Hector scans frantically searching for a way to keep these bad men from taking the documents, while also trying not to bleed all over the exquisite tapestry-rug he's standing on...
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Reeling from the pain in his leg, and dizzy from shock, Hector barely gathers himself within the moments he is given to react. In a huff of breath and twirling instinct Hector plots.
He scans the hustling swath beyond the safety of the table, looking for a path to scurry around the assassin's view, to swipe the tomes.
He crawls around from his momentary shade to try and get to the books.
Hector processes the events unfolding in his weakness. He squeaks as the men rush into the room, and in the shadows tries to hide under a chair, praying the night would shroud him.
As he plays the words of the armed men through his head again, he realizes the situation him and his friends are in, swears silently for his cowardice, and draws his tiny blade.
"Kendra, were I in your position, I would have made the same choices and would also choose to regret none of it. If I could spend even one more moment with your father I'd trade most of my worldly possessions without thought. It aches me to see you in this pain, my dear. I will follow your father's will to the tittle, and w-we will be certain to find out wh-what we can concerning his passing... But, a-are you sure it was murder?"
As he is given the stack of papers, Hector files through the notes and documents with the speed of an unladen African swallow. While he does, Hector can't help himself from eyeing the package of tomes which the men are to deliver.
Hector, staring into the distance as his companions talk of Harrowstone, can't help but zone out as the weight of the loss of Petros settles on his short shoulders. He comes back to reality as Radriel confronts the priest in his anger, and leans to him, whispering in his ear when the cleric isn't looking. "Radriel, I'll tell you what I know of the prison when we've time to ourselves... it's a gruesome tale, and I don't think anyone would want to bring it up... especially today." When Kendra comes in and the beverages are served, Hector swipes one with the speed of a cheetah jetting after a gazelle. One could barely see his movements, such was his stomach's rumble.
Hector grimaces as they hustle through the rain. Unpleasant people come from unpleasant events. Can't do anything to help them but help them... Gods I'm drenched... I hope there's food yonder... His ears perk up as Daniel asks the minister about 'moving statues'.
...Or, wait, no, their horrid silent assault... Ick. ...What penchant would Daniel have with such vile abominations? His breath becomes heavy as they walk in the rain. The chubby one was tired, and the pace was getting to him after the long day.
Hector responds with casual understanding. He's been around Ustalav, and he's definitely stolen things from its' inhabitants at times most dire. "It's quite alright, Daniel. Sir, I'm only a thief by trade, my only victims being ancient catacombs to which many a treasure are lost to the clutches of history. Your pockets are safe in my company." Prejudice was something only rightly reserved for dwarves, and while Hector had had his fill of it in many lands, he had learned long ago that staying cordial and polite was the best policy in exchanges like these. "I would like it much for us all to get out of the rain, friends. Especially if there's ale to be swug and a hearth inside. Shall we?" Hector was glad that he could stay busy. He'd mourn when there weren't any more eyes around.
"Hector Lindenbrook, finder of lost baubles and scrolls. Pleased to make an acquaintance, sheriff." The small one reaches out to shake with his grubby hand. Hector always appreciated upright lawmen, and deemed this one to be among those ranks. It was also quite therapeutic to stay busy and not let his mind linger on his regrets about the late Professor. Deep in his heart, Hector blamed himself for Petros' death. Not that he caused it, or that he wasn't there, but because of the curse the trolls put upon him in his youth. It plagued his mind for years, and with each new death its' grip on his mind became ever tighter.
Hector composes himself after a good while, and follows Radriel's lead.
Hector, caught in the moment of grieving, falls flat on the wet ground, the mud clinging to his elegant clothes. He weeps, and looks, like a child.
With bubbling tears, the little Hector grieves his client, teacher, and friend. A voice louder than usually uttered from his lungs springs forth as he recounts memories past, proverbs shared, and friendship given. The end of his speech finishes with a sensitive eloquence: "...Petros Lorrimor was above all else, a well seasoned man of wisdom, temperance, the best sort of ambition, and only the best caliber of companion. With all of my heart, I mourn his passing." The halfling falls to his knees on the edge of the coffin, weeping while grasping onto it, as for dear life.
