Malatar gives a polite half bow. “We’ll try to keep the pillaging to a minimum my Lord and Lady,” he says. “The goblins of last night will do us for now I think.
“I’ve known Itaden for years, when we both campaigned together up north,” he adds, not realising until after he’s already opened his mouth that he’s stepping into the middle of the couple’s old argument. “He’s a fine and dedicated soldier, and, ah, yes, he’d be the man to look after things. Security wise. And yes, your collection is, ah, very nice.” He glances at Will, realising that he’s starting to sound foolish or dull. “Actually Will here is the expert on such things. I’m more the action type, but hopefully some of William’s knowledge will rub off on me.”
Malatar nods politely, feigning interest for the sake of decorum. What a load of old tripe… Even his interest in the young lady is waning. If she’s impressed by this old coot, well, there can’t be too much going on upstairs. So not only can’t I bed her, - the stick up her noble arse would likely get in the way - but I can’t even hope for interesting conversation … Desna save me.
Glancing about under the shadow of his mask, Mal notices that Will is in conversation with Lady Albercroft and Ferdinand … and that the trio appear to be drifting off in the direction of Lady Vestang. The warrior quickly downs the last drops of wine in his glass, then, at a suitable pause in Lord Kendlar’s tale, before he can get into the next campaign, Mal speaks up.
“Impressive indeed my Lord, I am afraid my own tales seem mundane and unexciting in comparison to what you have experienced … anyway, I seem to have finished my drink…” He turns to Mabriel. “My lady, may I leave you in Lord Kendlar’s experienced hands for a short while. Please excuse me.” He bows slightly to them both, then hurries off to the nearest waiter, grabs a drink, then to intercept Will and the others.
She’s heard of me? Although intellectually Mal knows that she probably just saw his name on the guest list (and remembered it thanks to the glamour attached to the Pathfinder Society in certain circles), he can’t help but be a little flattered despite himself.
Careful Mal. You’re headed for trouble… oh come on, surely a little light conversation can’t hurt anyone? Malatar can almost picture the two little figures standing atop his shoulders. Against his better judgement he sides with the guy in the red with the horns.
“Dragons? No … see, the thing with dragons is they’re not nearly so common as the stories make out. Every hero went around slaying em, there’d be none left soon enough. And that’s not how the Pathfinder’s roll my lady … now barbarians, scoundrels, orcs, even a few ogrekin, those I’ve put to the blade in my time…”
Malatar notices Will hovering nearby, apparently upset by something, but he has forgotten his own advice of getting the job done first. I’m sure whatever he’s discovered with these old pots can wait a few more moments…
Upon entering the manor, Malatar manoeuvres towards one of the fish-masked servants, snagging a glass of red wine with one hand and some sort of meat filled pastry with the other. However, he soon realises that his wooden snarling barbarian mask covers his mouth. Shifting the mask upwards with his forearm, he exposes his mouth, and is still able to see (just) out from below the mask.
Refreshments taken care of, Mal follows Will, making sure to subtly steer the mage towards the pedestals with the artefacts, ahead of him partaking whatever scheme the smarmy elf wants to involve him in (although that worthy, whilst nearby, seems somewhat occupied by the richly dressed woman on his arm). “Let’s get our job here done,” he mutters, “then we can concentrate on enjoying ourselves. You’re the ancient artefact expert, though I’m happy to add my opinion if you want it … Once you’ve assessed them, maybe we can speak to Lady Vestang if you think it necessary, see if we can pump her on where she came by this stuff.”
They continue to move slowly through the room, making their eventual way towards the artefacts at the far side, without looking like they are rushing over there. Will comments on Lady Vestang’s escorts costume. Malatar can’t help but snort in amusement once the historic error is pointed out to him, “but,” he cautions Will, “you may not want to mention that to him, or too loudly in general. Probably won’t see the joke, and we don’t want to put him or our hostess off side.”
They reach the pedestals, and Mal casts his eye over the pieces (more interested in anything that looks like it might be encrusted with gold or jewels, or might be a weapon or other instrument of war, than the possible historical significance) whilst Will examines them more closely. It is at this point that the girl approaches him.
