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Action 1: Erix, who trailed behind, perked up. "At least 2 people - they can sleep in shifts. I'm happy to volunteer." Phin turned and looked at Erix and then back at Sebastian, "As am I." The rogue left out the part of her wanting to stay in a better place for a few days not to mention there may be food or wine that may go bad. And she also wouldn't mind poking around a bit more to get to know Svans better. "Unnecessary," Daryl accentuated the syllables so that it was clear he was put out. "I need no sleep. It should be me." The 'forged turned to Erix, "You are welcome to come along, but I suggest you bring a pillow. I'll wake you if there is something to punch." He then turned to Phin, "Or you. Makes little difference to me." Action 3: Daryl stood just outside the bakery listening to the conversation within. So many needless words. So much speculation. He wished the biologicals would just speak their minds. His head fell a millimeter. It was a small movement, but it would have spoke volumes to another Warforged. His kind did not mince words...though he had learned through long conversations with Daen how to string unnecessary words together. No, most 'forged did not speak as he did. Most would gladly do a job, any job, to avoid having to speak. But not him. Daryl looked at his black armored hands. Two fingers and a thumb. He could not remember looking down and seeing anything else. And yet they looked, inexplicably, wrong. Her brow furrowing, Alua asked, "What needs to be replaced?" Daryl turned his head slightly. A motion that would have brought his ears, if he had such organs, into better alignment to hear. He didn't think about the motion and yet he couldn't explain why he did it. Was it some instinctual aping of the biologicals to make them feel more comfortable around him? Only a fool would be oblivious to how many Warforged made the biologicals feel. The man handing out flyers last night being an extreme example. Was that what he was doing? Trying to fit in? Or was it something else?
Daryl adjusted his stance slightly, the grating plates reminding all that the 'forged wasn't just a shadow in the corner. It was sometimes hard to remember the hulking automaton was there when he could crouch as still as a statue for hours. "We shouldn't forget the artist, Lusican." the Warforged's mouth opened and closed as if to approximate the movements of the biologicals when speaking, but it never did look quite right. "If the victim had been trying to place his painting, which someone described as a 'horror,' for months with no success, we could have a third suspect."
Daryl fully stood for the first time in hours. "Throwing someone over a railing would suggest a crime of opportunity or passion. An unhinged or heavily medicated disgruntled artist might take advantage of both." Daryl turned to Phin, "Or, a cunning professional might want us to think so, turning our suspicions elsewhere." Daryl shrugged, a noisy endeavor, and one that didn't fully convey the sincerity he intended, "Regardless, we should keep our minds open to all the possibilities."
Daryl watched the biologicals flit around him like flotsam on a swirling wind. No, he didn’t watch. He experienced. He felt like a rock in the eye of a storm – a bastion of calm in a sea of chaos. There were signals and whispers, intimate touches and guarded words. His compatriots looked like ants trying to infiltrate the hide of a dead animal. Clawing and biting and pushing their way through all resistance. The festering rot of the tavern reeked of death. Not of actual dead bodies, but the death of dreams, the death of hope. The biologicals stared into their cups as if the liquid could give them the future they seemed to have lost. Of course, it wouldn’t. Couldn’t. All the liquid could do was addle their thoughts so that they would forget. Or maybe allow them not to grieve their loss. Daryl’s legs quivered under him. He was crouched next to the table, a stance he could maintain indefinitely if needed. And yet his legs shook. He watched them, transfixed. [i]How? Why?[/] As he asked himself, he knew the answer – a part of him envied the biologicals. If he could consume something like their alcohol, he knew he would. He screamed. At first he thought he had vocalized, but a quick scan of his surroundings showed that he had not. But the scream echoed in his mind. It was his voice, full of pain. Suffering. He looked down at his hands and the slight purple glow from underneath his armor was pulsing. He stood suddenly, the table nearly capsizing as his thighs slammed into the side. It wobbled back and forth for what seemed like too long before noisily settling back onto its base. As many of the patrons watched, Daryl turned and walked out of the tavern without a word. He walked. He didn’t know how long. At some point he had pulled off his cloak. It was in his right hand. He held it aloft. It was filthy. He would have to clean it. Most importantly, his arms were no longer pulsing. He didn’t know where he was or how long he’d walked. He glanced up at the sky, taking note at the position of the moon and stars, and aimed himself in the general direction of the Agency. He’d find his way…eventually.
