Epsir

Uldor, Land of Glory. (High Fantasy)

Name: Rarden Tacklit
Age: 23
Nationality: Dayaman
Race(s): Dorthan

Background:
Biography: Rarden grew up with his mom while his father served the Dayamanian Navy. He never grew particularly close to them and spent most of his time in the street or at odd jobs trying to strum up some money for the family, because that was the way it was supposed to be. He fell in with the wrong crowd repeatedly but Rarden always had a peculiar nose for trouble, in truth, this was because he always assumed trouble was around the corner. Somehow the boy made it through his childhood and adolescence without becoming a wanted criminal and turned out of it with two friends, Louis among them. By then, he had done his dues for his family and without any particular bond with them decided to throw his lot in with his new crew. The three of them quickly hatched a scheme to use their accumulated money to purchase a respectable ship and strike out into the world for fame and fortune. Rarden followed along, now a man of his own and seeking to fill his own pockets for once. His only significant heirloom, one of his father's navy jackets, he gave to his new captain. He is by and large the accountant of the group and while he doesn't quite decide where they go and what they do it is certainly his responsibility to find out how exactly they're going to do it. The crew owns a modest sailing vessel, among the smallest class of seaworthy ships with a broad beam and a shallow draft that suggests the ship's origin as a littoral vessel. It is liable to swamp in harsh waters but the wind is little threat to it, as it possesses only one sailing mast and one head mast. Its surfaces are mostly bare wood, with curing and treatment of the lumber spared where possible, creating interesting defects in the interior walls that they have either disguised with decoration or patched over to the best of their abilities. The ship bears no flag and its sails are stock white canvas, freshly acquired. The only armament aboard is a ballista mounted at the bow originally designed to project mooring ropes and rescue cables, although it could very easily fire conventional bolts and now doubt the crew has lofty aspirations of bringing it up to the standards of true glory.

Personality: Rarden is a man who has a hard time keeping his eye off the bottom line. He feels compelled to enjoy the youth of his life but he is a perpetually worried about success and even more so about failure. He hates waste with a passion and while not exactly mired in number crunching efficiency is the first person to complain about a lack of it. He is rarely the ideas guy, and is less prone to suggest a course of action than he is to be preparing to avoid the worst. His ideals aside, he is a friendly enough man. He does not trust easily in others but it is very difficult to lose that trust. He is outspoken, and prone to rambling rants about any topic that catches his interest. Rarden's sense of humor is dull, and many regard him as absolutely bookish which has put him at natural odds with many of his colleagues. Contrary to what his occupation would suggest, he actually rather values the idea of authority and subscribes very closely to the rule of law. It is unfortunate for many institutions of law that they do not often meet his standards. Not necessarily arrogant around people, he tends to place his beliefs and politics far over his peers'.
Religion: Agnostic in truth but curious enough to read up on the local religion wherever he goes.

Appearance:
Clothing: Rarden dresses conservatively with an air that clashes with his surroundings and his chosen companions. His entire wardrobe consists of muted colors but in particular he tons a dark blue tunic for sailing. Its threads are clearly worn and even more clearly cared for, without a significant cut or tear in the garment despite the fact that the color has begun to wear out of its seams and edges. It is short sleeved, draping over his elbows with broad, flappy sleeve ends. It has a crew neck, which he preferred entirely for irony's sake, that fits around his neck in the only well fitting part of the garment. The hem of the tunic is as over-wide as the sleeves, and hangs usually untucked around his waist. His chosen legwear is typically a set of canvas shorts, knee length and frankly impossible to wear down. The rugged fabric has survived everything he could throw at it and more, and the multi-pocketed set of sailing shorts is a respected and tried member of his wardrobe. He owns several pair. He wears ankle length leather shoes, quick to come on and off in the case of waterlogging and with enough traction to serve some utility on the slippery wooden decks of a ship. In his opinion, they don't look half bad walking around town in either.
Height: 181cm (~5'11")
Weight: 68kg (~149 lbs), as he is thin and unmuscular with a soft, unshaped physique.
Hair: Light brown, sometimes mistaken for a muddied blonde but he insists that it is brown. He keeps it at a medium length which gives it enough space to become truly scruffy in appearance.
Eyes: Cloudy, light green.
Tattoos/Markings: A handful of small scars cover his left hand from a long past incident with a man and a knife.

