Hendron's page

Hey guys, just a quick OOC update. I have a viral infection that's basically draining my adrenal glands and making me want to pass out all day, so playing here consistently is probably going to be a huge strain for the next 4-6 weeks. If possible, you may want to cycle me out before we get too far - sorry to everybody; wish my immune system did a better job!

Hendron has barely been able to settle his feet in the plaza, his eyes trained on the back of Therrik's head, when the light tears across the sky and claims his vision. There's only whiteness and pain, and he staggers to the side, clinging onto an unfortunate crowd member's shoulder while the world returns in a kaleidoscope of whirling motion and roiling clouds. Although dizzy, he can make out the forms of a silver beast and a darker, more lethal-looking foe. He stares as they arc across the skies and tiles, leaving his ears ringing and his vision seared with moment-to-moment impressions of the clash, burned like some hideous engraving into his mind's eye.

This is my city, he thinks in the swell of chaos and the approaching end. This is the place they loved so much.

As he prepares to die, no longer able to spot Therrik or any other familiar faces in the crowd, he realizes that it was all for naught. It was all the journey of a foolish boy with a foolish goal, and all of the luck in the world, this was his draw. You can't win them all, but you can certainly lose most of them.

An unspeakably large mass of brickwork smashes down near him, extinguishing the movement and presumable lives of the poor sods beneath its weight.

Sometimes, you lose all of them.

_____________________________

In the dampness and darkness, Hendron is not sure if he's alive or dead. He's not sure he much cares, either. He remains in a cross-legged position on the ground, Sir Oakpeak clinging for dear life about his neck and digging his claws into tender skin. "Ease up," he whispers, perhaps to his hallucinations.

More than fear of death, he's always held a fear of boredom in the next life. That fear couldn't be any more relevant than now.

Hendron hops off his bar stool, leaving the empty mug behind without offering its remnants to Sir Oakpeak. He barely realizes how much he droned off during the sound of the bells, missing most of Therrik's tale in lieu of a rattle of memories. Marching columns of armor, men and women with hardened gazes, weapons polished to bright shards in the sunlight.

He follows Therrik at a slow pace, wondering if the gatherings still looked the same, or if they introduced new tricks and more approachable festivities for the newcomers.

"Sure. Let's be off, then."

Therrik's enthusiasm returns the cheer back to their narrow stretch of bar. Perhaps not cheer, per se, but a nostalgic imitation that most travelers would not deign to prod at. In fact, Hendron finds himself swept up in the Half-Orc's tales of barges and rowing, trying to recall the scent of white-capped surf or the sandy sprawls where dead crabs washed up by the thousand.

He smiles amiably, more than content to allow Therrik to continue until his exploits are finished. After a brief pause to recheck Sir Oakpeak's posture and ensure that the mongoose's stupor has held as well as anticipated, he clears his throat. "Imagine all that, then. You really don't know somebody until you know their roads and shipping lanes, I suppose."

Hendron offers a calculated pause, thinking of how to phrase his words carefully. So carefully that they might bypass a nigh-inevitable glassy stare from his new friend. "This other Half-Orc you mentioned to me, the one beginning with a J - what's their tale? I'm sure it's worthwhile. Were they your captain, your cargo?"

Hendron senses some of the heft in Therrik's words, and in some indecipherable way, it stings. Pity's never been something he collects and carries with him, much less prizes. There was some truth to the notion that every area had its share of its malcontents, and violent wanderers, and attacks from nasty creatures at the edge of lamplight, but there were oddities that made the people of Kenabres more of survivors than citizens.

Hendron never really counted himself among the former group.

"Life can be difficult all over, I imagine. What kind of work did you do on a ship? Did you row, or fight, or just use it to move around? I can't say I've earned my sea-legs quite yet."

*clap on*
*clap off*

Hendron's face is half-buried in his mug when the question crosses his ears, the distinctly urine-sour bite of Kenabres ale reaching the back of his throat before his tongue even has fair chance to judge. He finishes the draw with ease, simultaneously disgusted and pleased with the consistency of the taproom's lowest-quality drafts. After all, the better brews were reserved for those who came for dressed-up days like this. They were reserved for those who could afford to run up and pay a tab that a Crusader might die before finally settling.

Hendron tilts the mug for Sir Oakpeak to take a draw. The mongoose stirs slightly about his collarbone, roused - or perhaps smacked, judging by his reaction - from the world of dreams to a wash of acrid, near-spoiled barley. Without hesitation, the mongoose bats at the rim of the mug and sticks its entire head into the beverage, drinking and drowning in the same swig.

"I'm an open book, I suppose." Hendron smirks, but there's weariness in his eyes. There's too much of the world's heft in the way he admits it. "I'm originally from Kenabres, though not this district. Not too far from it, either, but the scenery's rather different. I left the city a long while ago to look for some people I never knew, and never heard much about. And, though it may sound silly, I find myself here once again for the same reason. Have you ever paced up and down your bunkroom looking for something, only to find it beneath your pillow?" He shrugs, perhaps to himself, and notices how much of the ale Sir Oakpeak has drained in his generous musing.

