Alathas's page

Narrows Survivor: You spent your childhood in the infamous Narrows district of Oppara. Years of living in violent squalor have sharpened your senses and given you an ardent distrust of humanity. You gain a +1 trait bonus to Initiative and Sense Motive checks. Sense Motive is always a class skill for you

Dirty Fighter: Growing up in a ruthless orphinarium meant learning how to fend for himself and, at times, how to form a posse to watch each other's backs. +1 bonus to damage while flanking.

Weapon and Armor Proficiencies: all simple and martial weapons, falcata, light and medium armor, and bucklers.

Champion's Finesse: At 1st level, a daring champion gains the benefits of the Weapon Finesse feat with light or one-handed piercing melee weapons, and he can use Charisma in place of Intelligence for the purpose of combat feats prerequisites. A daring champion also counts as having the Weapon Finesse feat for the purpose of meeting feat requirements.

Challenge: Once per day, a cavalier can challenge a foe to combat. As a swift action, the cavalier chooses one target within sight to challenge. The cavalier's melee attacks deal extra damage whenever the attacks are made against the target of his challenge. This extra damage is equal to the cavalier's level. The cavalier can use this ability once per day at 1st level, plus one additional time per day for every three levels beyond 1st, to a maximum of seven times per day at 19th level.

Challenging a foe requires much of the cavalier's concentration. The cavalier takes a –2 penalty to his Armor Class, except against attacks made by the target of his challenge.

The challenge remains in effect until the target is dead or unconscious or until the combat ends. Each cavalier's challenge also includes another effect which is listed in the section describing the cavalier's order.

Tactician: At 1st level, a cavalier receives a teamwork feat as a bonus feat (precise strike). He must meet the prerequisites for this feat. As a standard action, the cavalier can grant this feat to all allies within 30 feet who can see and hear him. Allies retain the use of this bonus feat for 3 rounds plus 1 round for every two levels the cavalier possesses. Allies do not need to meet the prerequisites of these bonus feats. The cavalier can use this ability once per day at 1st level, plus one additional time per day at 5th level and for every 5 levels thereafter.

Edicts: The cavalier must keep his own interests and aims above those of all others. He must always accept payment when it is due, rewards when earned, and an even (or greater) share of loot. The cavalier must take every opportunity to increase his own stature, prestige, and power.

Challenge: Whenever an order of the cockatrice cavalier issues a challenge, he receives a +1 morale bonus on all melee damage rolls made against the target of his challenge as long as he is the only creature threatening the target. This bonus increases by +1 for every four levels the cavalier possesses.

Skills: An order of the cockatrice cavalier adds Appraise (Int) and Perform (Cha) to his list of class skills. In addition, an order of the cockatrice cavalier adds his Charisma modifier to the DC on another creature’s attempt to demoralize him through Intimidate (in addition to his Wisdom modifier, as normal).

Short and somewhere between stocky and wiry, Alathas doesn't cut an imposing figure, but he has a scrappy look and an intimidating demeanor that more than make up for his relatively small stature. Despite being a Taldan born and bred, he dresses more like a wastes roamer straight out of Alkenstar, sporting a shirt and many-pocketed vest atop a simple pair of breeches and boots. His greasy black hair is slicked back over his ears and he keeps his mustache in immaculate shape—as much of a gesture of rebellion to The Bearded of Taldor as he can get away with legally.

_________________________
Ht: 5'8"
Wt: 150 lbs
Age: 33
Hair: Black; thick, curly, greasy.
Eyes: Green; sharp, piercing, cold.
Skin: tanned; haggard, creased, worn

His eyes lit up like tiny embers in the dark as he took a deep draw, reflecting the flare of the Druman Shadeleaf packed within the pipe's bowl. Under the deep pall of a moonless night, each pull of smoke illuminated, however briefly, a face aged premature by stresses beyond counting. To the untrained eye, the man's expression could have been wistful, while the perceptive would note the torment that swam within the confines of his eyes.