When the Flames Die

Wallace turned reflexively to look at Thomas as he appeared, smiling ever more broadly as he arrived. "A pleasure to meet you, Commander, I was simply leaving your letter of appointment with Sir Jason and fulfilling some personal curiosities surrounding Redwyne's death." The question seemed directed at Gareth, and he was going to let the man who had at the very least a career at stake decide how much they were going to say. He was happy to see Thomas in the Tower, although there were few other places for a member of the Order to be. Even as he waited, he kept a close eye on Thomas, trying his best to evaluate the man. A knight was hardly a mystery, at least on the surface, but he had also been the most damaging irregularity. Whatever he was was something worth keeping an eye on and not for some mere perception of guilt. Even as he looked upon the sole source of his failure, he continued to smile in the kind of cheery, expectant way he usually did.

When the Flames Die

Wallace smirked in silence at the man's remark. It was all he needed to hear. The man readjusted his jacket, taking another look around the room before he turned to leave without another word to Jason. He nodded in Gareth's direction, beseeching him to follow. As he passed into the hall, and began making his way for the door again, he began recounting his speculation. "It matters little, at least to me, whether or not Hoyt was willingly or unwillingly an accessory to the killing. I feel inclined to believe that this is the result of a power struggle within the Order, as there's little other motivation for killing Redwyne. The next logical step is some kind of personal feud. Cole isn't the kind of man who has enemies, so I would wager he was simply unfortunately privy to something someone regretted his knowledge of. A silencing would almost be too obvious, the man was about to speak in court and the killer would know that his death would be immediately tied to case. If that were true, Thomas would be the number one suspect, which is almost as outrageous as saying Cole himself did it. Even if it's a framing, that still puts this within the order." He slowed a moment, saddened by having to admit where that thought lead. "Which means it is outside of my grasp for the moment." And then Wallace stopped in the hall, looking directly to Gareth with the beginnings of cheer. "But not for you. If I understand your position correctly, you are on your way to becoming one of the Order? In that case, I think the most beneficial thing you could do for any of us is to continue down that path."

When the Flames Die

"I imagine only a few. The only man who could tell you who was close to Redwyne is now dead." He whispered back, considering Gareth's report. If it was the usual kind of hiding things from outsiders then it was the harmlessly paranoid kind. By that line of thought, Sir Hoyt had been suspiciously cooperative and eager to supply refuting evidence. He was not insane enough to start down that particular logical trail. "Hoyt, I have been in this business long enough to know that it's never as simple as 'there isn't.'" Wallace said, the sweet croak he usually spoke in fading down to a dark rasp. It was easy to convince himself that none of the circumstances added up, and for that matter, they were trusting a manuscript made by the man they suspected. That said, he didn't have any evidence or intent to be hauling Sir Jason off into custody. Either it was an accident, or Hoyt was the killer and he had nothing to worry about save a power struggle within the Order. Ideally, he would have been able to place the Order under investigation but now wasn't the time for hostilities. His somber demeanor broke into a smile, and he reached inside of his long, blue jacket, counting the number of papers his hand passed over to just the right one. Wallace produced two letters and held them out towards Sir Jason. One was sealed with the crest of the Keilaud crown's regency and the other unmarked. "The sealed letter is for the new Commander of the Order of the Thistle, who the Court names within as Sir Thomas Morgan. The second is for Thomas Morgan. Make sure he gets them when he returns here from playing with my dungeon." Morgan wasn't a man who could be bribed or put in debt, but there was a method to the madness of naming him Commander that Wallace was nearly giddy to see the outcome of.