With a growing frown, he yanks the mug free of the mongoose's grip, nearly toppling the creature in the process. Several of the mongoose's lower chin hairs are spiked outward in frothy clumps, and another dreamlike gaze - this one far less peaceful than earlier - crosses the animal's face. It slumps back to its standard neck-rest position and returns to sleep.

*Slow clap*

He weighs the Half-Orc's reply carefully, now certain that Kenabres, in spite of its colored ribbons and songs, has not changed at its core. His smile darkens a touch, but only from the reality of it all. Only from the necessity of it all.

"I think it was a fine idea," Hendron replies, an edge of regret in his voice. He fishes a few coins from his pouch and slides them across the table, waiting for his drink. His hands move like a cautious spider upon the web, crawling forth and skirting back. "This city has made a name for its demon killing, and demon butchering, and demon destroying. And I suppose in turn, the people who live here have earned their own names. It's a good place for that."

Hendron offers an appreciative smile to Therrik. "Yes, those are very good suggestions, thank you." Of course, Kenabres was always the one place he actively avoided work. The organized, drill-like nature of the city was his bane in younger years. But now, returning on a day of happiness and drunken lapses in responsibility, it seems less daunting.

Even so, it seems like a fine place to dodge any half-formed notions of finding work.

"I've built a small nest-egg of coins during my travels," Hendron notes, patting the drawstring of a leather pouch tucked into his coat pocket. "It's quite liberating to travel without worrying about your next meal, but I suppose that if one travels without purpose, it can seem insufferably boring. Like wasted time, after a fashion. What did you do before you came here? Anything exciting?"

I have rope AND animate rope. We're gonna see some dancing rope-snakes up in here.

Hendron keeps close to Therrik with his arms folded and pack tight against his cloak, ensuring that he occupies as little space as possible while the taproom bustles around him. He glances at the servers, the patrons, the mugs, wondering how Kenabres had become so vibrant in his years of absence. Perhaps it was only this district during the festival, he reasons. Or perhaps it was only his faint recollections of alleyway chases and rooftop escapades struggling to mesh with the sounds of merriment around him. Either way, he didn't protest.

He smiles at Therrik's question. "Of sorts. I do odd jobs, mostly, but I like to keep moving. I used to work with armor, actually. Mostly mail, but plate, cloth-woven, and boiled leather have crossed my table before. Plate tends to take its toll." He offers a warm smile, patting at his wiry bicep and demonstrating the extent of its decay. It's clear he hasn't worked with heavier projects in a while.

Out of inability, most likely.

As Hendron takes the Half-Orc's invitation to shake hands, he's a bit surprised at two things. One, of course, being the sheer size and heft of the hand, which dwarfs his without much of a contest. Second, and far less predictably, is the similarity in calluses between the two men. Hendron's hand hardly seems to meet his, separated by layers of ground-in dust, metal shavings, and grit.

"Hendron," he says cheerfully, offering a slight bow in tandem. "I'd love a drink, actually. But I do insist on paying, if it's fine by you. Not to turn away kindness, surely."

As Hendron approaches the Half-Orc, trailing behind with a haze of wanderlust in his eyes and examining the festival, he grins. "Actually, it's a mongoose. Quite vicious, at times. His name is Sir Oakpeak, and though he hates to hear it, he's the second best-dressed in our motley crew. The first in eating matters, no doubt."

To be fair, my running dog sled with an attached collapsible bathtub was a great investment.

If anyone wants earplugssssss...

Most valuable possession, of course.

Hendron takes in Therrik's suggestion with a long, hesitant nod. He knew more than enough about the priests and wizards and brawlers packed into the stone hives of Kenabres, and there was little to be found there beyond extortion for the uninformed. Nevertheless, he smiles and shrugs.

"Who knows, maybe we'll both find our mysterious wanderers? If it's all the same to you, maybe we could traipse about together for a while. We don't have to talk much, if you don't want to. But it's a festival day, and I suppose that having company makes it feel a bit more special. What do you think of that?" Hendron tilts his head to the side and mellows out his smile, waiting.

He's always held firmly to the divine law that unintended meetings promised the most success. But now, he's not so certain of where he even learned that concept. Had it been a mystic, or advice scrawled on a decaying stone wall?

Hendron's face sours a bit upon hearing the Half-Orc's reply, but most of the disappointment lingers in the curve of his lips. His eyes are bright, beaming, although the source isn't quite known - perhaps not even to him.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, then. It's a pretty obscure matter. Which is not to say that you don't look knowledgeable, but..." He pauses, scratching at the film of scruff beneath his chin. "Oh, it's just convoluted."

As Therrik asks his question, Hendron rifles through the faces he's seen in Kenabres and beyond. The faces of those camped beneath drooping willows and smeared with soot, and the angular faces of those who see little foul in the art of violence. Faces that came and passed as a murmur on the wind, just like all of his other leads.