"Keep him away from me, or I'll call the Watch!" he half-shouted, directing his words to Sebastian and the others, his voice trembling with anger and the fear that was fast eroding its foundations. Daryl remained motionless. "Surely the Watch would see this gesture for what it is - at the least harmless, at the most conciliatory." Daryl nodded to the crowd behind him, "And with all these witnesses, any claim of yours of ill-intent on my part would be met with a multitude of contradictory accounts." Daryl moved his hand forward a fraction of an inch. "As I see it, you have two choices: Should you wish to stay here and pass out your pamphlets, you will need to shake my hand so that I may continue inside. Or, you can take your leave until our next meeting."
Daryl turned to the human. “Necromancy…” his voice trailed off. He’d never spoken the word before but it felt…familiar? As if… No, he couldn’t place it. The more he focused on the word, the more jumbled his thoughts. ”You are angry,” the Warforged stated, his tone seeming to land somewhere between disinterested and disappointed. ”That was not my intent.” .he wishes to fighT .it is his naturE Daryl turned slightly, his shoulders square with Erix’s, ”You would make an excellent Warforged.”
Daryl watched the reactions of his compatriots with interest. The human at the door was clearly provoking a reaction in all of them. They felt the need to defend him. He both recognized and appreciated the intent. It was akin to a parent with a child. Daryl was no child, but he comprehended the significance of their protectiveness. Allowing the others to enter first, Daryl stopped in front of the man. At first the man avoided looking at the Warforged but Daryl had two things the man did not – bulk and time. As other started to line up behind him, the human was forced to acknowledge the walking construct.
Slowly, Daryl extended his hand toward the human. The gesture, usually one of friendship and greeting, was one that few biologicals shared with the Warforged. His three-fingered hand was nearly twice the size of the human’s fleshy appendage. Daryl wasn’t sure what he meant exactly by the act – was he threatening the man? Was he trying to make peace? Honestly, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it felt ‘right’ somehow. .kill hiM .perhaps we will find his souL Daryl agreed, that felt right as well.
Daen paused, considering Daryl. Your carapace is so different than any other forged. Does it cause you any problems with other forged, or just fleshies like that bigot? Daryl crouched next to the table, making sure that his eyes were level with the others to facilitate easy conversation. Not trying one of the chairs was a sign to the owners that he would be careful with their furniture, and by extension, their patrons. A few had regarded him with raised eyebrows as he entered, but they had soon returned to their drinks. Daryl turned his black-armored hand over, ”Not that I am aware of. The Warforged turned to Daen, “So many of us look so different, I do not think we notice.” The Warforged paused, thinking, ”When so many distrust us for what we are and how we look, we are too busy to notice the minor differences. At least, in my experience so far.” Daryl watched the dancer for a few moments as she twisted through the air and across the floor. "I do not think it bothers me that some biologicals hate me. They will die with their hate while I live on. Perhaps their children will feel differently.”
“Black?” Daryl cocked his head to the side, his gaze focused on the elf’s hair. “I would have assumed white for you. Perhaps inverse colors are our souls? Would that make my soul white?”
“It is strange to think of the ending of a life. That this soul of yours..." the Warforged trailed off for a moment. "Of ours could be extinguished. Perhaps if Alua had been on hand, this man could have been repaired.” Daryl paused, slowly turning back to Phin, “Surely there is a part of him that held his soul. Could not that part be installed in a new body? Something less…fragile?”
