Post by Arizae on Mar 5, 2011 4:09:48 GMT -5
(no picture yet, but the profile is complete; unless it is missing something I didn't catch, but his appearance is loosely based on this guy here)
Name: Count Khael Settic
Age: 43
Race: Human
Occupation: Count of The Tears of Leona (commonly called Count of Tears)
Allegiance: Broddring (a true follower of the Voyage)
Physical:
Personality, and History:
(I can make separate ones for physical and personality if you need it, but I hope you get a good feel for him through this here)
There was no peace in the night. A cold snap was moving through the city, and all but those that made the street their home had their doors sealed and their shutters drawn tight. Feeble poor huddled together in whatever scraps they possessed, fingers going from blue to black as the bite of frost halted the very blood in their veins. No native of The Tears of Leona was used to such weather, and the marble lined streets were a poor insulator to the winter wind that blasted through any crevice it came across. The great towers of the Cathedral stretched like malformed claws towards the bright clear sky like a great hand grasping for the moon itself. Below on its great steps beggars and cripples crowded together, voices long gone hoarse from crying for shelter within their church. Shivering uncontrollably a gnarled old man hunched his shoulders against the wind and gazed with cloudy eyes to the estate neighboring the great cathedral. For a moment he forgot the pain in his freezing limbs, and wondered why for all Nine Moons that man up there was leaning out a window from such a height…and on such a night.
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“By the Grace of Nyx why is the oracle not here?”
A shriek rang through the air as servants dashed about the room in a hurried frenzy. Despite the seemingly chaotic nature to their movements they never ran into each other and went about their duties in seamless fashion. Even at this late hour they were dressed in their fine livery of black and silver, the fox head of the house they served embroidered prominently on the right breast of their tunics. Again that same cry of pain rang out and the servants flinched in their movements. One nearly bumped into the still figure hunched over the window. She deftly sidestepped the tall man and with a sigh of relief carried the bundle of sweat soaked sheets quickly from the room.
Body bent the man clenched the window sill for a brief moment, knuckles going white. With a sigh of his own he brought his fingers through the thick mop of black hair on his head. A bad habit his mother had always said and that memory made him grind his teeth once more. Turning from the window he surveyed the chaotic order to the room in front of him and found himself feeling tired by the simple rush of it all. He did not want to feel aged or old, he had too much to do, but even now there was white hair at his temples. This night would age him for sure, and as another wail was released his face became contorted as if he felt the pain himself. A servant appeared at his elbow, she was not so short for a woman, but his height made it so she had to look up to catch his eye.
“Sir Khael?” She inquired meekly, doing her best not to stare at him and keep the tray she held from shaking. He did not answer; those deep gray eyes were busy boring a hole through the opposite wall. So she coughed, and spoke up just a bit more, “Sir Khael, something to drink?” This time she offered the silver tray which held a single cup filled with a warm cup of spiced wine and lightly touched his elbow. The man flinched, nearly jumping from his skin as his eyes turned to glare at the young serving girl. She wheeled back, barely avoiding spilling the drink. “What?!?” he intoned in a barking voice that brought all the servants to a halt mid step. They nervously glanced in his direction, and then quickly went about their business as they worked around the bed of the groaning old man. The girl swallowed, keeping her eyes downcast, the anger and frustration in those grey eyes was frightening in the best of times. “S-s-something, to d-drink sir?” she quickly stammered, the glass shaking on its perch as her hand wobbled.
Khael looked down at the cup, adorned by his family’s seal, and silver to its core, decorated with black pearl and a cut of black sapphire shaped into a fox head with glittering diamonds for eyes. He grimaced; angry at such a waste, but he took hold of the glass if just to keep it from spilling onto the thick carpet underfoot. The servant gave a quick curtsy and backed away as fast as could while still remaining polite. Such a cup was a trinket of his father’s…his knuckles went white as he nearly crushed the soft silver. Look at what affluence and greed had done for the man. Nothing. Absolutely nothing as his father’s wasted body writhed in pain, drenched in a cold sweat, and tangled in sheets that would be his deathbed. And all Khael could feel was frustration and disappointment in the man that helped give him life.
