This application is not finished yet but I wanted to give an impression since the deadline's approaching.
Part of the Nutshell is done, Appearance & Mannerisms is done and there are a few stories in "Story Time", the rest is work in progress.
- Edit - Ok, I've added several stories and finished those that were not done yet. I've also added stuff to the "Nutshell" and completed the "Personality & Other Important Aspects" as well as the background category. Moreover, I've added a potential reason for why the Mourning happened. This is not what my character believes though.
Please note, that the background is just a summary that is not meant to display any kind of story-telling skills.
The stories in "Story Time" precede the rest of the application in terms of how it all developed in my head. That is why the stories contain the most valuable information when it comes to getting a feeling for the character.
It's still work in progress but should be much better now than before.
Player's Explanation for the Mourning
I'm going to go with the obvious. Eberron is a pulp noir world with intrigue elements not unlike those from the "A Song of Ice and Fire" book series (a.k.a. A Game of Thrones) and that combination makes a lot of things possible. However, I think it is relatd to House Cannith and some weird experiment of theirs - an eldritch machine. Possibly, the Quori had their hands in it as well, perhaps attempting to use the machine to find a way back to Eberron but the whole thing backfired and now neither does House Cannith have their super weapon (a.k.a. Dragon Star - using eight Syberis shards as focal points to produce a magical super ray that can annihilate whole regions *g*) nor can the Quori return.
RACE: Human
DATE OF BIRTH: Olarune 20, 959
HEIGHT: 5' 10"
WEIGHT: 165 lbs
HAIR COLOR: Brown
EYE COLOR: Gray
IDENTIFYING MARKS: Dragonmark
RESIDENCE: Sentinel Tower, Karrlakton
AFFILIATIONS: House Deneith
SPECIAL: Sentinel Marshall
959 -- Ander and his twin sister Deneris were born and raised in Aundair, in Passage, during the era of military history known as the Rise of the Warforged, to Sentinel Marshal Belivar d'Deneith and Amaris d'Deneith a high profile Defender.
968 -- Amaris d'Deneith died on the Thrane-Aundair border, at the Battle of the Crying Fields. Ander and his twin sister Deneris were sent to a military boarding school in Rikkenmark.
974 -- At age fifteen, young Ander witnessed and survived the devastating Air Raid on Rikkenmark that took the life of his twin, Deneris. Following the raid, his father, Belivar, removed him from school. From that time forward, young Olivander traveled with his father acting as an informal "apprentice or deputy Marshal."
980 -- At age twenty one, Ander's grandfather, a retired Sentinel Marshal and powerful senior administrator of the Sentinel Marshals at Sentinel Tower, arranged for Ander to be given the rank of Deputy Marshal, assigned to work under his father. His duties remained unchanged, but he now had the legitimacy of a Deputy Marshal's badge. For over ten years, father and son worked together as a team, hunting down fugitives, transporting prisoners, investigating international crime, including war crimes.
991 -- At age thirty-two, Ander witnessed his father's death: Belivar was killed in the line of duty. Ander's grandfather once again pulled some strings to ensure Ander's promotion to the rank of Marshal. Ander took over his father's current cases, actively pursuing the person(s) responsible for his father's death.
993 -- Ander was secretly recruited by a Shadow Organization within House Deneith concerned with the growing power of House Cannith--whose Creation Forges were cranking out Warforged soldiers, scouts, and other military personnel by the thousands. House Cannith's potential to create an army to rival that of the Five Nation was seen as an inevitability that had to be stopped at all cost. The Shadow Organization was pledged to this cause.
994 -- Ander and his team of covert operatives, who called themselves Forgebreakers, set out on their first mission which came to a climax in Cyre on the Day of Mourning.
Socially Adept: Having avoided the harsh military lifestyle of the Blademarks and Defenders Guilds, Ander has more in common with Deneith diplomats and courtiers than the hard-edged ever-vigilant mercenaries for which his House is known. He is an attractive, charismatic man with a head for diplomacy and a suave, I-could-care-less style to which women are drawn. He has a gift for languages: speaking Dwarven, Elven, and Goblin fluently, in addition to a brief spattering of Draconic.
