Well, when the time comes to start this game again, send me an email. I'd love to dust off Eaton and get him on his way again.
Take it easy, Rennick, and keep on keepin on.
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After slamming Eredin with the spell, Eaton hauls himself up onto the roof, pulling himself over the ledge just in time to see a small globe of glass wrapped in cord and filled with a sloshing orange liquid that flies towards him. The jar crashes at his feet and explodes in a gulf of flame that burns at Eaton's clothes and skin.
::Ow ow ow ow!:: "Ow ow ow ow!" Eaton chirps, dancing away from the licking flames that leave his elegant funerary garb smoking and singed. The Half-Orc grins at Phaedra and Eaton, gnashing his teeth and cackling, he pulls out a vial of a dark green substance, pops the cork and downs the tube in one gulp! "Potions to fortify yourself? You're going to need it, half-breed. And two can play at that game!" The gutteral syllables of an arcane abjuration well up in Eaton's throat, and his left hand moves in a quick, jerking rhythm, fingers craned into awkward positions to bend the magical energy into shape. The scent of ozone wafts up on the rooftop and the hair stands on the back of his neck, eyes flashing with lightning as the magic takes form around him in a faint, bruise-purple halo, just barely visible in the sunlit air. Still hazed with smoke from that dastardly alchemical fireball, Starse draws his scimitar and closes quickly, getting up close to harry the mad bomber even as that halloween charge of black and orange warps the air around his blade and infuses it with lethal energy.
..::I can probably get up on that rooftop and get that alchemist...:: Eaton thinks to himself as he frowns up at the man across the way. Eredin can have a face-full of frost, though! "*Aryt* ak' ornoposs!" He shouts, before wading into the crowd to get across adjacent to the building the alchemist hides upon...
Doom de doom de doom! Eaton goes on happy as a clam. Vengeance duly served, fools hoisted by their own petard, obligations met in a timely fashion, and worse and further arranged at the periphery. Sure, the Kraken may come crashing down to rescue this ass he formerly considered a friend, but no sense brooding over misfortunes not yet laid! Impeccably groomed and turned out, Eaton has the good grace not to -appear- pleased with the younger Valdemar's death, lending a stoic shoulder for Emelia. He's also pleasantly oblivious to anything currently out of the norm.
Licking the nib and paring off a little of the quill, Eaton pens an letter in elegant hand, showing off all that expensive education with fancy curls and unnecessary flash. Lord Mayor, It has come to my attention that an assassin has been seen in the City of Magnimar. Be on your guard. The Red Mantis does not always kill with a serrated blade. They can use poison, strangulation, deadly vermin, and a host of lesser deaths beneath the scope of face-to-face murder. I am told the assassin is a woman, but this does not mean she works alone, or that magic is not in play. May the golden guardian lock your doors, and Old Deadeye keep the watch. Lord Eaton Starse,
At the end, he sketches a bare representation of his arcane mark on the page. "Shame I wasn't prepared for correspondence today. I'd have had that spell prepared...", he mutters with mild annoyance. Scattering whatever Pwindle has on hand to dry ink, Eaton blows off the missive and folds it over into three parts, leaving it for the dwarf to send. He smirks faintly as he packs it, and shakes his head, "Taldor is my nation. These fellows are my compatriots. Magnimar is your city. Not speaking proprietarily, but in the spirit of membership. 'My father's party'. As opposed to mine."[b], and he nods back at Phaedra by way of indicating the group of them. [b]"The Count My Father is a man very comfortable with -power-. He is not terribly charismatic, and he often allows rationality to outstrip his compassion. I may be my father's son... but I am like to spend the rest of my life atoning for the actions of my forebears.", with a faint shrug, Eaton cocks a sharp, gullwing brow over his violet eye and smirks "I'm strangely OK with that." ==================================================== Preparations for the journey only take a little hitch as the party hears of Grobaras' death, and it's Eaton's immediate suggestion that they -still- go after this infamous gem Grobaras was so keen to get his pudgy hands on. He'll take some time to figure out who the educated members of the city are, and to speak with them, and to spend some time with both Phaedra, and with Pwindle, but for very different reasons. The young inventor wants to know more, in great detail, about the clockwork automoton, and to share plans, designs, and some of his skills with the dwarf. He just wants to share some time with Phaedra.
Warn him and let him and the Mantis duke it out. He deserves to die, but we can't just let a man be assassinated.
Eaton smirks and bobs his head once "None other, Master Rockbottom. I'm really doing my best to keep her -out- of trouble, but unsurprisingly, I seem to take after my father's tendency for finding trouble." The young bearded lord laughs at the image of breasted kobolds, smirking wryly and nodding in appreciation of that particular bit of humor, his bright eye twinkling with purple sparkling. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer fellow... still... I can't imagine there's a nicer man in line for Slobaras' seat. Nothing Achekek's Fanatics do ever ends nicely for anyone. Seems to me the man should be warned. I've tried my hand at those saw-toothed sabers they make, but I can't get the balancing right. They're a real piece of weapon-work. Hard as a two-bladed sword, at least. But... Mister Arrowni, we can't -fight- a Red Mantis Assassin. Not a fully trained one. She'd eat us alive." Looking up at the picture, he frowns a moment, then smirks "Oh. It -is- The Count My Father." A slight stress on the words makes it all a single title, like 'the well at the end of the world' is a single title. Undivorcible in his mind. "Were you part of my father's party, Master Rockbottom?" Calculations flash behind his eyes. That puts Pwindle Rockbottom in the higher percentage of powerful people in the world, and would make him something other than a wizard. The cleric, perhaps? The mastery of clockwork arcana would certainly seem to indicate some familiarity with magic...