Hector is hopeful for the wagon and the two hours or more of sleep he'll be able to enjoy. He fears that after that nightmare he may be unable to calm himself into dreaming again. But he still hopes for rest. He also feels the sogginess of his backpack, and immediately curses. "Damn it! Drat it!" His hands scurry through his pack, revealing some peculiar wares with a mix of mundanities, the latter being soaked in egg juice. "Curse the trolls... Curse them..." He takes the soiled bits of his possessions and throws them on the ground, stomping on them in anger. Then, after the chubby one composes himself, he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to scrub his backpack, then meticulously repack his belongings into his bag.
Hector literally jumps back into consciousness, the omen ringing in his ears as he also hears Daniel's talk of a horse. "I'm sorry, sir, what is the lad charging? And I hope he has a cart, we can't all ride one horse... ...Comfortably......." Distractions from deathly dreams proved to be a great means to keep Hector from addling his mind with the meaning behind it's contents.
iluvit. :3
Hector, with his backpack almost as big as his gullet, without a wink of shut-eye, falls back upon his pack to the ground, and begins to drift to deep slumber... Eggs inside the backpack can be heard cracking from the weight placed on it. They run and sog into the pack.
As Hector finishes cleaning up the pots and pans, he wipes the grease off of his hands into his borrowed apron, and sets everything back as it had once been. Even if the innkeeper had past, there was still use for order, and for the pantry. He quickly but meticulously sweeps through its stores, taking for himself more than just tidbits of several spices and hearty foods. After he gathers his now heavier load of possessions, he is ready to set off to Ravengro. "Aye, let us be off... before anything else wonderful befalls us." Gods, I hope we find a fit horse though... And a wagon. Gah, the luck of Ustalav... I'd like not to tangle with you today... Hector didn't sleep well that night... or more accurately, at all. Too spooked. If we could find just a wee cart, I could doze and find myself in Ravengro in no time... Bother.
"And, well, if there's nobody residing in that inn anymore... Their pantry will go to waste! ...It has certainly been a dreary eve. ...Anyone up for a twilight morsel? I've learned to cook from the best, all across Varisia." Hector's fright is swept by the thought of food.
Hector is amazed that the spiritist fellow would openly perform any sort of ritual, dumbfounded for a good second. I suppose if he's touched by the divines it's easier for him to work without consequences... Lucky man... He turns to the ragtag bunch. "Gentlemen, if I may. I see we are all companions of the great and late Professor, and that perhaps the road to his procession is more dire than most of us might have anticipated..." Hector gulps away the anxiety building in his throat and says what's on his mind. "...I think it might be an easier road if we traveled together. Now, we don't have to be buddy-buddy, just help each other survive the road to Ravengro... I for one am more than spooked, and would greatly appreciate your company, at least to calm my sanity... Wh-what say you all?"
The fat halfling waddles over to the new corpse of a woman and unbounds her body from the ropes. "Well, then. That was... Deplorable..." Hector stows his knife away with great hesitance, but as he finally does he heaves out a great sigh, wiping the river of sweat off of his brow.
As it stands, I am following Carter's lead. I'll take my turn after he posts his, so we can work towards the goal we are trying to do. What are the two of us trying to do?
Hector bounds towards the white-clad officer, sweat beading his brow, his neck, and palms.
He looks back to the scene with the others, the skirmish making him breathe even more heavily. He imagines blood.
"Sir, wh-what d'you have in mind?"
I'm still in, but I'm going to be off for a day more or so. You can assume my actions deal with hiding and not using my magic. Life has been cruel this week. I'll be back on when I can, as soon as I can. Thanks for understanding.