Refined: Ander appreciates fine cuisine, art, music, theater, literature, philosophy, and architecture. He excelled in his studies with his governess in Passage and later at school in Rikkenmark. He considers a broad liberal education the pathway to character refinement, and has continued to cultivate his character via study throughout his life. He commonly carries one or more books with him while traveling Khorvaire in pursuit of fugitives and criminals. Although he rarely has time for such pursuits, between jobs he makes time to visit museums, attend the theater, or visit libraries. In addition to reading, his hobbies include watercolor--he carries a sketch book and colors with him on his travels--and the ancient Zil art of Origami.
Driven: Ander is a workaholic who never had time for a wife and children--despite pressure from extended family and House Matchmakers. On the trail of a fugitive, he is relentless--pushing himself beyond what would be deemed healthy, operating on little sleep and skipping meals when necessary. On the upside, this drive has made him one of the best Sentinel Marshals in Khorvaire. On the downside, he leaves in his wake a string of failed long-term relationships, and the few people who call him friend have come to terms with the one-sided nature of the relationship. For his part, Ander has resigned himself to short-term relationships and women who are not seeking long-term commitment. He would do anything for the few individuals he calls friends--if they were in trouble--but he's far to busy for casual socialization or thoughtful cultivation of relationships.
Risk Taker: Ander's drive to achieve his goals has a further down side. He sometimes doesn't know when to back down from a social or physical confrontation. When he gets close, when his target is within sight, he can't back off. This limitation is so significant that he has been accused by friends and associates of having a death wish. Indeed, Ander has so frequently suffered serious injury in the line of duty that his superiors back at Sentinel Tower have begun to dock his pay to cover the cost of House Jorasco hospital and healing services for all work-related injuries they deem to have been "avoidable." This is no small matter: the cost of regeneration and other spells have left the noble with little accumulated wealth to fall back on should he lose his job. While Ander doesn't in actuality have a death wish, his relentless drive could be construed a form of madness: the everyday madness that comes to ordinary men forced to endure a war without end. In effect, Ander's relentless dedication to his job is his way of dealing with the madness of the war.
Haunted: Post-Mourning, Ander is a man haunted by the possibility that he played an instrumental role in the destruction of Cyre. Whether this possibility leads him to melancholy, a true death wish, or new and ever more dangerous heights for his relentless drive will be determined in the course of game play.
On Nobility: Ander greatly appreciates the privileges of nobility. He views nobles as individuals of superior opportunity rather than superior breeding. Some nobles, like himself, capitalize on that superior opportunity, developing their talents, educating their minds and hearts, sharpening their skills, and refining their character. However, some nobles, perhaps most nobles, are lazy, decadent under-achievers who take too much for granted and assign too much importance to their pedigrees. Ander considers himself better than the common man, but he sees such superiority as resulting from the combination of superior opportunity and superior effort. Consequently, he also considers himself better than many, or perhaps most, nobles. Between the hard-working common folk and the nobles who never took advantage of their opportunities, he views only the latter group with disdain.
On The War: As a Sentinel Marshal, Ander has an oddly neutral perspective on The War. This neutrality allows him to more easily recognize the futility of The War, and the reality that no one nation will ever win until Khorvaire lies in utter ruin. Ander avoids thinking about The War as much as possible. For him, it is an inconvenience: an obstacle that gets in the way of his dogged pursuit of international criminals.
On the Five Nations:
Cyre: If Ander were allowed to live anywhere he pleased, he would live in Cyre. His refined tastes would be most richly satisfied in the nation known for art, music, literature, and other creative pursuits.
Aundair: Ander's second favorite kingdom is Aundair--the nation of his birth and formative years. He has a fond appreciation for the green country of his birth nation, and fond memories of sailing on Lake Galifar.
Karrnath: Ander considers Karrnath a necessary evil: his House, family, and friends are there, but he utterly despises the long bitter winters, the militaristic patriotism, and the walking dead. Raised in Aundair, he was not subject to the cultural acceptance of necromancy.