Eaton is about to leap forward and dismantle the thing and find out what's wrong with it when Pwindle's voice rings out from the rear doorway. His disappointment in not getting to poke around the inside of the construct only narrowly misses turning into a squee of excitement as he sees just how the Dwarf has side-stepped the elemental power-source issue with -clockwork- contrivance. Eaton takes a good -hard- look around...
but sees nothing out of the ordinary and so pitches his voice lower to address the dwarf... "Indeed, Master Rockbottom, though I've reason to suspect we're under observation by the obese sow who calls himself the Lord Mayor. I am Lord Eaton Starse, and these are my allies and companions, Mister Edgar Arrowni, first mate of the North Star; Miss Phaedra Valerius, an intermediary of the pure force of the Arcane; Master Tellar Bronsev, seaman and priest of the waves; and... we seem to have lost Mister Sinders... He often vanishes without warning. The young Lady Valdemar indeed referred us to your skill, but she failed to mention you were such an accomplished artificer! You're using translative stored power to make a sympathetic connection with an arcane power-source, or is this purely translated energy through a spring? Like how a catapult works? Ehhh..." he waves his hands and huffs "Distracted... appologies. We think we're being observed, as well. I have reason to believe Grobaras is spying on us, or part of some greater conspiracy of ne'er-do-wells bent on undoing Lady Valdemar and ruling the inner sea."
"Yes but do you see a dwarf in the room, Master Priest?" Eaton chuckles and shrugs, indicating the otherwise dwarfless room "If this Rockbottom is a -wizard- he's likely one of the best craftsmen on this coast. Look at this thing!"
Eaton stops and *stares* upon entering the shop. "Fascinating. You're a construct? Elemental power-source? I've been looking into a means to take such a construct up a whole new level. Mobile battle-armor. A mage within a golem like a pilot on a boat. Are you intelligent? Do you answer questions? Who made you?" The bearded young lord shimmies up close to the counter and pokes at the metal orb, peering into the gem with an obvious obsessive enthusiasm.
With a wry twinkle, Eaton smirks at Phaedra and murmers, "Well... Looks like I need a bit more practice. Maybe you can help me out with that later?", and hoists his drink, balanced on his fingertips with the short step protruding out between, and takes a quick sip. Really want to know what Tellar and Edgar think about his Scrying theory. How else would Grobaras know so much about them in so short a time? They only -just- arrived in the city! The only other possibility is too horrible to consider... The hydra has many heads.
"Well, he wants to keep them as insurance against our absconding without getting him his loot, obviously. After threatening to hang you for a pirate and Sin for a thief, and slobbering all over himself like a raving porcine fool, he sat his enormous posterior back in his chair and behaved more civilly... I admit, I was caught a *bit* flat-footed by his blackmail, and could have handled it much more diplomatically, but really, I was caught with my pants down. I just didn't know what to say. I didn't even have any supper." Eaton sighs and shrugs, taking a big slug of his drink and cocking back his chair onto the back legs, eyeing Edgar ruefully. "All that stuff on the list, Mister Arrowni... Think we can handle that? Master Priest?" The young Lord shifts his attention aside to Tellar, shooting only a brief, worried glance at Phaedra.
"Rumors of Tian girls always make me a touch nervous. Just like rumors of girls from Mediogalti. Or anyone carrying one of those blasted jagged-sabers." The young Lord sits back in his seat, looking down over the balcony and waiting for 'a bottle of the Inn-keeper's reserve', having ordered a hard alchohol for their respite. "We go find Rockbottom as quickly as we can, and assume all naval officers may be on the take. Avoid any entanglements with guardsmen, who we can also assume are corrupted by the corpulent Lord Mayor, and get out of the city as quickly as we can. We'll have to return to get Phaedra out of Grobaras' clutches, since he's making demands we lock her up with Emelia..."
Hanging out in the carriage yard, Eaton sighs and looks up at the sky. He takes a few moments to ponder, wondering what the future will hold for them all. Already they have been changed by their ordeal, and he can feel that 'intermediary power' clawing at him. He needs to find words in print, something to teach him more about what he is... -who- he will become. Looking pensive, the young lord peers out the gate at the city outside Emelia's walls, wondering if, like his father before him, he is about to embark on a -mighty- adventure...
