The Waystone Inn Interactions: Kel @NoriWasHere Cali @Fernstone Outfit: In need of a rinse
Ransom’s smile held strong as Cali poked holes through his threadbare story. He was far too full of himself to realize that his ruse wasn’t as clever as it had seemed in his head. His pride actively dodged and parried the evidence of Cali seeing through his deception. No, the reason that Cali hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to be “saved” was as obvious to him as the horns on the hellion’s head. At least it was until she pulled out a symbol of Mielikki. His smile thinned. Discrimination indeed. So if it were not his radiant and splendid divinity that gave her pause, then what in the Nine Hells was it?
”You think I want a foursome? With you, and her, and–” So on. Only, Ransom heard, ”You think I want a foursome? With you and her...”
Ah. Of course. Now it made sense. Good, now he wouldn’t have to riff about the wood market with some jackass treehugger who worshipped at its altar. Ransom chuckled alongside her wicked cackle. Hilarious and depraved maybe, but not expliciting disinteresting. They just needed to find a more palatable third and fourth. He gave an unapologetic half-shrug and gestured towards Kel.
“Good lord, she’s drunk, not deaf,” said Ransom, trying to pretend that he wasn’t relieved as he stifled his laughter. He turned towards Kel. “Don’t listen to her, honey. Some people are just more superficial than others. I’m sure you have a great personality, and maybe in the right light you…”
What was up with her face?
”You look awFUCK!”
Ransom had already started to spin with a sudden swiftness as he recognized the look for what it was. He twisted away with grace and brandished his cloak like a protective shield to deflect the blow. Unfortunately, his guard was high while Kel’s assault went low. His senses were overwhelmed in a flash: deafened by a loud retch that could’ve silenced the bar, poisoned by a foul stench of sulfur and spirits, and paralyzed by the sensation of something warm splattering on his pant leg and slipping down the inside of his boots. For a brief moment the man appeared petrified, frozen by his inability to comprehend what had just occurred.
“…I think…” He didn’t. Ransom, with a look of murderous intent on his face, flashed forward like a sword being drawn from its sheath, gliding through the pool of sick as he grabbed at Kel's collar with a dizzying speed. "I got some on you. Sorry.”
Sorry? Sorry? She was sorry? He ground his teeth together. She fucking would be. He’d see to that. She’d be sorry for the rest of her miserable dumb life, what precious moments she had left in it.
“YOU THINK THAT–”
Ransom cut himself off, the heat in his words dying as he glanced towards Cali. What would a priest of Lathander do? Roll over like some little bitch. The fire in his eyes dimmed. He held up a finger to ease the tensions and gave a reassuring pat to Kel’s shoulder, smoothing out any fabric hi roughness might've wrinkled. He tried to stomach the stench and forced a smile back on his face. He shifted to stand by her side in support, or rather in case there was a second volley. He was supposed to be the guy who walked with the downtrodden and the damned. A bit of bile probably paled in comparison to the stinky filthpile of shit that a true shepherd of Lathander regularly trudged though.
“You think that an accident would upset me, child? It’s the bar staff that should be your concern. I imagine they’re gearing up to throw you out in the cold, assuming they don’t decide to use you as the mop first,” said Ransom, calmly but certainly not kindly.
“Somebody should walk you home. For your own safety,” cooed Ransom as he motioned towards the door. He watched Cali from the corner of his eye, making sure that she witnessed his piety. “Yes, that’s right, for safety. Wouldn’t want you to be found dead in the street come tomorrow morn, drowned in your own toxic brew would we? Pink is better suited for you than purple. Come come, let’s take care of you.”
The Waystone Inn Interactions: Kel @NoriWasHere Cali @Fernstone Outfit: About to feature a pair of foxskin gloves
Ransom knew he was winning the second Calamity didn’t pull away. Now this was how things were always supposed to go. With his arm still around Calamity he stole a glance at Lila. There was no need for him to raise his voice or trade in his freewill to some unspeakable horror to gain access to telepathy to broadcast his message to the swamp bitch. The insufferably smug look on his face was loud enough, shouting down the rest of the bar as it said: See what a great guy I am? You really screwed it up, didn’t you? It was in that briefest of distractions where Ransom was waiting for Lila to come crawling back to him, or at the very least turn her head in his direction and notice that he had already moved on and that her rejection meant nothing to him and he certainly wasn’t going to lose sleep about it, that his guard slipped.
Chomp!
