Cassim "Fog" Black's page

Fog doesn’t paint just anything. His obsession is with those born to privilege and success. He obsesses over their demise. His vice Purveyor Oran Fischer, is a morgue attendant and knowns many physickers. He trades information on when a noble, rich merchant, or otherwise rich and famous individual of status perishes. Fog prefers violent or bloody deaths, but he isn’t too picky.

When he finds out about these situations, he immediately sneaks into the scene of the accident, murder, or even just the sick room where they passed away. He prefers to sketch while the corpse is still there, if possible. He will go to great lengths to make this happen, to an obsessive and disturbing level. The sprawled figure with a splash of blood on the ground. The shrunken, sickly body in a bed surrounded by flowers. The swinging body hanging from a rope. All of these are his artistic muse.

Once he has his sketch, he retreats to his painting room where the charcoal drawings gain color and, frequently, pictures of the dead person's ghost in the image.

He's gotten into trouble more than once for sneaking into someone's home and being found drawing the dead body. Bluecoats aren't fond of someone who may mess with the scene, and he's been questioned as a suspect on several murders and suicides as a result. Rich families don't take kindly to those who intrude on their grief for such sickening and revolting habits.

* Everytime you roll a desperate action, mark Xp in that action’s attribute
* You addressed a challenge with stealth or evasion.
* You expressed your beliefs, drives, heritage, or background.
* You struggled with issues from your vice or traumas during the session.

Mundane:
1 point: Blade or two, throwing knives, a pistol, a 2nd pistol, an unusual weapon, burglary gear, arcane implements, documents, subterfuge supplies, tinkering tools, lantern

2 point: A large weapon, armor, climbing gear, demolition tools

3 point: Add to armor for heavy armor

Special:
Fine Lockpicks: 0 Load. A finely crafted set of tools. These lockpicks were a birthday gift from 3 years ago from Celes.

Fine Shadow Cloak: 1 Load. A hooded cloak made from Iruvian shadow-silk that blends into the surrounding darkness. This cloak was stolen off of the corpse of a famous opera singer while Cassim was there to paint the suicide. Increases effect level when sneaking.

Light Climbing Gear: 1 Load. Less bulky than standard climbing gear.

Silence Potion Vial: 0 Load. A vial of golden liquid that negates all sound within 10 paces of the drinker for several moments.

Dark-sight Goggles 1 Load. A pair of black leather goggles with smoky lenses. Cassim purchased these with his first real heist. Allow the wearer to see in pitch darkness.

Celes Rohavin – Former lover, Pysicker and Thief

His mother was in a fit again. There was something running through her veins, although Galland had no idea what, nor did he particularly care. She threw him out of the house and he wandered the street. It had recently rained and the rancid smell of wet garbage filled his lungs.
He hoisted himself up onto a crate of rotting cotton someone had abandoned, likely during a heist of some kind, and pulls out a thin, expensive looking dagger. The weapon was wavy like an Leviathan's tentacle or the ocean's waves and had something written along the edge. Gold and silver wire wrapped around the handle which ended in a small ruby. Probably glass, he thought to himself as he turned it over in his hands.

His mother worked at one of the high-end brothels. The clients were rich, privileged. Galland hated the way they acted, So arrogant, as if they deserve everything they have, and liked to sneak in to pilfer their things. This knife was the most recent item.

So intent on the weapon's curvy surface, he didn't notice the shadow fall over him until a calloused hand reached out and grabbed the dagger away from him. He stood up with a squawk, hands balling into fists and looking up. Three older boys stood there all with dark, wavy hair. The one with the dagger was smirking that obnoxious look. Loche Smoke, Galland thought.

The boy was an eternal thorn in his side and Galland didn't like to put up with it. He was always using force to take what Galland took with finesse. He eyes the weapon, silent, knowing that this encounter was likely to end up with several bruises and a broken nose unless he walked away now. He didn't walk away.

An hour later, a battered Galland stumbled down the street, looking for a doorway to huddle in. As he was settling down, he was met with an amazing, astounding, sight. A girl about his age with beautiful golden hair and an angelic face. She had just opened the door as he settled and was holding a broom in both hands. She also had a scowl on her lips and she swung the broom at him. "Momma says no beggars in the doorway, it drives away her custtomah's" The girl spoke with a heavy accent and Galland reached up, grabbing the broom in both hands.

"I'm not a beggar! I just need somewhere to stay while my mum gets the poison out of her veins.."

She looked at him with a tilted head and shrugged. "Mine just passes out inna back room and don't bother me none." After a slow pause, the girl looks over his black eye and bruised knuckles and opens the door. "Let's get those cleaned up, ya?"
And that was how Galland met Celes Rohavin.

Eric Langorn Duelist, Noble, Skovlander, Angry

* It's prized not for its cost, but the story around it. Fog doesn't believe the story is real, but enough others do that it's a worthy item. Eric doesn't just want it back, he wants revenge for the slight against him. He's a rich noble who is known as a fierce duelist and he occasionally captains his own leviathan hunts.

* When the item was stolen, Eric lost a lot of rep with other leviathan hunters. Among those he spends time with, bragging about your conquests and leviathan-based artifacts is routine. The, well publicized, theft of the horn caused him great embarrassment. He's a vain individual who sees that embarrassment as reason to brutally beat and possibly murder Fog.
It wasn't that impressive. Fog took another drink from the horn and turned it in his hands. The wine was good though, an old vintage from somewhere exotic. And sweet too, one of those fancy ice wines from the north.

But still, it wasn't that impressive. The horn was black with deep ridges that had been filled in with silver. An engraving of a ship fighting a mighty leviathan wrapped around the middle. The interior was filled with gold leaf. It looked expensive, but it didn't look like a Legend.

"I feel as if I've been cheated." Fog grumbled.

"You stole it, how were you cheated?" Celes asked and rolled her eyes, grabbing it from him and taking a drink. [b]"You know someone's going to rat."

"Vanik wouldn't do that. He's a good kid."

"I meant the other one, ya clem. That drunk who told you Langorn's schedule."

"Oh....him. Right. Shoulda done something about that, yeah? Cut him up a bit."

"Yer a rogue."

"Damn right."

The two fall into a fit of giggles, huddling together and looking at the horn. They had been told it was old, one of the first horns cut from a leviathan and forged into a mighty drinking vessel. The legend said the first bearer was the mythic Captain Allan the Red, a Skovlander Leviathan Hunter. He had over a dozen ships in his fleet and made riches upon riches.

Eric Lantorn, former owner of the horn, believed the myth. Rumor had it that the horn had been in his family for generations handed down from ages ago when it had been taken after a raid on descendants of Allan the Red.

There was a pounding on the door. Galland started to stand up and laughed as he swayed a bit. Both of them had had too much to drink. He took a step toward the door and then the door was busted in with a crack of wood. A roar echoed in the small room "Where is my horn?!" the huge, lumbering figure shouted as he ducked inside.

Celes and Galland exchanged a look and fled through the nearest window where a coiled rope ladder waited for just such a situation.