Having seen his old nemesis board the train Hux decided to sit put and enjoy his coffee.
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Hux takes the offered coffee from Kov Marik, "Thanks mate." He makes small talk with the chef as peers out onto the platform. He points at the inebriated tiefling on the platform and points out, "I think he has had enough already." Crud, he thinks to himself as he recognized the tiefling. He breathed a sigh of relief when his nemesis enterd the lower class cabins, That was close. I'll have to tell the other my cover may be compromised when we have a little more privacy." He took another sip of his coffee as he gazed out the window.
Happy Thanksgiving to those in the USA. Everyone else Happy Thursday!
Hux will stay close to Cretien or Falco while they wait for the train to depart as they seem to have the best grasp of the native language. He will also try to get to know the latest addition to the mission.
"Hilary Bray at your service. I understand you need a local guide.", says the 8 foot tall half giant. You see he carries large weapons and an extra crossbow on a mount. He's well dressed and neatly groomed. Not what you expect when you hear "half giant". Hux nodded his at the guide, 'well met, Bray. You can call me Asher, Asher Holmes." I'm glad he is on our side, he thinks as he scrutinizes the half giant.
Upon the tiefling's request Hux retrieved his papers and he tried to recall if a bribe was customary in this situation. He cautioned himselfas he waited, Just let Cephas handle this.
Hux shrugged as he responded, "Don't rightfully know. I was hoping you had some idea." He tentatively suggested, "Perhaps a ship?"
Hux eyes are drawn to smoke on the horizon. Not being a seaman he is perplexed and worried about the smoke. He raised his arm and pointed toward the rising smoke while he shouted,
Hux basks in the sun as he watches the sailors perform their duties on deck. Feeling better he leans on the rail and peers out into the ocean as the ship rolls up and down the waves.
Hux spends most of his time on deck trying not to be sick. As the opportunity arises he will try to get to know his companions a little better.
Hux listens to the talk about the dead magic zone and is excited, That evens the playing field a bit. Aloud he utters hopefully, "The quicker we get through this dead magic zone the sooner we arrive at out destination."
I hate traveling by sea, Hux thinks as the ship rises and fall in the open sea. It doesn't help matters when people start talking about shipwrecks and reefs. Feeling sick he asks the captain, "How much longer before we make land fall."
I'm going to put my cover ID in the beginning of my stat bar.
Hux returns Constable Holbrook's handshake, "Nice to meet you. He raises an eyebrow as Johnathan wipes his hand on his shirt but otherwise make no comment.
"Of course best we get used to our cover IDs, from here on out I'm Asher Holmes."
Here are my cover rolls:
Here are my modifiers:
Falko extends a hand and says: "Be welcome Hux, I am Falko. You probably know it already, but it's worth repeating: We've lost a fair share of colleagues over the last few months; most of them friends... So yeah, Hux, glad to have you with us. Just don't take stupid risks." Hux returned the man's firm handshake, "No worries, I plan on living." Indeed Welcome Constable. You can call me Angus McCormick says the heavily armed elf Have you been up to things on our mission ? "Thanks Angus and Yes, I've been briefed. It seems I'm to be working with the Kings newest heros," Hux responded.
"You can call me Cretien. Professor of Arcanomechanical Theory over at Pardwight." Hux nodded his head in greeting at the tiefling while he wondered, A real professor or is that just his cover?
Huxley nods his head as Delft introduces him, "Thanks sir. No questions on my end" He pauses and looks to his new companions and decides, They look like they can handle themselves. Best start with introductions. Aloud he continues with a small wave of his hand, "You can call me Hux. It will be a pleasure to work with you all on this assignment. I've heard a lot of good things." With a slight grin and a raised eyebrow he asks, "It will probably help me if you tell me your names."
Hello all, and thanks for the selection GMEWIN!
All done everything is in the alias.
Making some changes going with Unchained rogue (Scout Rake) for 4 levels and Unchained Monk (Monk of the Manits) for 2 levels. Changed stat array. Will update equipment later.
New hit points:
Here what I spent my gold on:
Spoiler:
Weapons +1 Cruel Dagger, 8002gp (1 lbs) Dagger (x5), 10gp (5 lbs) Sap, 1gp (2 lbs) Armor
Equipmet
Slotted items
Slotless items
Potions
Coins & Gems
Let me know if I need to change anything.
