{Accidentally reposted, apologies)
JohnnyWeird Member
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(Accidentally reposted, apologies)
Geli, the spicer's assistant, returns Marcon's wave with a polite smile. She is well-endowed with, as Olgalla put it in his travelogues, "those Bounties which warm the Northman in their long, desolate Winters," and so he has attempted repeatedly to engage her. His lack of success is regrettable, but he knows there will be other opportunities in Nightstone.
Turning a corner, he finds himself walking beside one known to him in passing.
"Well-met, Master Wormwood," the youth says, his tone friendly for all its formality. "I hope the day finds you well."
Turning a corner, he finds himself walking beside one known to him in passing.
"Well-met, Master Wormwood," the youth says, his tone friendly for all its formality. "I hope the day finds you well."
"As you say, Anchor! I could hope for no better."
Marcon watches the limping giant move away, searching for his friend, the turtle-man. A chuckle escapes him at the spectacular variety of people he has already encountered. He recalls, suddenly, the introduction of Treganne's "Peoples of Toril":
Poetic, perhaps, but no less true. Especially here, amid wood elves and tortles and goliaths and even -
Marcon stops himself from even thinking the word. A few nights ago a drunken drover at a caravanserie lost an ear for referring to the half-elven bodyguard as a Drow. His chuckle peters off, and he begins to wander the caravan himself, making small talk with anyone who seems inclined.
Marcon watches the limping giant move away, searching for his friend, the turtle-man. A chuckle escapes him at the spectacular variety of people he has already encountered. He recalls, suddenly, the introduction of Treganne's "Peoples of Toril":
Man is not alone in the world, nor has he ever been. For all their numbers and plurality, humans are like a squirrel at the top of a great tree.
Though he sees far, he cannot say he flies. It falls to Man, in the waxing days of their race, to be a gracious beast in the wide forest of History.
Poetic, perhaps, but no less true. Especially here, amid wood elves and tortles and goliaths and even -
Marcon stops himself from even thinking the word. A few nights ago a drunken drover at a caravanserie lost an ear for referring to the half-elven bodyguard as a Drow. His chuckle peters off, and he begins to wander the caravan himself, making small talk with anyone who seems inclined.
Marcon Astoro has a lot to be grateful for on the trip to Nightstone.
With the other travelers easygoing about night watches, the young warrior is free to take the predawn shift, his personal favorite. After completing his exercises and fighting drills, he gets breakfast started. He's no gourmet chef, but waking up to a meal never goes amiss.
The plethora of races in the caravan offers ample opportunity for conversation. His dark skin and hair, combined with his unusual armor, would make him stand out in a crowd of local humans. Here, though, he's an odd duck in an odd flock. His Common is accented with the lilt of the south and peppered with references to obscure books and esoteric sages. He might not always say the right thing, but there's no doubt that he speaks his mind.
And, as the sign for Nightstone points the way, he smiles, his boyish face looking more striking than comely. His thoughts, unspoken, drift to the package he stows with his affairs in whatever cart he can arrange. Armored with sword at hip and bow across back, he stretches his arms out and breathes deep.
"A fine day to arrive!" He announces to no one in particular. "They say that half the fun is getting there, but how sweet the other half will be!"
With the other travelers easygoing about night watches, the young warrior is free to take the predawn shift, his personal favorite. After completing his exercises and fighting drills, he gets breakfast started. He's no gourmet chef, but waking up to a meal never goes amiss.
The plethora of races in the caravan offers ample opportunity for conversation. His dark skin and hair, combined with his unusual armor, would make him stand out in a crowd of local humans. Here, though, he's an odd duck in an odd flock. His Common is accented with the lilt of the south and peppered with references to obscure books and esoteric sages. He might not always say the right thing, but there's no doubt that he speaks his mind.
And, as the sign for Nightstone points the way, he smiles, his boyish face looking more striking than comely. His thoughts, unspoken, drift to the package he stows with his affairs in whatever cart he can arrange. Armored with sword at hip and bow across back, he stretches his arms out and breathes deep.
"A fine day to arrive!" He announces to no one in particular. "They say that half the fun is getting there, but how sweet the other half will be!"
Marcon Astoro, human fighter
dicecloud.com/character/Qx3hgYABZ3ATj…
They had rented rooms at The Magister's Mark, a public house popular with students and wizards in Innarlith. It had been a long day. If they were being honest, it had been almost a year of long days. And even in the best times, they were not prone to restraint.
"Don't insult me with this work!"
"What am I doing wrong?!"
"Everything! These summoning circles wouldn't corral a dretch. Disgraceful."
"Do you ever get tired of insulting me?"
Lilandra Astoro, called Lilandra Riddler for her confoundig abjurations, pinched the bridge of her nose and looked wearily at her nephew.
"Marcon, I know you can do this. These diagrams are simple, if you would just apply yourself. If you didn't waste so much time on fencing manuals and waving swords around -"
"It isn't a waste of time!"
"It's a waste of MY time. Your parents apprenticed you to me. Your intellect and effort are tools I must hone. But it seems I overestimated your capacity in those regards."
"You are such a bitch!"
"Don't be a child!"
"Don't tell me what to do!"
"I am your master! You will do what I say!"
"Wrong on both counts!"
A rushed gathering of belongings. A slammed door.
There have been more promising starts to adventuring careers.
dicecloud.com/character/Qx3hgYABZ3ATj…
They had rented rooms at The Magister's Mark, a public house popular with students and wizards in Innarlith. It had been a long day. If they were being honest, it had been almost a year of long days. And even in the best times, they were not prone to restraint.
"Don't insult me with this work!"
"What am I doing wrong?!"
"Everything! These summoning circles wouldn't corral a dretch. Disgraceful."
"Do you ever get tired of insulting me?"
Lilandra Astoro, called Lilandra Riddler for her confoundig abjurations, pinched the bridge of her nose and looked wearily at her nephew.
"Marcon, I know you can do this. These diagrams are simple, if you would just apply yourself. If you didn't waste so much time on fencing manuals and waving swords around -"
"It isn't a waste of time!"
"It's a waste of MY time. Your parents apprenticed you to me. Your intellect and effort are tools I must hone. But it seems I overestimated your capacity in those regards."
"You are such a bitch!"
"Don't be a child!"
"Don't tell me what to do!"
"I am your master! You will do what I say!"
"Wrong on both counts!"
A rushed gathering of belongings. A slammed door.
There have been more promising starts to adventuring careers.
@0 Azzy 0, I took +1 to all stats rather than a feat.
I've updated to reflect (I believe) all my fighter business.
Thanks for helping me get the hang of this!
I've updated to reflect (I believe) all my fighter business.
Thanks for helping me get the hang of this!
Hi! First time here, friend of @Ynnek7. Let me know if this character sheet works:
dicecloud.com/character/Qx3hgYABZ3ATj…
Look forward to playing with all!
dicecloud.com/character/Qx3hgYABZ3ATj…
Look forward to playing with all!
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