Too bad.
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And... flight cancelled. Leaving this weekend instead.
Hey, just to let everyone know, I'll be traveling from tomorrow afternoon through Wednesday night. I might get in one more update before I head out, and another when I get in Wed night, but don't be surprised if I only post again Thursday morning. Feel free to bot me if necessary.
"This Shepherd moves quickly. We've been in town, what, a few hours? One might almost suspect he knew we were coming." Marcus' frown speaks volumes. "If he had time to prepare for this, I'm worried he might have prepared a surprise for Lady Dressarosa too."
Marcus places his hands on his hips and shakes his head. "Looks like someone is intent on insulting our Lady and Cheliax both. Someone with a juvenile sense of humor." Rubbing at the stubble that's starting to show along his jawline, he turns to Sclivian. "How quickly can we have a work crew out here to clean this mess up? We can't have our Lady returning to this."
Marcus is up for getting home to be sure they don't miss Lady Dressarosa. The cash isn't urgent.
Remember that the GM is sometimes working through stuff. Let's cross our fingers and hope she's well, and give her some space/time.
Marcus' powerful fingers remain locked around Edmund's crimson wrist. His voice is a harsh grated whisper. "Swallow your pride. Sir. We're here to help protect the Lady Dressarosa, not stir up the locals. No matter how much they deserve it." He lets go of Edmund's wrist. "Let's just walk away. Come." There's a moment as he casts about for some conciliatory gesture. "You haven't bought me that drink yet, after all."
Marcus' eyes go wide in surprise, and then narrow in disgust. He shoves his way forward and interposes himself between Edmund and the no doubt staggering drunk. "What the -" for a moment it looks like he's going to let Edmund have it, but then he catches himself, old peasant instincts kicking in. "That is not the way to treat the locals, Sir. What the -" Again he swallows some choice words. "What do you think you're doing? Do you want a lynch mob outside Lady Dressarosa's house a few hours from now?" Turning, he spreads his hands wide, trying to apologize to the drunk - but he knows it's far, far too late. Helpless, he looks to the others to step in with their smooth words and maybe some coin.
Marcus juts out his jaw as he tongues the inside of his cheek, hand not straying far from the worn handle of his earthbreaker. He searches the gathering crowd for any signs of weaponry, and old instincts cause him to turn around and cover the group's rear, his harsh, weather carved features obdurate and betraying grim resignation for what's to come.
Marcus leans back in his chair as Tellis returns to recount his findings. He answers the man's long explanation of the current state of affairs with a grunt. "Is that why we're here? To repair the reputation of Cheliax? Or simply to keep our eyes on Lady Dressarosa?" From his tone, it's clear where he thinks his obligations like.
Not a problem!
Reassured that a fight isn't about to break out, Marcus stiffly sits down again.
Inside, Marcus rises to his feet, fists planted on the table top, and leans from side to side as he tries to espy what's happening out in the street.
Marcus watches his friends disappear into the crowd, surging through the people in pursuit of the thief. He places one fist inside the other hand and watches intently, but does not yet rise from his seat.
Marcus sits back and watches, face impassive. Edmund does not need help with catching a child.
Hang in there, DM, and take care of yourself. You're running a great game, and we'll be here when you're ready.
Marcus doesn't get up. He watches this unfold, from the laughter to the interrogation to Edmund's rising to his feet without any expression. Simply watches, face as neutral as if carved from stone.
Marcus lowers himself into the chair across from Edmund, and says nothing as the tiefling places his order. When he's done, he simply nods, and then leans back, both hands resting on his thighs. He glances about, letting his eyes linger on the Korvosan Guard, then simply taking in the crowd, watching the front door, curious but content to sit quietly as he awaits the food. In truth, he has a powerful hunger, and Edmund's description of what's to be served had only whetted his appetite.