Thrane: If Ander has ill feelings towards the citizens or politics of any of the Five Nations, it is Thrane. To begin with, he was raised in Aundair during a time of heightened conflict between his homeland and the neighboring theocracy. It was during that time that Thrane's invaders killed his mother. Even more painful was Thrane's despicable night-time Air Raid on the civilian population of Rikkenmark that resulted in his sisters death.
Breland: Ander has mixed feelings about Breland: if not for Breland's hands-off approach to Sharn, he would hold the nation in higher esteem. As things stand, he considers Sharn nothing more than a hiding place with a big sign at the gate that says "Fugitives Welcome."
On Religion: Ander isn't particularly religious. If the gods are willing to leave him alone, he's happy to leave them alone. That said, most if not all of his encounters with representatives of the Silver Flame have left a bad taste in his mouth. Possibly, his attitudes toward Thrane have colored his views of that nation's state religion.
On Race Relations: Ander has never worked closely with others outside his House; hence, he has few close associations with members of other races. Despite this limited experience, his education and aesthetic taste have rendered him strikingly cosmopolitan in his knowledge of, and appreciation for, the other cultures of Khorvaire. The one exception to this general good will toward the races would be Ander's thing about gnomes--an irrational (conspiracy) theory that they are all members of one massive spy network. In his line of work, Ander often relies upon information brokers--but he never goes to the gnomes for information if he can avoid it.
On the Rise of the Warforged: Ander doesn't (yet) consider warforged to be a race. To him warforged are tools, weapons, nothing more. He destroys them without thought when they get in his way. Ander considers warfoged--or more accurately, the Creation Forges of House Cannith--to be the single greatest threat to Khorvaire. To Ander, the inevitable outcome of Cannith's Creation Forges is the creation of an army to rival the combined might of the five nations.
The life of a Sentinel Marshal during time of war is a twisted tapestry of danger, woven from war-torn international politics, the machinations of Dragonmarked Houses, the codes of criminal organizations and churches, and the deadly agendas of countless shadow organizations spread across Khorvaire. Quite frankly, the deck is stacked against the Sentinel Marshals. Faced with so many dangers, every Marshal needs a code to live by--or he doesn't live long. Ander's code takes the form of a list of rules by which he operates. Most of these rules were passed down to Ander from his father, who in turn learned them from his father.
Rule #1: Never let suspects stay together.
Rule #2: Never screw over your partner.
Rule #3: Everybody runs.
Rule #4: Don't believe what you're told. Double check.
Rule #5: Red tape is best cut with a soft touch.
Rule #6: The best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself. Second best? Tell one other person - if you must. There is no third best.
Rule #7: Shoot the cat. If it survives, it's a familiar.
Rule #8: Raise your voice only when the house is on fire.
Rule #9: Always be specific when you lie.
Rule #10: Never take anything for granted.
Rule #11: Never go anywhere without a weapon.
Rule #12: Never get personally involved in a case.
Rule #13: When the job is done, walk away.
Rule #14: Never bed a woman while working a case--unless it's job-related.
Rule #15: Never, ever involve a gnome.
Rule #16: A good plan acknowledges the unexpected.
Rule #17: If someone thinks they have the upper hand, break it.
Rule #18: It's better to seek forgiveness than ask permission.
Rule #19: Never, ever interrupt an interrogation.
Rule #20: Never come between a man and his morning coffee.
Rule #21: There are two ways to follow someone. First way, they never notice you. Second way, they only notice you.
Rule #22: Always watch the watchers.
Rule #23: If you feel like you are being played, you probably are.
Rule #24: Never make threats; never give warnings.
Rule #25: There is no such thing as coincidence.
Rule #26: If it seems someone is out to get you, they are.
Rule #27: There are always strings attached.
Rule #28: Everybody lies--even at Sentinel Tower.
Rule #29: Never leave behind loose ends.
Rule #30: Sometimes - you're wrong.
Rule #31: Never trust a woman who doesn't trust her man.
Rule #32: Always confirm your kills.
MORE TO COME
Contacts
MORE TO COME
MORE TO COME
MORE TO COME
Allies
MORE TO COME
MORE TO COME
MORE TO COME
Rivals
MORE TO COME
MORE TO COME
MORE TO COME
Enemies
MORE TO COME
MORE TO COME
MORE TO COME
Barrakas 12, 993; North of Skullreave, Darguun.