An exhale of smoke billowing nearly unseen into the night sky heralds the beginning of his tale. "An orphanarium stands resolute as marker of a past better left unspoken, yet here sit we conversing and naming said horror to the benefit of peers beyond counting. Pressing hard as you are, I'll relinquish hold of secrets thusly guarded and divulge what passes for genesis of my own epic: the orphanarium. That festering blood pit—and make no mistake about it, as there stands uncounted any gladiator's pursuit or venue as to hold a candle to a child scratching his way to freedom in such a shit hole as an orphanarium in Oppara. Oh, them presuming to tend to the poor little children are quick enough to pocket gold produced, especially what coins stand testament to those Bearded cocksuckers whose bastards are only outstripped in count by their sordid trysts. A racket is what them unscrupulous sorts would call it. Raking in a tidy sum on the predilections of them wanting kept secrets about said predilections. Never a shrewder businessman—or woman—existed than them what run an orphinarium in Oppara. 'Course, them the business takes on as wards seldom occasion to be raised under the auspices of one whose investment might produce even a pale imitation of what passes for parent. And believe me, crawling your way out of that mire weeds out the unfit—teaches a kid how much they can bend without breaking."

Alathas has seen to the campfire by this point, which serves to further illuminate the ragged features dominating his face: crow's feet and a myriad criss-cross of age lines that should belong to one far older than he. "As it so happens, having crawled harder and faster than those unfortunate enough to occupy my flanks, I escaped the mire. That f&&+ing orphanarium." Setting aside the pipe, Alathas finds occasion to turn to stronger vices. A lack of noteworthy labeling or vessel speaks plainly enough about the potency and relative lack of quality of the libation contained within the flask now held in his right hand. A long swig soon finds company in a brief cringe as the sting makes its way down his throat.

"And Claudius recognized that in me, sly son of a b##@@ that he was. Saw something he could mold into a legacy I suppose, seeing as how he couldn't sire any brats of his own. Squiring for Sir Claudius Quintus earned my hands more blisters than I'll bother recounting now, but he set my feet on a path firm and fit for walking. He belonged to an order of professional windbags—glory chasers and selfish bastards to the last—called the Umber Quill; a small piss of water chapter of the Cockatrice, though to hear Claudius tell it you'd think them responsible for bringing Aroden himself back from the brink. He was even kind enough to induct me in all proper-like before he met an untimely end at the hands of a band of roustabouts unwilling to entertain propping up the old knight's legacy with their own blood and guts."

A grin splits Althas's face as he runs a finger and thumb through his well groomed mustache. "See, while Sir Claudius supposed himself ahead of the curve, his eyes seized a canvas beneath a purview worth occupancy. One is not predisposed towards exploits worth the telling when contenting oneself to subsistence. See, I ain't one for a comfortable shack in a backwood taking in a scrappy orphan—no matter the kid's grit—and I ain't serving the Guard long enough to cash out seeing as how I ain't no f$%#ing half-giant Ulfen. Whiskers on my chin or jowls is expressly forbade by Taldane laws, which leaves me with shawling up with the meek or putting my blade to work in the service of myself. I don't own a shawl, but I've a sword that begs being used as often as one might occasion to make another thing bleed."

"Some hero, no?" A throaty chuckle rings out from the lonely campsite on the Taldan plains. "Seeing as how your attention remains affixed, I might hazard an attempt to further entertain with explanation my own reasoning for having arrived at a career choice of professional windbaggery like those peerless scions of heroic endeavors as exist among an Order boasting faces I've never laid eyes on. None, save for one aged specimen brought low by riffraff in a border crossing." Pausing to regather his breath and then for another swig of alcohol, Alathas continues. "Not a tale worth naming don't feature a hero by my reckoning. And who's to say the only barrier between them and us who read, overcome with wonderment at such tales, is anything but a decision to take up the trade in earnest? Shit I've been subjected to, crawled through, waded through, fought through, and climbed over. . . who's to say a harrowing wouldn't turn a dashing knight or somesuch card, glories and treasures and the like, all pointing to a future worth taking by the balls?"