It was only because his mouth was in a rare moment of being closed that Ransom managed to stifle his surprised scream as a fiery pain erupted from his fingers and shot up his arm. He untangled himself from Calamity with a violent twist as the fuzzy little bastard on her neck dropped its bite at her command. He could feel his glove become damp with blood as he clamped his hand over his wounded fingers. It was a good thing that Dev was so well-trained and had let go when it did, as Ransom was only left to fantasize gripping his hand around its jaw and slamming its head down against the counter until all that remained was a piece of tanned leather.
He wasn’t just mad. He was boiling over. Hell, he was betrayed! He’d been lured in by that little saucy devil only to be humiliated again. Purring words and pretty smiles weren’t going to be enough to save Calamity. Ransom didn’t only need satisfaction; he needed to right how the world viewed him before the whole bar started pushing him around. He could hear the pesky little voice of his old governess, Mrs. Marmsdale, saying that a gentleman should never strike a lady. Well, thankfully this bitch here was no lady. Ransom tugged off his glove with the same menacing energy one would harness when drawing a dagger.
Then Calamity said something that made him pause, the murderous shine in his eyes becoming a different kind of twinkle as Ransom lost.
To buy himself a moment, Ransom popped his fingers into his mouth to lick his wounds. There was a faint glow behind his lips as his celestial healing sealed the bite. Meanwhile, the rake racked his brain for something that could possibly be more exciting than a threesome.
A–holy shit–a foursome?
Her idea. Not his. Hers. Not his. She wanted it. She had implied it with her own mouth. She was into it. Momma must’ve been a succubus. Maybe she was a descendant of infernal royalty. He wouldn’t mind wintering in Avernus, because this devil lady right here? This was some wife material. Ransom thought a love like this only existed in the songs of bards. Forget the fox. Foxes will be foxes and dogs will be dogs.
His healed hand fell out of his mouth as Calamity–sorry, sorry, she preferred Cali–beautifully closed the distance he had put between them and began running her finger up his arm. He flexed and gave her a little bloodstained smile. Yeah, he worked out. Damn armor, barely showed off his muscles. Should’ve left it in the room.
”And where exactly do you know me from, Ransom?”
Aw, shit.
“Hm?”” Son of a bitch, he had said her name. “Oh. Goddamnit she wasn’t an idiot. Guess the marriage was off. “Well.” Think, Ransom, think. If she was that smart, she wouldn’t be a wanted criminal. “You see.” His guard was back up. He saw where her hand was going while the other one played distraction. “Now that’s uncalled for.” He motioned with his eyes for Cali to look down to see that his hand had slipped beneath his cloak, likely already wrapped around a dagger. “Don’t ruin what is becoming a serendipitous evening. I’ll come clean.”
As clean as the boy’s latrine after copper beer and bangers night.
“I’m your guardian angel. Earlier I had misspoke. This isn’t the opportunity of a lifetime, it’s an opportunity to save your life,” said Ransom with a cheap smile. It sounded like bullshit because not only was it bullshit, he meant for it to sound like bullshit. Holy bullshit. “And I would really love to save you, Cali."
"You too," added Ransom, clearly including Kel as an afterthought. Surely there was some kind of magic that could maybe get rid of those scales? Beauty marks were a misnomer. It was easier to pretend like he cared about someone when they were conventionally attractive.
"I’m afraid I didn’t give you my full title when I first introduced myself. A bit of deception on my part, I admit. I’ve found that it builds walls just as often as it opens doorways. I am Father Ransom Labelle, a priest in the service of the Morninglord, Lathander. I run a small convent out at Good Shepherd’s Farm, about a half day’s travel down the road. I’m sure you’ve passed by it a dozen times without knowing it’s even open. We’re remodeling. Have you seen the price of wood? It's ludicrous.”
As proof, Ransom quickly pulled something shiny out of his cloak. It wasn’t his dagger, but a holy symbol that radiated a bright light. He tucked it away quickly before it drew too much attention or, really, before either of the tieflings’ vision could adjust to the light and see that his “holy symbol” was just an empty coin purse that he’d illuminated with some Aasimar trickery.
“The truth is that I did not come here to this depraved town because I wanted to. I came here because I had to. Lathander lit the way. He told me to find you. I don’t just know you, Cali. I was you. Lost. Wicked. Throwing myself at the first pretty face I saw, eager to take advantage of whomever I could. Now, there’s nothing in Lathander’s teachings that says we shouldn’t seek some excitement now and again. We’re progressives." No need to fully shut out the opportunity for a little action. "I have no issue with you wanting me. It’s completely understandable, who with eyes wouldn’t?”