Marshal Greybern negotiates with Rhukaan Taash Goblins
The three Deputies Marshals sat in their saddles atop the crest of the hill--the youngest of the three riders fidgeting excessively. Before them, perhaps thirty yards down the gently sloping ridge, their leader, Marshall
I'd like to propose an exception to the House/Family naming conventions of Khorvaire. Most or many Sentinel Marshals would be d'Deneith (i.e. "Only the most trusted heirs of the house are honored with a position in the Sentinel Marshals..." Dragonmarked, p. 28), but it would get very confusing if they were all referred to as Marshal d'Deneith. Consequently, it makes more sense to suppose that Sentinel Marshals operate under their family name, rather than their House name. Alternatively, it might be more impressive to use both family and House name, but such a custom would impractical as a title in everyday conversation (i.e. Marshal Greybern d'Deneith is a mouthful when asking someone how he takes his coffee). Besides, a Sentinel Marshal already carries so much clout that adding the d'Deneith House name might be redundant.
"I don't understand why we're even wasting time on these green skins!" spat Sorl, the Deputy of least seniority. "There's only six of them. Instead of all this yammerin', we could have killed them by now."
Sorl was a twenty-five-year-old Blademark who had only recently been transfered to the Sentinel Marshals service. The Deneith noble had no previous record of outstanding service in the Guild; hence, his two companions on the ridge concluded, the transfer had been the result of his connections.
Greybern had been hard pressed to accept young Sorl and had found it difficult to refuse. After all, Greybern's career was a product of just such connections, he having attained the rank of Deputy Marshal at an even younger age than Sorl. Of course, Greybern had a long and impressive record that had paved the way for his even more impressive connections. And yet, unlike Sorl's situation, the brand of nepotism that had paved the way for Marshal Greybern's rising star was the kind most people willingly accepted. Sentinel Marshal Olivander "Vander" Greybern was a third-generation Marshal. His grandfather, a man of considerable influence back at Sentinel Tower, was one of the most highly decorated Sentinel Marshals in history. Greybern's father was on his way to surpassing the family legacy when he was killed in the line of duty at age fifty-one. And so, young Vander Greybern was born into a family tradition of exceptional performance, and the need to bring honor to a dead father's legacy. It was the stuff of pulp adventure novels. Everyone in the Sentinel Marshals service knew and admired one or both of the senior Greyberns; and with such a legacy, everyone hoped the youngest Greybern would live up to the family legacy. Few complained about the manner in which his legacy had facilitated his career.
"Easy, Sorl," whispered Jennero, the senior of the three Deputies in both age and position. Jennero was a scar-faced veteran with a receding hairline and crows-feet wrinkles about his eyes. "You're not in the Blademarks anymore, and we're not soldiers in The War."
"I know that," Sorl replied, lowering his voice, "but it doesn't mean we have to go pissin' ourselves at the sight of six goblins in archaic armor on foot."
"You think that's what's going on up there?" interjected Varrik, the third and largest of the Deputies, his voice a deep bass. "You think the Marshal's talking because he's scared to fight?" Varrik chuckled--the low rumbling sound of an approaching lightning rail carriage.
"Sure looks like it to me," Sorl spat back, not accustomed to being laughed at, but not interesting in challenging the powerfully built Deputy.
Jennero stepped in before the young Deputy said something really stupid. "First of all, you only SEE six goblins; that doesn't mean there are only six goblins out there. I make at least twelve so far, and the Marshal has signaled a total of over twenty."
Sorl scanned the broken countryside nervously, searching for signs that Jennero's words were not some type of prank.
"Second," Jennero continued, "if the Marshal's got problems--and he does--pissin' himself sure as hell isn't one of them. If you'd done your research, you'd know that Greybern has a reputation for not knowing when to back off. He's good at the talking part of the job, better than the other Marshals I've worked with, but he's prone to use force when talking doesn't work--even when the numbers are against him. Right now, your biggest worry SHOULD be that the talking breaks down."