Drinking deeply from the cup Khael rested back on the window, mind dulled to the pain of the biting wind as he watched his father wither away in tormented screams. Let the freezing air in to try and cool the dying man, perhaps bring him some comfort as he passed from this world into the care of Nyx. But would she be there for him? This man that had been so twisted by the beliefs Palancar had brought to this once glorious and righteous city? The war was not the greatest of that mad King’s transgressions against this world. Khael could feel anger bubbling up from his gut, and tried to wrestle it back down. He must strive for calm; serenity…such was the way of the Four Essence’s, if he was truly to follow the Voyage and teachings of Nyx he must strive for that peace and balance. But at this moment he was overwhelmed by anger. He did not care what weather stormed outside, an Oracle should have been able to come for the Count of The Tears.
Why had his mother been forced to marry this fool? She had called it a necessity for peace to remain within the city and to keep the King away from seizing control. Khael trusted his mother, Nyx rest her soul, but sometimes he did not understand. She had taught him everything he knew from a young age. Tutoring him in the way of the Voyage. She had practiced the four essences, and in his mind, had achieved what all strived for in his belief. Calm, peaceful and loving, she had been Nyx to him in this life. Why was she wrenched away from him? He could feel the pain in his chest at her memory. She had cried the day he went off to fight the King’s war. Such a foolish thing…but he had been young and glory had called his name. He had not known that he would never see her face again. But she had given him his foundation, and he would master health of body, emotions, mind and spirit. Her teachings were true, what King Palancar had done was…unforgivable. And his father had gone right along with it.
Even now he remembered coming home for short visits during those long decades of service. Coming back to this estate as his father spent coin lavishly on parties and drink…while the nation was at war! Believing he was achieving the Four Essences. Blasphemy is what it was, and his father had helped spread such a perverted belief. Had tarnished the true Voyage the moment his mother had passed. His father had been a model for the new ways, saying he improved body by dressing in finest silk and eating the rarest dishes. Thinking he had conquered mind and emotions by having a new mistress every new moon. Filling every one of his weak filthy greedy desires. Ignoring the great spirit and wasting away as the parties kept coming.
Khael had been powerless, and had served the entirety of that war. Even now he shivered at the thought of what he had seen and done. It was nothing to be proud of and he was embittered by the experience. He had never been listened to, only ordered by that fool king and led into disaster. Despite all the technological advances the empire had been reduced to filth by a mad king’s desire. And what had those filthy bloody riders been up to? Nyx damn them all to nine hells! They could have stopped it at anytime! They had done nothing, and to his eye that was worse than King Palancar...mad as he was, he had fought what he believed in. Those cursed dragons and riders had sat safely in their towers and looked on while the world bled.
Now he stood at the foot of his father’s death bed, wondering if the title Count of The Tears held any weight at all. His father had let the Cathedral run everything, it wasn’t right. Eventually his city would fall, it was headed towards ruin…Khael wasn’t sure how he knew of it…but something in his gut told him this place had to change, needed a true Count in this day and age.
Now the greatest insult was come. His father’s deathbed had kept him from a very important journey to Castle Carvala. He was missing the night of the Renaissance. His dear old man should be seeing to events within his city, while Khael was free to do business with those that truly ran the world at the capital. Grinding his teeth he flinched as he felt a sharp pain in the palm of his hand. Warmth spread through his fingers as fresh blood trickled down his fingers. And then an ear piercing cry pained his very skull, the final scream of a dead man thrashing from violent disease in his blood. Shuddering gasps, frantic servants, and the final sigh of a deep sleep from which one would never wake.
So it had come. Khael looked at the cup that lay crumpled in his hand and noted the sharp point of the fox’s ear that had torn his skin. He wrenched the unscathed black sapphire free, and then tossed the empty cup aside like the filth it was. All the servants were staring at him, waiting with bated breath to see his next move. Yet he peered at that black fox head pendant, and knew it as the precious family heirloom passed down his mother’s side. Why had his father put it on a cup used for guests? Khael could feel fate weaving its way around him; his father had passed his family’s honor to any guest that came through those gates. Clenching his bloody fist around the fox head Khael went to his dead father’s side.
Peering down at the empty husk of a man his body shook in anger, and then became very still. In that moment he felt peace and serenity, and felt pity for the wasted form before him. Gently he raised his unbloodied hand and closed his father’s lids, then slowly bent to kiss the old man’s wrinkled forehead. With soft movements he took his father’s hand and removed the signet ring of their house. Then, with a reverent air he placed the ring on his own finger and turned once more to look at his father, oblivious to the servants surrounding him.
“May Nyx guide you on the Voyage father, and may you know peace in death that you could not obtain in life. I shall restore honor to the name of Settic and to this city. Let the false prophets fear the fox, for he shall come to reclaim what is his.”