The plates in Daryl's neck creaked as he turned his gaze to the human. Daen often referred to Sebastian as their “leader.” It wasn’t that the different members of the group weren’t distinguishable – they certainly were. But the hierarchy seemed superfluous to Daryl. Each member had their expertise and should be followed as the situation demanded. Still, Sebastian owned the apartment and was the creator of the agency. According to Daen, this gave him a specific status. It mattered not to Daryl. He didn’t truly need the money, the lodging, or any of it. He watched the rest of them scrambling around trying to acquire enough money to keep their bodies fed and warm. His body needed none of that. Perhaps that is why he was such a good Appraiser. His detachment. “Daryl?” Sebastian said louder. He had not answered, lost in thought once again. “Correct. I noted many works of value and no signs that anything was taken.” Sebastian nodded, “As I thought…” Daryl continued as if Sebastian hadn’t spoken, “That is not to say that nothing was missing. There could have been a cache of jewels or money, or anything small for that matter that could have been absconded with.” Sebastian spoke through pursed lips, “Of course, but there was no evidence…” “Not everyone would recognize the quality art. Not to mention how hard it is to transport covertly or sell easily.” Sebastian spoke over the Warforged, “Sure, but I think we would have noticed…” “Many creatures interested in money have no appreciation of art. I would venture to say that the vast majority of the citizens of this city have no interest in, much less care about, art.” “Daryl!” Sebastian nearly shouted. Daryl turned to the human, “Yes?” “We get it.” “As you wish,” the Warforged fell silent. After they arrived back at the office, Alua took up a collection from the others, then took her handful of coins and ran across the road to the gnomish deli for sandwiches and iced tea. Today's flavour was bellyberry - she wasn't sure what that was, but it was a lovely purple colour, so she took a gamble and brought a pitcher back with her. She almost made it back to her desk without spilling, but she tripped over Daryl's foot. It was only Phin's lightning reflexes that prevented a complete disaster. As it was, she only had to dust off one sandwich, which she took for herself, and the elf only ended up with one small damp patch on her trousers. Daryl watched the small human dart around the apartment, his glowing eyes following her every movement. Daryl didn’t have “favorites” among these people, but he did enjoy watching Alua. She was in constant motion, a stark contrast to his own natural inertness. She couldn’t simply place a glass on a table. No. She would put it down, look at it for a moment, turn it a few degrees, stare at it for a few more moments, and then turn it back. She was fascinating. She would steal glances at him, never maintaining eye contact. The more he watched her, the more she moved. The more she moved, the more relaxed the ‘forged became. He imagined that this is what sleep must feel like. It certainly sounded like these “dreams” that Daen often described.
Phin's cheeks colored every so slightly. She couldn't tell from Daryl's question if he liked or was annoyed by her humming. "It's a song that one commonly hears in most taverns around Sharn. It's called The Wolf and the Maiden. Humming is something I do to block out irksome situations. I'm sorry if it disturbed you." ”Irksome. You are irked.” The ‘forged’s voice was louder than Phin would have liked. The metal head turned toward her, the glowing purple eyes trained on her. “I am disturbed.” “Excuse me?” the elf was surprised by the revelation. ”Correction,” the ‘forged continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “I am undisturbed. I am…” the Warforged seemed to glance up at the windows before quickly lowering his gaze back to hers. “You are?” the elf prompted. If Daryl could swallow, he would. Every joint, every plate of his being seemed dry and filled with sand. He worked his jaw for a moment, surprised that it didn’t sound like walking on a field of river-smoothed rocks. “Fine.” The elf raised a brow. Daryl quickly caught up to Phin and the group. “I did not recognize that song,” the Warforged lied. “You hum it well.”
Phin gave the 'forged a sympathetic smile, "Not everyone is comfortable in the dark or with the dead. If it's any consolation, I think they're almost finished examining the body and then we can leave and get back to the office. In the meantime, is there anything I can do to make it more bearable for you down here?" Daryl glanced toward the others doting over the body. Meat. They were all meat. He was not. Compared to him, they were delicate flowers facing the hurricane of time. His body was different. With the proper maintenance, he was effectively immortal. Would he look the same a hundred years from now? Would any of his original parts remain? Did it matter? Was he a sum of his parts or was there something under the metal, wood, and other parts that was his core? “Do you have a soul?” The question popped out of his mouth before the thought had completely formed in his mind. He realized he had been looking at his hands. He raised his head to the elf, towering over him with that effortless grace of hers. But that wasn’t his real question, was it? No, there was another in his mind, one that he couldn’t voice. Not even to himself.
