 About Metsipaño Rey==================================================================
Favored Class Sorcerer
Experience: 0
Age 25
Male Varisian Human Sorcerer 1 (Harrowed bloodline, Tattooed Sorcerer archetype)
Equipment:
Carrying Capacity:
Light (0-23); Medium (24-46); Heavy (47-70); Current Load: 15 lbs (Light) Combat Gear:
Ammunition:
Magic Gear:
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Consumables:
Other:
Jewellery:
Wealth:
Description:
Metsipaño Rey -- "Matty" to those who are acquainted with him -- is the image of a Varisian wanderer, despite having been a resident of Kintargo for over fifteen years. He keeps his hair long, tied back in a colourful bandana, and maintains a neat if roguish beard. He dresses in cotton trousers and a shirt with the top laces mostly undone. It is a very casual look, and matches the man's laid back posture. If he's in a chair, it's tipped it back; if he's standing, he's leaning, arms resting at his waist. He wears a slight smirk at all times, as though the world were a joke that only he understood. He sports many tattoos of geometric design that scroll up his arms, chest, and even dot his face; others are graphical depictions of the Harrow. He carries a light crossbow with him on a leather strap and a dagger at his waist, but otherwise goes unburdened by armour or gear. A common blackbird follows him around the city, sometimes perching on his shoulder to collect a dried berry from the hand of his human friend, who always carries several in his breast pocket. Personality:
Like so many of his tattooed descendants, Metsipaño uses his birthright as a wandering outsider to cultivate an aura of mystery and allure that few can resist. He is a consummate charmer, as attentive a listener as he is eloquent a speaker, and he uses every trick of the gypsy trade to mislead anyone who tries to get too close to him.
On the surface, he is a gregarious, approachable man, and easily makes friends wherever he goes. He is a pleasure to share a cup of ale with, or a game of dice or cards; he knows how to have a great time in an indulgent city like Kintargo, and is not afraid to enjoy himself in as wild a manner as is prudent. Yet a careful observer would note that, though he makes many friends, he gives very little away while doing so, and it is a rare person indeed that can recite any more than cursory details about the fortune teller's past. Were any two people to attempt the task, they would likely tell conflicting tales. To habitually deflect questions about oneself onto another topic or an outright falsity is a Varisian cultural trait, but given the nature of Kintargo's current rulers and especially in light of recent developments, it is one that has once again proven all too adaptive. Despite his proclivity for secrecy, Metsipaño is a spiritually generous person, and goes out of his way to help visitors to the city keep from running afoul of the Infernal law. He haunts the harbour -- where he lives in a small, rundown studio above a fishmonger's stall -- with his rolled-up, tasselled rug slung over one shoulder, offering to tell the fortune of oft-superstitious seamen whom he then befriends and keeps out of real trouble. It is a good arrangement; they are flush with coin and heady intentions, and he knows all the best watering holes and how to stay on the right side of the Dottari. He has made a very few close friends this way, to whom he is incredibly attached: a handful of regular sailors that rotate through the port city; Joram, one of the former barkeeps at the now-immolated Thrashing Badger; Felicia, a red-headed damsel though one who was rarely in distress; and a few others. But beneath the bluffs, distractions and promiscuous nights out, Matty hides a deep wound and a yearning for vengeance. The coals there are cold, perhaps, but dormant only... Background I:
"Draw the cards, my son," urged the brightly clad man, to the boy on his knee.