With that he walked calmly from the room. The servants looked on in wonder, whispering the name of Count Khael Settic as the wind grew silent and dawn broke in the east.
Roleplaying Sample: There were rumors on his streets; something new was entering the game. No longer were the lines clearly defined as Varden and Empire…no, now there were whispers of a hidden third party. Their recent actions were hurting his business. It was frustrating to a certain degree, and yet refreshing to have something new to work on. When he first returned to Dras-Leona from the wild there had been much to do. At times there were silent killings to take part in, but more importantly there was information to gain. Duren’s sharp ears and shrewd mind had helped him succeed within the slaving world. Knowing more than your enemy always put you ahead, especially in the business world. It had taken a good amount of work in the streets but the half-elf was no in charge of most of the slaving operations in Dras-Leona. Which was saying something to be sure. He simply had the ears and anonymity it called for. It helped that he knew the city better than anyone. If there was a secret way through he knew of it, if there was a pub to be trusted…he would be there. Anyone that did not agree with his ‘business’ was quickly found and destroyed. By a quick slit of the throat, or Duren’s preferred method of blackmail. After several years of this work he had built a base of operations, everything ran smoothly and money was easy to make. Now there were whispers of disease and famine and Duren had to prepare before it hit his people.
First Duren had to secure a steady food supply. This was usually an overlooked fact. Slaves needed food, they should be healthy. That helped you build a good rep with the customer and a healthy slave always fetched a higher price. Some were scared that a strong healthy slave was a dangerous one…but Duren had his ways of suppression…and not one in his control dared cross him. Examples were easy to make and the half-elf was not above some of the more cruel tactics. Listen and you got food and cuffs that didn’t. Disobey and Duren would personally see to your personal hell. So now he had to make sure he had food for his slaves, keep the disease away from them. Once he kept the business remained strong it would flourish from the influx of farmers losing everything. Desperate people needed desperate measures to stay alive. A withered farm meant a need for a new occupation…new jobs were not so easy to find. The more the half-elf thought of it the more he knew he could benefit from this famine. He just hated having a variable out of his control, and if it went on too long…well his business would suffer. After all, many slaves were used on the larger farms by rich lords. If his products started dying off it would hurt as well. There was only so long he could warp this situation, and then he would be struggling along with the rest of the world. Duren had spent his time at the bottom, he was not going back. He would come out on top, whether the Varden, Empire, or this third party one out in the end. The young man smiled, a wicked grin creasing his face. Already he was on the inside of these operations. A party was coming up and he would be attending…with a group of both Varden and Empire looking to learn more on this other player. What competition could say the same?
Suddenly from the sky there came a hawk’s cry, to the untrained ear it was just any other hawk, but to Duren it was the voice of a friend. Ril had returned. Though he could not see her Duren knew her voice, the sound of her wings in the air, and he was glad of her presence. As she swept down he could hear the wind rush over her feathers, she called out again, not flying as a high this time. Before she had greeted him, now she was letting him know she was landing. He smiled softly, the one creature he could tolerate any time of the day was Ril. The sound of her wings grew greater as she broke into a dive, Duren could hear her rushing towards his head, and then she flared her wings like a parachute. For a moment she hovered, and then Ril gently landed on his left shoulder. That was her spot; Duren kept a leather pad on his shoulder to keep her sharp talons from digging into his skin. He also preferred to carry his staff in his left hand, this way he could easily give her scraps with his right. Already he had a bit of dried dear meat in hand and was offering it to her. Ril took it gently from him and went about tearing at it. Duren was able to walk smoothly so as not to upset the bird, and she was used to his movements so that she could balance easily. It was easy for them to live together even in the crowded streets of Dras-Leona.
For today the blind slavemaster was working on business. That started with a customary walk through some back alleys and busier streets. Listening for anything new and visiting certain informants spread throughout the city. Lately the third party attacking the Varden had not been Duren’s only worry. There was a new noble. A young upstart that decided he had morals. Hah! Morals in Dras-Leona, the thought was hilarious. Young Lord Tabot was trying to do away with slavery. Naturally all the older more experienced nobles kept their distance, they knew well enough that the slavers took care of them, and they needed to take care of the slavers. This…Tabot would learn the errors of his way. That or he would made an example. Everyone would be reminded again…it was no noble that ran Dras-Leona. Duren had not decided yet. The situation might yet be rectified and Tabot may be allowed to live, but the blind man simply didn’t know yet. He needed more information…so he took a walk. Today he was dressed normally. Which to Duren meant looking like a street beggar or some thief. Ragged brown cloak, stained from years of wear, worn leather boots and many pouches for holding numerous trinkets. Of course it was the only the cloak anyone saw. Duren kept himself bent over, the cowl dropping low over his face. His eyes were hidden, only the mess of black hair peeking out. He leaned heavily on the tall crooked staff, knowing just where to place his hand to avoid slivers. He was another regular on the street. Not a one would know the beggar prince was listening n on their conversations.