"Oh, you know... the usual... Threatened to have you executed as a pirate, to have Phaedra imprisoned, to see Sin executed, and to cut my business off from Magnimar if I didn't lead you all into an unknown and possibly ancient death-trap to acquire some magic crystal he wants... for free. I told him we wouldn't be blackmailed. We will, of course, be blackmailed, because he has us over the fire, so now we're going shopping to get ready for the thoroughly unpleasant trip.", Eaton says, smirking and lofting the rolled up list in one hand. "Should be at least as interesting as our deal with Old Warriz. Why don't you guys clean up and join us? Better we all travel together from now on... Just to stay on the safe side."
@Last Night Eaton eats sparingly, his appetite mostly spoiled, but he drinks heavily, and by the end of their little tete-a-tete he's finished off all the wine present. He squeezes Phaedra's hand in what he hopes is a comforting way and mmms, murmering softly "Sh's right. Wull all see things better in the morn'..." @Next Day Lingering in bed a bit, the Lordling insists on a morning bath before he can really get by for the day.. needing to soak his head and remove every trace of the salt-air from his body with soap and a good stiff brush. But he can do so after the meeting with Emelia, attending in a morning gown, slightly mussed, and with a towel over his shoulder. He squints and smiles wanly, nodding (gently!) his approval "Of course, 'Captain'... I need to buy a good mirror to travel with anyhow, and look into purchasing a new spell or three for my book. We'll head out straight after some breakfast." With magic and makeup, he fully coifs, perfumes, trims, neatens, and aligns his hair and clothes, buttons up, straightens, straps his sword on his side, and dons his polished chain shirt, the salt-stained thing having been neatly magically dried after being hauled out of the drink after his impromptu swim. Clean and ready, he returns for a light breakfast of whatever Tanyn is serving, eats heartily, feeling in much greater spirits after last night's spirits, and drinks about a half gallon of water. The note is folded twice and set in his shirt pocket, and nearing the end of the meal he asks the old elven servant to ensure that his backpack is readied near the door for their departure, awaiting on Phaedra as his escort. Idly, he mumbles "I wonder if I could convince Phaedra to wear a -wig-...?" while stroking his fussily groomed beard with one hand...
"Well, that's only part of the problem with blackmail, isn't it? The threat never 'goes away'. He's not actually offering to trade us anything, only threatening us. Even if he was offering, how could you take him seriously? He holds all the cards. Either we call his bluff, or we do as he says and look for another way out. Since I'm not keen to see my compatriots killed, or you lost forever, we have no choice but to do as he says." Eaton raises, dangling his glass of wine dangerously at the end of two fingers, sipped mostly empty but still a bit precarious, a long practiced grip. He saunters around to behind Phaedra and leans down, saying "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, Miss Phaedra..." before lowering his voice to whisper... "Look for scrying sensors..."
Nodding quickly, Eaton flattens his lips into a serious line. "Yes, thank you, Master Tanyn, I'll take the opportunity now." Eaton gratefully follows the old elf up to the Solar and starts in on the letter even before the man has returned with their dinerette, dusting the paper and paring the quills and stirring the ink. He's just begun writing when the man returns, and favors him with a brief, honest smile. "Yes, thank you again." Eaton is opening his mouth to dismiss the man when Lady Valdemar's voice rings from the hall, where he turns his head. She enters and confers with her servant and he remains politely silent until adressed. "Oh, I don't think it could have gone worse. He threatened to have Mister Arrowni and 'Sin' beheaded, Miss Valerius locked up, you investigated, and my family's trade banned from the city-state. All this blackmail in order to get us to go and gather, free of charge, some magic shard from some hidden dungeon. If he'd been willing to pay even the slightest gratuity for the cost of getting us there and back, I'd have likely happily agreed out of sheer curiosity. Instead, I panicked, and called him a grotesque fat pig, and -now- he's angry as well as blustering." He drains his wine all in a single draught and pours himself another very quickly, shaking his head ruefully "I expect his maps and written threats to be arriving very shortly. He'll want us after his toy at first light. I'm afraid I can see no way out of the situation but to do as he says." Turning casually to the letter he had been writing, in tiny script at the bottom, he places a single sentence, covering it even as he writes with the shadow of his hand and then quickly folding over the parchment and passing it to Emelia. The Note:: Dearest Mother and Father, -I believe we are being scryed upon. Watched. Say nothing aloud.