Daryl paused in the doorway of the church, staring up at its spires and windows. He could sense the artistry in them, and…something else. It was as if they almost glowed with religious zeal. The faith of the artisan was evident in each pane…except one. This one was no less elaborate, its themes no less pious, but there was something different about it. Something…subversive. It was Daryl’s favorite. The others had already passed inside and were being introduced to the Caretaker, as he was described. A man that looked down his nose at everything, his garments were subtly accented with highlights of wealth. The gold strands in his cloak were real gold, not just colored fabric. The material was exotic and rare, though to the untrained eye it might not appear so. The hem was perfectly straight, and the fit was obviously tailored for the man. He would appear well dressed to the masses, but to the wealthy and those that cared about status, the signal was clear: This is a person of wealth and the power that came along with it. The moment Daryl stepped inside, he felt a smell whisk past him. He stopped for a moment, swaying slightly. His body trembled; a sensation unfamiliar to the warforged washing over him. His head cocked to the side slightly as he took in the scene. The Caretaker was walking and talking, the others following. Daryl found himself doing the same. As soon as Magnulin started his incessant spiritual lecturing, Phin slipped to the back of the group and hummed softly to herself as a means of blocking out most of what was said. Daryl’s head spun, the images in the windows glaring down at him. They hummed at him, a tune he didn’t recognize. It was more melodic than anything he could create. They created the tune as one, a singular creature all mocking him…judging him. The tune echoed in his head, distorting, amplifying. It was more than the ‘forged could take. .let us see what this doeS Daryl stopped, frozen. He wanted to flee, every fiber of his being screaming at him to flee. To seek an exit. This place was…wrong. Dangerous! He’d been here before. Many times? So many times. He had to escape! He could let him... The humming stopped. The group was only a few steps ahead, but Phin had stopped and was looking back at him. She had been the source of the humming? Daryl glanced back up at the windows. They were…he couldn’t look at them any longer. He lowered his gaze to the half-elf. ”I…” the warforged paused, “What was that song you were humming?”
Each of these companions was so different, none so much as Phin. To Daryl’s eyes, nothing about Phin made sense. She was taller than him but at least half his weight. Every movement a graceful dance. She didn’t pick up a cup, she wrapped it in her hand and lifted it in a single motion. She didn’t sit, she lowered herself into a pose as flattering as any of the painted works he appraised. Every time she moved it was if it were choreographed and planned out beforehand. Daryl was as far from graceful as a creature could get. He wasn’t jealous. But watching her move always made him feel something. Wistful? The Warforged wasn't sure. Daryl turned away from Phin, “I do not…” again the Warforged paused, something stopping him from completing his thought. After a moment, all he could manage was, “wish to stay here much longer.”
Alua moaned as she rocked back and forth on the art dealer's floor, unaware of her surroundings, caught in the horror of battle. Daryl watched the little human rocking on the ground. His head cocked to the side, his eyes drawing the line between the female and the painting. She was clearly affected by the contents. .it would take little to drive this one to maddnesS The thought came unbidden to his mind, true though it was. The human seemed frail, though Daryl knew she daily faced similar horrors. Why? Why would she subject herself to something that so clearly caused her pain? .she craves iT .you could help her with what she desireS. Daryl lowered onto one knee, his purple glowing eyes only inches from Alua's. It was as if he were not there. She stared through him. He quite liked the sensation. Alua, his voice sounded, for a moment, alien, even to him. She did not react. He put a hand on her shoulder, Alua, he repeated, louder this time.