DEAR GM Bone Man:
At the screaming, Hector can only assume the worst. Oh gods, from the clutches of the lion into the grasp of the bear... As the gaggle of men rush down the stairs, Hector keeps in step, right behind the Deputy, hiding in his shadow. His thoughts only imagine worse and worse events unfolding, until they descend the stairs to see the skeleton attacking the flourman. Oh drat, oh drat, oh drat, oh damn. I hope this Carter can dispatch this thing... If I expose myself, they'll kill ME! Alright Hector, let's just be prepared and hope for... ...the best. Hector withdraws his dagger from the back of his belt. Intellectually, he knows it may be of little use against a shadow made of bones, but it makes him feel a little steadier.
Oh gods, thank you! Thank you!!! You've kept me alive for another day, and now I can even keep my secrets! The trolls were wrong after all... at least this time..... "Strangers in U-Ustalav aren't al-lways the b-best kind to b-be forward with... Yes, I-I was in here be-before... ...before you came in. I-I was going to check each r-room for each of you, t-to see if y-you had the same l-letter I h-had recieved... Then y-you all came in... I neearly pissed mys-self..."
Hector fumbles his pockets for the envelope with Kendra Lorrimor's script, and holds it up as if it were a sacred relic, to ward off devils from his soul.
DUNDUNDUNNNN
With wet eyes and trembling lips the small spelunker begins to ramble rounded answers to pointed questions. "P-Petros Lo-Lorrimor wa-was my client and my teache-her. When I he-heard you speak of h-him I-I was inclined to see wh-who you all were, but di-didn't want t-to risk any harm-m to myself... Th-this is Usta-alav y'know... N-no ha-harm m-meant by it... M-my name is H-Hector L-L-L-Lindenb-brook..." Hector squirms in the lock of the restrained man's legs with frightful futility. If it weren't for his pointed ears, slightly pompous garb, and his semi-obvious mystical powers, he would seem to any passerby as a crying, scared 7 year old boy. As he is set free by the restrained man, he slides out of his legs and off of the bed as if he were a liquid, spilling onto the floor smoothly into a position of humble supplication.
Oh no... Maybe this has gone too far... They think I'm a shadow... a shadow... They are the late Professor's companions... Maybe I can get out of this with my skin in tact... I hope... Damn! Galviel, what should I dooooooo? As the door locks behind the man who left to go get the sack of ghost-be-gone, a portly, trembling figure crumbles out from underneath the bed, standing a little less than 3 feet tall, with his hands raised in surrender. Tears are welling in his eyes. "Y-you are friends of the late Petros Lorrimor? I-I am as well... It was I who came inside, p-please don't hurt me..." The tears become streams as he chokes on his words in terror of the tall-standing men surrounding him. "I wanted to know what sort of people you were.... G-g-good people, I th-think." As he sees their perilous gazes and initial reactions to his appearance, beads of sweat conjure all over his skin. Oh gods, save me!!!
As Hector cups his ear against the wall, he hears the repeated knock of assumedly the man in white, allowing him to find the room without much effort.
As the door opens towards him, the chair crashes, and Hector scrambles to keep his composure, then slips through the alarmed men's legs, scurrying underneath the bed... ...textbook. But then, as the conversation continues, and the men's suspicion is aroused, Hector ponders something which causes him a bit of fright; What if I get caught? I've not but menial tricks left... How will I get out of here? These thoughts dwell in his mind, stewing his thoughts to a simmering fear. But he makes no peeps, and lets his ears do their work.
Plan X: This is quoting post#38 which is on the page before this.
As the locals clear out, Hector, still shaken up (especially after that voice ENTERED INTO HIS HEAD), decides to stay underneath the table for awhile. Once the other overnight guests take their keys and head upstairs, Hector reluctantly crawls out from underneath his table and swipes his key from the barmaid. ..Did I hear those rowdy blokes talking about Petros? Hector has had a busy night, but his damning interest made him decide to snoop around for a bit. He went up to his room, locked the door, made sure there weren't any unwanted shadows about, then pulled out his spellbook.
Thus, Hector puts his equipments away, locks the windows, unlocks the door, steps into the hallway, and locks the door again. AND THE SNOOPING BEGINS.
If Hector locates the men in their room:
Alright, I was able to get like, 21 of 34 skills onto this thing. When I level up though, it'll be a doozy to realign everything... lol.
