| JD Walsh |
Hope this week's session goes well. Good luck with the Queen. I'm expecting to be able to join the group next week (I believe it will be Friday the 27th), provided my wife's surgery goes well.
In the meantime, though, I wanted to introduce my character: Jirrato (ji-rah’-toh), the 2nd level Varisian Rogue. He is Armor Class 12 with 19 hit points. His attributes are: Strength 10, Dexterity 15, Constitution 8, Intelligence 16, Wisdom 14, and Charisma 16. Obviously, with those scores he’s not about to jump into combat; he usually doesn’t even wear armor. When preparing for battle he carries a hand crossbow, a rapier, and a single dagger left him by his late mother (normal stats). In a real pinch, he has his +1d6 Sneak Attack damage to fall back on. His saves are Fort -1, Reflex 5 (plus Evasion), and Will 2. He also has the Harrowed and Shingle Runner feats, and the rogue talent Minor Magic (Prestidigitation).
Where he really shines, though, is in his skills. He has: a +9 in Acrobatics; a +8 in Disguise and Knowledge (Local); a +7 in Appraise, Bluff, Craft (Tailoring), Diplomacy, Disable Device, Linguistics, Perform (Dance), Sleight of Hand, and Use Magic Device; a +6 in Climb, Escape Artist, Perception, Sense Motive, and Stealth; a +4 in Knowledge (Nobility); and a smattering of others.
Jirrato is Chaotic Good, and follows Cayden Cailean (in as much as he would follow any god). Cayden’s portfolio of freedom, wine, and bravery suits him just fine. He is totally devoted to his little sister, Marala (mah-rah’-lah). If you want any further information on his personality, you should let him tell you in his own words. His first meeting with the party will probably go like this:
*****
A young male Varisian strides toward you, with the easy, graceful manner of a natural athlete. His garments mark him as a simple tailor, but you notice his clothing has been altered, both for fit and flexibility. At his side, clearly visible, is a shining rapier. A hand crossbow is strapped to his back. Clearly, this is no ordinary tailor.
As he crosses the room, his eyes never leave you, but you can sense that he is aware of everything around him. You suspect he has already memorized every face and every exit in the place. A man slouches across his path, but the tailor neatly side-steps, not even bothering to glance at him. In a moment, the Varisian has reached your table.
Like many men of his race, he wears a well-trimmed mustache and goatee. His thick black hair is cut short, but styled with more care than a simple tradesman’s. Confident and handsome, there is something in his manner that puts you at ease. You already feel you can trust this Varisian, even though you have not even met.
He smiles, and offers an outstretched hand. “Greetings,” he says. “I am Jirrato.” His tone is smooth, his expression friendly, with a touch of worry. “I need your help.”
Taking your interest as an invitation, he pulls a chair from a nearby table, deftly spins it around, and sits with the high chair-back in front of him. Though his own back is clearly exposed, you don’t envy anyone attempting to slip behind him.
“I must tell you, though, that what I am to confess may get me hung, or worse. Not that it matters.” A grimace crosses Jirrato’s face. “Nothing matters, except finding my sister, Marala.
“I suppose you’ll want to know who I am, first.” He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “There’s not much to say, really. I’ve lived the same hard life as thousands of other poor Korvosans.
“My parents were murdered when I was ten. My father was a simple tailor; my mother, an exotic dancer with the sight. They were good, honest folk, and they troubled no one, but they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. A gang dispute turned ugly and cost them both their lives.
“For reasons still unknown to me we were shunned, even by my own people. At the time my sister, Marala, was but a babe. We had no one else, nowhere to go. So I cared for her, trying to raise enough silver to buy food and pay the rent on the tiny room in which my family had lived as long as I could remember. I had learned the rudiments of the tailor’s trade from my father, and a bit of mystic lore from my mother, but I quickly realized that I could not make enough coin reading palms and mending tunics to keep my Marala safe and fed.