“But this woman?” Ransom gestured to Kel before glancing at Dev with a look of disgust. “She’s obviously drunk. That's a clear trespass. And I am afraid to ask who would be your fourth. But I do not judge you. That is not my duty.”
Ransom pointed a finger to the sky. Or maybe god was creeping around on the ceiling, trying to look down some lowcut blouses.
“I am offering you something beyond pleasure. I am offering you redemption, absolution, salvation…” Ransom was running out of holy buzzwords; it wasn’t his fault that he’d fallen asleep during service. “Forgiveness. Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t that be better than hiding up here? The church offers protections to converts. Think about it. A chance to start anew. An opportunity to wake up tomorrow and see a new dawn. A way to make every day a blessing, knowing that you have been saved by me–through me–by the light of Lathander.”
“Shall we pray?” asked Ransom, smiling like a wolf. He pointed with his thumb towards the door. "In private? Rosa doesn't like it when I hold confessional in here, and it would give us the chance to speak more freely."
The Waystone Inn Interactions: Kel @NoriWasHere Cali @Fernstone Outfit: Composed entirely out of recycled red flags
Ransom was so distracted by living out a teenage boy’s dirty fantasy of being the meat in a tiefling sandwich that he hadn’t even registered the relief in his shoulder. Perhaps if he were a bit more inebriated then Ransom would’ve snatched at the bait thrown out by Cali and make the best mistake of his life. Unfortunately, momma didn’t raise no lightweight. He recognized Calamity Harbinger immediately from the wanted poster he had and noted with a lingering glance that the image had been ungenerous. It was no surprise she’d been able to kill so many men.
Unlike them, Ransom knew what he was dealing with. He wasn’t just some other idiot guy. A batted eyelash wouldn’t make him drop his guard. Cali was about to learn that she couldn’t out bullshit a bullshitter. She thought she was trapping him, but really he was trapping her. A classic gambit. He could feel his light coin purse already growing heavy.
Then Cali pressed herself against Ransom and his brain went away to its vacation home. He was certain now that Cali’s flirtation was purely genuine and, with Kel crowning him as a pretty princess prince, felt that it was his noble duty to reach down from Heaven and lift Cali out of the pits of Hell. Hell, if Ransom didn’t see scales as a dealbreaker, he would do the same for Kel.
”But seeing you down that bar, I knew I had to finally talk to you. Why let the opportunity slip by? Don't get many like you round these parts, after all."
“From where I’m standing, I can only see two others,” said Ransom with a scummy little wink as he followed her lead and slipped his arm behind her. “I am glad you seized the opportunity. I’m even better looking the closer you get, or so I’ve been told.”
He took a swig of the free drink to punctuate the least humble humblebrag ever. He no-sold the disgustingly unexpected burn of the extra spice as the liquid touched his tongue and slowly, silently spit the swill back into the mug by pretending to take another drink. What the fuck? If he hadn't seen Rosa pour it he would’ve been sure it had been mixed with some kind of poison. Who could like this shit?
“They were just.. so tasty the number of drinks just got away from me,” said Kel as Cali checked in on her, inadvertently answering Ransom’s rhetoric.
“And what’s wrong with living it up a little?” asked Ransom. He slid his drink over to Kel and gave her a pat of encouragement. “Why, you’re almost empty again. Please, it’s on me. I’m afraid if I have another drop Rosa will have to cast me out before I–wait, cast out? Ah, that’s it! You’re Kael’zar Vexmoor.”
“Our friend here is with the Outcasts,” he explained to Cali, his partner-to-be, before revealing to Kel how he knew of her. “Did a couple of unofficial milk runs with a group of them the last time I was in town, but ended up turning down the recruitment offer. Call it a style clash. Still, for a bunch of cutthroats and thieves they’re a real fun lot. Most of them, anyway. If you see Sorren, tell that little bitch he still owes me a Cloak of Billowing. He’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“Ah, but where are my manners?” said Ransom, striking his forehead with his palm. ”Ransom Labelle, pleased to meet you.”
“And you,” he said, his hand adventuring from the bar and resting on Cali’s waist to pull her a little bit closer. He lowered his head down to her ear and whispered so that only she could hear, his breath warm like poisonous gas creeping out across a trapped chamber. The hand that he should’ve offered in his introduction to Kel instead moved to tug at the fox scarf around Cali’s neck. “Follow my lead, baby, and you won’t have to wear this cheap shit anymore. Just silk and satin, Calamity. Silk. And. Satin.”