Eaton is upset the entire way 'home', but he's also thinking quickly. What can they do to free their friend from Grobaras' pudgy clutches? What can they do to escape the city unmolested? Mmmmm. They wouldn't expect a salty young man on the crew to be anything but a salty young man, would they? There exist spells that can make a disguise -foolproof- so long as they recipient remembers to carry herself in a manner other than her natural bearing. A pair of scissors, a wrap of linen about the chest, a dusting of coal and cocoa around the lips and cheeks to suggest the beginnings of a proud brown beard...? They could easily turn Phaedra into -Finn-, and smuggle her right out of the city. There's no limit to what you can do with sufficient coinage. Stroking his beard the whole way back to the estate, his eyes glitter as he stares absently out the window of the carriage, his hand but once groping blindly for Phaedra's to offer a comforting squeeze. If Tellar rides inside the coach with them...:
At some point along the way, too, he fastens a mournful, disproving look on Tellar and puffs. "Master Bronsev, have I ever been anything but courteous and respectful of you? Have I ever been inconsiderate of your rank or station? Have I -once- adressed you as 'old man' or 'you there'? Do I not heed your advice when it comes to matters of the sea and take your council when it is given? Or been less than appreciative, even gracious, for the powers granted you by the sea herself? Why would you treat me so shabbily? And in front of our lady friend and in front of that ham-fisted and transparent lout? Is it that you've no confidence at all in my skill? It may be true that I don't -swim- well, but I've never actually been ditched into the drink with a chain-shirt around my shoulders and threatened to be ground to meal between the hulls. Shall I not speak for you in the future? Shall I divorce myself from you completely, and consider us no longer brothers in arms? Have I not -properly- expressed my gratitude for your part in dragging me out of that dirty hole and hauling me back to civilization...? You hurt me, Master Bronsev. Deeply. And a greater treachery than that bloated pig showed in betraying proper conduct in his -blackmail-. Where do we go from here?" Unable to look directly at the man for long, he twists his mouth up in an sour expression of distaste and turns his violet eyes back out the window, watching Magnimar rumble past. ... Upon entering the estate he nods to the old elf "Master Tanyn, thank you. We ran into some unpleasantness with the Lord Mayor's greed and manipulation. He's roundly threatened the whole company including Lady Valdemar. We've no choice but to bend to his wishes... I need to speak with Lady Valdemar immediately when she's finished with the Captain. I shan't intrude. I'm afraid our meal was cut short as well, poisoned by the atmosphere, I think. Can you arrange to have a bit of bread and cheese and a bottle of white wine brought to us? We'll have a light repast and wait for Lady Valdemar's attention..." He strips off his gloves and stuffs them in his belt, straightening them to hang and unfastening his cloak, obviously settling back in for the remainder of their long 'stay'.
Now would be the ideal time for a pithy comment and a dimension door. Need to study a bit harder... As Grobaras' speech dies, Eaton shakes the corruscating black and orange power from his hand, the energy shuddering and dying with a sputtering crackle. At least his manner is grown more palpable. When Phaedra sets a hand on his arm and asks him to calm, Eaton straightens and smoothes his sleeves "How much more smoothly this would have gone had you simply asked, Lord Mayor..." He turns to face her, and only then are his hard eyes softening, the thin set of his angered lips turning down into a worried frown "I would not abandon men who have shed their blood in defense of my life, Phaedra. I am not a cad. I agreed to await the rest of his promised blackmail at the Valdemar estate. It is only a shame that he takes such a chance at self defense from you. I gave my -word- I would protect you, and I shall. That is what it means to be a Lord." He sniffs and casts a last, disgruntled look at Grobaras, even as he folds Phaedra's arm in his, to lead her towards the door. "What a lovely birthday party Miss Emelia has invited us out to!"
How This Scene Would Have Gone: Bluff Check: 20 (oh look, I didn't roll a six!) "A shard you say? How fascinating? Tell me more?" apparently acquiescing to the blackmail and insult, rather than losing his ever-loving Taldan temper at having his pride very gently pricked. "What does it do, where can we find it, who has it now?" Later... "Fat moron let us go. Now we'll steal his shard and run away with it!" patterpatterpatter! ... But no... I had to roll a -Six- and Eaton couldn't think of anything to say. What's he roll good on? Intimidate. Dumbass.
"You will address me as my Lord, you fat, foolish piece of filth. I am a Taldan Noble and one of the Bearded. You have extorted and threatened me, and now you have insulted me -twice-. Miss Valerius is under my protection. Lay a hand on her and start a -war- with Taldor. Not to mention..." His right hand closes and he turns towards the guards, that halloween energy rippling to shuddering life around his hand, coursing up his arm, and playing black and orange havoc in his eyes and between his teeth. "My father is an Archmage. Quite aside from the -diplomatic incident- of trying to extort a nobleman, the first one of you that lays a hand on Miss Valerius will be vomiting up spiders till the day he dies. Which shant be very long, granted, since venomous spiders make poor bedfellows." Whirling on the Lord Mayor again, the young Lord Starse sneers "As for you - you ignorant, offensive, overblown trash - you have stained my honor and I demand traditional Taldan justice. I challenge you to a duel. To the death. At dawn. Which of course you will refuse because you are a coward, as well as a dullard. I said to send the rest of your blackmail to the Valdemar estate, yet you continue to try and extort me here, in front of these armed men, and make further threats. So instead, why don't I simply -gut you where you stand-? A priest and two magicians? Really? You want to attack a priest and two magicians? While you're within short spell range? Threaten me again while I can lay hands on you and watch me -really- lose my temper, you slovenly, goggling, low-born buffoon. Move your men. I shan't like to harm fellows doing their jobs. And I will await the rest of your blackmail at the Valdemar estate. Or continue your ham-handed farce, and I'll have the Taldan Military march on your fair hamlet, and your skin flown like a flag. Choose quickly. I haven't had my -nap-.
