Thorn's End Guard

Maren Azurill's page

13 posts. Alias of Evgeni Genadiev.


Full Name

Marenathen Azuliril

Race

Elf

Classes/Levels

Swashbuckler (Inspired Blade) 1

Gender

Male

Size

Medium

Age

132

Alignment

LE

Deity

Asmodeus

Location

Daggermark

Languages

Common, Elven, Hallit, Orc, Goblin

Occupation

Informant

Strength 10
Dexterity 18
Constitution 12
Intelligence 17
Wisdom 10
Charisma 8

About Maren Azurill

Stats:

LE Medium humanoid (elf)
Init +4; Perception +6
Favored Class Bonus N/A
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Defense
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AC 19, touch 14, flat-footed 14 (+4 armor, +4 Dex, +1 shield)
hp 11 (1d10+1)
Fort +1, Ref +6, Will +0
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Offense
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Speed 30 ft.
Melee Rapier +6 (1d6+4/18-20)
Ranged Shortbow +5 (1d6/x3)
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Statistics
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Str 10, Dex 18, Con 12, Int 17, Wis 10, Cha 8
Base Atk +1; CMB +1; CMD 15
Feats Weapon Finesse, Weapon Focus(Rapier), Fencing Grace
Skills: 7/level
Acrobatics +8(6*)
Bluff +9*
Diplomacy +7*
Knowledge(Local) +7
Perception +6
Stealth +8(6*)
Swim +4

Craft (Alchemy) +7
Knowledge(Nobility) +7
Linguistics +7

Languages Common, Elven, Cheliaxian, Hallit, Orc, Goblin
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Special Abilities
Panache (4/day)
Keeper of Secrets
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Traits
Student of Philosophy
Brigand
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Gear
275 gp
Alchemy crafting kit - 25 gp
Rapier - 15gp
Chain Shirt -100gp
Buckler -5gp
Shortbow /w 20 arrows - 32gp
Clothing

Donkey /w 4 Saddlebags each, x2 - 40gp.
Backpack - 2gp.

Background:

The elf nodded at the men loading the caravan, moving several scrolls of parchments towards the fat caravan master. "Ah. Master Tavvos.", he bowed down, the edge of his rapier pointing behind him. "I believe that'll be the field rations set for you." He leaned in closer, unfolding a map on a footlocker. "I would suggest that you pass by Cutthroat pass,", he said, drawing a line with his finger, "Don't let the name fool you.", he let out a smile. "I'd avoid Tymon if I were you, these days. Something riled up the bandits. If you were to pass through there,", he pointed out a small mountain pass, "the worst you're risking is a shakedown, rather than death and torture." The no-nonsense voice emanating from the elf convinced the caravan master, who passed along a hefty pouch to the elf's expectant hand. Rejoining his bodyguard, Maren tossed it into the air, and sheathed it onto his belt.
"Heh. Maren, I don't know how you can lie like this through yer teeth.", the bandit accompanying him chuckled. "Sending him right towards the gang, telling him he'll get robbed, and getting him to tip you for it.", she shook her head. "Marni, dear. I specifically never lied. Now, the bandits around Tymon were very riled last time I heard of them. Granted, that's because they're all dead. Decided to rob a Pathfinder team, of all people." Idiots., Maren shook his head. "And, as I've explained to Deadhand Rob, it's like raising sheep. Instead of skinning the merchants alive, you fleece them for a... road tax of sorts. And if the actual person asking for the road tax shows up later, you split it with him, rather than trying to kill him. Society is a malleable thing, my dear, and the better you know its laws, both written and unwritten, the better you can avoid them." He shrugged, fixing his fancy hat on his towering head. "Now let's hurry. I've got a meeting with two of the barge captains. Oh! And do remind me later to remind Captain Kaisa that she's yet to pay me for the spring."

Backstory:

There has been, in no civilisation, a role better than that of the middle man. Well, excluding the Hallit and the Mammoth Lords, but they're pushing the borders of 'civilisation'. You are listened to by both sides, and both of them have to apply to your needs. If need be, you can wash your hands with any of them, and nobody is the wiser. When the evil king's dethroned, he gets decapitated. The financial advisor more often than not keeps his head, and sometimes even his position.

As long as you don't get greedy. Greed kills the middle man more often than swords, daggers or magic. A sheep is worth more alive, until the point it isn't.

Those were the musings of an Azuliril who moved to civilisation two generations ago. The elves who claim towns to be lacking of mystery, life, and a beating, breathing heart are, quite simply, fools. The big town is just as dangerous as the forest. You can easily starve with food feet away from you, or be killed when you fell in dangerous territory. Or drink tainted water. That hasn't changed much since leaving the forest, truth be told.

Young Marenathen, or Maren for short, grew up in Daggermark, alongside his mother, Caladrastie, or Cala, for short. Exiled from Kyonin several centuries ago, she had decided to silently wage a patient, underground war against Kyonin from the shadows, seeking to undermine the elven lands' integrity the only way a real elf knows how - setting 'lesser species' against them. Centuries later, the River Kingdoms have grabbed a significant part of Kyonin's ancestral lands.

Maren was taught in the ways of reading the city (and occasionally adding your small addendum in the paragraph), and has became quite the successful middleman himself, providing valuable and useless information to the highest bidder, a work profitable enough to afford him a relatively comfortable life in Daggermark's outer circle. However, despite his relative youth, a lesson that's been drilled into his head is 'Opportunity waits for noone.'