Unfortunately the day was getting increasingly warm and the streets were not as full as he had hoped they would be. Perhaps it was time to…and then he heard an excited shout. No special hearing was needed now. A pub was offering free beer. Was the owner crazy? He would be drunk out of house and home. Now who could be…and then he heard the name of this inn, Cutthroat’s. Duren knew it well…after all…those running that place was not normal. That and they were customers of prostitutes and other ilk. A very good place for doing business. It had been awhile since he had visited the saloon personally, but now seemed like an interesting time to do so. Duren knew the owner of the saloon, a Mr. Kieran Kolbjorn. He suspected the man was elf, he smelled like one, and there was no doubt in his mind that the man’s nephew was as well. As a matter of fact…Kieran might even know that Duren had elven blood. Elves were quite skilled at picking out their own kind. Well, if there was one thing Duren knew of Kieran it was that he loved his money. Always a stickler when trying to strike a deal…ah but this would be fun to see. Ol’ Kolbjorn losing precious money. Wonder what that Myrmidon Company would think of that…oh yes yet another thorn in his side. The monstrosity that was Myrmidon. Doing business with them was essential, but it could be frustrating. Darn Company thought they could control everything. Oh Duren had shown them, at least here in Dras-Leona with his own trade. They knew him and he knew them all too well. Who knows…they could be funding Tabot just trying to run him out of business. Then they would take over his operation, it wasn’t like the fools hadn’t tried before. Yes, he would head to Cutthroat’s.
He could hear the roar of the crowd from a great distance. At first the cries of happy drunks reached his ears, and then cries of fury. Ha! So Kieran had come home to an out of control inn. Duren would bet money Helaku had messed up. Even now angry customers were streaming past him, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breath. Poor Kolbjorn had not gotten there in nearly enough time. Duren was starting to doubt he would get anything decent to drink at the saloon. Eventually as he drew closer to the saloon the crowd died away and everything became deadly silent. So all the customers had been chased away. Angry at having free drinks refused…the situation was hilarious and Duren could not help but smirk. If this was the way the Myrmidon Company was run these days he would have little to fear from them. The familiar smell of alchohol hung in the air, fresh vomit was not far away, and the sweat from so many bodies in such a tight place remained in the stale air. The sound of footsteps further down the street was one of the few things to be heard, just within the door Duren could hear the crashing of some tankards, most likely cleaning up after the mess. Besides that, it was silent. The Cutthroat saloon was vacant now after the disappointment and anger.
Duren gingerly raised his right hand and opened to door. The familiar bell chimed loudly, making Ril ruffle her feathers in annoyance, and marking his entrance in a very annoying and bothersome way. Though Duren was able to dull his hearing loud noises did still bother him. Had e not been able to lessen his hearing slightly at times he would have surely gone deaf. And that would have been the death of him. Kieran was breathing some heavy sighs over at a table. This was easy enough to figure out by the placement of the sound. The half-elf didn’t bother to walk quietly, the bell had already announced his presence, but he was kind enough not to bang his staff onto the ground every time he stepped. He approached Kieran, for it had to be the owner. The sighs of distress and emptiness of the bar were clear signs of that. Besides, Duren had met the man before and he never forgot the sound of an individual’s breath, or more importantly their distinct smell. When he was approximately a step or two away from Kieran he stopped. Slowly he lowered the cowl covering his face, letting his useless eyes gaze at the man’s back. It took a second, but then Kieran finally spoke a few words. They sounded heavy, and there was bitterness in their tone, but that only made Duren smirk. The misfortune of others was most often his profit these days. Kieran was so depressed he did not even stand, didn’t care to look at his new customer. It was an amusing situation to say the least.
