Castiel Vasago's page

+1 on cha-based skills vs chellish aristocracy

You gain a +2 bonus on all Knowledge (nobility) checks, and that chosen Knowledge skill is always considered a class skill for you. Scion of the Arts: You gain a +1 bonus on all Perform checks, and Perform is always a class skill for you. If you have the bardic performance ability, you can use that ability for an additional 3 rounds per day.

You gain a +1 trait bonus on Knowledge (nobility) checks, and Knowledge (nobility) is a class skill for you. In addition, you gain a +1 trait bonus on Charisma based checks against other members of the Chelish aristocracy. The Noble Scion feat (Pathfinder Campaign Setting: The Inner Sea World Guide 288) does not have a Charisma prerequisite for you. Lastly, you start play with a noble’s outfit, a signet ring, and a single additional nonmagical item worth no more than 200 gp.

Noble Scion: noble’s outfit, signet ring, masterwork studded leather (200gp or less nonmagical item)
180 gp (class gp)
-30 gp (shortbow)
-20 gp (rapier)
-2 gp (40 arrows)
-.1 gp (bedroll)
-10 gp (silk rope)
-5 gp (10 days of trail rations)
-1 gp (waterskin)
-100 gp (2 pots of cure light wounds)

Castiel smiled as he poured himself a glass of wine. A job well done, if he did say so himself. He took a deep sip of the Wiscrani Berbera and leaned back in bed. Everything had gone particularly well, and he stood to make a hefty sum for barely a night’s work. His smile turned triumphant as the figure sleeping next to him started to stir.

Good mor… He glanced outside the windows. Afternoon. Did you sleep well? He smiled again and took another sip of his wine. It really was quite good.

The man, Squire Guillaumei d’Ici, stared in wide-eyed confusion that slowly transformed into open horror and then rage. It was always satisfying watching a mark realize he'd been duped. Their impotent fury always sweetened the look of hopelessness they inevitably wore as the acquiesced to whatever Cas demanded. There was no better victory.

How…I was… Again, the rage turned to puzzled horror. You…

Aren’t the man you went to bed with last night? d’Ici nodded. Well, that's the crux of your conundrum. There are people outside this door, right now, who could see the man you went to bed with last night. Or, they could see no one at all. Or, they could see me. Cas pulled out a leather-bound packet from behind his pillows and tapped it against his chin. Which do you think will be the most damning?

To his credit, d’Ici did try to grab the papers from Castiel’s hands, but the aasimar was too fast for him. What….what are those? Castiel turned the leather packet so the title, Contract of Dissolution, could easily be seen. I see. Tell her she can..

And then, Cas grinned wickedly, as his features blurred, his body melted and twisted to look almost like a halfling. His voice grew young and childish, and, like his voice, it, too, could almost be mistaken for a halfling’s voice. Almost. I walk outside this door past several Hellknights and guests relaxing with their cups in the tavern below. People who take a rather narrow view towards your...proclivities

People will simply think you're a halfling, a slave! Nothing will happen! d’Ici sneered, sure in his victory. Any sympathy(and he did, sometimes, have sympathy for his marks; he wasn't a monster!) Cas may have had for the deviant evaporated in that moment. Vice, he could tolerate, respect, even. Stupidity was quite another.
No, you thought I looked like a halfling. Or, you pretended I did. One word from me, one look at me. One good, hard, look in daylight? There will be no question. They’ll know, you'll be arrested, and you will hang. There's a whole section in Hell reserved for punishing that sort of thing. He leaned back in the chair, basking in the look of impotent rage that took over d’Ici’s face. Sign the contract, give her the divorce, and this will all be a bad dream. he tossed the contract to d’Ici and a sharpened quill.

D’Ici dropped up the quill in outrage after a moments. Never! She wants HALF MY HOLDINGS! That… That….harlot! I have seen the fruits of her conquests! The maids she's deflowered and the guardsmen she's ridden! Your mistress is no innocent! I'll not sign! In fact, I'll pay you double whatever she offers!

What sort of businessman would I be if I turned on my employer for the promise of more coin? A dead one. Besides, my employer has all the money in the marriage. Wasn't that the arrangement? You brought prestige, she brought in wealth. Without her, you have no money to buy me. Sir d’Ici. Do yourself a favor. Sign the contract.

d’Ici put quill to paper but stop at a gesture from Castiel. In blood. We are in Cheliax, after all. Simple ink just will not do in a contract of this sort.. The man sighed, but nodded and pricked his finger with the sharpened nib before hastily scrawling his name.