Eaton blinks and lilts his head, his fork half poised to have a bite of pie... "Huh..." He slowly sets the fork down on the plate, and lifts his napkin up off his lap, dabbing his lips with the napkin despite the fact that he hasn't eaten anything yet. He folds it over once and gently sets it down on his pie. "That's unfortunate, Lord Mayor. I've never been so insulted in my entire life. I won't have my father's business blackmailed. You'll find that Starse ships will no longer dock in this port. You'll find that several of the Ushers rely on the steel we provide for trade and expansion. When they have to go to Korvosa to get our metal, they're going to be very put out. Had you ended with 'a shard' I would have been quite interested in acquiring it for you. Very unfortunate indeed. Send the rest of your blackmail to the Valdemar estate. I'll receive it there. Good day, sir." He rises and brushes his hands once over his coat, then storms towards the door.
Eaton immediately takes Phaedra's hand and leads her around the table to the Lord Mayor's right (where the guests sit) and draws out the second chair for her, nodding for her to sit herself down at the place, where he quickly edges her chair forward for her with practiced elegance. He runs fingers briefly through his fussily groomed beard and gives a half bow to the Lord Mayor before taking the seat closest on that side. "You do us great honor with your invitation, Lord Mayor. I'm pleased to at last have the opportunity to meet with such an august personage. The day finds you well, I trust?" He settles himself with easy aplomb and, utterly disregarding Tellar's brisk and businesslike dig into the food, he sets to the requisite pleasantries with all the honest delight of an upper-crust enthusiast.
"That's what 'gentleman' means, Miss Phaedra." He lifts her hand as she leans up against him in the carriage interior and kisses the backs of her fingers before letting her settle for just a few moments. Afterwards he gets on with the decoration, resetting the spell and repeating the words to generate the little translucent and obviously magical blossoms, putting all his art and Art into the creation of the simple cantrips. A few break off and flutter free even when he's working the others in, the things so fragile they break with hardly more than a few touches... but still. Not bad for what is essentially 'free magic'. "You know apprentice magicians can get work at just about any establishment to season food and remove spills for about five gold a day? There are even bars in Oppara where the drinks are served by mage-hand..." he laughs in that sort of off-hand way, brushing fingertips through her blown tresses and turning her head this-way and that... "Don't be nervous about the Lord Mayor, alright? I'm sure the Kraken hasn't gotten to -him- too..."
Eaton smiles indulgently and pats her hand, reaching across the center of the carriage as he sits opposite her. "A bargain at any price, Miss Phaedra. You are a magician, an arcanist, and with your bird around, if there's one thing I've learned in the whole of the world, it is that an arcanist can make themselves heard in any court, any nation, the world over. You have, time and again, with a click of your fingers and little more, disabled our foes one by one. You have never faltered, you have never failed us... and when I went under that cold dark sea, -you- were the one who jumped in and saved me. I am eternally in your debt. As long as you're with me you shan't be mistaken as a pirate, or called down for imagined crimes, or refused service because someone suspects you of being a -witch-. We're both intermediaries, Miss Phaedra, and I can't help but think that means something in the context of things. What odds, really, that Life and War would come hand in hand so readily?" Leaping across the little gap, he settles in beside her with a thud, twisting his fingers together with a murmered incantation... "Arcaniss vorel caesin charir-kethend!" he repeats it a few times, each one creating a glittering, transparent flower in his hand, like gemstone spun into sparkling crystal. Obviously magical, and as fragile as spun sugar, he hands her one, and offers indulgently "I thought I might weave a few into your hair? You shouldn't be without jewels in the presence of the Lord Mayor..." He also perfumes them both, and gives a quick polish to their still mostly new boots.
Eaton uses a quick depiliation charm to trim his eyebrows and neatly design his beard, cutting his sideburns and cleaning everything up. He uses magic to perfume both he and his green-eyed companion, gussying her up a touch with a speck of magic here and there. She looks so pensive though, and has been so -quiet-. Once they head out with a proper thank-you-fare-well-be-back-soon to Emilia, he helps Phaedra up into the coach again, closing the door behind him and giving a knock. "To Lord-Mayor Grobaras, if you please, driver!" He sits heavily back down into the bench, and leans across to take Phaedra's hand, frowning his concern to her... "Silver for your thoughts? You've been quiet since we were fished out of the sea, Phaedra. I thought at first it was because you were worried your top had gone all see-through, but you hardly cast a blush. You actually looked a bit pale. Your colors back, but... Is something wrong?" He furrows his brows over those brilliant violet eyes, poised and all but ready to leap across and comfort her with a moment's invitation.