Brought back to reality, Alua averted her gaze from the painting. "Cover it up," she asked, her voice hoarse and thick with tears. "Why would anybody paint that? Who would want it?" Daryl stood, looking back toward the painting, "No one would want it," the warforged said impassionately. "This is a labor of therapy." Alua looked confused by the statement but before Daryl could explain, Daen walked over. "Daryl," Daen asked, "have you seen anything like this before? I don't recognize the artist, but then again, I'm only exposed to a small cross section of art in Sharn." Daryl turned to the artificer, "This is not a piece for selling. Look at the canvas. No one would buy something that would tear under its own weight in a couple of years." Daryl turned back to Alua, "This is a creation for the creator alone. The cover is to hide it from the world. He is ashamed of this creation and paints it so that he never has to think of it again." Daryl looked toward the balcony, "The artist is haunted by this scene. He may believe that by giving it life, he can exorcise it from his memory." He turned back to Daen, "I would not be surprised if his intention was to eventually burn it." Daen looked confused, Daryl expanded. "By burning the image, he can symbolically erase it from his memory." Daryl paused for a moment, the armor plates creaking as he traced just above the line of a sword in the image, "Or perhaps, it is a penance. Perhaps the artist is one of the participants in this battle." Daryl nodded toward the other room, "I do not recognize this signature. I would not be surprised if the dead man were the artist. We should find some example of his writing to compare. If it is he, this might be evidence of suicide."
Got myself an influenza... 39C fever is no joke. Can't trust my brain to think today so I won't be posting. If you need to advance turns in Fabian's game, please autopilot Palisade for a moment. Feel better man. Flu sucks.
Daryl followed the line of the man's arm as he pointed to the art room. The apartment was certainly large, and very much filled to the brim with art. But the best pieces would be in the display room.
He concluded, "I think he may have been dead before he was thrown..."] "Or tossed out head first. Though, one would suppose he would scream on the way down if this was against his will." Daryl paused, staring back up at the balcony. "If one were to jump willingly, one would jump feet first. Face first either suggests very diliberate and quite aggressive suicide, or a helping hand." Darly's cloak hood fell back, revealing more of his armored head with the glowing purple eyes. "It shall be interesting to see what the witness has to say."
I guess I should make some roles as well:
Daryl slowly scanned the area looking at each of buildings and businesses. He followed the line of the building up toward the balcony.
“My skills might best be utilized at the apartment.” Daryl said. The office was too small to hold all of them and he had been forced to stay on the other side of the doorway for most of the conversation. The Warforged black-armored face and glowing purple eyes dipped into the office from the other side.
The warforged stepped forward, the others pushing to the side to make room. His large cloak hung off his shoulders like a tarp over a cart. “We should consider bringing something approximately the same weight as the dead to experiment with the amount of force needed to land where he did. This may provide the evidence we need to exclude certain assumptions.”
Knowledge came unbidden to Daryl’s mind. Fernia is waning
He watched as the others interacted with the small boy. They spoke to each other with such ease. As if they were all such old friends. Some of them were? Daryl couldn’t remember. Some definitely seemed to have preferences for others. Plus, there were…other evidence? How close they stood to each other, the timbre of their voice versus how they spoke to strangers…others. Little evidences like brushstrokes on a painting revealing the expertise of the artist. Why did he know that? The streets were too crowded, too many people around. When Daryl was working in the markets, he tolerated all the people. But he avoided such crowds as much as possible. Was it his size? He was small by Warforged standards, but so much larger than most of the others. But no…that didn’t seem to be it. There was just a part of him that longed to be outside…in the woods…alone…running… It wasn’t a memory. He couldn’t picture it. But he felt it. Like a piece of him was missing or…neglected? Daen had hung back with him as they traveled. Daen has spoken of…things. Daryl hadn’t paid much attention. The artificer perhaps knew how uncomfortable Daryl felt, or maybe he just preferred the company of a machine. It didn’t matter. Apparently, Daryl also had a preference for one in the group. Apparently.