He pulled back just enough to definitely still be invading Cali’s boundaries and raised his voice so that Kel could hear.
“How would the two of you like the opportunity of a lifetime?” asked Ransom, sounding as if he was about to make an indecent proposal.
The bounty hunter was so swept up in the bullshit of his game that he’d failed to notice he had already misplayed his hand. He had a solid reason held together by a couple of half-truths for why he knew of Kel. If Cali asked how Ransom knew her name all he had were bad bluffs.
Planning a murder was a difficult task. It was made even more difficult for Paloma when every attempt to harden her heart so that she was ready for the dirty work was undone by Destiny melting it. She didn’t want to be the shitty adult that ended up confirming the kid’s suspicions that the world was unkind, uncaring, and a much worse place than it should’ve been. A little bit of sweetness did wonders to cover up the bitter taste of reality, even if it wasn’t always good for–oh thank God, Latoya moved in to comfort the kid.
Back to murder. Paloma’s eyes locked in on the janitor’s closet. Certainly, it was brimming with the materials needed to do some wetwork. Years of scrubbing floors and huffing in fumes had taught her the “do nots” of mixing chemicals; invert that knowledge and she had enough little recipes that she could add a chapter into The Anarchist Cookbook. How fast could chlorine gas neutralize this, this, this Jezebel!? And, ideally, how could it be delivered without annihilating the rest of the Thanksgiving feasters?
”Oh, she looks at everyone like that. Right nosy ass she is,” said Vin.
“Huh?” Fuck, the orphan. Paloma fixed Vin with a chastising look and was almost able to suppress the snicker as she hissed, “Vin! Language.”
Paloma hunched back down so that she was eye level with Destiny.
“Sweetie, I know we just only met, but there isn’t one single thing about you that needs fixing. Well, except for one heaping plate of hot food!”
Or a living parent.
If only they had a necromancer. If only she and Vin hadn’t–Paloma pushed the thought from her head. Thought? Fever dream. That’s what it was. A hunger induced waking fever dream. She was certain that was a real thing as her eyes flicked over towards Marco and the obscured villain. The river wasn’t too far from here. Paloma blinked away the intrusions and clapped her hands together.
“C’mon, girlfriend. Let’s jump in line before someone steals all the marshmallows from the sweet potato casserole or…” Paloma trailed off as her minion summoned a minion of their own to get the girls some food. “Oh, thanks Vin! That’s so thoughtful.” Her eyes narrowed with a teasing suspicion as she turned up her nose. “Hmmmmmmm…"
Paloma didn’t end up having the chance to hit Vin with the devastating(ly true?) accusation that they were simply trying to keep her close. As the hmm hit a pitch that only dogs could hear, a heatseeking cruise missile of adorableness exploded away from her bad, awful, no good mother and streaked past the cookie workshop. The uncannily cute little one splashed into Vin’s arms, mistaking them for her uncle the same way she’d confused Marco with being her daddy. Paloma’s smile, which couldn’t help but to beam at the sight of such a cutie, cracked as her jaw dropped in a gasp.
No. Nuh-uh. Absolutely not. She knew what was going on. She wasn’t stupid. That was it. That fucking did it. That bitch could steal her man, but Paloma would die before letting some hussy take her minion.
Her face blanking, Paloma signaled to Destiny and Latoya with a finger that she would be right back as she began to march towards Marco. Her advance halted as abruptly as it had begun, Paloma freezing with the same fear of a soldier who’d just heard the click of a landmine from beneath their feet. Only her eyes could move. They glanced at the woman who’d finally come into view from behind Marco’s beefy biceps back towards her minion. She saw the distraction wiggling in their arms, reaching out to confound its next target with its impossible cuteness.
Then she saw the bloodthirsty look in Vin’s eyes. Of course they were already aware. The fear fled from Paloma’s chest as a smug little smirk pulled at the corners of her mouth. She leapt at a sudden impulse instead of waiting for sensibility’s arrival. The Samaritan’s aura that had spread throughout the bar like a funky smell before fading into the background wafted back up to the forefront. Those with an Emotional Field would feel just a slight shift from an almost untraceable source, although they would all be quite aware that some powerful magic had just taken place as the Bystander Effect hit the rest of the Hollow Tap.