“Come now, not even a discount for one that can get you pretty ladies for the pigs that come here? And from the smell of things you might have to start pissing whiskey to make any crowns…”
Name: Count Khael Settic
Age: 43
Race: Human
Occupation: Count of The Tears of Leona (commonly called Count of Tears)
Allegiance: Broddring (a true follower of the Voyage)
Physical:
-Dark grey eyes
-Black hair, greyish white wisps at his temples
-Taller than most men as well as broad shouldered
-Well muscled and decent with a blade
-Very slight limp from a wound suffered during the war
-(better description below, this is a quick reference)
Personality, and History:
(I can make separate ones for physical and personality if you need it, but I hope you get a good feel for him through this here)
There was no peace in the night. A cold snap was moving through the city, and all but those that made the street their home had their doors sealed and their shutters drawn tight. Feeble poor huddled together in whatever scraps they possessed, fingers going from blue to black as the bite of frost halted the very blood in their veins. No native of The Tears of Leona was used to such weather, and the marble lined streets were a poor insulator to the winter wind that blasted through any crevice it came across. The great towers of the Cathedral stretched like malformed claws towards the bright clear sky like a great hand grasping for the moon itself. Below on its great steps beggars and cripples crowded together, voices long gone hoarse from crying for shelter within their church. Shivering uncontrollably a gnarled old man hunched his shoulders against the wind and gazed with cloudy eyes to the estate neighboring the great cathedral. For a moment he forgot the pain in his freezing limbs, and wondered why for all Nine Moons that man up there was leaning out a window from such a height…and on such a night.
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“By the Grace of Nyx why is the oracle not here?”
A shriek rang through the air as servants dashed about the room in a hurried frenzy. Despite the seemingly chaotic nature to their movements they never ran into each other and went about their duties in seamless fashion. Even at this late hour they were dressed in their fine livery of black and silver, the fox head of the house they served embroidered prominently on the right breast of their tunics. Again that same cry of pain rang out and the servants flinched in their movements. One nearly bumped into the still figure hunched over the window. She deftly sidestepped the tall man and with a sigh of relief carried the bundle of sweat soaked sheets quickly from the room.
Body bent the man clenched the window sill for a brief moment, knuckles going white. With a sigh of his own he brought his fingers through the thick mop of black hair on his head. A bad habit his mother had always said and that memory made him grind his teeth once more. Turning from the window he surveyed the chaotic order to the room in front of him and found himself feeling tired by the simple rush of it all. He did not want to feel aged or old, he had too much to do, but even now there was white hair at his temples. This night would age him for sure, and as another wail was released his face became contorted as if he felt the pain himself. A servant appeared at his elbow, she was not so short for a woman, but his height made it so she had to look up to catch his eye.
“Sir Khael?” She inquired meekly, doing her best not to stare at him and keep the tray she held from shaking. He did not answer; those deep gray eyes were busy boring a hole through the opposite wall. So she coughed, and spoke up just a bit more, “Sir Khael, something to drink?” This time she offered the silver tray which held a single cup filled with a warm cup of spiced wine and lightly touched his elbow. The man flinched, nearly jumping from his skin as his eyes turned to glare at the young serving girl. She wheeled back, barely avoiding spilling the drink. “What?!?” he intoned in a barking voice that brought all the servants to a halt mid step. They nervously glanced in his direction, and then quickly went about their business as they worked around the bed of the groaning old man. The girl swallowed, keeping her eyes downcast, the anger and frustration in those grey eyes was frightening in the best of times. “S-s-something, to d-drink sir?” she quickly stammered, the glass shaking on its perch as her hand wobbled.
Khael looked down at the cup, adorned by his family’s seal, and silver to its core, decorated with black pearl and a cut of black sapphire shaped into a fox head with glittering diamonds for eyes. He grimaced; angry at such a waste, but he took hold of the glass if just to keep it from spilling onto the thick carpet underfoot. The servant gave a quick curtsy and backed away as fast as could while still remaining polite. Such a cup was a trinket of his father’s…his knuckles went white as he nearly crushed the soft silver. Look at what affluence and greed had done for the man. Nothing. Absolutely nothing as his father’s wasted body writhed in pain, drenched in a cold sweat, and tangled in sheets that would be his deathbed. And all Khael could feel was frustration and disappointment in the man that helped give him life.