"Ah, of course. You'll give me a moment to stow my effects, and I'll be right with you, eh... Steward?" Eaton combs his fingers through his beard. He'll have the moment to clean up inside when he drops off his equipment. Nothing in a backpack is needed for a trip to see the Lord-Mayor! He turns to Emilia and splays his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry, Lady Valdemar! I'll have to see to this immediately. I'll return as soon as possible. A thousand pardons for the delay." He looks at 'his companions' and offers wry smirk, shrugging again and tilting his head. That's sort of the way of the nobility. People and events are assigned 'to you'. "Apparently the Lord-Mayor wishes to see us. I need five minutes with a mirror, and I'll help clean up anyone who needs it on the way." He bangs on the side of the driver's box and calls up cheerily "Stand fast! We'll need your services momentarily!" With Emilia's blessing he hurries inside. Eaton uses that prestidigitation to oil and trim and comb his beard, literally just a few minutes in front of the mirror, and most of it spent on just that. He also takes a moment with Emilia's grace to change into some proper clothes and fix his hair. It's good to be a self-sufficient man, but if she wants to lend him a servant... Well, a Taldan noble is hardly going to say no, is he?
Eaton rambles off the gangplank, he and Phaedra already clean and dry thanks to the incredible versatility of the Prestidigitation he keeps prepared and on hand. All grins and handshakes and remembering names, as usual, he plies the captain and crew for a stiff drink to shake off the chill of the sea, and shares the tale of their journey so far, conveniently playing up his own part a bit, and forgetting to introduce Phaedra by name... As the ship slides into the port, he's as blase about the City of Monuments as the sailors are. He's seen them all before, and they're nothing to stare at the fifth time you're in town. "Stroke of good fortune you fellows sailed in when you did! Cayden Cailean himself couldn't expect better. I am -not- a strong enough swimmer to go floundering about in the sea like that. If you're ever in Oppara come up to Aroden's View and ask for directions to the Starse House, and we'll put you up for a night. I most definitely owe you all a night of oppulence for your valor today!" Hurrying to meet up with Emelia and the party again, Eaton smirks sheepishly and gives a little shrug of his shoulders. "Don't think I'll be leaping from ship to ship again, but yes, I'd love a chance to recoup at your estate. I need to compose a few letters, and get one off to my mother immediately."
Fished out of the drink and saved from an embarassing death at sea, Eaton is excitedly explaining his identity and position even before he's completely on the ship. He laughs and waves his hands as he speaks, faintly visible from the Rogue and Star as laughs and gestures. The navy of Magnimar are good and honorable men, as far as he's concerned, and he's happy to see them, clearly so, his slicked-back salt-crusted hair dripping with sea-water as he laughs and pats men on the shoulders, even happily giving up his sword as he waits for the spell on him to wind down. He introduces his friend Miss Phaedra, and ensures she's given a blanket to help keep her modest in the harsh sea-breeze and the transparenting effect of being soaked by sea-water.
Phaedra hits the water, and Eaton notices the billowing of her pretty brown hair, the flutter of her shirt in the lashing water. She goes under too, and he finds a burst of strength, his panic at his own mortality momentarily forgotten. He can die. Okay... But not her. Arms and legs, frozen in momentary panic, slice the water as he moves upward, kicking for freedom even against the drag of his armor. He snatches precious breath, and then fights his way to her, pushing momentarily off the hull of the North Star to give himself leverage towards her...
::I knew I was going to miss it. I knew I was going to fall. It was -way- too far across to make. How did none of the others fail to make the jump? How did they make it to begin with? All my education... all my tutors... all my advantages... How come no one ever thought to give me a -swimming- lesson?:: The thoughts race as his lungs burn, fighting the urge to panic, the urge to breathe... it's only been ten seconds, but the panic is the worst. Stop, think, spread out in the water, kick your feet, use your inner ear, orient... The salty sea seems to suck at him, dragging down at metal shirt and fittings, soaking heavily into his clothing. The water burns his eyes, the panic burns his lungs, the sea crashes around him in a dark hunger. Maybe his friends will feed it something else?
The Mighty Lord Starse is likely to meet an incredibly ignominious end. How any of their buccaneers made it is utterly beyond him. Why, how anyone could make such a fantastic jump when a Taldoran Lord should plummet to his watery grave is unthinkable. What foolishness. What a horrid way to *SPLASH*.
Eaton sinks like a stone, his chainmail shirt hardly weighing a thing, restricting movement not at all, and yet, down he goes, utterly unable to remain afloat in the turbulent water between the two ships.
Eaton slaps the paint down into a symbol very much like the one used to cut into the tang on the iron of all his family's weapons. In violent scarlet, it even looks like the part used on the modified Taldoran flag that his family actually flies on their merchant fleet. The greedy white flag sucks up the moisture quickly, and he curses as he has to dip into the expensive lacquer again and again, but at least the thing will work for now. He is going to -have- to Arcane Mark them up a proper one tomorrow. "Fly this with all haste, Mister Reed, I need to get into the fray... now!"
Round 1: Init 8 Standard: Cast Spell; Move: Up to the railing and back a bit
Eaton closes his hand on the air, gripping hold of nothing and incanting the words to his magic spell. See, Eaton has been -practicing-. Lightning plays in Lord Starse's hand, and travels up his arm, and over his chest, and over the other arm, until the definition of his body is crackling in blue skyfire. A sharp jerk of his hand tears the lightning away, and it pulses and throbs, crackling beside him, a shield of shimmering lightning. Drawing his blade he moves to the edge of the deck, hesitating a moment at the sight of the roiling water churning -between- the two ships... "Whoa... fall down there and die alot..." He backs up as far as his movement will allow, ready to -hurl- himself over the gap next time. Should make it easier than trying to make a standing jump.