He looks at her for a moment, the amusement in his eyes hidden by the shadow of his mask. “Oh, I’ve travelled and fought all through the savage north,” he answers momentarily in his best barbarian accent (which is probably not very good, but is at least as gruff as his normal tone), “and sailed throughout the Inner Sea and beyond.” Never mind that he was hung over the side of the ship sick a good deal of the time.
He considers the girl for another moment. Bedding a lass as young as she seems is only likely to bring trouble, and he’s not inclined to take advantage of her drunken state. Still, he’s rarely enough an object of interest to young pretty girls that he doesn’t mind indulging her for a little longer. “Malatar I’m called. What’s your name la – I mean my lady?” he asks, bowing very slightly.
Appraise: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4 (untrained) on the artefacts.
Mal shrugs (in response to Albercroft’s comment) as they make their way back towards the inn. “Will and I are sort of here on official business. We’re with the Pathfinder Society.”
As the words leave his mouth, he suddenly realizes that it might not have been smart to announce their affiliation so readily. Being a Pathfinder can open doors – but it can shut them too, in certain situations. He’s not entirely sure why he was so forthcoming – maybe in some misguided attempt to impress the lady? Gods know she’d never slum it with me, even if I was the Grand Pushba of Qadira.
Ah well, no harm done, hopefully. The Society was active enough in Taldor, and it was not likely to be a secret that Quent had been invited, or that the Society might be interested in the artifacts on display at the Ball.
Mal nods. “I’ll give you a hand.” He kneels down and helps restrain the goblin while the guard ties it up. “You say you’ve never had a goblin problem here before? Better be careful. The little buggers take a shine to a place, they can be damn hard to get rid of. I’ve seen it before.”
Once the goblin is bound, the big warrior stands, looks around at the other goblin hunters. He claps the mage with the magic missiles on the back and nods to the noble lady. “Nicely done.” He turns to see Will whispering with the smarmy looking elf again. “You too Will.”
“Name’s Kane. Malatar Kane,” he introduces himself to the others. “Don’t ‘spose any of you lot could understand that things yammering?” Pointing to the captured goblin.
Mal takes a moment to catch his breath, I’m getting too old for this, then walks over back to where the goblin that Will dazed with his magic is still lying in the dirt. He picks the small unconscious creature up roughly by the back of its ragged shirt (after a quick check to make sure it does not have any weapons to hand), then walks over to where the small crowd is gathering around the final would-be escapee.
He nods to the noble-woman and the fellow who was throwing magical darts about. “Nice work,” he says, then puts his burden on the ground, moves to keep the goblin pinned with one booted foot, then bends towards the sack. “I’ll do it,” he tells the fellow with the moustache, then opens the sack.
“Nice work,” Mal comments between breaths, nodding at the noblewoman. “I’m beginning to see why you think you don’t need a bodyguard.”
But the woman is already running off after the remaining goblin, which is disappearing into the darkness ahead. Mal sighs and continues running; he doesn’t have his bow with him, and the distance and darkness makes a dagger throw an unattractive option.
He keeps running, knowing that he won’t catch the goblin at this rate, but thinking that he may be in time to help the woman if she does.
Double move forward – if he gets beyond the difficult terrain he’ll break into a run.
Mal curses as he picks his way between the tents, hampered both by the terrain and his armour. There was a time when he would have moved as easily in scale mail as if wearing a light chain shirt, but after years away from the front line (and away from combat of any kind in the last few) he had lost the skill.
He continues forward, puffing, trying to catch the still fleeing goblins. double move onward, getting as close as he can to the goblin who threw the bucket. I can’t charge in this environment, but that may put into melee range.
Mal moves warily towards the goblins, sword ready, shield held up. Then he notices someone dash out from cover nearby, heading towards the approaching beasties – a slim, feminine figure – the noble woman from the other night?
“Wait!” he half shouts, half growls. “Let them come to us!”
Mal moves forward ten feet, trying to position himself as best as possible so that the goblins will pass him if they are trying to get into the inn. He readies an action to attack as soon as a goblin comes within his reach.
The goblins are running in the opposite direction, toward the north wall.
Oh, ok ... like they're trying to get away? I'll edit my post.
Mal moves warily towards the goblins, sword ready, shield held up. Then he notices someone dash out from cover nearby, heading towards the approaching beasties – a slim, feminine figure – the noble woman from the other night?