Drinking deeply from the cup Khael rested back on the window, mind dulled to the pain of the biting wind as he watched his father wither away in tormented screams. Let the freezing air in to try and cool the dying man, perhaps bring him some comfort as he passed from this world into the care of Nyx. But would she be there for him? This man that had been so twisted by the beliefs Palancar had brought to this once glorious and righteous city? The war was not the greatest of that mad King’s transgressions against this world. Khael could feel anger bubbling up from his gut, and tried to wrestle it back down. He must strive for calm; serenity…such was the way of the Four Essence’s, if he was truly to follow the Voyage and teachings of Nyx he must strive for that peace and balance. But at this moment he was overwhelmed by anger. He did not care what weather stormed outside, an Oracle should have been able to come for the Count of The Tears.
Why had his mother been forced to marry this fool? She had called it a necessity for peace to remain within the city and to keep the King away from seizing control. Khael trusted his mother, Nyx rest her soul, but sometimes he did not understand. She had taught him everything he knew from a young age. Tutoring him in the way of the Voyage. She had practiced the four essences, and in his mind, had achieved what all strived for in his belief. Calm, peaceful and loving, she had been Nyx to him in this life. Why was she wrenched away from him? He could feel the pain in his chest at her memory. She had cried the day he went off to fight the King’s war. Such a foolish thing…but he had been young and glory had called his name. He had not known that he would never see her face again. But she had given him his foundation, and he would master health of body, emotions, mind and spirit. Her teachings were true, what King Palancar had done was…unforgivable. And his father had gone right along with it.
Even now he remembered coming home for short visits during those long decades of service. Coming back to this estate as his father spent coin lavishly on parties and drink…while the nation was at war! Believing he was achieving the Four Essences. Blasphemy is what it was, and his father had helped spread such a perverted belief. Had tarnished the true Voyage the moment his mother had passed. His father had been a model for the new ways, saying he improved body by dressing in finest silk and eating the rarest dishes. Thinking he had conquered mind and emotions by having a new mistress every new moon. Filling every one of his weak filthy greedy desires. Ignoring the great spirit and wasting away as the parties kept coming.
Khael had been powerless, and had served the entirety of that war. Even now he shivered at the thought of what he had seen and done. It was nothing to be proud of and he was embittered by the experience. He had never been listened to, only ordered by that fool king and led into disaster. Despite all the technological advances the empire had been reduced to filth by a mad king’s desire. And what had those filthy bloody riders been up to? Nyx damn them all to nine hells! They could have stopped it at anytime! They had done nothing, and to his eye that was worse than King Palancar...mad as he was, he had fought what he believed in. Those cursed dragons and riders had sat safely in their towers and looked on while the world bled.
Now he stood at the foot of his father’s death bed, wondering if the title Count of The Tears held any weight at all. His father had let the Cathedral run everything, it wasn’t right. Eventually his city would fall, it was headed towards ruin…Khael wasn’t sure how he knew of it…but something in his gut told him this place had to change, needed a true Count in this day and age.
Now the greatest insult was come. His father’s deathbed had kept him from a very important journey to Castle Carvala. He was missing the night of the Renaissance. His dear old man should be seeing to events within his city, while Khael was free to do business with those that truly ran the world at the capital. Grinding his teeth he flinched as he felt a sharp pain in the palm of his hand. Warmth spread through his fingers as fresh blood trickled down his fingers. And then an ear piercing cry pained his very skull, the final scream of a dead man thrashing from violent disease in his blood. Shuddering gasps, frantic servants, and the final sigh of a deep sleep from which one would never wake.
So it had come. Khael looked at the cup that lay crumpled in his hand and noted the sharp point of the fox’s ear that had torn his skin. He wrenched the unscathed black sapphire free, and then tossed the empty cup aside like the filth it was. All the servants were staring at him, waiting with bated breath to see his next move. Yet he peered at that black fox head pendant, and knew it as the precious family heirloom passed down his mother’s side. Why had his father put it on a cup used for guests? Khael could feel fate weaving its way around him; his father had passed his family’s honor to any guest that came through those gates. Clenching his bloody fist around the fox head Khael went to his dead father’s side.
Peering down at the empty husk of a man his body shook in anger, and then became very still. In that moment he felt peace and serenity, and felt pity for the wasted form before him. Gently he raised his unbloodied hand and closed his father’s lids, then slowly bent to kiss the old man’s wrinkled forehead. With soft movements he took his father’s hand and removed the signet ring of their house. Then, with a reverent air he placed the ring on his own finger and turned once more to look at his father, oblivious to the servants surrounding him.
“May Nyx guide you on the Voyage father, and may you know peace in death that you could not obtain in life. I shall restore honor to the name of Settic and to this city. Let the false prophets fear the fox, for he shall come to reclaim what is his.”
