Post/Author/DateTime	Post
Eladris 10-16-04, 02:47 PM	I've been playing in an Eberron game for about 2 months now and finally decided to write up my background/character history for my 5th level Rogue. We played through the ECS adventure and then first official adventure before our DM started doing his own thing... I'm enjoying the game and thought I might as well post the history here, since it seems like a shame to not share what I feel is a fun story. Jaime is a human rogue 5; str 13, dex 16, con 10, int 14, wis 13, cha 10; dodge, great fortitude, run; lots o' skills. I lost the dagger when the bbeg confronted us at the end of the first adventure. I hit a guard with it at range and then dropped to crossbow fire; I didn't get healed until after we left the Mournlands so I lost it! I've vowed to get it back, though. :D * He was late. Again. In a rush, Jaime slid down the angled tile roof and stopped with just enough purchase to avoid a plummet to the cobblestone twenty feet below. His mark, an overdressed merchant of House Cannith, was already being herded into the unlit side street by the pusher, a beggar blocking the main avenue and crying loudly for alms. Jaime cringed as he checked to make sure the stopper was in position. The light of a guttering torch cast the man’s shadow into the opposite end of the alleyway, revealing his clumsy hiding spot just around the corner. “If I had been on time,” Jaime chided himself, “I could have complained.” The target headed down the alley, his features obscured from above by darkness and a large feathered cap. There was a basket-hilted rapier on his hip, but his steps came with the shuffling irregularity of inebriation that assured Jaime the job would be an easy one. As the merchant passed underneath his hidden assailant, Jaime steeled his resolve and leapt from the rooftop, aiming a quickly-pulled dagger between the shoulder blades of his intended victim. Something went wrong. The Cannithite rolled forward as Jaime started his fall, the alley echoing with the deadly rasp of metal as his blade cleared its scabbard. With a curse at the target’s ruse, Jaime landed awkwardly on the slippery cobblestones without the benefit of the merchant to break his fall, sending a sharp pain through his left leg. A glimpse down the long alley told Jaime that the stopper had already fled the botched job. Not waiting for his attacker to recover, the merchant lunged forward; rapier point aimed straight for Jaime’s heart. Even on his injured leg, Jaime managed to twist and parry the thrust with his dagger, using his opponent’s momentum to knock the merchant’s weapon away from him. In the man’s stunned hesitation, Jaime turned and tried to flee, but escape was not written in the stars for Jaime this night. Jaime had always been the fastest kid in town - the lookout, message boy and occasional cutpurse for the Guild – it was what made him his name. Tonight, his legs betrayed him. Jaime’s left foot planted, his full weight shifting onto the injured leg as he took off. With a terrible snap, the would-be assassin’s leg buckled and Jaime crumpled to the filthy cobblestones in blinding pain. Unable to do more than fight off unconsciousness, Jaime rolled onto his back and felt the cold point of a Cannith-made rapier press into the soft flesh of his neck. It was over. “I was led to believe you would be a skilled assassin. You are nothing more than a boy,” gloated the merchant. Jaime, only 14, was smart enough to keep his tongue. He had been betrayed; the merchant had known the attack was coming. The deadly silence lasted only a moment, “Your dagger, drop it!” Jaime let his weapon fall to the ground next to him, its clatter mingling with the sound of armored guards approaching the alley. “Right on time,” the merchant announced coldly, “You can always trust the punctuality of House Deneith.” The sarcastic arrogance in the man’s tone only assured Jaime that he had been set up to take a fall. The yellow-orange light of several torches flooded the alley and Jaime got his first good look at the man, his haughty features permanently etched into Jaime’s memory. Jaime, still supine, rolled his head back to catch a glimpse of the three heavily armed guards. “You’re late!” “We’re here,” the gruff voice of the middle guard barked, “And you’re still alive, so no complaints.” “Half payment. You were supposed to be here when the attack started, not after I got my throat cut,” Jaime’s captor retorted. “Full payment,” the Deneithite’s voice lowered dangerously, “Or you did get your throat cut.” A palpable silence filled the alley. Jaime held his breath and tensed, preparing to roll out of harm’s way if a fight ensued. “Full payment, then,” the merchant managed with a wicked grin, “And you’ll take this wretch to the guard. His leg broke in the fall, do be careful with him.” Grunting assent, the guards of House Deneith advanced and picked up Jaime by his shoulders, sending a new wave of pain through his body, and started to drag him back towards the alley’s mouth. The last thing the boy saw, before the pain of his broken leg sent him spiraling into waiting blackness, was the Cannithite stoop to pick up his dagger. * Jaime smiled as the sound of the inner door closing reached him. Silently, he counted to one hundred before pulling himself up onto the balcony and sidling up to the ornate wood and glass door that led into the sumptuously appointed sitting room of Garis D’Cannith. Jaime had waited years for this opportunity. Since his arrest three years ago, Jaime had slowly and carefully gathered information on the Cannith merchant, staked out his captor’s Wroat apartments and formulated plans for revenge. Jaime slid two picks from the safety of his boot and inserted them into the door’s brass lock. Situations like