He opened his mouth, closed it, and concluded, "First thing tomorrow morning, that's when we will go." Daryl's head rotated slightly toward the front of the agency. No light was coming in from outside. He'd lost track fo time again. How long had he been 'resting'?
Daryl couldn’t close his eyes. It was a strange feeling, to always see. To always notice what was going on around him. Daryl stared at his hands. The black armor was different than most of the other warforged he’d seen. The others were mostly metal, but his armor looked more akin to wood. Harder though, of course. Much. The words floated through his mind, repeating over and over like a mantra. He wanted to block them out. To stop the constant stream. But he couldn’t. Of course, when spoken, the words had power. That had surprised Daryl the first time he’d spoken them aloud. He flexed his fingers. They creaked, the armor rubbing against the structure underneath. The others were filtering into the office. He heard them speaking, could see them walk in through his peripheral vision. They were laughing, joking. The words continued. A language he didn’t understand. He wanted them to stop. He wanted to close his eyes. To sleep. To truly sleep. But he couldn’t. This was as close as he got. One of his first memories was of Daen’s face. Daen had explained how he’d found Daryl – wandering the streets, incoherent, disoriented, and half-dead. He’d repaired Daryl. Called him Daryl as it was the only sound the warforged had made in his fugue state. Except for the screaming. Apparently, Daryl had done that…a lot. The words concluded…the cadence trailing off like a passing musician. Usually, Daryl would “wake” at this point. But the others were all around, talking, laughing. Daryl liked them enough. He didn’t feel very strongly about much, and these people were no different. Some were clearly more trustworthy than others, but none seemed outright dangerous. Daen wanted to be part of the agency, and that was enough for Daryl. What else would he do while he waited for his memories to return? This was as good a distraction as anything. He lifted his head. As he glanced around the room, numbers came unbidden to his mind. Tunic, 3 silver, leather armor, 10 gold…on and on. He didn’t know why he knew the value of things, but he did. If this skill was a connection to his past, he could find no clue. Alua was holding up a note (heavy paper, wax seal, likely from someone with money). A job. That would make them happy. Erix was holding a thrashing chicken (1 gold…though this one was a little small, he’d value it slightly less). That would fill their bellies. Good. Sebastian would be hopeful, and the others would complain less when he wasn’t listening. Alua started as he stood, her hair catching in her eyelashes as she whipped her head toward him. Jumpy, that one. “’Earliest convenience’ is now,” Daryl’s voice wavered slightly, as if the mechanisms in his body that created it were misaligned. Daen had assured him that wasn’t how his voice worked, but Daryl wasn’t sure. Other warforged didn’t sound like him.
Action One: “Is he alive?”
“How do you know it’s a he?” “Uh…kinda looks like a he. I don’t think they like to be called ‘it’.” “Whatever. What should I do?” “I don’t know. Knock on the desk? He’s probably just asleep.” “They don’t sleep.” “How would you know?” “My uncle told me.” “Pffft. What does your uncle know?” “He was in the war. Said he served with one.” “Huh. Didn’t know that.” “He doesn’t talk about it much.” “Well, we can’t just stand here.” “Fine, I’ll shake him.” “Better you than me.” “Wait, is he saying something?” “I don’t think so.” “No, seriously, come over here. It like he’s whispering.” “What is it saying.” “He.” “Whatever.” “Sound like…Daryl?” “Isn that his name?” “How would I know? Everyone just calls him The Appraiser.” “Weird. We should go. This is a terrible plan.” “How can I help you?” The two humans jumped back at my question. They were small. Children. Dirty. Tattered clothes. It was late. It is unusual for children to visit so late. One had a sack. He was clutching it to his chest. He spoke. “My…uncle sent us. He got an offer for a gem. He wanted to get your appraisal.” I extended my hand. Armored and dark, it creaked as my fingers extended. The boy’s eyes followed it. “Allow me to see the merchandise.” The boy put the sack in my hand. He pulled his hand back as if he were afraid that my hand might close like a bear-trap. I slowly closed my fingers