With that he walked calmly from the room. The servants looked on in wonder, whispering the name of Count Khael Settic as the wind grew silent and dawn broke in the east.
Roleplaying Sample: There were rumors on his streets; something new was entering the game. No longer were the lines clearly defined as Varden and Empire…no, now there were whispers of a hidden third party. Their recent actions were hurting his business. It was frustrating to a certain degree, and yet refreshing to have something new to work on. When he first returned to Dras-Leona from the wild there had been much to do. At times there were silent killings to take part in, but more importantly there was information to gain. Duren’s sharp ears and shrewd mind had helped him succeed within the slaving world. Knowing more than your enemy always put you ahead, especially in the business world. It had taken a good amount of work in the streets but the half-elf was no in charge of most of the slaving operations in Dras-Leona. Which was saying something to be sure. He simply had the ears and anonymity it called for. It helped that he knew the city better than anyone. If there was a secret way through he knew of it, if there was a pub to be trusted…he would be there. Anyone that did not agree with his ‘business’ was quickly found and destroyed. By a quick slit of the throat, or Duren’s preferred method of blackmail. After several years of this work he had built a base of operations, everything ran smoothly and money was easy to make. Now there were whispers of disease and famine and Duren had to prepare before it hit his people.
First Duren had to secure a steady food supply. This was usually an overlooked fact. Slaves needed food, they should be healthy. That helped you build a good rep with the customer and a healthy slave always fetched a higher price. Some were scared that a strong healthy slave was a dangerous one…but Duren had his ways of suppression…and not one in his control dared cross him. Examples were easy to make and the half-elf was not above some of the more cruel tactics. Listen and you got food and cuffs that didn’t. Disobey and Duren would personally see to your personal hell. So now he had to make sure he had food for his slaves, keep the disease away from them. Once he kept the business remained strong it would flourish from the influx of farmers losing everything. Desperate people needed desperate measures to stay alive. A withered farm meant a need for a new occupation…new jobs were not so easy to find. The more the half-elf thought of it the more he knew he could benefit from this famine. He just hated having a variable out of his control, and if it went on too long…well his business would suffer. After all, many slaves were used on the larger farms by rich lords. If his products started dying off it would hurt as well. There was only so long he could warp this situation, and then he would be struggling along with the rest of the world. Duren had spent his time at the bottom, he was not going back. He would come out on top, whether the Varden, Empire, or this third party one out in the end. The young man smiled, a wicked grin creasing his face. Already he was on the inside of these operations. A party was coming up and he would be attending…with a group of both Varden and Empire looking to learn more on this other player. What competition could say the same?
Suddenly from the sky there came a hawk’s cry, to the untrained ear it was just any other hawk, but to Duren it was the voice of a friend. Ril had returned. Though he could not see her Duren knew her voice, the sound of her wings in the air, and he was glad of her presence. As she swept down he could hear the wind rush over her feathers, she called out again, not flying as a high this time. Before she had greeted him, now she was letting him know she was landing. He smiled softly, the one creature he could tolerate any time of the day was Ril. The sound of her wings grew greater as she broke into a dive, Duren could hear her rushing towards his head, and then she flared her wings like a parachute. For a moment she hovered, and then Ril gently landed on his left shoulder. That was her spot; Duren kept a leather pad on his shoulder to keep her sharp talons from digging into his skin. He also preferred to carry his staff in his left hand, this way he could easily give her scraps with his right. Already he had a bit of dried dear meat in hand and was offering it to her. Ril took it gently from him and went about tearing at it. Duren was able to walk smoothly so as not to upset the bird, and she was used to his movements so that she could balance easily. It was easy for them to live together even in the crowded streets of Dras-Leona.
For today the blind slavemaster was working on business. That started with a customary walk through some back alleys and busier streets. Listening for anything new and visiting certain informants spread throughout the city. Lately the third party attacking the Varden had not been Duren’s only worry. There was a new noble. A young upstart that decided he had morals. Hah! Morals in Dras-Leona, the thought was hilarious. Young Lord Tabot was trying to do away with slavery. Naturally all the older more experienced nobles kept their distance, they knew well enough that the slavers took care of them, and they needed to take care of the slavers. This…Tabot would learn the errors of his way. That or he would made an example. Everyone would be reminded again…it was no noble that ran Dras-Leona. Duren had not decided yet. The situation might yet be rectified and Tabot may be allowed to live, but the blind man simply didn’t know yet. He needed more information…so he took a walk. Today he was dressed normally. Which to Duren meant looking like a street beggar or some thief. Ragged brown cloak, stained from years of wear, worn leather boots and many pouches for holding numerous trinkets. Of course it was the only the cloak anyone saw. Duren kept himself bent over, the cowl dropping low over his face. His eyes were hidden, only the mess of black hair peeking out. He leaned heavily on the tall crooked staff, knowing just where to place his hand to avoid slivers. He was another regular on the street. Not a one would know the beggar prince was listening n on their conversations.
