
The woman studied the maps and information before her for several minutes, seeming thoughtful. "There isn't enough information here for me to guarantee success within that timeframe. The odds are good from this information, but you don't have complete plans or intelligence on the guard activities, movements, shifts, equipment, and training. If I work on your timeline, the job will probably be completed, but I will give no assurances." The man gulped a bit. "It was my understanding that...uh...your reputation.. I mean, you guarantee the jobs will be completed, right?" Akelha scooped the papers together and rolled them back into the scroll case as she responded. "When I can be certain, yes. I do not guarantee what I cannot be certain of. If I had enough time to conduct complete and thorough reconnaissance, then yes, I could guarantee the job, but not on a six-day timeframe. So I can either accept the job without giving a guarantee that it will be completed on this timeframe, or I can refuse it altogether. Your choice." She reached into a pocket, extracting a small note and sliding it across the table to the man. "My fee. Half up front, non-refundable. The other half contingent on the completion of the job."
By the time she left the tavern an hour later, Akelha had accepted the job and was already running through plans in her mind as to how to complete it. As soon as she had the advance payment securely in her possession, she would depart to begin her work. The money would go toward increasing her power and what she had put away for someday constructing a stronghold. The task would surely increase her reputation, and bring her a step closer to attracting a cabal of her own.
I'm probably going to add a bit more background to this, maybe come up with a couple major things she's done and give a quick rundown of them.
Level table not necessarily finalized, I might swap a feat or two still.
Unfinished Character Sheet: Akelha.
Last edited by Mnemnosyne; 10-04-2010 at 12:20 AM.
Name: E'loi Gil__________________
Race: Gray Elf
Criminal Occupation: Cat Burglar, Con Artiste, Spy-for-hire, Transporter, Freelancing Rogue
Classes: Beguiler 7/Mindbender 1/Beguiler +4//Warlock 12 (not looking for heavy optimization as much as utility and flavor)
Personality: E'loi is laid-back and aloof, having grown from a hot-headed youth to a cool calculating professional. Although he was not born into nobility, the impeccable tidiness present in his hygiene and the cleanliness in his mundane clothing would suggest otherwise. Unknown to most, his line of work often ends with him having more than dirt on his hands to worry about. E'loi moves with graceful unpredictability, traversing urban landscapes with a single-minded flair and moving through crowds like a fish in a stream. He takes pride in getting to wherever he chooses with a cobra's cunning.
In social situations, he enjoys resting quietly in the mystery that surrounds his expertise, considering himself flawless in the intended blunt use of his word choices. Yet internally it is hard for him to relax for lengthy periods of time due to a quickly operating mind. He has been constantly trained to be aware of the potential dangers that influence his environments, which leads to the subconscious wariness he has of most anyone near him. He generally doesn't trust himself to affection, but simply fondness. Certainly, the number of ladies he has spent the night with can attest to that, having woken up alone the following morning.
E'loi is strongly self-motivated; his personal code of honor is strung loosely with a mix of morals and money. His occupation has led him to strongly believe that cunning and care go hand in hand.
Physical Traits: E'loi appears quite unusual for his breed. Due to a pact he's made with a powerful fiend, his appearance has changed greatly for a gray elf. His darkened skin tone has a hint of red that lies beneath (i.e. Native American/Amazonian). His softly-oval head is crowned with a short shock of healthy black hair, kept unkempt on the top of his head. Additionally a single slender braid-beaded with colors of purple, red and yellow-hangs off to the left side at the back of his head. Scratchy, unruly eyebrows mar an otherwise handsome face as they are stretched out over eyes the color of darkened rubies. His small pointed ears have yet to be pierced, and a simple black stripe marks the highest point of his left ear. A black tribal-esque tattoo lines the outer edge of his right eye while a minute scar crosses down just inside the corner of his mouth; this causes his smile to appear a bit sinister. His lips and nostrils almost seem to be painted onto the smooth features of his remarkably rounded face. His build can be best defined as leaned and detailed with well-formed limbs.
E'loi perceives himself as uniquely fashionable, but this can certainly be argued. A black silky sash is bound across his forehead, the ends hanging freely to his shoulders. About his neck is an incredibly long scarf the color of midnight; these ends tend to blow about as though they had a life of their own. The scarf is often brought up to cover the lower portion of his face when he's "on the job". His torso is covered by a long, deep soil-colored, snakeskin vest. It is form fitting and, due to the cut, reveals a portion of his stomach and hairless chest (much to his chagrin, as he considers his lack of hair growth somewhat emasculating). Over top this vest E'loi often chooses to wear a long-tailed dark purple jacket trimmed with black, intricate threading; it is almost always worn open with its collar raised.
Baggy black pantaloons are tied at the waist and ankles with silk sashes of deep green. His choice of footwear lies in hard-soled shoes; they are narrow and tilt up in a small point near the toes. His right arm is bound in an off-white bandage that terminates just below the elbow. The left hand his covered by a black fingerless glove, open at the back.
Depth of Character (Roleplay them):
HOW DO YOU LIKE IT NOW, YOU DIRTY THIEF?!
E'loi didn't even bother looking up from his journal as the guard heaped curses on him from behind the barred door. The quill was dipped methodically into the inkpot at his side while the book rested in his lap. Neatly propped on the floor and leaning against one of the clean slate walls, E'loi looked quiet comfortable considering his surroundings. His pen created colorfully creative commentary on his current circumstances, and it seemed he was engrossed in his work.
"...ver BOTHER GETTING YOU HERE INSTEAD OF THE GALLOWS AND HOWDIDTHEYEVENDARELETYOUBRINGINTHATBOOK?!!!SONofa-
The rogue looked up from his writing to meet the man's eyes with his own blood-colored pupils. The man's outburst seemed to catch in his throat, the rage once burning in his face slowly cooling to something of confusion. E'loi squinted his eyes in studious fashion and tilted his head, hand momentary paused from writing. The guard slowly turned. And walked away.
E'loi stared after him, eyes still squinted in thought, before he returned to his work.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, the signal that the guard was coming back. E'loi brought his head back up to see the guard fondle at the lock with a set of keys. The dismayed look still rested on his face as he opened the door and with a small bowl filled with thick soup and a wide slice of bread. E'loi watched slowly as the guard bent down to place the bowl by him and walk back out. Locking the door behind him. And in another moment, he was gone again.
E'loi looked at the food for only a short moment before taking a quick bite out of the bread. He then resumed his writing.
He slapped close the book and set it on the floor next to pen and pot. Snatching up the bowl in hand, he meticulously ate the food with a king's poise. I wonder if I'll meet this mindbending admirer soon enough...
Last edited by orangehatter; 10-04-2010 at 01:34 AM.