::If -only- I had thought to prepare an Arcane Mark today! Damnit, this will have to do...:: Eaton thinks as he races towards the hold, tapping one of the sailors on the way. Mr. Reed, you're with me!" How could they -not- have already had a flag flying? What were they -thinking-? Sending the sailor to grab the white flag from the chest, Eaton goes down to his bunk where his new lacquers are kept. The red one will make the greatest contrast, and is the right color anyway, so he grabs that and the widest brush in his arsenal, hurrying up to meet Reed halfway. He doesn't even both securing his gear again, the sea-chest left open as he races up. Slapping the flag down he begins marking on it carefully, the red lacquer gripped in his left hand, one knee on a corner of the cloth, with Reed to help him hold it down, the first wide mark of the House Starse iron-mark put onto the flag as he runs out of time and the ships come into contact with one another. Twenty four seconds just isn't very long.
"The -last- thing we want to do is scuttle the ship. The North Star has some secret about it we're trying to capture, Sin. No fire, no termites, no flaming termites. We need the vessel intact." The young lord thinks fast, looking back and forth between their crew and the other vessel... "Emelia, I can see three possible flags we can fly. I can hoist the white flag and call for parley, we can try to whip up and fly a House Starse flag, and see if they recognize it, since my family does business with Magnimar and at least five men on those two ships are likely to be carrying -something- made of Starse Iron... or we can fly the yellow-and-black. Tell them it's a plague-ship. Might scare them off."
Looking up into the sky at the pulsing flash of red, Eaton points out the shimmering light and makes ignorant assumption "Heh... combat on the deck. Someone missed with a Flare spell. My guess is a gnome or a halfling trying to blind one of the regular-sized races, or a spellcaster laying on his back trying desperately to defend himself?" The young lordling straps on his weapon belt, tightening it over his supple chain-link shirt, the half-draped device and it's hardened leather braces sitting very well over his shirt-ties, the few fittings and modifications he needed to feel comfortable in the shirt long ago accomplished and leaving him snug and perfectly fitted in the tailor-finished links. "Master Priest! Do you have your favored winds ready for us today!?" With Tellar on board, the ship has endless fresh water, which makes for a tremendously valuable crew-member. Every ship on the sea should have a cleric or oracle capable of touching wind and waves.
Leveling Up Purchase:
-150gp for Replacement Spellbook Eaton will spend more time on Phaedra, rather than sleeping with the easy Half-Elf, but there are allusions that he will return to riddleport and that next time... GP now = 555gp Eaton is now completely updated and ready for prerusal.
[u]Leveling Up[/u]
Skills:
Class Features:
Spells:
Hit points: or 4.
The young lord Starse has whiskey in his hand before he's even at the end of the docks, drinking from the bottle and for the moment seeming utterly unaffected by the booze. By the time they're shipboard, he's subdued, more quiet, his nose a bit red at the end, his cheeks with a faint blush, and when he speaks, his words are just a touch slurred. Eaton stands aside with the threats of torture. -Wow- Sin is good at that! Eaton would have come up with a threat on what to do with the wererat involving some kind of silver, but ... -Wow- Sin can be scary! Like -way- scary! Eaton mutters softly aside at Tellar, his complaint about the brutality of keel-hauling dead in his throat "I'm glad he's on our side." Flush with fresh food, booze, and clean clothes, the inventor-slash-adventurer-slash-merchant baronette stumbles his way to the captains cabin.. and remembers only shortly before bursting through the door that he doesn't get to sleep in that bed... and then weaves his way down to the hold to pass out in his bunk. Up bright and early, the man is drinking water by the glass-full, the shimmering light of dawn dancing across the waves causing him to cover his face with both hands when not actively drinking. Still, by the time breakfast is over, his mouth is moving again, and he's speaking rapidly, making plans and getting permission to take a chunk of the hold over for his use. Since they'll be on the open water quite a lot, he swears he can use the time to turn raw iron into -real money-. Once they get to Absalom he should be able to requisition a significant cargo-load of rarified steel, and that he can turn into gold in the form of masterwork breastplates, swords, daggers... If Amelia gives him license to set up the forge (and the extra barrels of water to observe fire safety), part of the starting money will go to the four -hundred- gold required to set up a full and functioning forge aboardshp. He looks for men with craft skills to work carpentry and maintaining the sails, he looks for a man or two who can help him with general work in the forge (cutting down on the -time- it takes him to create anything), and he looks for men who strike him as trustworthy, above all else. By the time they have a crew of assembled sailors from Riddleport's docks and taverns, he hopes his hopes are high! The 18th of Sarenith dawns and he settles up on the dock itself to help manage the loading of the last supplies and the crews equipment. Once the majority of the stock is onboard, he'll head down into the lightless hold, borrowing a light spell from Tellar or Phaedra, to help guide the crewmen around down there, and make certain everything is packed, stowed, and secured for proper ballast.