Varrik again interjected. "And before you go calling him pisspants, you might want to spar with him. That adamantine staff of his puts me down on the ground every time. He's faster than a demon, and that staff packs quite a punch."
Varrik's revelation seemed impossible to Sorl. Surely, it was some sort of joke. The young deputy gazed from Varrik's massive frame to the leaner figure of the Marshal, then back to Varrik. The big man's words seemed to take the wind from the young Deputy's sails.
Jennero had served in both the Blademarks Guild and the Defender's Guild, and had held positions of leadership over new recruits in both organizations. The old veteran understood the foolishness of youth, and he had a talent for steering young recruits away from such foolishness. "Son, if you want to work in the Marshal's service, you'd better get used to the fact that, if you do you job well, there won't be much fighting. Most of what you do involves talking: dealing with the same jurisdiction red tape over and over again, gathering information, questioning witness, interrogating suspects and accomplices. And when you're not talking, there's a whole damn bunch of watching and waiting. And of course we spend a lot of time tracking and transporting fugitives. That's the day-in day-out life of a Sentinel Marshal. That's what we do."
Jennero paused, allowing young Sorl time to process this more accurate vision of his future life among the Sentinel Marshals. "At the end of a long job, we capture our suspect. SOMETIMES that involves kicking some lowlife's ass, but not usually, not if we did our job right. The stories in the Chronicle tend to cover those few times when the job ends in violence, but that's because they're trying to sell papers."
Deputy Sorl sat quietly on his horse, no longer fidgeting. He watched the Marshal, hoping the negotiations would go well.
WORK IN PROGRESS
Olarune 18, 994; Somewhere over North-Central Cyre.
Captain's Dining Cabin, Aboard the Storm Queen
Marshal Greybern Dines with Captain Hasofel
Captain Eidel Hasofel Lyrandar sat in his private dining room aboard the Storm Queen, high above war-ravaged north-central Cyre, on course for Korranberg. Soft rain played a somber tune on the impressive windows of the dining cabin, punctuating the climate-controlled comfort within. Hasofel was a short, balding, heavy-set half-elf with too many years under his belt for the kind of posturing common among short men of high status. A senior member of House Lyrandar, Hasofel was a captain of considerable experience, so close to retirement that he delegated much of the day-to-day captain's duties to his second in command--more particularly so when it rained. The captain was simply too old to be out in the damp. The chill wind and rain settled in his bones as it had never done in his youth.
Across the dinner table from Hasofel sat the young Sentinel Marshal, Olivander Greybern d'Deneith, who'd come aboard hours earlier in Metrol. This was by no means the first time Hasofel had hosted a Marshal in his dining cabin. Sentinel Tower had an open contract with House Lyrandar; it was common place for the Marshals to travel by airship when transporting a particularly dangerous or high-profile captive. In this case, however, it was a simple matter of logistics: it seemed that Cyre's neighbors had joined forces to attack her from the north and the west. Tightened security had shut down the lightning rail and the roads, leaving air travel the only option left to the Marshal and his two Deputies.
"What exactly did she do, this prisoner of yours?" the Captain asked, taking a small bite of quail.
The Marshal made an effort to keep a straight face. "She checked out a book from the Library of Korranberg and didn't return it."
Hasofel waited for the Marshal's face to break into a smile. It didn't. "You're serious."
"The book she stole was Andulari's Dance of Three Dragons: the original manuscript--in the author's hand." The Marshal's tone suggested his familiarity with, and appreciation for, the author's work. Clearly, he was a man of letters and not some simple House tool. "It's a priceless piece on loan from the Brelish Royal Library. She wasn't suppose to be able to check it out, let alone smuggle it out of the country."
"I see." Hasofel considered the young Marshal, liking him more and more as they spoke. The young Greybern made for better company than most Marshals he'd hosted. "It's too bad, really. She's such a pretty girl."
"Yes, pretty," the Marshal said absentmindedly. Greybern drifted only a moment before returning to the conversation. "But not particularly dangerous. And one of my deputies will have eyes on her at all times. Not that it matters: she has no place to run."