In an instance, the loud uproar of a crowded room scraping forks and knives against plates became a few slight murmurs accompanied by a clatter or two as all of the Blind went into a stasis. There was a gross plopping noise as a pile of mashed potatoes fell from a poorly balanced plate and splattered on the ground. A torn off bit of roll that had been tossed in the air bumped impossibly off of the open mouth of a leaned back man. A cookie hurled across the workshop table smacked one kid square in the nose and crumbled in two. The unharmed kid didn’t even blink as the icing slid off of his nose and down his shirt without leaving a trace of evidence on him.
And in that same moment as the crowd, minus a Paranormal few, froze, a snap could be heard as Paloma furrowed her brow, threw out her arm, and leveled a fully automatic finger gun with the banana clip. It looked as if she was pointing at Marco, but she was truly aiming at someone, or rather, something else. It wasn’t a person after all. It was one of those doppelgangers. And it wore Vin’s face. Her voice carried louder than intended as she barked out an order like a vicious chihuahua who had just heard someone at the door.
The Waystone Inn Interactions: Lila, Kel @NoriWasHere Outfit: Well-worn
“No no, my dear, I said that I must be too cute for my own good,” said Ransom over the rowdy crowd. “It is loud in here, isn’t it? Perhaps we should go somewhere a bit quiet-OW!”
Lila’s shockingly iron fist smashed against Ransom’s pauldron so hard that it sent him stumbling into the person behind him. How was her hand not broken? More importantly, how wasn’t his shoulder? His teeth clenched together as he seethed. He grasped for his wrist, his hand caught by something before it could tear off his glove so he could throw it down in a challenge.
Ransom turned sharply to see what idiot had stopped him from defending his honor and nearly blinded himself on the tusks of a towering half-orc, freshly soaked in what had once been a full beer, flanked by several of his less-than-happy looking pals. After a quick bit of mental calculus–four against one, minus one arm–the look of indignation on Ransom’s face became a nervous smile as he took up his cloak in his unhooked hand and dabbed at the half-orc’s soaked shirt.
“Gentlemen, let’s not do anything that Rosa will make us regret in the morning. Allow me to explain myself,” said Ransom, watching for any sudden movements.
This was what had happened: he’d been made the fool by some swamp bitch. Ransom had been quite happy to spend the entire night losing his life savings in a card game against Gulda and friends. That was until he noticed one of his bounties laughing when he suffered a bad beat, pretending to look away whenever he threw her a knowing smile, yet ordering round after round so that she could keep watching the show. What else could it have been but flirtation? Now normally Ransom wouldn’t be caught dead reciting poetry to someone so dirty that their lice had lice, but he wasn’t above going for a romantic moonlit stroll through nature if it meant bagging a bounty early.
After all, the antes had been practically eating him alive. So Ransom made his move moments before the game went all tits up and Gulda saw to it that the cheating cat went from nine lives down to eight. Now his last few silvers had been spent replacing the beers and paying off the tab of the new “friends” he had made. The bastards had even taken the drink he’d ordered for himself. It was hard to say which one would suffer the bigger bruise come sunrise: his shoulder, his coinpurse, or his ego.
No, no, it was definitely his ego. Every drop of blueblood that coursed through his veins demanded that the insult Lila had suffered on him be met with satisfaction in the form of a duel. Only she had really done a number on his swordarm; Ransom winced and rolled his shoulder. Perhaps it would be better to listen to the advice from those annoying heavenly pricks and turn the other cheek. At the very least, he should consider the amount of zeroes on Lila’s bounty before taking it to the streets.
Sod it. Ransom allowed the stupid angel massaging his wounded shoulder to talk himself out of getting killed, so he turned only to spot a devil over his other one. A rather pretty devil. A rather pretty familiar devil. Ransom huffed out a half-laugh as he shifted closer to one of Waterdeep’s Most Wanted. The overpacked Waystone Inn was starting to feel like a treasure trove. Nearly made up for his rotten luck during the card game.
“Buy a guy a drink?” asked Ransom as he sidled up to Kael’zar Vexmoor with a smile that got him into trouble as often as it could get him out. Ransom snapped his fingers together and pointed at Kel, his voice rising with realization. “Wait, haven’t we met before? How do I know you?”
He/Him | 40 | Aasimar | Human Heritage | 6’1” | 180lbs | _______________________________________________ Dazzle _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "Alas, I’m cursed to be more than just a pretty face." ___________________________________
[Highborn Ruffian] ⫻ Prim, proper, posh. These are things Ransom can pretend to be when needed. He’s well-educated, has a decent understanding of history and tactics, and knows whether he should be using the big fork or the small one. Thanks to his lessons, Ransom can flirt fluently in Elvish and try to make a pass at someone in broken Dwarvish. His pedigree is also the only reason he’s any good at fighting and somehow miraculously alive.