Marcus listens with the sober gravity that he affords every member of the party when they address him directly, not making eye contact but staring fixedly at the floor, brows furrowed with concentration. This time, however, Tellis' words elicit a couple of surprised glances up to his face; Marcus raises an eyebrow halfway through Tellis' revelation, and it only lowers again toward the end. There's a moment silence between the two amidst the clamor of the tavern, Marcus nodding slowly as he stares at where his hands clasp the back of a chair. He looks at Tellis as if seeing him a new light, or perhaps really looking at the man instead of seeing his own assumptions about all nobility. "You're... more honest than most, Mr. Tellis." He rubs a thick thumb across his chin. "And I appreciate that." Each sentence is like a stone dropped into a well. "I aim to do little more than keep Lady Dressarosa safe. If I can accomplish that for as long as I'm charged with that duty, then I'll declare myself content and not need any further reward." He hesitates, unaccustomed to such long lines, and then impulsively extends his hand. "Let's shake on shared goals. Ensuring the safety of our Lady." His hand, as can be expected from a lifelong farmer, is thick, callused, and strong. "And to keeping things honest between us."
Indeed! Though that recruitment has been going on for so long and with so little involvement from the GM that I've kind of given up on it going anywhere.
Holding onto Marcus' arm is akin to holding onto a tree branch or a sack filled with rocks. There's no fat to the man, just tremendous strength as if the years spent tilling the soil had given him some of the earth's own power. Marcus doesn't pull his arm away, but nor does he lean in; he simply walks along at the same pace, listening gravely to the finely spoken Tellis. "Thank you for your generous words," he says. There's a pause as he searches for what next to say. "We are both bound to serving the Lady Dressarosa." As a statement of fact it seems safe. Again he searches, face grim, and finally finds a concluding statement. "Let us hope there is no need for drawn blades at all." The main difference between Tellis' assurances and the bold statements he's heard from other nobility is that Tellis is making his before the drinking starts. So that's something, he figures. But as to how much his fine words will be worth when blades really are drawn? That remains to be seen. They walk a dozen steps, Marcus growing ever more uncomfortable with having his arm held. Their arrival at the entrance to the tavern gives Marcus the opportunity to subtly shakes Tellis free if the other hasn't let go already. As he follows Edmund to the table, he turns back to Tellis, knowing it polite to continue conversation. "What brings you to the Lady's service?" It's a good question, and one that's served him well. Intelligent and proud men always like to speak of themselves, given a chance. He doesn't yet sit. He'll wait to let the nobles take their preferred chairs.
No, everything's going great, far as I can tell. You're giving us enough room up front to get to know each other, while still maintaining a presence. I'm really enjoying myself.
During his many years of farming, Marcus would occasionally reward himself after a particularly grueling day with a thimbleful of crude whiskey, the kind that made him hiss after every sip. He'd sit by the small fire and put up his aching feet and nurse that thimble and review the day's work, feeling a sense of rightness, of being where he should be, of having done what needed doing, and having earned that drink through the sweat of his brow. Since his... elevation, however, alcohol had become something else. To many of the nobles he'd met, it was an escape, or an artform, or a means to numbing pain, or a way to boast of their wealth, or a thousand other variations he'd not bothered to try to understand. He'd quickly learned to not drink with every toast, to hold onto one goblet, and at the end of the night he'd often ridden home stone cold sober, lost and alone and tired. Heading out now with the group, he feels that same sense of detachment. What had they done to earn this drink? What land had they plowed, what deeds had they accomplished? He can't think of anything worth celebrating. Can't think of how he's earned this round. So, not caring where they go, not caring what they buy, he resigns himself to another night of false carousing. Another night subjected to over-hearty toasts, boisterous laughter, and declarations that would be proven false come the light of dawn. Following along at the back of the group, lower jaw jutting out, fists pushed deep in his pockets, he resists the urge to sigh. A profound sense of homesickness passes through him. He'd give this all up in a moment just for a chance to sit on his old chair by his fire, with that thimbleful of crude whiskey and that dull familiar ache in his bones of a day well spent out on his farm.