this one always brought back memories of the Guild, from which he was now estranged. A soft click announced Jaime’s victory and he smiled as the door ghosted open on well-oiled hinges. Stepping into the room, Jaime closed the door behind him and crouched low, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness before creeping quietly to the heavy oak door in the northwest corner of the room. Garis had been inebriated when he left the party and, Jaime hoped, was probably sound asleep by now. Putting an ear to the door, Jaime heard the soft, rhythmic sound of a woman in the throes of passion. The maidservant had apparently decided to delay making her rounds in the rest of the house. Hesitating, he wondered if this was such a good idea; he had his freedom, now, and enough gold to make his way to Sharn. No one in Sharn knew Jaime the cat burglar, Jaime the would-be assassin or Jaime the street sweeper. The maid’s moaning was becoming more insistent. Jaime made his decision. Slowly, so as not to make noise or attract the attention of the next room’s occupants, Jaime inched the door open and slipped inside. The opulent room was dominated by a large, four-post canopied bed whose headboard rested against the far wall. The forms of Garis and the maidservant wrestled noisily in its center. As Jaime crept forward he spied the merchant’s breeches on the floor at the foot of the massive bed, belt and – more importantly – basket-hilted rapier attached. As the woman finished and sighed loudly with satisfaction, Jaime ripped aside the mesh canopy and unlimbered the rapier with a familiar steely ring. “What th– You!” exclaimed the surprised merchant as his own rapier touched the sweaty flesh of the man’s neck. The maidservant, still atop her employer, fainted and collapsed forward onto the bed next to the now exposed Cannithite. “Terribly sorry to interrupt you, old boy,” Jaime said his practiced bit in as jovial a tone he could muster, “But I believe you have something of mine.” Confusion passed over Garis D’Cannith’s refined features before they bloomed in realization. “You mean you’re doing this all over a simple dagger?” He asked incredulously. “Sentimental value, you understand.” “You can’t be serious?” “I’m deadly serious, old boy,” Jaime let the tip of the rapier draw blood. His eyes narrowing in contempt, the defeated Garis D’Cannith motioned towards the bedside table with a nod, “Top drawer.” Cautiously, Jaime used his left hand to open the top drawer across his body while keeping the tip of his rapier poised at the merchant’s neck. A quick glance showed the dagger there. Jaime reached in, his hand finding the familiar, worn grip of his mother’s dagger. Tucking the knife into his boot, Jaime smiled victoriously, “Thank you, old boy. It really has been a pleasure. I’ll leave the sword at the edge of the estate for you – if you don’t rouse the guard. I’ve no intention of going back into public service, you understand.” An unnerving glare was Jaime’s only response. Slowly, as if a quick move might start the merchant into action, he backed out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Jaime was off. Back to the balcony, over the guardrail and down the rope into the cobblestone street below, where he regretfully abandoned the well-made rapier and his quick feet took him deep into less reputable parts of Wroat. Elated, Jaime laughed aloud at the recovery of his most prized worldly possession and the embarrassment of Garis D’Cannith. Unfortunately, Jaime’s good luck was short lived. As he rounded the corner to within sight of his favorite pub, The Golden Goose, two large figures flanking a smaller, lean shadow stepped from a nearby alley into the guttering torches of the street. Jaime skidded to a halt and started to backpedal until he heard the sounds of footsteps behind him; the Guild. “Jaime, Jaime, Jaime,” a familiar voice chided, “You shoulda known better.” “Breston,” Jaime addressed the ratty little man who headed the cat burglars in the city, “It wasn’t a job, man, I was just paying House Cannith a visit.” Breston laughed, a rasping that sounded like a saw drawn over rough wood, “You ‘spect me ta believe that? Garis D’Cannith is one of the wealthiest merchants in the district and you ‘spect me an’ Harrol an’ Powys ‘ere,” the smaller man motioned to the larger ones on either side of him, “to believe you walked outta there empty handed?” “It’s the truth, Breston, I wouldn’t try and pull one over on the Guild,” Jaime explained hurriedly, “I would never do something like that.” The two big men cracked their knuckles as if preparing for a fight, but Jaime’s sharp ears caught the noise behind him and knew the show of strength was a diversion; he didn’t have much time left to negotiate. “Listen, Jaime, I dun’ wanna hurt ya. I remember when you was like a son to the boss,” an almost imperceptible grimace paused Breston in his speech, “But ya can’t pull a job without my say so. An’ ya did. So we has to make amends.” Breston’s gaze passed over Jaime’s shoulder, but before the assassin could land his dagger, Jaime had tumbled under Harrol’s tree-trunk legs and was running. “****! Stop him!” Breston called out in rage and surprise, but the heavy footsteps of Powys and Harrol soon receded into the echo of Jaime’s own. Unlike that fateful night three years prior, Jaime’s quick feet carried him to safety. After a few minutes Jaime slowed to a jog and finally stopped, breathless. Shaking his head, Jaime smiled at the night sky and wondered at his fortune, “This town just got too small.”
Darkest90 10-16-04, 03:32 PM	Wow! That was a good Eberron story! Did you say that you played this in your campaign, or you wrote it? Anyway, that is very cool and intriguing. Good job and keep your writing up, you have talent.