around the contents of the sack. The boys watched, transfixed. I couldn’t blame them. I sometimes did the same. The gem was small and well hidden inside the sack of rice. Even a cursory examination revealed that it was of decent quality. The rice was fresh as well. “Do you have my fee?” The boys looked at each other for a moment. The boy spoke again, “Um…no. He just sent us with…that.” He nodded at the gem. I set the gem down on the desk in front of me, “Tell your uncle to come in with either my fee or his buyer.” “What? Why?” I turned to the second boy. He was larger than the first, likely along to reassure the first. Between their company and the rice hiding place, the boys must have felt safe. That was about to change. “Either he pays the appraisal fee, or he can give me a percentage of the sale. It is my way.” "What if we sold the gem to you?" the smaller boy. Sweat trickled down his brow, "How much would you give us for it?" I shook my head, the dark armor plates on the back of my neck scraped against the smokey crystalline structure underneath. ”"That would be unethical. I could pay you coppers for something worth a fortune. How would you know? More importantly, I appraise, I do not buy.” “Fine, give the gem back,” the boy held the sack of rice open. “I will not.” The blood drained from the face of the first boy. The second stepped forward, “You can’t do that.” “I can and I have. You will not leave this room with this in your possession.” The large boy dove forward. I caught him by the wrist half a foot from the gem. He squeaked. The smaller boy took another step back. “It is unsafe for boys as young as you to be traveling with something so valuable. There are those that will notice that you came here and left quickly. They will assume you either left something with me, or are returning home with it. They might decide it is worth the risk to check.” “But…but…that stealing!” the smaller boy. “Untrue.” The larger boy yanked his arm. I released him before he could damage himself. The two boys moved near each other. They began to speak in hushed tones. I pulled on my cloak. “What are you doing?” The small boy’s face had regained its color. It was now very red. “We are leaving.” “We?!” The larger boy. “Yes. I will accompany you home. That way you will not be molested.” “You are coming with us?” “Of course.”” The boys swallowed in unison. “That’s okay. We will be fine. Just give us back the gem and we’ll be on our way.” “No. It is too dangerous. I will accompany you. It is my way.” “Please, Mr. Just give us back the gem and we’ll be back tomorrow. My uncle will kill me…” “Quite impossible.” The boys traded looks. The smaller one, “What if we leave it with you. We can come back tomorrow…” “With the fee.” The larger one, “Yes. The fee.” He was sweating. “As you wish.” The boys bumped into each other as they rushed out the door. I sat back down. “Who was that,” Daen’s voice cracked as he stretched, walking into the room. “Some young thieves.” He yawned, “Yeah? And you let them leave?” I picked up the gem, examining the deep, green color, “I have no concrete proof. They may well be back tomorrow with their uncle to collect this.” Daen glanced at the gem, “Pretty. How do you know it was stolen?” “Correction, I do not know. I suspect.” “Fine, why do you suspect?” “The rice.” “What?” I opened the sack, “Not a broken grain in sight. This rice is some of the finest in the city. No chance those boys have access to such high-quality rice.” “Looks like rice to me.” “If they do not return tomorrow, I shall reach out to the authorities.” “They’ll just keep it for themselves.” “Perhaps. That is not my concern. It is my way.”
I can make that work. Maybe the artificer found him and helped him regain his faculties. 2) The idea of the job of an appraiser working for the agency is fine. The front desk position is taken though so you'll have to talk to Alua (Angie) about that. :) That's fine too. I just don't see any reason for him to "rent" a room when he can pretty much power down anywhere. However, Jussi wanted each one of us 'outside' jobs because we have no clients at our agency so think of something he could do while we wait for some clients.. Yep, he doesn't have to work through the agency, Jussi will have to let me know how much such a profession might earn him. I can't really find anything online to tell me that. I could also put a few more skill points toward appraise (or into Profession skill) if he thinks that is necessary.