Thinking better of drinking to drunkenness in the wilds, alone, Alathas stoppers his drink and replaces it in his pack. He gives the pitiful fire beside him a few pokes with a stick before returning to his recline against a saddle. "On the other hand, life without the old man has presented itself with hardship plentiful enough. I'd almost forgotten the sting of actual hunger. He may have bidden more than was my due, but he kept me familiar with the concept of dinner and the roof of a tavern overhead for further company still. And I've known real hunger. Cocksucker you are, the scent of your doubt looms already." Once more his eyes turn to the fire, a well rehearsed idea playing out in his mind even as his vision glazes over in reverie.

"A merry f*+~ing band is what I need. Not some inglorious hero's death, testing mettle and metal against some scaled, smiling leviathan that fancies me a brief reprieve from usual feasts of cattle and wilder things. No, I mean a real f!*#ing company of adventurers—people to foist the blame on when things go sore and to shoulder their part of the burden when we've duped them worth duping out of rewards and every other thing. Hell, maybe there'll even be a cocksucker among them worth being a friend to. Stranger things have happened, I suppose. So long as the face and name the simpleton's remember belongs to yours truly, barring a sour remembering, that's the sort of arrangement that can set a man for life."

A short, but pronounced whinny rises in response to Alathas's vocal meanderings, prompting a furrow-browed stare from the relaxed man's direction. "Oh? Doth thou protest, oh tethered one? Shall I traipse about the plains in search of meals instead, praying to whichever cocksucker up there deigns to listen that said traipsing is not instead overcome by a sharp upturn in lions for company? Perish the thought now and speak no more of it. Unless, in your blind application of righteous zeal you have neglected that worth considering: that times severe enough to infringe upon my own financial prosperity means no f##+ing feed in your bag either, you ignorant prick." A hoof digs into the ground several times in response before the horse goes silent again, watching Alathas without a lick of understanding in its eyes.

"And here sit I discussing life's intricacies with a f~#*ing horse. Let's hope the rubes in Heldren prove as adept at social thrusts so as to make my own profiteering auspicious enough to sustain schemes a short time in the making, if long in the traversing. And that none of them Bearded cocksuckers sticks their nose in business better left to a pioneer's temperament."

INTENSE: A gaze that could pierce adamantine and a forceful presence that could drown a room. There's a cunning and wit to the man that outstrips his haggard face, and his ire, when roused, comes on like a storm, albeit a foul-mouthed storm.

VULGAR: Whether genuine or as a result of his attempts to "rut" with the locals, Alathas has a colorful tongue. It's silver when it needs to be and begging for soap for all the other times. He reins it in when forced to brush against the upper crust of society, if only in the interest of avoiding reprimand.

CONNIVING: Outwardly he'll do what he needs to do to present the upstanding figure of unyielding moral integrity. Inwardly, he'll do whatever he can get away with to increase his personal standing. He plays the long game, however. More often than not, the high road and the low road are not so different as one might expect.

PERSONAL CODE: Even though the "hero of the people" angle is just a ruse to suit his own ends, there is a certain measure of genuine honor to Alathas. He might express it in perverse ways, but there is a hidden part of him that identifies with the downtrodden on some level—specifically them kept under the boot and heel of people who fancy themselves the betters of those beneath said boot and heel. Whether tyrannical or benevolent, Alathas chaffs under the entire concept of rulers and the upper echelons of society. There's a little bit of hypocrisy inherent to this notion as it pertains to Alathas, as he himself is striving to climb as far up the social ladder as he can make it.

SELFISH: There are few he'd name friend, but plenty he'd love to name pawns. Ultimately, he's going to look out for number one. He wants the glory, the riches, and the prestige. He'd prefer to keep it for himself, but the fact that such things are more easily accomplished with competent adventuring companions is not lost on him.