It looks like you've rolled for hit points:
8 ,+23 ,+12=43 total @GMEDWIN: Are you doing wealth by level?
Took a couple of irons out of the fire. I'd like to resubmit my application. Will update crunch and fluff by this evening.
I'm going to have to withdraw my submission. To many irons in the fire. Good luck all.
This the alias for a PC I submitted for another Zeitgeist Campaign. I will need to adjust him to 6th level and add two traits. Right now he is an unchained rogue but I could easily change him to an investigator if that is a better fit for your party, just let me know. ==============================================
Background:
Ashweather Huxley sits at his desk in the Headquarters for the Flint Branch of the Royal Homeland Constabulary. The door to the office is shut and he leans back in his chair, with his hands interlaced behind his head. Although his desk is covered in papers there is very little work for him to do at the moment. However, a storm of activity is raging outside the cramped little office, voices raised as security is finalized for the dedication of the Royal Naval Ship Coaltongue. Huxley sits, in silence, and picks up his pipe, raising it to his mouth, taking a long pull while he wonders, Is today the day they realize I’m not a hero? <You lived and the others didn’t. That’s what makes a hero in Risur today,> his inner voice inside his head states matter of factly. I am still alive, Huxley reluctantly concedes to himself. While Huxley ignores the commotion in the hall he smokes his pipe, thinking back upon his life. His earliest memories are of growing up in Flint among the steam and soot. His parents were hard working members of the common class and it seemed that Huxley was destined to follow in their footsteps. Looking to avoid that fate he enlisted to fight in the latest incarnation of the war in Yerasol. For most of the war Huxley served as a scout using his wits, awareness, and stealth to keep himself alive. That all changed a few months before the end of the war when he led his unit into an ambush. The fighting was brutal, his entire unit was wiped out, and Huxley awoke to raven pecking at his skull. Among the carnage there was one other survivor, the captain of the Danor forces. The captain was in worse shape than Huxley and was easily taken into custody. Fortunately, this captain was carrying important dispatches and Huxley was credited for capturing the enemy captain and securing the dispatches he carried as well as heroics in the battle. Soon after Huxley’s recovery from the battle the war was over and he was offered a place at RHC. Although Huxley has a knack for investigating he feels that he doesn’t deserve to be at the RHC and is kept around because of his military record. Paraded around like a show pony for the public to see during important investigations. The door to the office opens and Huxley is startled from his reverie. Dima, a dwarf constable with a fondness for paper work enters and announces, ”Get moving the chief wants to see you.” Appearance:
Tap, tap, tap the raven beats on Huxley’s head with its beak as his bloated body lays on the ground in a steamy jungle along the Yerasol Archipelago. Huxley tries to scream but no words come out as his mouth is stuffed with dirt. The raven begins again tap, Huxley's eyes pop open, his head still pounding, but he sighs with relief as he realizes he is in his bed, safe in his cramped little apartment. He concludes, it’s just that dream again. He lays in his bed breathing erratically with sweat pouring off his body. The sour odor of his unwashed body mixes with the smell of alcohol and his breath creating something noxious. Huxley shakes his head as he begins to work his jaw, making sure his mouth isn’t filled with dirt. No I’m still alive, he decides as the pounding in his head grows louder. The other voice in his head, his inner voice, reminds him as the pounding continues, <true but you're closer to the grave today then you were yesterday.>
”You always think it’s trouble,” Huxley rebuts aloud before he realizes what he is doing. I have to stop that, he admonishes himself. But admits, probably is trouble. Slowly Huxley throws his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. He runs his fingers through his thick hair as he reaches with his other hand for the mostly empty bottle next to his bed. Greedily he brings the bottle to his lips and finishes off the contents. He tosses the bottle aside and carefully gets up, the bed groans in relief as his slight frame is lifted. Sluggishly he makes his way over to the water basin which is sitting on the dresser against the wall. As he splashes water on his face he looks up and catches his reflection in the small dust covered mirror that sits above the dresser. He scowls at his likeness, it was a look that would make a mother hide her children or a weak man to tremble. He mused that while he was not yet 30 years old the reflection looking back at him seemed older. <Weary looking,> the other voice inside his head remarks. I do look weary, but it’s more than that, he surmises. As Huxley