Some background notes: 1) Daryl doesn't remember much of his past. He's not sure what happened to him but his first clear memory is of him, sitting in an alley, looking up, and seeing the sign for the Agency. He walked inside and met the resident artificer. Took that as a sign that he was where he belonged. His past is very much a mystery to him, one that he is very curious to uncover. 2) For a "job", I propose that he is sort of a mediator. He uses his appraisal skill to value items and settle disputes. I thought he could work out of the Agency and basically be the 24/7 front desk attendant. If that doesn't work, I suppose he could work out of another office or at one of the Exchanges. 3) Since he doesn't need to eat or sleep, and he can't wear armor, I don't have a bunch to spend his money on. I thought I'd up what I spent on the cloak to get a nicer one and may purchace some additional tools, but the rest could be put toward the debt. I remember Jussi saying something about buying IDs but I can't find the post and I'm not seeing anything on the sites I'm using. Can someone point me in the right direction or did I imagine that?
Ah, that makes sense. I'm open to suggestions if anyone sees something I might want to change.
I have figured out what I think is a functional character. I'm waiting on a couple of answers from Jussi before I decide fully on my spells. As I said before, I used a couple of spreadsheets that calculate everything for me and both of them said the character gets +3 skill points in a couple of knowledge skills (labled as "Misc") and I don't know why. If someone could enlighten me (or tell me that the sheets are wrong), that would be great. I've got to get some work done right now but I'll put up some fluff on the character this weekend. Sorry for the delay. Crunch: Key Demographics Daryl the Appraiser
Str 13; Dex 14; Con 14; Int 18; Wis 10; Cha 8 (20 point buy; Con/Int +2, Cha -2)
Defense
Offense
Traits/Drawbacks
*Starting at 1st level, you can fire an acidic ray as a standard action, targeting any foe within 30 feet as a ranged touch attack. The acidic ray deals 1d6 points of acid damage + 1 for every two levels you possess. You can use this ability a number of times per day equal to 3 + your Charisma modifier. Feats:
Skills: Acrobatics +2 (0 R + 2 DEX)
Abilities A magus can expend 1 point from his arcane pool as a swift action to grant any weapon he is holding a +1 enhancement bonus for 1 minute. A magus learns to cast spells and wield his weapons at the same time. This functions much like two-weapon fighting, but the off-hand weapon is a spell that is being cast. Whenever a magus casts a spell with a range of “touch” from the magus spell list, he can deliver the spell through any weapon he is wielding as part of a melee attack. Construction Metabolism: Warforged have the following alterations to a normal humanoid's natural processes 1) Warforged do not need to eat, breathe or sleep, but do need to rest for 8 hours to regain spells or similar abilities. 2) Warforged do not heal hit points or attribute damage naturally, but can be repaired with use of the Craft skill or with effects that repair constructs. Repairs made with the Craft skill take 8 hours and a warforged repair kit. The amount of hit point damage repaired per check is the result of the Craft check -15. Repairing a point of attribute damage requires 8 hours and a Craft check, DC 25. Repairing both hit point damage and one point of ability damage can done during the same 8 hour period, but still requires two different checks. Appropriate Craft skills include armorsmithing, blacksmithing, gemcutting and sculpting. A conscious warforged can repair itself. 3) All applications of the Heal skill while used on a warforged are replaced with an appropriate Craft skill. 4) Spells from the conjuration (healing) subschool or supernatural abilities that duplicate them are only half as effective, rounded down. 5) Warforged are not capable of procreation, having to rely on a Lifeforge to create new warforged. 6) Warforged do not change size or appearance naturally over time. 7) Construct Mind: Warforged get a +2 racial bonus to resist mind-affecting and stunning effects and are immune to paralysis and sleep effects.
Natural Plating: Warforged have a metal plating that provides them with a +2 natural armor bonus to AC. Warforged can still wear normal armor as can other races, however this plating also counts as metal for the purposes of a druid's armor limitation. Warforged can be targeted by spells, powers and effects that affect objects made from metal, stone and wood. Resources Starting gold – 240
Rapier - 20gp
Spells Coming soon |