About Orren Idleveil
Before you sits a middle-aged man in a plain gray cloak, his staff resting on the bar beside him. A few strands of gray can be seen among his otherwise black hair, loosely secured behind his head. The stubble on his face is just beginning to show the signs of his age. He's pale for a Varisian, but his heritage is plain to see. His eyes-- bright, youthful orbs that betray his curiosity-- sparkle almost like liquid gold. But his most striking feature, perhaps, is the scar. It covers the left side of his face: a pale pattern of swirling, branching webs that, despite it's dramatic appearance, is somehow oddly pleasing to the eye.
He's a quiet, pensive man. Though he has a great desire for knowledge in all forms, along with a strong belief in the greater good and protecting those less fortunate. He's almost always reading a book, and is visibly excited at the prospect of discovering lost knowledge or recovering historical artifacts.
* Quiet and attentive, he tries to listen before he speaks.
"It all started with a card trick," he says, swirling the red wine in his glass with a wistful look on his face. "Nothing at all, really. Child's entertainment, at best. And yet, without my father's interest I would have never found my way here." He takes another sip, savoring the vintage in a stark contrast with the downtrodden tavern surrounding him. "Normally I wouldn't be telling this story to some fly-by-night Pathfinder, but since you were so kind as to pay for my drink..." He tilts his glass in appreciation and takes another sip, golden eyes somewhat dimmed by a long day of travel. "I was born in the shadow of a great city called Magnimar..."
Orren was born in the Lowcleft neighboorhood of Magnimar, under the imposing seacleft dividing the city. His father was a minstrel, a street performer among the eclectic acts of Lowcleft's streets. He was talented, to be sure. He could sing, dance, paint, even palm a coin and pull it out of your ear. He claimed to be part of a long line of powerful sorcerers whose pursuit of magic and knowledge rivaled even the great wizard Academae of Korvasa. However, his own magic was minor at best. Lowcleft was the perfect place for him. He was lowborn, but happy.
Orren's mother was something else entirely-- a traveling priestess of the strange Qadiran god Sarenrae, The Healing Flame. Her mission of peace brought her to Varisia, with all it's turbulence. She met Orren's father during one of his performances outside of his neighborhood at the docks. She was taken with him, and he with her, and a whirlwind romance then ensued.
"It was all classic romance," he states matter-of-factly, setting his wineglass down and motioning for the barkeep to pour another. "At least, that's what I was told. It didn't last forever though. I was born soon after they began. She moved in with my father, and they were happy together." He pauses, thoughtfully sipping the newly-filled glass. "She stayed in Magnimar as long as she could, but around my fourth year she was called back to Qadira. She had responsibilities to her church that could not be ignored, but she swore to return as soon as she could. Years, we waited. She wrote us letters, when she was able, though it was hard to send one in return with her travels. To this day I still don't know what's become of her... I can't even remember her face, in truth, just her fiery red halo of hair..."
Orren lived with his father, eventually following him to the streets and alleys to learn his skills and help earn money. That first card trick, seemingly so long ago even then, had instilled a sense of wonder within the young Orren. He became obsessed with magic, learning as much as he could by watching his father and others. He read every book he could get his hands on, absorbing information like a sponge, and talking with anyone in the melting pot of Magnimar's streets.
As he grew, Orren started to notice a change in his father, perhaps as old as his mother's departure, though Orren could only see it now. He seemed.. less colorful. As though he were always just about to come down with a cold. Orren felt it too, an aching feeling at the absence of his mother. Together, Orren and his father helped ease each other's pain as they waited for her return.
The waiting came to an abrupt end one day.
It was a seemingly average day in Lowcleft. The weather was comfortable, and crowds were generous. Life was good. Orren had gone with his father to work the avenues. That day, his father was running a card game. It was a fair operation, but his deft hands made for quite a challenge. One of the patrons-- a tall bald man with skin like ebony, and a distinctive crescent tattoo over one eye-- didn't take losing so well. He loudly accused Orren's father of being a cheat and a liar. His father vehemently maintained his innocence, refusing to give in to the bald man. Their argument grew heated, neither side budging, until the bald man decided to force Orren's father to see. He pulled his large hand back, mumbling something in a strange tongue as his eyes pulsed with light. Orren and his father realized too late that something was wrong. His father turned, trying to take Orren and run, but an arc of electricity shot from the man's hand, striking Orren's father directly as he shielded his son. Despite his efforts, some of the current made it through him and left burns on one side of Orren's face. His father, however, was not so lucky. His flesh was charred and split, and he fell to the ground a lifeless husk. The bald man simply laughed and walked away. Orren was left to bury his father and collect what he could from his apartment. He could not keep up with the rent on his own, and was quickly forced out with only what he could carry on his person. He wandered the streets of Magnimar; lost, dazed, confused, and broken. Orren wondered what would become of him. He begged for food, stole when he had to-- whatever was needed to survive.
Luckily for Orren, this terrible phase of his life didn't last long. After weeks of wandering, he found himself at the step of a temple he had never seen before. Above the entrance was a mask of black and white, split down the middle. Carvings on the walls depicted robed men repelling demons with light, angels raising up bearded scholars-- all manner of things. The sight called to Orren. He wandered inside and sat for a long time. Eventually, one of the priests spoke to him. He broke down, telling his story and letting out the pent-up emotions of the weeks since his father's death.
Orren has come to realize that he's not a normal person. His night vision is more similar to a dwarf's than that of a man, and he since uncovered an ability to create sunlight upon command-- though it's not often needed. His studies convinced him that somewhere in the past his line must have been touched by celestial beings, though he couldn't find much else. His father never mentioned anything of the sort, and Orren has no remaining family insofar as he knows.
"I couldn't tell you why they took me in. Probably they just pitied a young kid all on his own. Maybe they saw my potential, the ambition I could regain with something to focus on." He pauses, his face showing conflicting looks of hope and regret. "I suppose it doesn't really matter though. The rest is pretty self explanatory: Nethys raised me, and taught me all about magic. I grew up a faithful servant. Since then I've taken to learning all that I can about magic and all it's forms. And of course, making sure no one abuses the powers they've been gifted." An angry grimace crosses Orren's face, but quickly passes. "I still spend most of my time in Magnimar, but when I can I like to take walks, long walks. Sometimes Nethys sends me to find something specific, other times I just take myself until I find something worthwhile." Another sip of the wine, "Gives me a chance to spread a little good in this world too, y'know? Gods know it's dark enough as it is..." With that, he falls into silence, a thoughtful expression adorning his wrinkled features. You realize he didn't say exactly what brought him here to Sandpoint in the first place. Though it could be some historical artifact (you can't throw a stone in Varisia without hitting some ancient ruin). Maybe he's heard of the recent goblin trouble and wants to help. You're about to ask again, but by the look on Orren's face, he's lost deep in thought by now. Best not to disturb him.
Str 10 (0) Dex 12 (+1) Con 10 (0) Int 16 (+3) Wis 18 (+4) Cha 10 (+0)
BaB +0 CMB 0 CMD 11
AC 15 (+1 dex, +4 armor)
Feats: Cosmopolitan (Infernal/Celestial, Knowledges Nature/Local)
Spells per day:
Spells Commonly Prepared:
o = prepared
Favored Class: HP
Traits: Birthmark (Face scar, holy symbol)
60gp, 5sp, 2cp
65 lbs total (Med load)
future notes for me:
Pyxes of Redirected Focus? (swap domain spells, 1000gp)
improved counterspell? (greater?)*