[Lowbrow Dandy] ⫻ He’s slummed it long enough to fit in with the scoundrels and the ruffians. Lies are his second language and he can usually detect when others are speaking it. Also, while he might look like he’s clowning around while drunk on sherry, he’s always got his eyes peeled for the bastard wanting to pickpocket the pretty boy.
[From the Fall] ⫻ As an Aasimar, Ransom has a few supernatural gifts from his celestial heritage. He can create a temporary magical light, allowing him to do such neat things like not carry a lantern or play a game of “hide the candle”. He can also kiss a boo-boo and make the pain go away or, if they’re not into that, just use his hands instead. The healing isn’t much and he can’t do it often, but it could potentially stabilize someone. Some Aasimar can even manifest wings. Ransom just ended up spraining his ankle when he tried.
[Bonus to Consitution] ⫻ For a man who is determined to avoid effort at all costs, Ransom is a shockingly tenacious son of a bitch. He’s barely breaking a sweat after a long fight, he feels reinvigorated after a good forced march or a “tactical” retreat, and he can walk straight after enjoying so many libations that it’d make a dwarf go, “Whoa, buddy.”
Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Heaven sent."
Ransom was already on the path of becoming a Neverwinter 10, which is a Waterdeep 8, before his revelation as an Aasimar. Now it would simply be impossible for Ransom to be anything but this pretty after his blueblood was given a divine infusion. The man appears largely human, fortunately lacking the more “alien” features certain celestials manifest, but certain characteristics give away his angelic inheritance. His blonde hair has a faint glow to it when it's exposed to sunlight, creating a halo like effect that lingers for a brief moment when he steps out of its glorious incandescence. Less obvious are the changes to Ransom’s blue eyes, which gradually lighten to a sky blue before darkening to a navy as the day passes. Also, no matter what he says to try and cover up a little bit of infidelity when he comes crawling home after being out all night, it is just glitter and his pale skin does not sparkle in the morning sun.
He is built like a dancer, with surprising strength for someone who groans when he has to lift his own backpack. He looks young for his age, although that is just something from the guys above as Aasimar age slower and live longer than humans once they’ve reached maturity. Ransom is oddly unscarred for someone who claims and appears to be as seasoned of a combatant as he is, so it must be thanks to some magical healing or stretched stories.
Ransom carries himself with a cool confidence, yet if one took a sniff they would catch the air of arrogance that only manifests around someone who comes from money. However, looking at the sorry state of the well-worn gear the Aasimar carries with him and it’s clear that he belongs with the crowd who also came out for copper drink night. His half-plate armor is well-polished but clearly battered, his blue cloak is fraying at the bottom and the dye there has become a brownish-gray after being choked by dirt for years, and his boots just seem a tad loose as if they were made to fit someone else. The way Ransom tends to elongate his words while speaking with his melodic voice clearly betrays him as coming from the upper crust, yet the things he says makes him sound like an absolute bitch.
Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Some people say I’m shallow. Is that a bad thing? Nobody ever accidentally drowns in a puddle unless they’re drunk."
MAIN GOAL ⫻ Ransom hopes for a life of leisure. The sellsword route could one day make it a possibility but it’s just so much damn work. He much rather just wed and bed a princess. Preferably a beautiful elf so that there’ll be no threat of icky grays or wrinkles in his lifetime, but hell he’d settle for a barbaric chieftain if the bed’s cushy enough, the wine keeps flowing, and he doesn’t have to join in on any raids.
PHILOSOPHY ⫻ He’ll say anything to get his way. Dogmas, morals, and beliefs exist to be exploited and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with doing so if it gets him ahead. People love hearing that they’re right, and Ransom loves people to believe that he’s on their side. Makes them so much more agreeable. It’s a win-win.
SECRETS ⫻ It doesn’t require that high of an insight check to realize that Ransom is largely superficial. The biggest surprise might be that while it’s undeniable that he’s a slippery, slimy scumbag, the man does have some basic decency. Very. Basic. Just because he’s selfish doesn’t make him heartless. He just doesn’t want a bunch of peasants pestering him when he’s trying to have a good time at the local tavern. Go get some stupid paladin and pray that they don’t smite the whole town because someone botches the sacrament.
Also, he’s not in Greyharrow for the work that he claims to be seeking. More on that later.
