The Professor nods along as the others speak, fingers twiddling.
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I'm still down. And don't feel bad, I know exactly what you mean. It's a crazy time to be alive.
Me too!
The Professor tries to back into the crowd, listening for scuttlebutt about what's going on.
The Professor just watches it all.
The Professor pauses but nods. "Any specific signals?"
Servius looks over everything with acute intent. He says nothing.
Flaccus scans the area, fingers fiddling while he murmurs.
Samesies.
Servius eyes the dead dog with curiosity.
The Professor creepily creeps to the gate.
Servius is going to try to go unnoticed.
Servius looks at the lock as he remembers worse smells.
The Professor quickly eyes the surroundings, and quietly slips in behind the gnome, hoping his scrawny frame would help him get through when a larger man would get stuck.
The Professor approaches silently, coughing a bit to ensure he is noticed as not late.
NYC public school teacher here. It has been wild.
Tap-tap. Clean. Tap-tap-tap. Clean. Tap-tap-tap. Clean. Tap-tap. Clean. The rhythms and rituals soothe the Professor. Few things ever do.
Servius is here to pick any lock, find and disable every device, and search every crevice. He has never killed before, but has daggers just in case. He is a man of details.
The smallish man with large spectacles methodically examines and counts his tools, muttering non-words as he counts and recounts.
Excited to play with you all, and to spend some time in this little creep's head.
This lot is prime to misbehave.
"Any official Paizo Pathfinder First Edition thing is fair game. No 3pp." I think he means what he said.
Background:
Servius was abandoned as a child by a mother he does not remember. He grew up on the streets, and was not initially suited to it at all. Scrawny, hesitant, weak, and neurotic to the bone, growing up was extremely unpleasant to say the least. Eventually some of the savvier street toughs realized the usefulness of a small, wiry, dextrous lackey. It turns out he was a natural with complex devices like locks and traps. This literally saved his life. As he got older he got more skilled and used the proceeds (a growing percentage of the take) to read up on various topics, especially alchemy, the magic he felt a worthless rat with a brain like him could do.
That's how he became the "independent contractor" known by those who've heard of them as "the Professor." Appearance and Personality:
Servius is a bit of a contradiction. His deep receding hairline, bulging eyes (made more grotesque by the powerful corrective lenses he wears), weak jaw, gawky-but-potbellied physique should all add up to a memorable man, even if for less-than-fortunate reasons.
But the mousy, nervous, tick-laden man barely registers an impact on anyone. His nickname came equally from his bookish nature and the fact that no one could remember his real name. He is flinchy, quiet, and used to abuse. He is also, deep down, extremely angry. Cimri: When Cimri enters, Servius is already seated, barely sipping on an ale while his wide eyes dart about the room as if he were one of the city's most wanted (in no way was he). She approached his table and said, "Professor?"
His eyes went to her with a jolt and a jump. He considered the question, a bit too long, but answered "Er, ah, yes. Ahem. Yes. I, uh, am. Him. That's me." As she detailed what the job would entail he took careful notes, erm-ing and ah-ing to himself at various points. This was far from his first job but this felt different. Less desperate orphans trying to survive and more of a professional crew, the sort he'd always dreamed of joining. Much of his awful life had led to this possibility of greatness. "So, you're a ..." Cimri searched for the words, without ever seeming to forget them. "Cracksman. Locks, traps, tight spots, detail work." It sounded as much like a mantra as it did a response. Cimri smiled.
Crunch all done. Typing up the good stuff next.
I need to do equipment and write up the backstory, but this is the basics of Digger/joerice's submission. A quiet, forgettable lock tumbler who grew up hard as a bookish, weak orphan. |