As the ruckus begins to swell, Hector tucks himself under a nearby table, trying to get lost, and out of sight. The words sung haunt his mind and even evoke some of the more gruesome memories he'd suffered whilst spelunking. They make his head spin, and he begins to panic.
As he listens to the somber, unnerving music, his paranoia commands him to make sure he's unseen, and scan the area for anything... unnatural.
As the songs subside, the only thing Hector hears is the blasting beats of his hurried little heart.
Obligatory Napoleon Dynamite-esque DnD Character Sketch He's got a book in the one hand, and a knife in the other, underneath his armed cloak. That's a backpack on his back, and yes, he has a double-chin, because obesity ftw. Obligatory Christmas Elf shoes, family crest belt-buckle. I also drew one of his legs shorter than the other. Because pro EDIT:
So there. ;p EDIT 2:
....Wat do?
Done with my intro post. My posts won't be that long on average, though I am a writer with the tendency for verbose... A disclaimer I guess. That being said, I really like how Hector is coming to life. Quite quirky.
As his conjured pony begins to flicker from the real, Hector's restlessness waxes back. He had ridden her much harder than the spell intended, and she was phasing out so quick the rain began to fall through her frame. It had been a long, cruel road. Too many spooks in this country, too many shadows. If they saw her fade out I'd be seeing Professor Lorrimor sooner than I'd like... Hector scans the wet, morose lands before him, looking for options against potentially murderously superstitious eyes. He hated that He had to use his craft in these lands, but he couldn't afford to spend any extra coins thoughtlessly. He looks up and down the road's horizons several times over, and peers into the warm windows of the run-down inn for painstaking minutes before he scurries the pony behind a grove of trees, allowing it to dissipate back to wherever it once came. With cowl pulled tightly over his nose, Hector strides into the inn. This place looks lively... Odd. And most of them are carrying arms, openly. Probably foreigners... Alright Hector, let's not draw any attention to ourselves... He almost blushes at the keeper's warm welcome. He wanted to be invisible and unnoticed, and now they all saw him, short, small, fat, weary, gaudily dressed. Weak. He just wanted to hide. Drenched, Hector waddles over to the loud woman and gives her his order through quieted squeaks. "Ma'am, you wouldn't happen to have any eggs or mushrooms on hand? If you would be so kind to fry all you have from the pantry; and I mean ALL you have, up in some butter and vinegar, I'd pay top dollar and be eternally grateful.... Thank you..." And so, he sits on the bar's counter, trying to meld into and absorb his new environment with all subtlety.
Is the format I have for my reference stat block alright for you GM? I'll be posting I'm gameplay thread in a few hours.
"Hey, I am changing my current Arcanist Exploit, Potent Magic, to this one, for added versatility. I think it will be better off for me to pick this for low-level play and get Potent Magic later, when I have more DC-based spells. Thanks!" Quick Study (Su):
The arcanist can prepare a spell in place of an existing spell by expending 1 point from her arcane reservoir. Using this ability is a full-round action that provokes an attack of opportunity. The arcanist must be able to reference her spellbook when using this ability. The spell prepared must be of the same level as the spell being replaced. "I also had a few questions, mostly regarding leveling. How do you feel about feat/class feature retraining? What level should we expect to be before the climaxing arcs of this Adventure Path, and how fast should we expect to be leveling? I have some class features I'd like to pick up as we level, and I don't know how far off I should actually plan for. Thanks again!"
"You might want to sit down for this one, maybe grab a smoke. Nice to meet you, by the by..."
My Story: "How did this all begin? Well, the first thing I can remember is being cooped up in a gray cobblestone lodge with seventeen other young hungry mouths. I remember my name; Hector. Hector Lindenbrook. Life wasn't very fair being raised in the Lindenbrook house… I was born a frog among snakes. You see, the Lindenbrooks were one of the many small names who vied for mob control on the labyrinthine streets of Kaer Maga, deep in Varisia. I had many cousins, but could never remember who my parents or immediate siblings were. There was Auntie Mims, and Uncle Farsworth, and Granpa Jeb, but they were more like quartermasters than family to any of us youngins'. Auntie would always have something to feed us, most days slop of some grimey origin, but we kept alive, and kept a ruckus going, which was the only thing that Uncle Farsworth really wanted.