continues looking at his reflection he noticed his eyes, They are same color of the sky right before a storm. <When they’re not blood shot,> the voice in his head adds with a laugh. But it is more than their color that draws Huxley’s attention, his gaze appears knowing and penetrating. His eyes are deeply set in a narrow oval head and a weathered face which is framed by thick black hair with long sideburns that extend past his earlobes. His face is highlighted by a blunt chin and a straight nose that gives him an aristocratic look. Huxley is startled from his reverie by the unrelenting knocking on the door. He admonishes himself, stop admiring yourself, there is business to attend to. He shakes his head thinking, probably trouble. He begins to make his way across the room and the floor creaks in protest even though Huxley is thin and light on his feet. He has a thin but athletic build and is tall, just over six feet in height. He continues the journey across the small room and he carries himself with an air of confidence. The swagger of a veteran, a hero, he hopes. Another snide comment from the voice, <swagger of a drunkard.> “Go away,” Huxley says halfheartedly not sure if he is talking to the voice in his head or whoever is knocking on the door. Again his thoughts are interrupted by the other voice, <probably someone here to kill you.> Huxley hesitates for a second then makes a fist as he places his other, callused hand upon the knob. You’re probably right, He reluctantly agrees with the voice. *********************************************
Appearance:
No matter the weather Huxley is always wearing a dark long cloak and a bowler style hat. He favors dark colors in his dress and attire. He can often be seen mumbling or talking to himself and frequently laughs at his own jokes. ********************************************
If there was one word to describe Huxley it would be paranoid. He believes the world is out to get him (and at times he is right). He is plagued by self-doubt and haunted by the demons of his past. However, he is able to suppress these feelings and push forward. He is used to operating in the shadows but when the need arises he can be personable and insightful. He is clever and isn’t afraid to let people know it as well as possessing a cutting sense of humor. Both attributes don’t win him many friends. Although he is perceptive and a shrewd investigator he is always trying to prove himself, as he believes that he was offered a job with the RHC just because of his war record. Why he joined the RHC
As Alice attacks her food Huxley tries to take her measure. He notices he calluses on her hand, That’s from training with a sword not a fork. <Dangerous,> his inner voice cautions. Abruptly she announces,
Huxley raises his glass in salute to the retreating new constable, ”See ya around Al.” The new ones would rather be fed an easy lie than swallow a difficult truth. Especially the new ones. Best they understand that our excitement is usually someone else’s loss.
Why do I bother. The new one hardly want to hear the truth, Huxly asks himself. His inner voice adds, <The truth is like pie. People want to taste a little, but too much can make anyone sick.> Huxley lets out a short laugh and replies, ”Yeah, rule number one. Don’t complain about the slow days.” He picks up a fork, slices off a small piece of the hazelnut pie and tastes it, She' right it is dry.
"Don't believe everything you read," Huxley cautions the new Constable. With an air of resignation he continues, "Most people around here call me Huxley." He ignores the pie and takes another gulp of ale then advises, "Its a heavy title Constable it will consume you if you let it."
Huxley sits at a one of the many long tables that make up the room sipping his ale while he waits for his meal to be delivered. He stifles a yawn, recovering from another late night plagued by nightmares of a faraway jungle. As he sits there he runs his fingers across the worn oaken table wondering, Will I measure up to those that have sat here before?” His thoughts are interrupted by Constable Kildare. Cupping her hand in front of her mouth, Alice lights a small Nicodemus cigar. "Huh. Didn't quite expect to find another Yerasol veteran." She exales a small cloud of smoke. Her flawless uniform clashes with her weary, baggy eyes, the color of a sea in storm. She offers her cigarillos to Huxley. "One would think that the administration dumped us here to give us a cushy job. Hmph. Don't know about you, but that's not how I want it to go. Anyway, what's your story?" Wordlessly Huxley takes the offered cigar, brings it to his lips and takes a long drag. While he smokes his brow crinkles as he considers her words carefully and wonders, What is she fishing for? Trying to deflect the question Huxley answers with a smile, ”My story…. My story is I’m hungry and tired.” Huxley strokes his chin and lifts his mug, ”Looks like you could use a drink too. Have a seat.” Best way to find out what she wants is to keep her talking, Huxley counsels himself. His inner voice warns, <Careful watch your tongue.> |