From somewhere on deck, an alarm bell sounded. Both men rose to their feet and headed for the door.
***
More bells were ringing. All about the deck, airmen in Lyrandar livery were rushing about, responding to the call to general quarters. Wind and rain whipped their faces, obscuring their vision. Marshal Greybern reached the portal that led below deck. Jennero was standing nearby, clinging to a safety rail. Jenner was never good at flying, even in his youth. He spoke over the sound of the bells and wind and rain. "She dropped Varrik somehow! He's alive, but manacled to a support beam!"
"We need to find her before she does something stupid!" replied the Marshal. "I'll go fore, you search aft."
Jennero nodded, turning aft. He trudged into the sheet of rain obscuring the aft section of the ship, leaning heavily on the safety rail.
A childhood spent sailing Lake Galifar had given Greybern what some might call sea legs. Despite the rain and the pitch of the deck, he moved fore with the finesse of a career sailor. He reached sight of the prow having failed to spot his captive. He nearly turned back but for one small detail that seemed out of place. A lone figure, dressed in Lyrandar livery but obscured by the rain, was out past the prow of the ship, standing on the bowsprit, clinging to a line for support. That sure as hell didn't look like general quarters.
Greyburn moved to the prow. The rain and wind were nearly blinding. He struggled through squinted eyes to discern the figure before him. He saw only enough to determine that the figure was indeed female. He thought he recognized the proportions but could not be sure. With gloved fingers, he drew the whistle that hung on the chain about his neck. He gave it two short breaths. The whistle made no sound that he could hear. A magical trinket of Cannith design, the whistle would only be heard by his two Deputies, who each wore a similar whistle--the three being only part of a matched set of seven.
Not willing to wait for the slow moving Jennero, Marshal Greybern stepped up onto the bowsprit, grabbed a line for support, and carefully picked his way forward. Soon he could make out the figure more clearly: the attractive figure and face of his captive: a woman he had found carrying multiple identification papers of various names. Certain that none of the papers contained her real name, he had taken to calling her Alias.
Alias swayed to the motion of the bowsprit beneath her little feet and the line in her little hand. Her grace was not at all that of a sailor's sea legs; hers was the grace of the ballerina in Sherkold's Pirate Princess. She was a shapely little thing: perhaps five-feet-four-inches tall, but a woman's build, not a girl's. She ignored his approach, her eyes on the falling rain beneath her feet.
He called to her over the sound of the rushing wind. "It's over, Alias! No place to run! Only a long drop that ends in the Keeper's arms."
She bright eyes looked up to his. She didn't look like a woman at the end of her rope. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying herself. "Marshal Greybern, it's a nice night for a swim, don't you think?"
By now, Lyrandar Airmen were behind him on the prow. "Hold your fire!" he ordered, certain that at least one fool behind him was readying a weapon.
His eyes remained on his captive. "There's no water down there, Alias, just hard cold ground!"
"Oh, but you're wrong, Marshal!" she replied, somehow making her shout sound coy. "All that rain's gotta lead to a lake or sea somewhere! I say we go swimming! You game?!"
Letting go the line, the little fugitive leaped off the bowsprit like a champion diver. He watched her vanish down into the falling rain beneath his feet.
Jennero shouted from somewhere on the prow. "Marshal, don't do it!"
Greybern turned back to meet his deputy's eyes. From a pocket, he drew forth a feather and held it up for the Deputy to see. "Contact the Tower once you get to Korranberg! Tell them my status! Wait for me there! I'll be in contact as soon as possible!"
Over the sounds of Jennero's protests, Marshal Greybern let go of the line and leaped after his little fugitive.
***
There were few things in life Marshal Greybern hated more than being caught in the rain. One of those things was the aftermath of having been caught in the rain. He hated being soaked to his skin, traveling in soaked clothes, his feet squishing in his boots. Consequently, he had paid a pretty penny to have his clothes made completely impervious to rain and inclement weather. Although the rain had passed, the Marshal felt a sense of smug satisfaction as he tromped through the woods in the dark, his dry feet dry, his clothes a source of warmth rather than a magnification of the cold.
