Marek pointedly eats his rations off the sparkling clean deck and bides his time for something to happen.
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Marek busies himself with ship's duties, hoping to fall back into the regular rhythm of day to day life at sea. He rigs what needs riggin', swabs what needs swabbin', and generally battens the battenable.
Marek nods approvingly and lets out a low whistle. "Not bad, lad. If yer 'alf as good at puttin' the pointy ends in the fleshy bits as ye are at manglin' this old oak, our enemies 'ave got another thing comin'."
Marek bides his time hurling knives at a homemade bullseye taken from the heart of an old tree, each ring both a year of the tree's life and an-ever-increasingly-difficult marker of ranged, end-over-end, piercing precision.
The gangplank creaks as Marek steps aboard in the procession, clutching his newly-purchased provisions. He nods in turn respectfully to each crew member as he or she is introduced and gives simply his name, sparing pleasantries whenever possible, keeping to himself so as to maintain perspective to better assess his surroundings.
Marek's hand is on his share a scant moment after the captain's hand leaves it, and he's already holding it up to his discerning eye before the sound of the captain's bootfalls on the floorboards quiets in the distance.
"I been sailin' and smugglin' since I was a wee lad, an' ain't nobody my equal up close an' personal nor twenty paces out neither with a blade. I'm able, ye'll soon see. Just wanted t'test th' waters an' see if'n there'd be room for... whuzzat? Upward mobility." He chews those last, unfamiliar words with great discomfort like a large piece of gristle. "But aye, I'll do as me cap'n wishes, same as any sailor worth his salt. So lead on, sir. I'm yer man."
"What jobs're available?" Marek asks, standing and stretching his limbs. His shoulders pop and his muscles ache from disuse. "Or is we each lowly deckhands? l'm sure all us bastards're eager to get to it, in any event.
Marek's end of the table is well-scored from his spontaneous rounds of Five Finger Fillet between savoring slow swigs of ale, swishing even the cheap swill around in his mouth reverently before swallowing, treating each sip as if it were his last. "Aye," he says matter-of-factly and perhaps louder than necessary, clunking down his empty mug next to a knife plunged at a 45° angle into the table. "I'm in."
Hmm, should probably also go for the musket so I have something with a relatively appreciable range.
Here's my submission, a human rogue. He'd fit in well with just about any crew as a first mate type or quartermaster. Do let me know if anything needs tweaking, but I took two presumed liberties for lack of further clarification:
Hoping to climb aboard!
May I present a rather unconventional choice for an Inquisitor? I figured dark times called for dark heroes, and it's pretty much the only campaign setting anyone could ever get away with playing a servant of Achaekek and almost sounding like they're one of the good guys. After all, "Achaekek was created as an agent of the gods, an enforcer of divine justice, specifically targeting all mortals who hoped to usurp the power of a god and achieve divinity." Sound like any world-shattering tyrants making the headlines recently? Err, let me know if that'll be a problem. I can definitely whip something else up in time. I'm a long-time (20 years, through countless systems) player, but this will admittedly be my first PbP. I'm a quick study -- promise! Appearance:
A stern-looking, leanly muscled man, Marek dresses practically (and wisely), giving no outward indication of his allegiance or ideology. He keeps his sandy hair close-cropped in a slightly grown-out military style, and often hides it beneath a wide-brimmed hat while traveling. Marek's strong features, high cheekbones, and cut jawline would almost make him a handsome man -- if not for the ugly scars along his left cheek, his prominent, aquiline nose, and the unmistakable glint of fanatacism in his eyes. He seems oddly comfortable in his chainmail armor, and his fingers are often unconsciously dangling above the hilts of the wickedly serrated swords hanging at either hip. Personality:
"These are dire times for Golarion. Where are your precious gods when we need them?" Make no mistake -- Marek is a fanatic; however, he is certainly wise enough to hide his beliefs unless he feels comfortable enough avoiding a pyre or hanging by divulging them. He views blind devotion as a disgusting weakness, and always insists people think their actions and convictions through. He is not an unkind man, and is fiercely loyal to those few he eventually calls friends. Marek is glib in the extreme, an unmatched public speaker, persuasive debator, and more than capable of delivering fiery speeches from any makeshift pulpit. In battle, he is a fearsome sight indeed, for all of his pent-up energy, frustration, and zealousness suddenly have a soft and yielding outlet. Background: Marek was orphaned at a relatively young age by circumstances he never learned, and it wasn't long before members of a minor Sczarni crime family in his native Varisia noticed the obvious talents the boy possessed while fending for himself on the streets. A man named Kastryn took a particular interest in young Marek and made him his protoge, teaching him everything he knew about using his silver tongue to get his way. Unfortunately for the boy, his new mentor was also a religious fanatic with the warped notion that the gods were collectively torturing and testing mortals, and responsible for every calamity that has befallen the world. Man was not meant to possess such power, and clearly those who have ascended to godhood (Aroden, Cayden Cailean, Iomedae, Norgorber) are ill-equipped to wisely wield such power. The gods once made a privision for this travesty: Achaekek, the Mantis-God, the Divine Assassin. Though Kastryn believed the gods were selfish in making anyone above demigod status beyond Achaekek's reach, he acknowledges the wisdom of having such a being in existence. Perhaps with enough devotion, the Mantis-God could even grow in power to keep the greater gods themselves in check. Marek learned, trained, prayed, and let his hatred for the world's organized religions fester in his heart. Golarion's repeated failures to save itself from the recent cataclysmic events only serve to reinforce the point that the gods have no sense of responsibility for their progeny and have abandoned us to our fates. If given the chance, Marek decided, he would gleefully expose worshipers and the gods themselves as the frauds and cowards they were. When the Sczarni families fell under heavy scrutiny, Marek fled with Kastryn to Ustalav -- and they were completely blindsided by the Whispering Tyrant's armies. Marek escaped with his mentor's body and a very tenuous grasp on his own life. As he tossed the last spadeful of turned earth onto Kastryn's grave, he vowed to fight Tar-Baphon's forces and bring the wrath of the divine assassin down upon the presumptuous mortal who dared to try to wrest godhood for himself. Marek was called from the front in Lastwall where he was throwing himself into battle after battle with the undead hordes when he was contacted by Knight-Commander Reinn in Andoran and summoned to the council meeting with the other PCs. |