| Full Name |
Maris "Digger" Thistledown |
| Race |
Human |
| Classes/Levels |
8 Rogue / 1 Fighter |
| Gender |
Female |
| Size |
m |
| Age |
19 |
| Alignment |
Chaotic Good |
| Deity |
Agnostic |
| Location |
Inner Sea |
| Homepage URL |
http://www.obsidianportal.com/character/maris_thistledown |
| Strength |
13 |
| Dexterity |
19 |
| Constitution |
14 |
| Intelligence |
15 |
| Wisdom |
15 |
| Charisma |
10 |
About Maris Thistledown
The cloaked, feminine form slumps unceremoniously in the simple wooden chair near the tavern’s fireplace. Her wavy, jet black hair spills to her shoulders, tousled and clinging to the sweat and ashy black smudges across her face. A pair of ornate rapiers rattles softly on her hips and abyssal-black leather armor flows tightly across her lithe form. Winded, she nods at a young, half-terrified tavern wench who stands attentively nearby, and pantomimes a pounded shot of spirits. The young woman smiles, bows quickly and disappears behind the bar, eager to serve this battered heroine.
With a slow deep breath, she adjusts in her chair, stretches a pained muscle in her neck and shoulder then fixes her gaze upon the middle aged Weingaardian man sitting across from her at the table. His dark red robes with silver trim and embroidered filigree identifies him as a scholar of the Sanguine Moon, “My apologies for the interruption, good sage. Thus far, my morning has been…,” she pauses, her deep brown eyes dart sideways looking for the right words, “less than satisfactory and I now find myself quite ready to just sit back, converse and enjoy a drink or two. So it would seem my loquacious mood shall favor you and your research this day after all.” Slouching in her seat, she wipes the back of her slender hand across the small rivulet of blood dripping from the cut on her lip. “Let me see. Where to begin? I presume you are looking for a true and accurate account of my life as opposed to the epic tale that I prefer to share over a tall tankard of Thunder Keep Lager to anyone willing to listen?” The sage dips a plain goose quill into a small inkwell and begins scratching upon a parchment scroll. “Very well,” a wicked smirk crawls across the young woman’s dirty face, “I claim no responsibility if my tales of mediocrity lull you to sleep and you awake coinless.”
The tavern wench glides up to the beer stained tavern table and sets down a small glass of Brightonian whiskey, “On the house, dark lady, and there is more if you wish. You have our gratitude,” she smiles, more calmly now, the unfathomable horror now vanquished in the streets outside. “Can I fetch you something to eat? Do you need a healer?”
“You are most kind, good miss. I am well enough for the moment,” she snatches the glass, tilts her chair back and props her muddy black leather boots upon the table top. Smelling the sweet, spicy aroma of the liquor, she downs the spirit with a deft flick of her wrist. The powerful drink scorches a fiery trail to her stomach as she gazes into the shadowy rafters of the dimly lit tavern, seeking the inspiration to begin her tale.
“My earliest memories are of living with my parents in the township of Thistledown in southern Darkovnia. Aye, my parents are Dar’harin as are most of the folk living there. ‘Halflings’ as we are rudely labelled by other races and Stouthearts by courteous foreigners. Obviously, I’m pretty tall for a dar’harin, yes? In truth, when I was but a few weeks old, the caravan of pioneers my parents were travelling with to White Crag was ambushed by highway raiders. I was discovered by a hunting party from Thistledown who had tracked the raiders to the ambush site, but they were too late to save anyone else. They found me crying in the brush near the roadside. They took me back with them and I was taken in by the Lord Garridan and Lady Kizzy Thistledown, after whose ancestors the township was named. They loved children and I suddenly went from an orphan with nothing but the simple woolen blanket I was swaddled in, to having a family of three sisters, Fifika, Malina, Taletha, two brothers, Brishen, Durriken and a pair of noble parents!”
“I grew up a happy, if not slightly spoiled, child. Though I was youngest, it did not take long for me to become the tallest in my family. My father had built for me my own human sized room atop my favorite tree in the garden. Having been rescued by them, as I grew older, I came to admire the members of Thistledown’s hunters. I spent much of my free time with them, learning the arts of stealth and making a kill swiftly and cleanly. As well, I gleaned the secrets of trap setting for hunting as well as discouraging would be invaders of our township. Though my Mother and Father bade me focus on my studies of math, accounting and the business arts, I however, wanted the best of both worlds. I needed to find a way to live free and wild while maintaining the lifestyle to which I had grown accustomed.”
She spreads out her arms as if presenting all the glory and prestige of her person. An obvious irony as she continues leaning back in her chair, most un-ladylike, clad entirely in blackness. In the dim candle and firelight of the tavern, were it not for the pale skin of her hands and face peeking from under the patches of ash and grime, one might have thought the disembodied voice of a phantom was telling this tale.
“It is no secret there are those, among dar’harin, that take the arts of stealth in a, shall we say, ‘different’ direction. Though no less dangerous than the path of hunters, one might argue far more deadly a game. It quickly became a guilty pleasure of mine to see how far, and what, I could get away with. My parents provided me well with life’s necessities and plenty of love, but they could not provide the heart pounding thrill I received from hunting the greatest prey of all… other people’s things! Nearly anything I could secret my hands upon was fair game. Like I said, I did not need anything that I took; I just needed the exhilaration of taking it covertly. It became a merriment of simply challenging my skills. I almost always had just as much fun secretly returning the item a few days later.” She pauses briefly, gaining the attention the tavern wench, signaling for another round of Brightonian whiskey. With a heavy sigh and a mischievous grin, she leans forward, thumping her chair on the sawdust covered floor. “I say ‘almost’ because, as you may well know, all good things come to an end.”
“Though I just might enjoy this free whiskey for a scoshe longer,” she looks to the wench returning with another glass and a half bottle of Brightonian Queen Royal for the dark swordswoman, “You spoil me, young Miss,” She smiles and winks playfully at the wench who bows, blushing, and swiftly returns to her work. Another glassful of the spicy liquor quickly disappears down her mouth and a third is poured.
“Where…? Oh, yes, the end. It was a crisp harvest moon evening and the good folk of Thistledown were celebrating Twelfth Cask, an annual tradition where all twelve of Thistledown’s realm-famous ciders and cordials are heavily sampled till the wee hours of the morn. I had it in my mind this night that fabulous fun would be had in “borrowing” a particularly shiny and rather conspicuously expensive scepter of authority that happened to belong to the Master of those whom I had convinced to teach me how to “borrow” in the first place. I genuinely thought the whole idea cleverly amusing. My naiveté, unfortunately, was the fatal flaw in my delightful plan for the Master did not see my scheming nearly as adorable as I did. All went flawlessly that night, as far as I knew. A few days after my clandestine procurement, I executed my plan to return the item and subsequently walked into one of the most exceedingly complex, elaborate, convoluted and multifarious ambush traps, to this date, I have ever encountered. It was absolutely brilliant and nefarious in its performance. Infuriated, insulted and embarrassed by my little heist, the Master managed enough wisdom to ensure that I was kept alive. Murdering the daughter of the Lord of the town would bring him unwanted attention. Instead, he offered me the options of quietly exiling myself from Thistledown, never to return, or he would expose me to the townsfolk, devastating my family’s reputation and in the same stroke breaking their hearts to learn their daughter is a common thief. In the best interests all whom I loved and cared about, I wrote a missive to my family telling them I loved them dearly, but that I was running away from home to find survivors of my human family. Every few months I would send them word that I was well and lie about the progress I had made tracking down my relatives.