When the Flames Die

"The Order has had a particularly troubling record of erasing evidence recently. At the moment, everyone with secrets is an opponent of the Court. As long as I am regent I will hunt for the truth, Sir Jason," He bowed his head, realizing that they really wouldn't get much further with Hoyt regardless of his actual involvement. That was good enough for Wallace, but he doubted any audience would agree. Wallace simply stood by and waited for an idea to come to him. A faint whistling outside pulled him from his thoughts, some jaunty sea-tune passing through the halls. Strange, that it reminded him of something he'd forgotten to take care of. He then turned fully towards Gareth, the second part of the equation, and the one who, no matter how little, knew more than he did of the order's internal workings and especially more about the incident at hand. "What do you make of this, Harker? Is it consistent with what you've seen?"

When the Flames Die

He hardly moved with the revelation, in fact froze. Of course the man would never confess his guilt, to the incredibly paranoid, all this tidbit proved was that this killing was heavily concealed and planned for. Either Redwyne had been killed in an accident, or the killer was so involved that Redwyne himself was part of the cover. He still didn't care much about the dead, but no matter how impossible the alternative explanation was it meant his job might just be that much easier. Wallace graciously accepted the records, gently plucking them from the man's hands flipping through them with an increasingly perturbed look as Jason continued his explanation of events. The books did not lie, the man had purchased snake from several locations on Estovet and even a few from Lyok. It was convenient, very convenient. He could not, however, simply accept it and walk away even if it would have been for the better. He stood there for a silent moment, stroking his chin and wondering. Finally, he turned and offered the ledger to Gareth in case the other man felt the need to confirm the new findings. "That is most troubling. I find it unlikely that a snake would survive shipping conditions especially when it was destined for the dinner table. The very possibility that this was an assassination is why I must continue to investigate, Sir Jason. What prompted you to ignore the inspection of potentially dangerous, or diseased, livestock cargo?"

When the Flames Die

Wallace stepped inside as he was acknowledged, smiling through the man's accusation. No, it would have been nice to have hired muscle but the blood from the last mishap was still staining the interrogation a short walk away. "I'm heartened to see that we're both in a questioning mood. Perhaps you'd be more inclined to trade." He took a quick look around the room, as was his custom. Satisfactorily, they appeared to be alone. "I believe in civility so I am going to ask your word before I declare this an investigation." He had no intention of doing so, turning this into a high profile incident would no doubt expose the holes that Thomas had inadvertently shot through his machinations. A fatal mistake, if it happened before he could get a handle on more helping hands. Just a layer of gloss. "The parcel that killed Redwyne Cole came through this office. In that event, I would like to request all of the documentation and ledgers surrounding the incident be turned over to the public court." His face was drawn as he proposed the action, although the expression was betrayed by the man's froggy voice.

When the Flames Die

'Unfed stray dog' is going on the list of polite and concise character descriptions

When the Flames Die

Wallace strode on down the halls, idly looking over the interior and comparing the place to what he'd already known about the Tower. They were less ornate than the palace hallways, and though the difference was subtle, it conveyed the shift from royal quarters to those of a martial order. He stopped as a silver glint in the corner of his vision caught his eye. Jason Hoyt, the name he'd been looking for. A small smirk crossed his face as he realized their success. Ever the image of procedure and politeness, when the situation called for it, he stopped in the doorway and rapped his knuckle against the open door to signal their arrival. "Sir Jason, the regency would seek to pose a few questions, if you would cooperate," He said slowly, standing just beyond the threshold of the room and in no small way anticipating an invitation to come in. This would be simple, easy, and convincing. They'd find their answers and more importantly, he'd have his.

When the Flames Die

"The Tower is the only place to start. I don't expect them to have a receptionist but," Wallace stopped and fished around inside of his jacket for a moment, producing a plain looking key that represented the whole sum of trust between the Order and his part of the council. It was one of many keys to the Tower and its surrounding buildings. In all honesty, they probably left the front doors unlocked most of the day anyway. "We'll find our way in and ask around for Sir Hoyt." He pocketed the key, and with a beckoning wave of his hand walked off towards the exit of the Great Hall. The Tower of the Thistle was a short walk across the courtyard, and the front door proved to be easily opened. Next came the searching. "I suppose he'd be in one of the studies," Wallace opined, as he cruised the halls looking for a particularly inspiring door or the first Thistle Knight to cross their path.