The man argued and railed for a few more moments, but it was only a show, and Castiel thought nothing of it. Cas plucked the signed contract out of his hand and then slipped out of the room, letting the disguise he wore melt from his body. He was a man of his word, after all. He walked passed the innkeeper and paid her a few extra coins for the room. He didn't know what the proprietress has slipped into the wine to make d’Ici so gullible, and he didn't want to know. But, whatever it was ha done the trick. It always helped to settle up with conspirators efficiency and quickly. It prevented people getting ideas later. Not that he was worried, the arrangements had been made with someone who didn't even exist.

Slowly, so as not to attract too much undo attention, Castiel wandered the streets of Westcrown. Gods, but he loved this city. His city. He still remembered when the city burned during the War of Succession, or whatever it was that House Thrune decided it was to be called currently. It didn’t matter. None of that mattered. It was all so...ephemeral. Like d’Ici and his wealth. He thought he was powerful and protected with his name and his land and his wife’s wealth. And, with it was all taken away with a simple piece of paper.

A halfling in motley danced and cavorted about like a little trained monkey, slipped on a too-long sleeve and barreled into Castiel, nearly sending the man sprawling. It was all an act, though, and Cas handed off the leather packet easily, just as he received a hefty coin purse. Two hundred gold sovereigns, easy. He muttered a foul oath at the slave for effect, but then straightened, seemingly remembering his manners. He bowed to the rather bored-looking retainer and hurried on meandered on his way.

The wonderful sooty air of Westcrown mingled with the ever-present fog and ocean spray, and he breathed deep the scent. Some called this city dead, a rotting, festering corpse of an ancient dream. Not so, Castiel. He loved Westcrown with every fiber of his being. This city was like him: a survivor.

He was born in the midst of the Civil War, when the great houses rose up against the King after the disappearance of Aroden. For his first twenty years, all he had known was war and loss. Some of his family remained loyal to the King and even Aroden, or his successor, Iomedae. The other half sided with House Thrune and demanded change, or power. Brother slaughtered brother; sister poisoned whole households; all for the sake of a few more scraps of land and to be closer to head beneath a crown. At 96 years, he had outlived them all. . His angelic blood had spared him the ravages of time, and he remained as hale and hearty as he had in his 20s when his family fell apart. Those who had not died during the war, had succumbed to the fate of all mortals decades ago.

Now, the sole descendant of House Vasago, Castiel was left to his own fate. He had liquidated most of his family’s assets and estates when he first came into his inheritance. Land was ostentatious, it could be fought over. Wealth, however, could be horded, or invested. He chose the latter. He didn’t need money now, he could work. He maintained a modest townhouse in a quiet neighborhood in Westcrown (or, at least, what passed for a quiet neighborhood in the City of Twilight) to rest between jobs. His was a long game, and he needed to think to the centuries beyond. Everything would change. Or, it wouldn’t. Neither mattered. Only survival. He used his skills to earn a living--he so hated playing a noble. He’d grown bored with the idle rich and their tiresome pursuits in his 50s. One ball was much the same as the other. Every decadence led simply to another. And, all of them variations on a theme. It was all so… tedious. The only thing that mattered, that kept society running, was one’s word. Breaking vows, grabbing for land, both had led to the Civil War, and the chaos and destruction that followed.

That Thrune had taken advantage of the vacuum, possibly even caused the vacuum, mattered little. If not Thrune, then someone else. At least, now, there was peace. And, he could work, manipulating and preying on foolish nobles and others with power to exploit.

He sighed as he entered his townhouse, hanging his cloak in the closet. He employed a few guards who ensured his home was undisturbed. They were loyal, as long as the gold was right. He made sure the gold was right. Much of his wealth went to insuring his safety and his his home. Of course, if it all fell away, he’d still find away. Prepare a meal, please, Dassani, the slip nodded and rushed off. He always made sure to be kind to his servants. Many of his family had perished at the hands of angry slaves. He’d seen other nobles undone just as easily by freeborn maids and butlers. Gold could only buy so much loyalty, the rest needed to be earned through respect. Pity, though. Dassani had been with him for nearly seven years now. He’d need to look into finding a replacement, soon. It never did to have people stay too long. Complacency also led to death.

But, all of that was at least a few years off, yet. He needn’t think about such maudlin things today. Perhaps he should travel, and leave the old familiar town. A journey to the country, maybe even all the way Isger, or Molthune, perhaps. He’d spent his life, all ninety-six years, in southern Cheliax, a change might be what he needed.