Growing up was an endless cycle of skinned knees, childish jeers, and criminal initiations. Uncle Farsworth groomed us all up over our short years in the cobblestone house to be mindless thugs, ready to spill blood for the sake of the Lindenbrook name… It was horrid. I was never cut out for any part of that life… I was too timid, and too smart. Most often at my detriment. My cousins never really understood me, and Uncle Farsworth never tried to. Looked at me as a sort of runt, they all did. And they treated me like one. So many days putting up with their words, their taunts, their threats… their kicks, their blows… their knives... The only kind memories I have of Kaer Maga was a conversation I had with 'ol Granpa Jeb when he was drunk, and the friendship I had with one of my cousins, Lidya. She was different from the rest of them, just like me. Lidya was a reader, and we shared the same sort of curiosity that transcended the streets we lived for. As soon as we were taught how to lift things, she would always pop up out of nowhere with a new book for me. I would read them to her, I was able to pick up on languages and letters a bit quicker than she did. But she was the fast one. Granpa Jeb told me stories of things I had never seen; a world outside of our petty gang feuds, full of mystic creatures, pleasures, treasures and wonders. Never had I thought that anything besides the life I knew existed, but I always reckoned what he said was truth; because he mentioned the trolls in his stories. We were always told to stay away from them, that they would eat us and use our bodies in their prophecies. The trolls of Kaer Maga were not good for Lindenbrook kind. But I was always a curious one, and never really trusted the kurt words of Uncle Farsworth. One day I wandered where I shouldn'tve. ...It was a terrible day. It was the first day of my actual life. We were about to pull off a coup d'etat against the Hurgrins, our rivals, a dwarf gang known for their acts of wanton drunken destruction. My cousins' plan was, well, 'flawless', in their words, but also void of any escape routes. I forget all of the details, but we were going in there, and we were gonna get 'em good this time, 'for good' in our ringleaders' words. And if I didn't go, they said, they would burn my books. I was without options. Everything was going too good, until we got to the bottom of their basements. We were supposed to take their ancestors' bones or something, and then use them in degrading ways. It wasn't even a part of the main objective of the plan; it was just for prides' sake. When they saw us touch the bones, it was as if the Hurgrins had new bodies; they came, and they came for blood. Everyone scattered. I was being chased by three of them! I didn't even DO anything the whole damned trip! And they were after ME! I found myself where I always wanted to be, but never should have been; the temple of the gut-diviners: the trolls. I ran into one. Oh gods, they were so terrible to see. So tall, their black eyes full of knowledge, their figures… So surreal. It took me up into its hands, and brought me inside of their hovel. It was like nothing I'd ever seen. However, at the time, I hadn't seen much at all. They set me up near an old one, the foliage on its skin would creak like bark whenever it moved. I didn't know what was happening, but it started chanting at me, staring at me with its black eyes… I'll never forget that moment. The look in those eyes which filled me with such fear, but, they didn't mean to harm. They were so alien at the time, but I think I understand them now… ...This was the first time I had ever come into contact with sorcerous powers. I don't speak of them lightly either. The fact that I'm even writing this down is dangerous and damning to my person… ...Anyways, it spoke words over me I didn't understand, and ripped from its stomach its own skin, covered in its' own guts. The guts burned into the skin words of a text I couldn't understand, which drove me crazy. I was already unsettled beyond myself; this was the most dangerous, petrifying day of my life. I'm surprised I didn't faint during any part of it looking back… Such a weird day. They put the trollskin in my hands, and let me go. When I had left, I found Lidya had dispatched the dwarves which were chasing me. I told her everything that had happened. And as I did, I got a crazy idea. "What if… What if we left this city?" I told her. The world was so big, at least according to Granpa and the books we stole. She immediately agreed, and we began to scheme together for what seemed like ages. It was so ecstatic, so dangerous. If any of our other cousins, or Uncle Farsworth found out what we were planning, they would have slit our throats right there! It was during this season I began to feel the thrills of danger and life. They seemed to go hand in