He curses, then hurries after her, trying to close with the goblins, trying to force them to flee and be cut down or turn and attack.
Double move to get as close to the goblins as possible.
“Ever faced goblins before?” Mal asks Will in a low voice. “They’re stupid, comical sometimes, but sadistic and dangerous. Be careful.”
His advice giving is interrupted by a woman’s shout. The voice sounds somewhat familiar. The goblins break cover. Cursing, Mal starts forward. Initiative: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (10) + 1 = 11
Mal is slightly relieved that Bernard is a dog. Dead kids are not fun.
“Stay here,” he says to the boy (probably needlessly) “and close the door behind me”. He throws Will a look and a head nod that seems to indicate ‘are you coming?’, then steps out into the night, moving cautiously (though hardly quietly in his armour). He stops just outside the door, trying to give his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. He keeps his back to a wall, so that nothing can sneak up behind him.
At the sound of screams, Mal is standing, his speed belying his size, reaching for the longblade resting at the bar beside him. He looks about to see Will already standing and heading towards the door, an odd look on his face. The scholar’s quick. Maybe I should give him more credit.
The warrior draws his sword and runs to the back door, throwing Will a “careful” as he dashes past. He peers out and around the door Perception: 1d20 ⇒ 1, barely taking in the scene before glancing back at the scullery lad. “How many?”
Mal sits drinking (though not enough to get really drunk – he wants to keep his senses sharp for tomorrow) and brooding, not paying all that much attention to his surrounds.
Silas' perception, while heading to Will and Mal's tent: 1d20+4
Callum hasn't been around for a month or so from his last post, so I'll have Marten sit this one out.
Sorry mate, meant to post the other day but got busy with other things.
Mal grips Itaden’s wrist in a warrior’s handshake. “Hrngh,” is a good translation of his response to Itaden’s supposition of his family life. “Gave it a try for a while. I knew I should have been suspicious when a pretty girl like Kyleen agreed to marry someone with a face like mine. B*tch left, and took what I had left when she did. Should have written to you.” He shrugs. “Sort of tough to put in writing though.”
“Anyway, I got your last letter, by some miracle it found its way to me. My new boss – did you ever meet Selas Quent? – got an invite to this shindig, I thought I might run into you if I came along. So here I am. Good to see you my old friend. How’s life, working for Taldane nobility?”
Silas emerges onto the scene like a predator, he spots his prey.
"William, so have you given thought to what we have discussed? I assure that it will take much effort on your part. Come let's familiarize ourselves with the terrain so to speak. A good hunter knows the lair of his prey."
William jumps at Silas's sudden appearance, and places a hand on his heart.
"Holy bat-guano Silas! Are you TRYING to scare me out of a years growth?" The rattled wizard fusses at his friend.
"Ok, ok, fine, let's get the lay of the land!" Will says after taking a deep breath. He knows better than to try and talk Silas out of something once he has his mind set. He shakes his head with a rueful grin.
"But can we at least start down yonder? I overheard someone talking about a Marten, and I want to see if it's someone know." William asks, starting off in 'that' direction without waiting for Silas to answer.
SO, is it Silas, Malatar and Me together? FOr now at least?
Mal nods tersely to the elf (how in the hells does he keep finding us?) and stands to follow Will.
Mal shrugs. “We can look around or something if you like. We’ll need to find somewhere to stash our gear during the shindig tomorrow anyway; my armour, your books, our packs. I was thinking either we could find a spot to bury it, wrapped up in canvas, out in a field or something. Or we pay the innkeeper next door to store it for us until we get back. What do you think?”
He hesitates before bringing up the next topic. “Look Will, I don’t know what scheme your elven friend back at the tavern last night has in mind. Don’t give me that, I know a scheme when I see it, the way you two were whispering together. Just keep in mind what our goal is tomorrow. I’m all for mixing things up; business and pleasure, work on the side, whatever. But this gig I’ve got with the Pathfinders is a good one, and I don’t want to mess it up this early. Let’s make sure we get a good look at the items and get what intel we can from this Lady Vestang before we go getting drunk or chasing girls or pulling scams or whatever you have in mind.”
Mal inwardly grumbles a bit at the lack of even fake weapons on any of the costumes, but is cheered up a little when he finds the barbarian outfit that could almost pass as functional armour. Before taking it be fitted, he gathers up a few other bits of felt or hide and some feathers, studs and other worthless trinkets that he might be able to use to fashion and decorate a rough scabbard.