Are there any expectations on hour our group is to use our time while we wait for the lady? As in, are we expected to be ready and on call at home, or dismissed for the evening, or are there no expectations in place, and it's up for us to decide? Marcus is kind of in agreement with Hiram. He'd prefer to stay close and within reach in case needed.
Basement = dungeon. Nice folks, the previous owners.
You are an example of your stock. Had Marcus not heard countless variations of this exact sentiment from well meaning and often drunken nobles over the past month at the endless balls to which Lady Dressarosa had dragged him, he might have bristled. Your stock. Instead, his practice stands him in good stead, and he simply bows his head, fighting the urge to reach up as if to doff an non-existent cap. "Thank you, Mr. Edmund. No need to spend good coin on the finest, though. A decent flagon of ale will do just as well."
Marcus listens, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes lowered, nodding though it's hard to tell if he's convinced or in agreement. There was so much he could say to this devil spawn. How as a peasant he also always expected attack, how his enemy was not only the bandits, raiders, and thieves, but often the very lords and nobles that were supposed to protect them. He couldn't begrudge the man his desire to arm himself, but his claim that the highest honor was to be a Hellknight...? Almost he opens his mouth to speak of how the knights are viewed by the lowly masses. Almost. Instead he simply nods, and when Tellis chimes in, he frowns. Was the man making jests at the Hellknight's expense? That spoke of bravery or the height of foolishness. Hoping that Tellis' quip would draw Edmund's attention, he steps back.
Marcus trails along behind the rest of the group, taking in Korvosa with apparent steady scrutiny, but the further he walks away from Dressrossa the more a dull concern begins to grow in the back of his mind. Even as it does, he curses himself for a fool; what kind of protection could he afford her in a royal court? None. He'd be a bull in a china shop, saying the wrong thing, insulting the wrong person, grasping the wrong obscurely shaped little silver spoon. And yet. He can't help but feel that vague, generalized concern. On some level he's been tasked - along with his companions - with her safety. Should harm come to her, he'd take it as a great personal failing. Especially after having fortuitously saved her once already. Lost in his musings, he stops before their new abode and blinks, surprised. It takes him a moment to realize that this is where they're all going to be staying, and when the true nature of the building becomes apparent to him, he turns to Mr. Ruttle and speaks for the first time. "A fortress? Do you expect a siege?" His voice is gravely and deep, and even though its pitched low it doesn't take much to imagine it booming across a battlefield. Hefting his pack, he enters along with the others and finds a small room on the ground floor squeezed in behind the kitchen. One high window allows some faint light to filter down to the narrow bed, and he drops his pack and gear and then simply stares down at it, hands on hips, musing. If he's going to do a good job of protecting Dressrossa, he's going to have to get along with the rest of the team. Finally, he emerges in time to catch the tail end of Leandric and Edmund's conversation in the entrance hall. "What's you interest in connecting with the Hellknights, Mr. Edmund?"
I think that's a brilliant idea, DM. It really hooks Marcus into the game, invests him in Dressarosa's well being, and gives him ample reason to be proactive about this mission. Thanks!
Marcus watches the proceedings with his customary silence. It's almost surreal, to hear this talk of royal bodyguards, escorts to the palace, manors on the East Shore... but he allows none of this to appear on his face. And the lethality that the Lady's new escort exudes is almost chilling; it's one thing to capitalize on natural talent and innate strength like he has, and another altogether to meet someone who has dedicated their lives to their ability to deal death. Marcus then gives their Lady an awkward half bow as she departs, and then turns to the others as they begin conversing. Like Hiram, he chooses to simply wait until decisions are made, and then will heft his pack and earthbreaker and fall in step with the others.
Marcus stands to one side, staring impassively at the small man in the canary yellow cap. For a moment his gaze lingers on the pig, which elicits a raised eyebrow, but then he returns his attention to their immediate environs, letting the others engage their contact in conversation. The crowds on the dock swirl about them, voices call out orders and requests, the seagulls scream and the waves lap against the piers. It's bedlam, and the cacophony serves only to cause Marcus to frown and focus all the more fiercely on not letting down his guard.