"Yes, papa," responded the youth, an olive-skinned lad with long, black hair. He reached towards the deck with his small hand, cut it twice, plucked three cards from the top and placed them in a row on the wooden table before him. The lantern hanging from the ceiling above swayed rhythmically, in time to the ebbing, evening tide. "Now, read them," commanded the father, stroking his beard with a weathered hand. A butterfly adorned the back of that hand, a tattoo of artisanal quality. The boy would remember that, later. "The Survivor... the Carnival behind and the Uprising ahead," said the child, ceremoniously, as he had been taught. The man nodded, but did not respond save to raise his eyebrows. Keep going, that look said. "Your past is one of freedom enjoyed, but your future is one of freedom earned." This bought a smile from the father. "Indeed? Pray tell, master fortune teller, don't stop...!" he said in a pretended falsetto, followed by a rumbling chuckle as he drew a copper piece from his pocket. The child took the coin with a proud smile, and drew three more cards, placing the first two above and below the Survivor, and the third horizontally over it. The diagram now formed a cross. "Below, the Crows, your strength; above, the Empty Throne, your goal. You seek to bring down... something... Yet to do this you will need to look to your friends. You are crossed by the Fiend: evil bars your way." The child stared into the cards for a long moment, seeming to see something through them that was not immediately evident. The father knew what it was his son was seing... he hadn't read his father's fate, he'd read his own. The cards had predicted it for some time now, and the event was clearly imminent. No matter. Matty would survive. He would find his crows. And whatever the fiend was, he'd bring it down. But even so, it was with a heavy heart that Alek Rey snapped his fingers once and lifted his child for the last time, setting him on galley's floor and clapping him on the back. "Matty, that's the finest reading I think you've given, yet. I think it's time these cards were yours, son. They've always been yours, but... now they're yours. They shan't touch my hand again, boy." "Really, father?" asked the son. His father nodded, gesturing then with a swirling hand that the reading was to be cleared. "Now, I need you to run an errand for me. I know it's late, but it's got to be done, okay?" The boy nodded his head emphatically, as he wrapped the Harrow deck in its silk sleeve, pocketing it proudly yet self-consciously. "I need you to find Uncle Thob for me, and tell him dinner is off tomorrow, okay? You think you can find him?" The boy nodded again. "Okay then, off with you!" As the boy ran up the stairs to the main deck of the trading cog, Alek felt a tear well in his eye; he left it there, and went to see the boy off the ship. It was nearly time. Alek came on deck just in time to watch his son careen into an armoured man standing, waiting at the bottom of the gangplank. The impact threw Matty completely off balance, bouncing him forcefully back and nearly over the edge, but the silhouetted figure reached out instinctively to steady the child with a gauntleted hand before he could fall into Yolubilis Harbour. "Whoa there!" he said in a smooth, yet forceful voice. Looking up, Matty saw an otherwise handsome young man staring down at him with a friendly-looking grin, a single scar marring both lips. The fellow wore heavy armour, and a crimson cloak stirred behind him in the evening breeze. He continued to hold the boy by the shoulder, smiling and looking into the youth's eyes in a moment of consideration... before releasing him, and stepping to the side with a quick nod. "Go on, run along and tend to your task. I need to speak with your father..." "Thank you, sir!" breathed Matty heavily, before ducking behind the man and through the legs of the soldiers trailing him. He didn't think twice, or even look back as he rounded the first of the alleyways that would become his playground. The next time he saw the Butterfly Gambit, his home since birth, she would be in flames. He would never see his papa again, alive or dead... save for in his dreams. And he would never forget the scar-lipped man. Background II:
"Come with us, lad," the older woman said. "We could use you, and you belong amongst your own people, not these townies. The horizon beckons, Matty, and it's your birthright to answer." The adolescent Metsipaño Rey just shook his head, stubbornly looking down at Aunt Aethil's feet. She was a stern authority figure, master of her own caravan, and difficult to deny. "It's what your father would have wanted."
That hit hard. She had known his pa for many years, even sailed with him for a time. Might have been that they were more than shipmates... But that was in decades past. Despite the welling in his throat, the boy's resolve held strong, and he raised his eyes to wield the fire in them. "Whit' all due respect, marm," the teenager responded, "this ain't about what my father'd want -- it's about what I want. And my place is here..." The boy's accent when speaking common had slowly changed over the eight years since his father's death. He'd spent more and more of his time with the harbourfolk, rather than his own people, and it was starting to show in his dialect. His Varisian was still flawless, of course. "Meum est locus hic, et matrem, av il." My place is here, mother... with him. This brought a slow nod from Aethil, and a few tears which she wiped away ruthlessly. "So be it, boy. You've made your decision. It's been a good few years we've had with you here, Matty, but it's time for the wandering folk to be moving on. You'll be staying with your Uncle Stefaño now, I reckon." It wasn't a question. "Yes, marm," came the dutiful reply. The two figures embraced under the arch of the Nightways Gate. The woman planted a kiss on the boy's forehead before turning back towards the waiting caravan, giving the signal for departure. She didn't turn back, as was the Varisian tradition when parting ways. They were bound for Nidal, and Matty watched her go in silence, waiting for some time until the procession's dust trail had vanished over the horizon. Then he turned his back on the open road, and came back into his city. The cobbled streets welcomed him, enveloped him like a warm blanket. Before long his feet had taken him back to the harbour, to the Thrashing Badger. It was no place for a boy. The rowdy and intoxicated seamen eyed him as he walked in, but he'd developed a reputation amongst them. They knew what he could do with those magic cards of his, and more than a few nodded with respect in his direction. Matty walked up to the barkeep and laid his sailor's silver on the counter. "I'd like to rent a room," he said. |