When he and Mal arrive back at the sheltered spot they have chosen to camp (under a canvas awning in a relatively clean alley between two buildings) he sets to work in trying to create a scabbard that will fit his blade, and make it look suitably rustic and match the costume.
1d20 + 1 ⇒ (12) + 1 = 13Craft, untrained
At the end of a couple of hours work, he holds up his work critically. As much to his own surprise as anyone elses, he seems to have done a halfway decent job of it, but he’s not entirely sure that it will stand up to close inspection … or not fall apart for that matter.
Mal watches Will in quiet amusement for a time, before beginning to look at the costumes himself. Given that he hasn’t, up until this point, seemed very enthusiastic about the costume aspect of this ball, he seems to be taking a remarkably long time in inspecting the costumes and choosing just the right one. Eventually, having selected a suitably martial looking outfit, he takes it up to the tailor.
Mal has decided he’d really not go into this thing unarmed. What he’s looking for is a costume that will enable him to hide some of his weapons, quite possibly in plain sight – for example, a costume that includes a fake sword and scabbard of a size that would fit his bastard sword (he’ll take bigger if needs be); failing that, at least a dagger sheath, or a big bulky cloak or oversized boots or something where he could easily hide a dagger. It seems unlikely that any of these outfits would actually contain any element of real armour, but he’ll look out for that anyway.
“Don’t know what our chances are in getting a room,” Mal replies to Will, shrugging. He’s seemed a bit distracted on the journey to the hamlet, always looking about and over his shoulder, but whatever danger he may have expected didn’t materialise.
“I don’t mind roughing it. Let’s get this costume crap out of the way first though,” he says, gesturing towards what is apparently the costume tent.
Malatar gets up from the bar and heads over to the table where Will now sits with the elf. Nodding to both men, he sits, oblivious to (or ignoring) the fact that the pair seem to be involved in a private conversation.
“So,” he says at the next lull in conversation, “how do you two know each other? Funny that you’d run into an old friend this far from home … in a country you’ve never been to before Will …”
Mal finishes off his ale with a swig, cursing himself for a fool. Don’t get involved Mal, he thinks to himself belatedly. Either the woman was what she seemed – a noble who is naïve or confident enough to travel without an armed escort this close to the Qadiran border (or perhaps the rumours he’d heard of bandits and slavers raiding across the border were over-blown) – which could mean political type problems if she felt like she’d been insulted. If on the other hand she was not quite what she seemed, as he halfway expected, then his noticing of the flaw in her disguise could bring him much more serious trouble.
The warrior sighed. And this all because he’d looked twice at a pretty lady. Women. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t kill ‘em … unless they’re some Numerian barbarian b*tch charging at you with a greataxe…
Perhaps Malatar is a wee bit bitter since his wife left him…
Addy gives a quick laugh, and looks at the large man square in the eye, still smiling. “You know, you’re right! How very foolish of little ol’ me! It’s an absolute miracle we made it through alive. And I suppose you and your mage friend are JUST the bodyguards we need to complete our journey?” Her face becomes a little more serious-looking as she leans a little closer. “Or are you the folks we should be watching out for?”
She leans back out, and the smile returns, perhaps a little more friendly, but also a bit more … predatory. “No offense taken. I don’t believe you are highwaymen, especially observing your friend. He hardly seems the type to take up life as a bandit. But, then again, appearances can be deceiving, can’t they, Mr …?
Perception: 5. Mal is obviously distracted.
“Kane. Malatar Kane,” the warrior replies, giving a brief nod of his head. “No, not looking for a job. Already got one. And banditry’s not really my style.” He takes another sip of ale.
“Well, I’m sure you can look after yourself lady. But a fine lady travelling without armed escort attracts attention.” He shrugs. “Just odd, like I said. But Hells, for all I know you’ve got a whole platoon staying in the cheap flop-house down the road.”
He notices the halfling’s approach, and nods again to the lady. “Nice meeting you lady. Have a pleasant journey – you’ll have no trouble from me, that I pledge.”
Malatar is tired and still a little sick. He’s not at his most alert and suddenly events begin moving to fast for him.