A flashlight in hand, he searched for the fugitive's tracks: the proverbial needle in a haystack. From the darkness he heard her voice. Quickly, he brought the flashlight to bear.
There she stood, his little fugitive, soaking wet--dangerously close. She rushed him, screaming like a school girl.
He took a step back and braced himself for impact, considering the damage he'd do to his flashlight if he used it to club her.
Too late! She leaped onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms around his torso, smashing her lips to his passionately.
He pulled away from her kiss as best he could. "Uh, your wet."
She ignored his complaint. Instead, she squeezed with legs and arms, doing her best to press her cold soggy clothes against him. "So, do you think they bought our little act?"
"I don't think Jennero suspects," the Marshal answered thoughtfully, "Now, please get off me. We've got less than four hours to reach the rendezvous point."
"But Ander, I thought we could maybe set up the tent and have some fun." She gave another squeeze of her thighs around his waist.
I believe the item in the Cyran heraldry is actually a bellows (the thing a smith uses to pump air into a forge.) I could be wrong, though. But it goes along with the Cyran theme of creativity and productivity.
You are both right Crown and bell on a field of green, above a hammer and bellows. At least, that's what Five Nations says.
Thanks for making these additions! You continue to write with a very strong voice, both in your dialogue and your narration. You've introduced a great cast of characters for me to work with. I have two main additional questions. First, I very much enjoyed your description of patronage. (Have you read The Name of the Wind/The Wise Man's Fear, by any chance?). But it's still not quite believable to me that Sebastian could rise so far, so fast. For that, I think I need to know more about the relationship between Sebastian and Chancellor Rayne. There's still a missing step between "doing clerical work" and "undersecretary." Is there some particular piece speech/policy document that impressed Rayne enough to start promoting him?
Second, I already know something about Rayne's religous views, between his hatred of the Silver Flame and his refusal to accept Dolurrh as Chandra's final resting place. Can you tie it all together for me? You've said that Rayne hates religious zealots, so presumably he isn't one--does he follow the Sovereign Host at all? Honestly, he seems like he'd be fairly sympathetic to the beliefs of the Blood of Vol...
Finally, some more minor notes/questions, in no particular order:
-I assume you mean Lord ir'Ambris, not d'Ambris (ir' is for nobles, d' is for marked members of dragonmarked houses). Similarly Lord ir'Rivas, and presumably it would be Chancellor ir'Rayne, unless Rayne is his first name...
-Can you let me know roughly where Sebastian grew up, and where Lord ir'Ambris' estate was located? A map of Cyre is here.
-Does Sebastian speak any languages besides the tongue of Galifar?
-Are Sebastian's parents alive or dead (on Olarune 19th)?
-"Editrix" is a truly horrible word.
So, if I understand correctly, Ali will stick with the others trying to help rebuild Cyre and gain revenge for two reasons: to prevent Oargev from throwing more lives away needlessly, and because Samara would want her to. Which, at least initially, really just means the second reason, since otherwise she'd just have Oargev bumped off.
First reaction: I'd like to know a little more about Ali's moral code. From what you've told me so far, she seems to be fairly utilitarian, reasoning from an "ends justify the means" perspective: the deaths of innocents aren't inherently wrong, but they're bad now because the war isn't worth fighting. Similarly, Ali would be perfectly willing to have Oargev killed to prevent further bloodshed. Would you say that Ali is a pure utilitarian? Or are there absolute moral precepts she follows?Are there things she would refuse to do no matter how great the expected benefit?
Second: an awful lot of Ali's motivations seem to be reliant on Samara's existence. Let's say, hypothetically, Ali thinks Samara has died. Besides pursuing revenge, etc., what would Ali's remaining motivations be? Are there things she would continue to do, i.e that she does not just in order to please Samara?
Like the vignette, not much to comment on. Except: since you mentioned silver coins ("Sovereigns", in Eberron terms), how does Kormác avoid handling them?
Agh! Apostrophe problem in the first paragraph! Eyes...bleeding!
...don't worry, I'll get over it. Eventually.