SEXUALITY ⫻ He’s no wizard, but Ransom’s been known to cast Knock on boots before. He ain’t a sorcerer, but he can make that Sorcerous Burst with his Thunderclap. He might not have a Wand of Magic Missiles in his pocket, but the mistake is understandable because if he can hit it, he’ll hit it.
FEARS ⫻ Oozes. Responsibility. Mages. Oozes is obvious, what if they got in his nose? Responsibility’s pretty clear, too. Life’s easier when the blame can be pointed somewhere else. Mages, now? That could be considered a bit irrational. Ransom knows that most mages are total little bitches who just wave their hands around, mutter some mumbojumbo, and catch a crossbow bolt to the chest before they can unleash their devastating “make the floor sticky” spell. But then some of them can turn invisible. Control minds. Scry on him when he’s in the john. A strong enough mage could even turn into an ooze. Then what?
Then he’s got a mage in his nose.
WHAT BROUGHT THEM TO GREYHARROW ⫻ Unless there’s a bodacious princess hiding amongst the slackjawed and poxmarked locals then Ransom must only be in this shithole for work. Bodyguard duty, basement rat killing, caravan escorting, dungeon spelunking, whatever gig that comes with some coin up front he’s down to do. Allegedly, anyway. The truth is that Ransom came to town with his work already lined up for him: bounty work.
WHAT DO OTHERS IN TOWN THINK OF THEM ⫻ Beloved, surely, and anyone who says otherwise is just jealous! Okay, not quite. Ransom might be a recent arrival, but this isn’t his first time in Greyharrow. Most people fairly assume that he’s a foppish, playboy loudmouth who’s a bit of a dick but really not worth the price of the rug they’d use to stash his body in. Still, he’s a welcome sight at the Waystone Inn, celebrated for his carousing, his entertaining if largely fabricated stories, and his love for prop bets and gambling despite his nigh legendary bad luck with cards and dice. Outside of that he’s known to have a good swordhand and won’t let someone walk into the obvious pit trap just to get a bigger slice of the treasure.
EQUIPMENT ⫻ Ransom has a once elegant rapier that has long lost its luster, a dagger on his belt, and another in his boot. He also has a hand crossbow and will always claim to have at least twenty bolts despite what empirical evidence might say otherwise. He protects himself with some polished but battered half-plate armor, which is like plate armor but instead of getting full coverage he instead has some severe vulnerabilities that aren’t protected because he can’t afford to pay for it–just like in real life! He has a visored helm as well to protect the moneymaker or to serve as an uncomfortable but portable footrest. Ransom has a noticeable lack of practical equipment such as torches, flint, rope, emergency rations, backpacks, bedrolls, and so on because that’s for the help to carry.
FLAWS ⫻ No. He’s perfect*
*Wisdom is his dump stat. To say that Ransom is merely overconfident and prideful would be an insult. The man is hubris incarnate. He would’ve gotten himself killed in a duel years ago if he wasn’t so annoyingly good with a sword. He also has a mild case of a major gambling addiction and will lose all of his gold in a sure fire win if someone does not babysit him.
Backstory ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Ladies, if your jealous husband ever asks why his son is starting to glow, never answer him by saying that an angel put its spark in you. Ruins the marriage."
Originally the heir apparent to the noble Labelle family, Ransom was groomed for excellence. He was educated by the most brilliant tutors, trained by the finest of swordsmen, and taught etiquette by just an utterly–ugh–just the most annoying and snooty old halfling he’s ever met named Mrs. Marmsdale. Then at some point in his teens he started sparkling in places he hadn’t shined before and his dad got all mad at his mom. The court mage (who was an absolute prick) did some magic malarky and, well, one beheading, a second marriage, and a successful pregnancy later and suddenly Ransom was no longer the heir.
And it was such a relief!
Sure, at first Ransom was considering the absolute classic “blanket-in-the-crib” tech for reclaiming his birthright, but then he reconsidered. From what Ransom had been shown, running a fiefdom was actually totally awful. His dad’s entire day was just spent listening to dirty, stinky peasants complain about the dumbest of things–”ohhhh, it didn’t rain and now I can’t eat”, “ooooh, oooh, my money was stolen by this guy dressed all in black and now I can’t pay my taxes”, “oooh, oooh, ooooh, goblins murdered my whole family”–like, what a bunch of losers! Now Ransom could just be rich. Plus, he didn’t have to suffocate a baby and that little asshole could deal with all those annoying poors instead. What a sucker.