hand. On the third full moon after I had met the trolls, we made our escape from this damned city of Kaer Maga. We waited until all were drunk in the Lindenbrook house, and late in the night we made off like the bandits we were raised to be. It was difficult, living on the road, away from civilization, and the more basic things, but we made do. It was a true adventure, like in the books we'd read. Golarion was before us, all behind us be damned! On many of the long nights spent traveling, we just gazed at the stars while I tried to decipher what the troll's riddle said. Soon, we were in Riddleport. And then I lost her. We were caught off guard. Wholly. We never thought people existed outside of Kaer Maga that were like them. Bastards. Thieves. Cons. But we were naïve. They tricked us, and they took her, and I never saw her again. I pray to the gods that she found her way out… I can only imagine what happened to her… Life didn't get any easier for me either. After having every single thing I had stolen from me, I began to become a bit wiser. A kid shorter than me lifted my troll riddle from me one day, but I caught him. He almost got away, but I caught him, and I punched him in the face until he didn't have one left. I was done with being a runt, getting picked on, spit on, and shafted by everyone bigger than I was. It felt good for a moment, to be bigger than someone. But as soon as I saw the blood on my knuckles, I realized that this one was just like me, trying to survive. And I wept on his bloody body for what seemed like hours… I never lost my trollskin riddle after that. Life was uneventful, but full of new sights after that night. I saw so many kinds of peoples I never imagined could exist, and saw a lot of weird things in my time in Riddleport. A lot of cruel things, but some silver linings were had as well. I had learned the joys of pipes, and had put some use to the skills that Uncle Farsworth had taught me so many moons ago. Life was, alright. But then Galviel came into town. He was a stage magician. I had seen many in my day, and they always betwixt my brain, but Galviel… Galviel was seven steps above all the other troupers in Riddleport combined. He was a tiefling, of slim and cruel frame, with horns as sharp as his wit and guile. I had seen his show three times before I ever talked to him. He picked me out of the crowd for one of his tricks, and asked if I had a handkerchief on hand. I didn't, and he said that "It's alright, troll's skin will do just fine!" And with a flick of his hands, my own keepsake, my only real possession, my trollskin riddle was no longer in my secret pocket, but in this devil's hands. He didn't even touch me! I wasn't ready. I was caught off guard again. I couldn't let it happen again. I couldn't lose the riddle. I hadn't solved it yet. Everything went red. I attacked the magician, on stage, in front of a whole crowd. Who was I??! In the end, Galviel was so steeled and prepared that he made it a part of his trick, and the crowd all applauded and left. But this devil man would not give me back my scroll! "I'll give back to you, for a price. Become my assistant, and not only will I give you back your riddle, but teach you what it reads." In that moment, I realized that this man was not just a stage magician, but a sorcerer of dark powers. I felt a new kind of fear; not just the kind you get when you get punched in the nose, or have your most prized possession stolen from you; but fear for the safety of the substance of my soul. However, I also felt that same old rush of danger and life creep up in my breast. I accepted. I became a student of the devil. For several years we would travel from Riddleport to many cities, back and forth. I became intimate with many of them, and became an astute assistant for Galviel. I helped in his troupe acts, carried all of his stuff, and did all the busywork asked of me. In return, Galviel shared with me his secrets, his food, his pipeweed, and the substance of his hate. His lessons were at times crueler than Uncle Farsworth's ever could have been. The vile things that man made me do… …But he always had a point, a lesson to be taught from it. This continued for several years, until Galviel had divulged to me his deepest secret: his vendetta. He had aimed his whole life on taking for himself vengeance against his own teacher. However, his old teacher had long since died. Galviel's plan was to go into the many veils of existence and find him, and make him suffer for the slights he put upon Galviel… He had never told me what they were in specific, but his demeanor had made those details all but needed. It was then that I became not only his assistant on the stage, but his assistant in his bitter war against the dead. I learned arts which should never be told to any soul, secrets which should not be a part of this world, but