“So I turned to crime. That first hard winter, I was stealing milk and blankets, but a brush with the Guard convinced me that, if I was to risk my life and Marala’s welfare, it would be for worthier stakes. So I took to the rooftops, and became one of the city’s infamous ‘shingle runners.’
“Most likely I would have ended up imprisoned, addicted to shiver, or worse, like so many of my friends in this heartless city. But Marala was my anchor.
“She saved my life,” he says, shaking his head in wonderment.
“Even as a tot, Marala knew right from wrong. She taught me. It was at her insistence that I began to give; first just a little, to the child-beggars in the street, but soon larger amounts, much larger, to the orphanages and the churches.” He laughs. “I became a thief, stealing from others that she might not suffer, and she had me give it away, so that others might not suffer as we did.
“As I grew older, I began to focus less on survival and more on the future. Marala’s future. I was determined that she not know the horrors I had experienced. So I embarked on a plan: I would amass a fortune, enough silver and gold to move my Marala somewhere safe, like Midland, or even South Shore. And those responsible for my struggles would pay for it.
“At first I focused my attentions on the gangs, and the...” He hesitates, adding in hushed tones, “the Society.
“A dangerous business, that,” he continues, returning to his normal tone. “I quickly realized that I would not last long against their influence. More importantly, I had finally divined where the true source of Korvosa’s suffering lay: in her wealthy.
“The elite of Korvosa are gold-hoarding leeches on our city; they sit in their marble palaces while the common folk starve. A single Chelaxian nobleman sees more coin in one day than the average Varisian sees in a lifetime. I determined that I would rectify that situation. So I became the foe they would least expect: a Chelaxian nobleman.
“It was simple, really. A bit of makeup, some color in my hair. Creating the proper clothing was the hardest part, but I am, after all, a tailor’s son. And so I became Marstead Rotherstock the Fourth, distant cousin of a bastard son of a minor noble family.
“Marstead’s first appearance, at a masquerade ball, was nearly his last. I was caught red-handed, stealing the jewels of my wealthy hostess, but my days as a shingle runner served me well. After that I took pains to be discreet. More or less.
“If you have heard rumors of the Cobalt Cape Heists, well, that was my work. The Guard combed the city, asking every tailor for word of a man who bought capes dyed a rare cobalt hue, never suspecting their quarry was a tailor himself.
“I focused on items which could be resold, easily and anonymously, and used a portion of the proceeds to support my sister and myself. Another small portion I saved, that I might someday move my sister to the good home we both dreamed of. Most of the gold went to the poor, as I knew my Marala would have wished. Had she known.
“You see, Marala is unaware of my hidden, other life. At least, I pray she is. I took great pains to conceal my criminal endeavors from her, going out only late at night, when she was asleep. It may seem odd, but I was less afraid of being discovered by the Guard than of losing the admiration of a small child. She is everything to me.
“A few days ago, I returned to our room to find it a shambles. While I had been out in the night, stealing that I might protect her, she had been taken from me. She is only ten.
“It did not take me long to realize who was responsible. A neighboring tailor, a Chelaxian pig named Drel Nor, had long been angry at me for undercutting his prices. But how could I sit back and let him overcharge poor folk for simple mending and stitching? So I did the work for less; Marala and I could afford the loss.
“He had often vowed revenge, but I dismissed him as a man of words alone. How I misjudged him! On that night, while I was gone, a few thugs in his pay had gone to ‘teach me a lesson.’ The dogs destroyed our home, and took Marala.
“So I confronted Drel, at knife-point. He quickly confessed to the deed. He had sold my sister to a child-enslaving albino known as Gaedren Lamm! I admit, I fully intended to kill the pig on the spot, but something stayed my hand. I let him live because I think it’s what Marala would have wanted.
“I brought him to the Guard, and told them everything, but the guard would not take the word of a poor Varisian against a reputable Chelaxian merchant. I was lucky to escape without being imprisoned myself. Clearly, I was on my own.
“So I took to the rooftops, like I had as a child, vowing not to return home while my Marala remains lost. And now I hear that you have caught that fiend Lamm and brought him to justice. Tell me, have you any word of my good sister?”