“Wait, Will, you know the elf? What are the odds?” The last said in a suspicious mutter. He reaches for the wizard’s sleeve, but the elf is already leading Will away. Mal starts to get up to follow, but next thing the pretty noblewoman is standing before him, smiling (but not in an entirely friendly fashion) and asking him something. He can hardly get up without pushing past her (or moving closer than she’d probably appreciate at any rate) and he’s not sure he wants to risk that sort of trouble right now.
He looks after Will, shakes his head, then turns his gaze to the woman in front of him, taking in all the details – including looking for any concealed weapons, spell component pouches or the like. Perception: 10 But he’s obviously not looking in the right places …
“Hmmm? Can you help me … um, probably not,” he replies atfter a moment. “Didn’t mean to offend lady … just thinking it seemed odd for a lady of wealth to be travelling with her halfling servant and loads of baggage, but no bodyguard.” He shrugs and takes another mouthful of ale, looking for her reaction over the top of the mug.
Mal settles in at the bar beside Will, putting a couple of coppers down and indicating the tapped beer barrel with a nod of his head. When the noblewoman enters, he returns Will’s raised eyebrow, the shrugs slightly, a wry expression on his face.
Once he has his beer mug in hand (and a swig of it down his throat), he turns, leaning his elbows against the bar, surveying the room.
“Room, thanks,” he says to the barkeep over his shoulder. Will starts going on about being soaked, and something about magic. Malatar surveys the other patrons, though his gaze keeps returning to the noblewoman. No bodyguard, he thinks. Odd. Unless there’s more to the halfling than meets the eye…
Suddenly, he feels Will tugging at his sleeve, and registers some of what he’s been saying. “Use both hands? Half as long? What in the Hells?” in his bewilderment, he doesn’t stop Will from casting the spell, and although he’s about to admonish the mage for the public display of magic (and familiarity), he has to admit that it’s good to be dry.
Malatar sighs then shrugs as Will heads towards the most expensive looking inn in town – and inferring that the choice was Mal’s.
“Ah well,” he mutters to himself. “We can afford it, and a real bed will be nice …” He follows Will towards the inn, mentally calculating whether he’ll still have enough spending money to pay a girl for an evening’s company after paying the no doubt more expensive food and accommodation costs at this place.
Malatar is a mongrel true and proper, and he knows it. If he takes any offence at the Taldans’ attitude, he doesn’t show it. The warrior stays in his bunk for most of the journey, occasionally coming up on deck for some fresh air, as much due to his uneasy stomach as to avoid the crew.
He comes up onto deck as the ship approaches the harbour at Golsifar, sheltering out of the rain beside Will.
“So. Taldor,” he says, nodding towards the shore. He doesn’t sound particularly impressed. “We’ll get a warm bed here tonight, then head out to the estate on the morrow. Should be walkable. Even if we get there a day or so early, we should be able to find lodgings in the village.”
As soon as the ship docks, Mal nods his thanks to the Captain and heads out into town, looking for a place to stay. He’s not too fussy, as long as he can get a room with a clean, warm bed. If Will wants to take the lead on selecting an inn, Mal’s happy enough to let him.
Malatar shrugs his broad shoulders. “Ship’s headed where we want to go, and will arrive when we need to get there. We can afford it – and the Society is picking up the tab besides. Now,” he looks about the docks. “Let's find a money changer and get back here before they leave.”
She's about 10 miles south from Golsifar and 22 miles from the Jalrune river and the Qadiran border. It's a pretty empty, lifeless expanse of scrubland that's been leeched of resources with a few small settlements and ruins scattered about. The captain wants 200 silver each for the trip, should take maybe three days if the weather is good then a few hours to get to the hamlet. Malatar can make an appraise check if you want to check on the price or just bargain him down with diplomacy or intimidate. Though, intimidate may not be a good idea if you'll be spending a few days on his ship.
Malatar suspects that the captain may be over-charging them a little, but he decides that it is not worth haggling. He knows that he is not very diplomatic, and suspects that Will is as bad – or worse. The last thing he wants is for the captain to refuse them passage at all. Besides, they’re traveling on the Society’s coin …
He aggress to the price, not thinking to consult with Will first.