The HMS Sarglagon Mortis was the first vessel of any kind that Marcus had ever sailed in, and it had been an obvious struggle for him to maintain his stiff dignity while marveling over the great ship's passage through the turbulent waters. It was clear that he had a dozen questions bottled in his throat, but he watched the sailors in silent fascination as they called out their cant and obeyed the captain's orders with alacrity. The pitching of the deck bothered him only on the first day, and thereafter he could be found at the bow, one large knuckled hand clasping a rope, enjoying each time the boat slammed into a wave and sent brine hissing up over the deck. His occasional bark of laughter could be heard when a particularly rough impact would cause him to almost lose his feet. At night, however, he mostly kept to himself; he sat in his bunk with a pair of spectacles perched on his broken nose, peering down through the wondrous gift at a children's spelling book, silently mouthing an endless series of A's and O's and other letters to himself with an almost mulish patience. For the most part he avoided the others in his group; some part of him found it hard to believe that they would maintain the same company for long, and thus he made no attempt to ingratiate himself with either the princess or the other men. He was polite at meal times, called everyone 'sir' regardless of whether they protested or not, and kept his opinions to himself. Now, off the ship and on the bustling Korvosa docks, he throws his backpack over one broad shoulder, not bothering with the strap, and brings up the rear, taking in the sights that only two months ago before Westcrown would have had him oggling like the rural peasant he is. After doing the rounds of the Chelish courts and fetes, however, he's able to maintain a stolid mask of indifference, as if, having seen one large city, he could now claim to have seen them all. All too aware of how dangerous such docks could be, both with pickpockets and muggers - he'd heard his share of tales at the old village tavern - he keeps a sharp eye out for anybody getting too close to his person, as well as projecting a disapproving scowl to aid in dissuading any overly friendly strangers from approaching. Let the others worry about finding their contact and entertaining the princess; he'd watch their rear and wait for his inevitable dismissal.
Hey everyone, glad to be on board, and thanks GM for the pick. One factor that should help ameliorate potential alignment conflicts is that Marcus is used to being a Chelaxian peasant, and all that entails. He expects nobility and those in power to be self serving and even cruel, and doesn't really believe that as a peasant his views will be given much weight. Thus I don't see him being too shocked if/when the other group members act in ways that don't align with his beliefs; his Chelaxian cultural conditioning means he's much more tolerant/numb to what might outrage other good-aligned PC's from different countries. While I'm looking forward to some good conflict-generated rp, if I ever foresee any real problems coming our way I'll bring my concerns to this Discussion thread so we can hash things out here first. (GM, if you have a moment could you create the Gameplay thread? That way I can dot and delete so as to be notified in my Campaigns tab when new posts are made to the Discussions thread. Thanks!)
Here he is.
Yeah, I'm thinking Marcus is going to stand out amongst this crowd like a sore thumb. I'm going to shelve him and maybe submit something more in line with the LE/slave owning/soul selling/power mongering vibe I see going on here.
I think the reason I haven't started trying to tie my back story to that of other submissions is due to a level of uncertainty as to who will make it. Should we go ahead and start integrating with other PCs, regardless of who might be picked? Either way, I'm happy to do so and will start reading to see where I can find synergies.
Introducing Marcus Clay, an obdurate farmer who was thrust into the limelight when he repelled a notorious bandit's attack on his village. Chasing the bandits back to their camp, he killed their leader and freed their captive, a young noblewoman who was being held for ransom. In doing so earned her profound gratitude, such that she dragged him back to her native city, and there feted and celebrated him as an example of the best of Cheliax's common folk. It's been a month now since he quietly insisted on withdrawing from the party circuit. With his farm destroyed by the bandit attack, he's unsure as to his next step. A premonition, however, tells him that fate may yet have further surprises in store for him. |