A bitter former City Watchman, now pursuing his own interests among the diverse forces and powers in Arranoon.
Male Lawful Evil Human Rogue 5
Str 12 +1 // Dex 21 +5 // Con 12 +1 // Int 16 +3 // Wis 10 +0 // Cha 12 +1
AC 19 // Touch 15 // Flat-footed 14
HD 5d8+5 // HP 38
Fort +2 // Refl +9 // Will +1
Initiative +9 // Speed 30ft 6sq
Mwk Shortsword (mainhand) +7 1d6+1 19-20 // Mwk Shortsword (offhand) +7 1d6+1 19-20 // Mwk Dagger +9 1d4+1 19-20 // Mwk Dagger (thrown) +9 1d4+1 19-20 10ft ammunition:4
Acrobatics +13 // Appraise +11 // Bluff +9 // Climb +9 // Diplomacy +13 // Disable Device +13 // Escape Artist +13 // Intimidate +11 // Perception +8 // Sense Motive +8 // Sleight of Hand +15 // Stealth +13 // Use Magic Device +9
Common // Orc // Dwarven // Halfling
Weapon Finesse // Two-Weapon Fighting // Improved Initiative // Quick Draw
Sneak Attack +3d6 // Trapfinding // Evasion // Trapsense +1 // Uncanny Dodge // Fast Stealth // Ledge Walker
Shiftweave Outfit // Vanisher Cloak // Mithral Shirt // Belt of Hidden Pouches // 2x Mwk Shortswords // 4x Mwk Daggers // Weeping Stone // 4x Acid Flasks // 4x Alchemist’s Fires // Silk Rope 50ft // Grappling Hook // Sewing Needles // Lesser Crystal of Illumination // 2x Least Crystals of Return // Collapsible Dagger // 284 gp //
[[Please excuse my bit of poorly written melodrama. Its late at night, but I wanted to get something written so this space wouldn’t be blank.]]
Caen walked away from the small guard tower… away from the disgustingly decadent whitewashed walls of the Consul’s cousin’s estate… away from Eloah, his friend of almost ten years and fellow Watchman… and toward the distant clamor of violence.
That was how it should have been, thirteen years ago, if Caen had owned half a thought to call his own back then; perhaps if he had turned away from what he had considered his “duty”, his wife and daughter would still be alive. It was easy to visualize – standing inside this dark dresser as he was, without even the light of the sun-crystals filtering through the nearby window – marching triumphantly home to find his family and bravely fend off the rioters… watching his daughter grow older, and himself growing older with his wife as they lived happily ever after like the old children’s tales always said, instead of spending that damned night guarding some minor noble’s house while his own family was slaughtered for no better reason than circumstance of birth.
The thought almost brought a chuckle to his lips – it was easier to chuckle than to weep these days – but he quickly gained his composure as he heard the approaching footsteps outside the room. Putting the thoughts of old Caen away, and whispering into the cloth of his robes, he felt the resulting tingle of magic wash across his body, and took some small measure of satisfaction in the rush of adrenaline that was suddenly coursing through his veins.
The door opened, and Caen watched from hiding as a rather nondescript fellow stepped through the doorway, wearing embroidered clothing and the distinctive signet ring of Petras on his finger. Caen waited for the man to turn to a polished steel mirror in the corner before quietly stepping out of the dresser, secure in the knowledge that he was truly invisible, and bringing the tiny blade up the man’s neck, grazed the back lightly, just under his hair. There was a quiet yelp, and the man swatted at the back of his neck as if bitten by a midgefly.
Within seconds, Caen had to lurch forward and catch the heavyset noble as he fell backward into a no doubt enchanted slumber. The rest was short work: dragging him to the bed, opening a vein in the arm and collecting a small sample in a vial before slipping the man a tiny potion of healing. What exactly House Shadym wanted with a vial of House Petras blood was none of Caen’s concern, he was just glad that it was one of the lesser known of the numerous Petras brothers – sneaking in had been hard enough, despite the extremely lax security.
Pressing the stopper firmly into the vial, Caen made it disappear into the folds of his robe, marked the man as sound asleep, and whispered into his cloak one more time to hide himself from wandering eyes as he stepped out onto the ledge of the window and slid nigh-silently along the roof to a storage room in the courtyard. Once inside, he whispered another phrase and – now finely dressed as the “magistrate” who had entered the estate earlier that day – boldly marched out of the courtyard in full view of anyone who cared to watch.
This time, he did leave the whitewashed walls behind him, and with the Cheshire-smile of a cat who just swallowed the canary. Sadly, behind those smiling eyes, there was something empty… something missing… and if the gods were watching, they no doubt found this damaged man – convinced of the lies he told himself to keep waking up each morning, who could bleed his fellow and walk away joyful – to be both beautiful and grotesque.