Newton Marakov's page

DEFENSE
AC 19, touch 15, flat-footed 15 (+3 Dex, +4 natural, +2 size)
hp 4 (1d8)
Fort +2, Ref +5, Will +0
Immune mind-affecting effects
Improved Evasion

OFFENSE
Speed 30 ft.
Melee sting +6 (1d2–4 plus poison)
Space 2-1/2 ft.; Reach 0 ft.
Special Attacks poison

STATISTICS
Str 3, Dex 16, Con 10, Int 6, Wis 10, Cha 2
Base Atk +1; CMB +1; CMD 7 (19 vs. trip)
Feats Weapon Finesse Alertness
Skills Climb +7, Perception +7, Stealth +15; Racial Modifiers +4 Climb, +4 Perception, +4 Stealth

A greensting scorpion familiar grants a +4 bonus on Initiative checks so long as the familiar is within 1 mile of the spellcaster. A greensting scorpion familiar loses the mindless trait and has an Intelligence score appropriate for its master’s level.

Poison (Ex)

Sting—injury; save Fort DC 10; frequency 1/round for 6 rounds; effect sickened for 1 round; cure 1 save. The save DC is Constitution-based.

Laurence Marakov has the dual distinctions of standing in one of Brevoy's noble houses, and being an warrior of some renown. In his former adventuring days as the Fighter of the Five Knives Company, a small band of adventurers and opportunistic mercenaries, he specialized as a master of combat who perfected his art with the sword. Unfortunately, the days of the party were cut short when one member, the wizard Francesco Rossi, was slain - the group disbanded shortly after, heading their separate ways.

For Laurence, that was home, to Brevoy. He retired to New Stetven, married his childhood sweetheart, Mayra Lebeda a humble practioner of the arcane arts, invested in a few businesses, and settled for a life of research and theoretical arcane study. He managed a brisk trade training other adventuring parties that traveled through, and amassed an impressive private collection of weapons and armor from all parts of the world.

When Mayra announced that she was pregnant, Laurence was overcome with joy. He imagined himself rearing his son up to be a warrior as he was. He could already see the greatness that his son was destined for. When Newton was born Laurence had already planned his life out for him. As he grew Laurence slowly realized his son would be nothing like him. He was a frail, sickly boy, prone to catching every cough and sniffle that came around, and spending large amounts of his childhood bedridden and weak. Although there is nothing Newton could do about it he was a disappointment in his fathers eyes. He still wanted to learn, however, and Mayra spent many long days and nights at his son's bedside, schooling him in the ways of magic.

As Newton grew, his health remained consistently poor. He was a gangly youth, brittle-boned and dry-lipped, prone to illness and possessed of a persistent dry, hacking cough that shook his shoulders and scraped his throat. He was constantly bullied around his small town, the other young boys would throw things at him and generally make his life miserable. He would constantly hide from them trying to avoid their abuse. One day while he was playing outside casting minor incantations the boys surrounded him. They began to push him over and over again around the circle taunting him telling him to fight back. He hit the ground hard, the dust flying up as one of the boys stood directly above him. As the boy prepared to strike again Newton closed his eyes hard and wished to be somewhere else. As he flinched waiting for the impact he was puzzled when it didn't come. He opened his eyes and found himself on the roof of his house, a place he liked to go to think. Realizing his powers were developing he continued to practice.

As Newton entered his twelfth year with no sign of improvement, even from the priests and apothecaries Laurence and Mayra called in, the proud father became determined to take things into his own hands.

He withdrew.

Newton spent the next several years of his life, hunched over books or crouched in prayer. The wizard spoke little, engaging deep in his own research, delving into the study of conjuration. Somewhere, in these dusty tomes, was the answer - a way to transcend the limitations of his final form, to strengthen his bones and lungs with magic.

Marya fussed and flitted, worried that she was losing her boy to his fruitless research. Yet Newton's good memories of his father slowly faded, replaced with those of a distant, grave fellow who could barely stand the sight of his own son. He slowly grew and mastered his first spells - they weren't flashy, but they were effective, and held immense promise.

He was well into his twenties when his father approached him in the library - the first time he'd done so in years. "I've got an opportunity for you," he said, and for the first time in years he looked his son in the eyes, "There's an expedition heading into the Stolen Lands. I think it would do you good." He stood, squeezed his shoulder briefly, and went to the door. "It leaves in four days," he added, before leaving.

Newton found himself at the gates four days later, his pack slung over a thin shoulder, dressed in his patched robes and sturdiest boots. His spellbook was heavy at his hip, and a gnarled staff was clutched in his hand. After hugging his mother goodbye, he was surprised to see his father there, ready to see him off. And he had a parting gift - a tiny scorpion with a sleek black shell.

"It will help keep you safe," was the only explanation given. "It should help you out there, make me proud son" Having bestowed his odd gift, he was gone once more.

Placing the scorpion on his shoulder, Anton drew a deep, shaky breath, and took his first steps into the unknown.