Unfortunately the day was getting increasingly warm and the streets were not as full as he had hoped they would be. Perhaps it was time to…and then he heard an excited shout. No special hearing was needed now. A pub was offering free beer. Was the owner crazy? He would be drunk out of house and home. Now who could be…and then he heard the name of this inn, Cutthroat’s. Duren knew it well…after all…those running that place was not normal. That and they were customers of prostitutes and other ilk. A very good place for doing business. It had been awhile since he had visited the saloon personally, but now seemed like an interesting time to do so. Duren knew the owner of the saloon, a Mr. Kieran Kolbjorn. He suspected the man was elf, he smelled like one, and there was no doubt in his mind that the man’s nephew was as well. As a matter of fact…Kieran might even know that Duren had elven blood. Elves were quite skilled at picking out their own kind. Well, if there was one thing Duren knew of Kieran it was that he loved his money. Always a stickler when trying to strike a deal…ah but this would be fun to see. Ol’ Kolbjorn losing precious money. Wonder what that Myrmidon Company would think of that…oh yes yet another thorn in his side. The monstrosity that was Myrmidon. Doing business with them was essential, but it could be frustrating. Darn Company thought they could control everything. Oh Duren had shown them, at least here in Dras-Leona with his own trade. They knew him and he knew them all too well. Who knows…they could be funding Tabot just trying to run him out of business. Then they would take over his operation, it wasn’t like the fools hadn’t tried before. Yes, he would head to Cutthroat’s.
He could hear the roar of the crowd from a great distance. At first the cries of happy drunks reached his ears, and then cries of fury. Ha! So Kieran had come home to an out of control inn. Duren would bet money Helaku had messed up. Even now angry customers were streaming past him, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breath. Poor Kolbjorn had not gotten there in nearly enough time. Duren was starting to doubt he would get anything decent to drink at the saloon. Eventually as he drew closer to the saloon the crowd died away and everything became deadly silent. So all the customers had been chased away. Angry at having free drinks refused…the situation was hilarious and Duren could not help but smirk. If this was the way the Myrmidon Company was run these days he would have little to fear from them. The familiar smell of alchohol hung in the air, fresh vomit was not far away, and the sweat from so many bodies in such a tight place remained in the stale air. The sound of footsteps further down the street was one of the few things to be heard, just within the door Duren could hear the crashing of some tankards, most likely cleaning up after the mess. Besides that, it was silent. The Cutthroat saloon was vacant now after the disappointment and anger.
Duren gingerly raised his right hand and opened to door. The familiar bell chimed loudly, making Ril ruffle her feathers in annoyance, and marking his entrance in a very annoying and bothersome way. Though Duren was able to dull his hearing loud noises did still bother him. Had e not been able to lessen his hearing slightly at times he would have surely gone deaf. And that would have been the death of him. Kieran was breathing some heavy sighs over at a table. This was easy enough to figure out by the placement of the sound. The half-elf didn’t bother to walk quietly, the bell had already announced his presence, but he was kind enough not to bang his staff onto the ground every time he stepped. He approached Kieran, for it had to be the owner. The sighs of distress and emptiness of the bar were clear signs of that. Besides, Duren had met the man before and he never forgot the sound of an individual’s breath, or more importantly their distinct smell. When he was approximately a step or two away from Kieran he stopped. Slowly he lowered the cowl covering his face, letting his useless eyes gaze at the man’s back. It took a second, but then Kieran finally spoke a few words. They sounded heavy, and there was bitterness in their tone, but that only made Duren smirk. The misfortune of others was most often his profit these days. Kieran was so depressed he did not even stand, didn’t care to look at his new customer. It was an amusing situation to say the least.
“Come now, not even a discount for one that can get you pretty ladies for the pigs that come here? And from the smell of things you might have to start pissing whiskey to make any crowns…”