yet are. He taught me the contents of the troll's scroll. When I had finally unraveled the old tongue and deciphered the message, I wish I hadn't. "Wonder and doom will follow you, until your three-fold eclipse at the end of your days." I had heard that the troll's prophecies were never wrong. I thought getting out of Kaer Maga would rid my life of that sort of violence… How wrong I was… The events of my life unfolding post-haste only made this damned line true. I followed Galviel until he destroyed himself. One night he completed the ritual he had aimed to complete years before he had even met me. He had found every piece he needed to do it; and he did. He exploded into a cloud of flame and smoke; all of his eldritch writings and implements along with him. So much knowledge, wasted on hatred… What a waste. I was able to save for myself one page from his spellbook, but I still can't read it. I learned a lot from Galviel, but I think the most important lesson he taught me was the importance of exaction. When he left me, we were in Riddleport again. He told me that I should go back up to Korvosa. He said that I should find the Academae, and that inside of their hidden halls I would learn more about the arts he had divulged to me. I had nothing else to do, and there was the promise of knowledge, so I followed suit. However, I could never get in. They were too prestigious for my kind. Galviel's name was of no help, his name was met with mockery. I tried for a year and a half to do whatever I could to get in, to learn. I bled for that chance, but it never happened. I was able to, however, aid some of the student's excursions. I met a fellow named Altoriel, an elven arcanist who needed to find a lost artifact, and needed help to find it. Me, being eager and desperate for a friend and a chance to prove myself, to someone, made me jump. Also, the promise of learning a new secret tickled all of my fancies. We were off, delving into dungeons ancient and hexed, and after many endless nights of drudgery and dangers, we found what he was looking for. Altoriel was so thankful that he tried to help me get into Academae, but it still didn't work out. But it was alright, because I found out my life's calling and career. That spelunking adventure was the culmination of all of my being's desires. I felt so alive, even though more often than not we were more than half dead. I began to do this sort of business for scholars and sorcerors-in-secret, and they paid oh so well. I had made a name for myself, and had many contacts. Life was well. Then I wound up in Ustalav. I was working for a man named Petros Lorrimor. I was to find some lost text about a figure named the Whispering Tyrant, for whatever reason. I found the text without much effort, and the job was uneventful, but when I went to go give the scroll to the professor, something dreadful happened. He was missing! He was missing and he had my money! I went and looked for him, and found him surrounded by what of course had to take place: Dwarves had surrounded him in a closed alley. Professor Lorrimor was never a strong man, but had his wits about him for certain. I was able to use a couple of tricks Galviel had taught me to slip up the dwarves, and was able to rescue the Professor from losing a pretty penny… ...And then took that penny for myself, as a hard-working man. The Professor was always a kind man, and that night we were able to forge more than just a business contact, but rather tempered into each other a silent mutual respect, and became fast friends. He was a walking library, the man! I was even able to study under him for a season, which was ever so enlightening.
Moons later I got the letter. I could never intellectually blame myself, but I did. I mean, I'm the cursed one… Doom followed me with Lidya, with Galviel, and now this innocent man… Damn the trolls..."
"Goodmorn! I am Hector Lindenbrook, That Other Guy's character submission. All of my crunch is in place within my profile, and if you're not checking in on this until Monday, I'll assume that he'll be finished with the rest of my background by the time you read this." He thinks for a puzzled moment, trying to remember the last detail he was supposed to relay to the game master... "Oh. Also, my build says 'Arcanist/Ninja', but the flavor is eschewed so it all fits into a non-oriental coherent theme. The 'official' title of my vocation is called Eldritch Archaeologist. There's a lot of semantics in the naming of my business, but at the end of the day I find lost ancient texts and information, and give them to the right people for the right price. The late Professor being one of them. ...I'm sorry for your loss, he was a great business partner and friend of mine as well. I know his funeral will be a beautiful one... ...Anyways, thank you ever so much for the invitation... Goodday!" |