Malatar squints at the captain for a moment. “It’s what … five days to Golsifar?” The former soldier bases this more on the amount of time that Quent has allowed them to get to the masquerade, rather than any real knowledge of geography; it’s not really his strong point, and he’s never been east of Absalom.
He scratches his chin. “Two hundred silver for the both of us? So long as we have separate bunks … throw in meals for the journey, and I’ll lend my sword arm if we run into pirates or slavers and you have a deal Captain. When do you depart?”
I’ve got no idea if he’s offering us a good or bad deal! And neither does Malatar … but 10gp each for a five or six day boat journey doesn’t sound terrible…
Assuming that it seems like we’ll get there on time, and he has time to do so, Malatar will head off to find a money changer to convert his agate to coin and be back in time to pay the Captain and depart.
It doesn’t take long for Malatar to pack, throwing his spare clothes and meagre possessions haphazardly into his backpack (figuring that he has time on the ship to re-pack more neatly if needs be) and checking his weapons before heading to the main doors of the Grand Lodge building to wait for Will.
Nodding to the guards, Mal looks up at the sky, hoping that the good weather holds. Despite having a strong constitution and years of sporadic sea travel, he still feels queasy (at best) on a ship in rough weather.
The warrior watches stoically as Quent fishes around in the contents of his show, then nods briefly in thanks, picks up one of the agates, makes a brief show of examining it (though he knows little about the worth of gems and stones) before pocketing it.
“Right. I think that’s it.” He turns to Will. “On second thoughts I might just pick up a costume at the gate. Let’s get packing, I’ll meet you at the front doors in twenty.”
Assuming there is nothing else, Malatar gives Quent a sloppy salute and heads back to his cramped room to get his stuff and meet Will, before heading down to the docks to find a ship.
Mal shrugs again. “I was on campaign in the River Kingdoms, years ago. The wannabe-prince that hired us was holding a big celebration feast, and they had stuffed peacock. Silly looking bird. Tasted like chicken.”
He scratches his head, distracted. “Right, so this ancient Azlant place; they had some sort of war god? Like Gorrum? I could do that…”
“Just need a quarter hour or so to pack,” replies Malatar with a nod. “We got an expense account or cash for the trip? And … costumes?”
The warrior turns to face Will. “It’s Malatar,” he says, without rancour. “Advice on a costume would be good – masquerade balls aren’t exactly my usual type of party. I don’t want to end up looking like a stuffed peacock though,” he warns. “And any costume that allows me to keep my armour and a weapon or two will let me better do my job.”
Malatar stands, looking about the room with some interest … particularly at the more valuable looking artifacts. He’s a tall man, broad shouldered and grizzled. Years of fighting, marching under the hot sun, digging about in the mud and generally leading an active life have left him fit but prematurely aged – he looks closer to forty than thirty. The crooked nose, old scar across his face and several day’s stubble on his chin don’t help improve his looks much
He turns his attention back to Quent at the mention of his lodgings and gives a slight shrug, one eyebrow raised, causing the wrinkles in his brow to deepen. “I’ve had worse,” he says. “And it’s certainly an impressive burg.” Which is probably the understatement of the century when describing the grand and ancient city of Absalom, centre of the world.
He leans forward to pick up the invitation, reads it slowly for a moment, rubbing one large hand across the short stubble atop his recently shaved head – better to disguise the rapidly receding hairline – then passes the card over to his scholarly companion. It certainly does seem like a peach of an assignment – wine, women and song at some decadent noblewoman’s manor. Not bad. Even if it does sound like he’ll need to wear some ridiculous mask and babysit one of the Society’s researchers.
He doesn’t know William very well – come across him a time or two before in association with Quent. At first impression, the young man comes across as a bit … scholarly, a bit socially inept, but not a bad sort. Mal has been around long enough to figure he can handle the situation.
“Sounds fine. That get both of us into this shindig?” he asks, addressing Quent but nodding at the invitation that Will now holds.
Alright, I think I'm good to go. James, do you want to give my character sheet the once over in case I've missed anything or made mistakes along the way?
Should be right to go within the next few hours. James, I did a bit of a background for Malatar, I'll spoiler it for now - I don't mind of the others read it, but if you prefer we start without us really knowing each other well, folk might not want to read it.