Well... we have entered the realm of 'that's-not-good' and are heading straight for the capital city of 'Uh-Oh'. That's in the county of 'Bad News', in case you weren't aware. "We should go... I need to send news to my mother immediately, and we have much to do before we set sail again. We need to collect our coin and be moving." Deeply disturbed does not begin to describe the level of emotion the young lord is expressing, his lips tight against his straight white teeth.
Eaton totally catches him lying! "HAH! You've blundered, old man! Gavroche DuPrinum is my father's Major Domo in Absalom! You've stumbled into it this time! I've known Gavroche my whole life, and he'd never consort with the likes of -pirates-. He hates pirates. We all hate pirates. Pirates cost us a mint in lost goods and another mint in expensive guards every year. That's two mints that Gavver can't get any of into his pocket because of the likes of Emelia's treacherous brother. You can't fool m..." It takes a while, but Intelligence finally catches up with Wisdom, and with a correction out the gate. "Oh..." The young lord's brow furrows and his face falls and he sticks his jaw out a bit... "Oh."
Eaton smiles softly and nods his approval to Emelia, his eyes glittering. He takes a seat beside Emelia, leaving a cushion empty beside him, and crosses his legs neatly. Sitting silent through the story, he only purses his lip at the scarce information a thousand pieces of gold has bought them. Surely asking at any number of sea-taverns would have revealed as much about The Kraken, and surely further investigation into the society of killers would have revealed their most recent inquisition as to the place and purpose of the North Star. Still, if he catches Emilia's eye again, he prompts her with raised eyebrows and an approving smile, making a little 'more more carry on!' roll of his hand.
Eaton stops mid-step... he purses his lips and mmmms... Four was what he was aiming at the whole time, and the merchant didn't seem keen on haggling, so he shrugs... "I will accept four thousand, that is a good price... but I will leave the value of the information to Emelia. It's her brother, and her quest. I think with enough asking we can find out much, if not all, our wizzened friend here knows... But it is a gamble that might lose us much more than a thousand sovereigns. Four thousand is what it would cost to enchant the blade, minus the value of the steel's quality. It's not so bad. You can really hardly quibble over the hundred sixty sovereigns when you're talking about four thousand." Eaton waves his hand like breezing away a bad smell over Wazir. "May the fleas of a thousand camels -not- infest your loins." He -is- a Hexblade. Better safe than sorry. "It's your choice, Emelia... coin or knowledge. Personally, I think right now hiring our crew means we need more coin... Those men will need feeding and paying." He unslings the sword and sets it carefully down lengthwise on Wazir's table again, letting the old man have the weapon at hand. Plus you're never supposed to balance them on their point. Though that rule -probably- doesn't apply to enchanted blades.
"Well, then you and I both know the weapon could not be -crafted- that cheaply. So you lose it. Good day, Wazir. And may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your loins." All of this, said while smiling cherubicly, Eaton takes the blade and turns to go.
Eaton waits, staring at the old man.. staring.. waiting... and finally shakes his head and says "No... no no... If you've not a serious offer closer to six then I'm afraid I'll have to take my business elsewhere. You won't find a man who knows more about steel than Eaton Starse within a -thousand leagues-. Iron is in my blood, Wazir, and magic in my hands. I'll turn this blade into eight thousand before we've set sail on the morrow, mark me. It's a fighter's blade, and you should know that better than any." The patient waiting has only seemed to agitate the old man, so Lord Starse bends to pick the blade back up, as casually and confidently as he entered.
(Waiting to see if Phaedra gets to say that, since it was -exactly- what Eaton was going to say. ;p )
(*splutter splutter!* A hundred! Why you little... Perception It's a longshot, but there's always a natural 20 right...?) "A hundred!? HAH! Lift the blade again, old man. Feel the balance. Even the weapon itself is worth three times that. Let's be realistic. I turned up my nose over the lack of design as well... I mean, who makes a magic sword that looks like it fell off the blacksmith's anvil, right? But the thing shears plate armor like rusty tin, and the chill-aura is a potent enchantment. A well-readied fighter would happily pay eight thousand for such a weapon. Surely a well known hawker of such goods such as yourself could make a profit greater than that?"
"We have a blade for sale, old Wazir. There's some talk you might be of interest. A primitive weapon with a powerful enchantment, capable of cooling drinks and cleaving skulls. A crude, and unassuming device bearing a hidden secret of great value and strength. A weapon liberated from a slobbering half-orc pirate, who ended his days with an arrow between the eyes and a scream gurgling in his mouth. If such a thing interests you, then you're in luck, because for a mere fraction of it's true worth we are willing to let it slip free our grasp and land in your collection... For... shall we say... nine-thousand gold measures?" Nine!? Nine you say?! Why that's ridiculous! But of course it is. The man is from Khatapesh. How rude would it be to start with a reasonable price? Putting things in measures, the currency of Absalom, can only help to clarify value. Now should come the haggling, right...?
Eaton nods. It does sound like a good lead. "Let's just stay alert, shall we? No unexpected surprises. This city has a reputation for a reason."
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