"Sorry," he replies at last, his stare thick with the empathy of a man who takes no great joy in communal fruitlessness. "It seems everybody's looking for somebody these days, hey? Can barely find ourselves sometimes." He shrugs. "That was in an old tome I read. A tad beyond my scope, but it makes for more interesting table talk."

Hendron straightens himself up, having lost most of his already-tenuous footing upon impact, and tries on a crooked half-smile. He reaches up to his mongoose and straightens the creature back into its standard resting place, although nothing suggests it was even jarred beyond an askew set of hind legs.

"Quite alright, thank you," Hendron manages, despite a sudden absence of air in his chest. He slips past a few revelers and sidles up to Therrik, his tube of parchment clutched in both hands. Aside from a barely-perceptible limp, he looks as nimble as ever. "Do you know anybody in this district?" He widens his smile, bringing out a pair of deep dimples. "Just basic information. Nothing too offbeat, I promise."

Before the Half-Orc can even answer, Hendron's eyes dance across the crowd and linger on a wash of blue hair. More than that, perhaps, he's drawn to the amethyst eyes that merely flash in his direction before being consumed by a press of bodies.

Who could forget our beautiful Half-Orc companion!?

Oh, by all means. I'm just a super charmer and negotiator with a love of good banter. Organized leadership and general responsibility is not Hendron's strong suit.

Well, you certainly make me feel more comfortable with my weird choices! Thanks. If people mutually agree we'll run into trouble or I'll become some kind of glass peashooter (no, not a cannon), I'll adjust as needed. :)

That would be a pretty chill shift. Not too much in the way of sacrifice. Y'all are some stat wizards (no pun intended).

Ohhhhh. This all makes sense to me. Yeah, these are all very good reasons. I guess I never learned my lesson from making low Con toons back in the day during heavy combat APs. Whoops. So, what do you all recommend? Of course I defer on an executive level to Rat King, since he knows exactly what kind of torture I'm in for with that build.

Oh, boy. This is where my total ignorance of game mechanics and sheer love of storytelling becomes obvious! I had to Google Bloatmage, hahaha... I mostly chose what I thought would fit the character, with a few minor tweaks for the safety and benefit of those around me! I believe it was suggested by Naali for me to look at my Dex scores, although I was pretty ignorant about the applications of those stats in gameplay as it was. So if anything looks like a precursor to a totally ridiculous build, or like I'm planning on initiating Operation Secret Hilarity with my horrendous stat assignment, don't worry: I'm just a newb!

There is a curious man - yes, a man, although one could mistake him for a boy at the proper angle - weaving through the games on display. He has the sure-footed movement of one who knows the streets well, and has perhaps been forced to scamper down an alleyway once or twice in former days. Yet there is a lingering oddness to his steps, almost hesitant, and his eyes fall upon every cart, crier, and cobblestone within view. He is both an aimless child and a road-weary traveler, though neither life has been particularly fruitful.

A pair of cropped Elvish ears jut through his blonde hair, but nothing definitively suggests that the cuts were made to resemble a more Human form. There are only two ragged strips of scar tissue, pink and darkened with time, to attest that anything happened at all. His backpack, clanging with assorted metals and glasses and all manners of devious instruments, does a respectable job of hiding his thin frame. Perhaps not starved enough to warrant coins from merciful passersby, granted, but so thoroughly and inexplicably hungry that one would feel guilt for eating in his vicinity.

Across his shoulders lies a wiry (though not quite underfed) mongoose, its tiny arms splayed out and skyward to allow its belly the rareness of sunlight. It hardly stirs at the crack of strange alchemical mischief or the nudging of small children running past, far too content to rest in the haze between wakefulness and sleep. Its dark eyes flicker with the barest hint of dreaming.

In his hand is a piece of paper, crumpled from habitual fidgeting and folding. He has rolled it into a thin tube to prevent further destruction, and now carries it like a weapon in its own right, searching for old faces in a place that feels so new.

I assume you mean why I picked various abilities? Or do you mean where the scores came from? And I'll patch up the perception - thanks! It was just a bit touch-and-go when it came to transferring the Mythweavers stuff. Kind of hard to make it remotely readable for somebody else.

Hi, everyone! Yeah, if I messed up anything, just let me know and I'll plug away at it. I'm pretty spacey when doing a lot of the mechanical stuff, but Naali vouched for most of it (which is not to say that any foreseeable problems are on their shoulders, but you should expect significantly less errors than had I forged ahead by myself).

Yayyyyy. Excuse my newbiness while I finish filling out the stats portion of my profile. The conversion process is murdering me.

Hi, sorry, I was out of town! I'm definitely here now.

Hi there! ^ Aforementioned friend checking in. I have the bare bones of my character and profile down, and I'd love to play. Hoping to play as a Half-Elf Sorcerer raised in Kenabres.