Spoiler:
Malatar was born to a relatively poor family of mixed Chelaxian, Varisian and Shoanti heritage in the Varisian city of Magnimar. Deciding at a fairly young age that he wanted to live a more exciting life than following the family tradition or working in abbotairs, slaughter-houses and as corpse collectors, the teenager ran away to sea.
Re-occurring bouts of sea-sickness cut short his career as a sailor having picked up few more skills than scrubbing decks and scraping barnacles, and he found himself ashore in the Andoran city of Augustana. After living off his wits for a few months, Malatar signed up for a five year stint with the Andoran, where he learnt sword-play and various combat skills, and generally saw little action apart from a few displays of saber rattling and minor skirmishes along the Cheliax border, which left him with little more than a touch of combat experience, some minor injuries and a badly broken nose.
His tour up, Malatar (still craving a more exciting and adventurous life) was convinced by one of his army buddies, the idealist and would-be paladin Itaden, to travel north and join the Mendevian Crusade against the demons of the Worldwound.
Perhaps fortunately for his life expectancy, Malatar was separated from Itaden on the journey, and never made it to Mendev; instead, he settled in with a mercenary company taking part in a minor border war in the River Kingdoms, and later continued his life as a mercenary for several years throughout the Kingdoms, Numeria and Ustalav.
Relatively early on in his mercenary career, Malatar found more excitement than he bargained for, when he was almost killed in battle courtesy of a sword blow to the face. Thanks to the cleric in his company he survived (with his life and sight, and the scars were not near as bad as they would otherwise have been), but began to question whether he wanted quite so much excitement. Still, the life of a warrior was the one he knew, and he didn’t have the funds to retire.
During his convalescence, he fell in with a company of sappers and siege engineers, and soon discovered that he took to matters of engineering, machines, building (and destroying) fairly well. He got along well with the others in the company, including the group’s leader, the failed wizard Captain Actos Vin, finding them to be a reasonably decent bunch (for mercenaries) – and the life of a siege engineer paid somewhat better than that of a sword swinger, and was generally safer.
Several years after joining Vin’s Gears, Malatar was with the company digging sapping tunnels during a conflict in Ustalav when they discovered an old, buried treasure cache – a king’s ransom, enough to divide between the whole troupe and leave them all moderately well off.
Feeling the years beginning to catch up with him, and his wish for a life of excitement somewhat dulled (and somewhat disappointed after his time as soldier and mercenary, both of which consisted mainly of a lot of waiting around and boredom), Malatar took his share and his leave of the company and traveled back to Andoran, where he purchased a modest house in Souston, married a pretty (and as it turned out, not particularly nice) girl named Kyleen, and prepared to settle down.
He didn’t have many skills beyond the warriors arts (and a few ideas on how to build engines of destruction), but he figured that if he invested his funds wisely, he and his new wife could lead a long and comfortable retirement – not bad at the ripe old age of 28.
Unfortunately, his investments were not wise at all (really not – he was smart, but had little intuition when it came to business), and his wife’s spending was far more than he could afford. After just two years or so of married life, he realized that his money was fast running out … so did his wife, and she left him, taking what little remained.
Finding himself once more virtually penniless (and scarred, bitter and cynical to boot), Malatar gathered up his second best weapons and armour (he’d had to sell his best set to pay his debts) and once again prepared to undertake the life of a mercenary, despite his combat skills being somewhat atrophied after a few years of easy living and several years of engineering work prior to that.
One thing, his years of being a (failed) business man and family man had reawakened his taste for adventure, and his brief period of wealth had made him crave more … he wondered if perhaps the life of a free-lance adventurer or tomb-raider might bring him both.
By chance, he ran into an old acquaintance he’d met in Numeria, a member of the Pathfinder Society named Selas Quent. Quent was on his way to Absolom for a promotion to Venture Captain, and invited Malatar along, suggesting that the Society might have profitable work for a man of his talents…
Malatar is a mercenary; he’s heard that working for the Pathfinder Society pays well, so he went after this gig, but he may not be a full member himself. Maybe he’s along as a bodyguard for this band of squishy caster-types.
He likes parties – lots of free booze and pretty women … he doesn’t so much like dressing up, ‘specially if he’s on a bodyguard job and dressing up means leaving his weapons and armour behind … he’ll try to go in as well armed and armoured as the fancy-dress will allow.
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