Aside from that small *twitch* error, your writing is very good: both vignettes describe interesting characters. However, at the moment they don't really feel like the same character. I assume the "day in the life" will fill in more information about Silas and Nahdya's work as a member of Cyran intelligence. This is certainly necessary, but I don't think it will suffice to bridge the gap between the vignettes. I understand where you're trying to go with the "ex-spy who just wants to be left alone" vibe in the first vignette, but I'm not quite feeling it. Nahdya just feels too inexperienced here: her fear on seeing Corra gone is that she's gotten cold feet, not, e.g., that Corra has betrayed her, or that she's been kidnapped, which are more the sort of things I'd expect from an ex-spy.
So, bridging that gap is the main things you should work on next. Aside from that, two more minor things:
-I assume Nahdya's father is a Cyran Master-at-Arms, not the Cyran Master-at-Arms? If it's actually a singular position, then I'd assume it would be held by a noble, which would make Nahdya an ir'Bartell.
-You say Nahdya "took her commands without hesitation," but "balked at taking orders from her peers." Also, that she "preferred the solitude of scouting", and "disagreements often broke out," but on the other hand she "was efficient, quiet, observant. She could blend in anywhere, get information out of anyone." These seem like contradictions. Can you explaint them, or resolve them in one direction or another?
Quote:
Originally Posted by Pumpkin31415
Actually, JD, just how public is this group? Is it something (at least on the surface) that Oagrev would put a lot of publicity behind, that he's being proactive about taking control of the whole Mourning situation, or leaving it more as a Mission Impossible-style "if you are caught we will disavow all knowledge" sort of deal?
I haven't really decided yet, but it will probably be something like WhiteKnight777's speculations. There certainly won't be a "public" organization of oath-takers: however, the more social members of the group might end up as members of the Cyran government-in-exile, delegates to the Thronehold Conference, etc.
That's all I have time for tonight. Sorry to those to whom I haven't had the chance to give feedback yet.
@jalapeno_dude: Once again, thanks for the feedback! I've got to hit the hay here so I can rise again for work in the morning, but I've fixed the d'/ir' confusion. I'll be updating everything else as soon as I have the occasion tomorrow.
On the subject of Sebastian's advancement - I've got a couple of ideas whirling around in my head, but I think it's going to be a combination of talent (writing some impressive policy/speeches/diplomatic material,) combined with some less... meritorious persuasion - probably something wherein Sebastian does some personal favors to help Rayne either indulge in a particular pastime or help him maneuver politically - quite possibly a bit of both. Being introduced to the "realities of the system" is the reason for the disillusionment Sebastian experienced regarding his superior between the two vignettes, although I hadn't elaborated on it yet.
Regarding the Blood of Vol - He'd probably be sympathetic to some of their teachings, but the blood fetish would probably put him off a bit. The Blood has always seemed to me like the goth version of the Godsmen from Planescape (Since they're pretty much *exactly* Godsmen with lots of black makeup on. ) Sebastian would definitely be sympathetic to the elements of their doctrine that promote meritocracy and decry a reliance on salvation through grace, especially the part about avoiding the sucktastic afterlife. Although Sebastian is probably not aware of the true metaphysics behind Eberron... Yet.
Short version - he'd definitely be sympathetic to their views, but his time has pretty much always been taken up with his work or his wife, so he probably wouldn't be significantly involved in the organization. I'll be pondering Sebastian's exact religious views so I can provide a more elaborate answer.
Oh, by the way, I'd just like to say that I'm pretty impressed the with the caliber of submissions that people have been creating. Really great job guys. Also, I've added a few more IC things relating to Taelin's past.
Oh I agree so much with you Pumpkin and Snark they're amazing. A lot of scary competition in here. Back to reading how to write strong classical female characters.
@JD: Question 3 came out a little more harsh then what I wanted. I've changed the last couple paragraphs to be closer to what I want for her. I also added a lot to the ooc to put it into context and answer your questions. Hopefully this will be more agreeable.
Is the touch of silver actively harmful to werewolves? I thought it was just that they despised it and that it overcame their natural defences (ie, more the "I don't like touching silver" than the "touching silver burns me" case). Either way, I'll show it in one of the other stories - which will probably only come on wednesday/thursday, due to some stuff that came up.