Then his uncle on his mother's side had to get involved, making some big hubbub about justice and holy vengeance and how his nephew was the rightful heir and for some reason a bunch of these stupid peasants also got all mad about it. Suddenly oops, there’s a succession crisis. Now, there are two ways to go about such a problem. The first is to go back to that blanket tech, but when the target’s not a baby but a manbaby that gets a bit tough. The second is a civil war, which typically aren’t very fun and/or chill. However, Ransom found the super secret third option that nobody told him about: just leave. Run away. Beat feet. Turns out with no other interested heir present there can’t be a succession crisis.
Problem solved.
He later heard whilst he was traipsing around as a sellsword that his uncle was also beheaded. After a few years of proper “adventuring” (which was mostly just drinking, gambling, and bedroom delving), a nearly broke Ransom made his grand return home. He was certain that everything had calmed down and if he couldn’t move back into his old room he could at the very least get some allowance. As it turns out, those goblins ended up actually being a much bigger problem than they had seemed, and the whole “family murder” thing was still very much their bag.
Ransom no longer had an allowance he could collect and the goblins had turned his old room into a shrine for some Nomog-Gewhatever, so it was back to adventuring. The only problem was that without having a pocket full of platinum to go along with his silverspoon it turned out that he had to actually give it a proper go this time. Any success Ransom had over the years was almost always immediately met with a setback–definitely none of them ever by his own fault ever, it was a surefire bet, he just got unlucky. Either way, he never quite made it.
When times got tough, and they got tough often, Ransom always found himself slunking back to Greyharrow. It’s hard to say what drew him to the place. Perhaps it’s because it’s one of the first towns he visited when he’d initially set out and he just liked the vibe. Perhaps it’s because he’s madly in love with Liliana Scratch despite (or because of) how much she freaks him out. Or maybe it’s because it’s a town full of big, beautiful bounties and once he’s established himself he can trick a group of them to go score some phony treasure just over in them ruins yonder and then have the crew of hirelings he’d posted up there beforehand make some rocks fall. Score all of those bounties in one easy, flawlessly planned go.
But then, boom, bang, space. Maybe he just isn’t unlucky; maybe he’s cursed. Either way the plan’s scrapped. And what about poor little hirelings outside of town. Did they get unmade in the reality warping whateverthefuck? Are they still in those ruins, freezing with their thumbs up their asses, thinking that they’ve been played? Does he care? Should he?
Eh.
At least he didn’t pay them up front.
Other ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "What are the odds that there’s a bounty office in Greyharrow?"
The estate Ransom grew up on was named Labelle Gardens. The goblins are still there. They’ve renamed it to Gobelle Gardens. It has become a goblin paradise. Mrs. Marmsdale still resides there and has taught them all how to be proper, real fancylike goblins.
FIGHTER ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "You can tell a lot about a man by his weapon of choice. Longbow? Coward. Polearm? Plebian. Greatsword? Overcompensating."
TYPE ⫻ Fighter (Battle Master)
FIGHTING STYLE ⫻ Ransom is a dexterious duelist, overwhelming his opponents with a flurry of quick thrusts, fancy footwork, and the occasional poor sportsmanship. He views a fight as much of a mental war as it is a physical one, trying to make his foes fumble while punishing their blunders with precision. Ransom would rather score a dozen wounds than gamble on a deathblow that would overextend himself; an infection or a slow bleed out kills a man just as well as a blade. Ransom is a southpaw, preferring to wield a rapier over other swords, and tends to fight with one hand open to allow for improvisation. He might pull out the occasional parrying dagger if he needs to fight defensively, but when steel is dancing Ransom prefers being the one who leads.
CURRENT WEAPONS ⫻ Ransom’s go to weapon is a silvered rapier that has begun to tarnish around the guard. For someone so full of himself, he’s frustratingly able to back up any boasts he might make about his skill with a blade. Ransom has picked up various feints and flourishes, allowing him to use his finesse to disarm an opponent or distract their attention to allow him to hit them where they don’t expect it.
His daggers are fairly run-of-the-mill and often disposable, used primarily in his offhand to parry blades and give himself an opportunity to riposte with his rapier. They have been balanced to be thrown, and coupled with a standard handcrossbow he hides beneath his cloak they can be used to take a sudden cheapshot at a short range.
However, the most dangerous weapon that Ransom wields beside his rapier is the improvised one. A barstool makes for a great sword catcher and a slightly worse club. An oil lantern is a mundane man’s firebolt. A cape might seem impractical in a fight, but throw it at some chap's head and Ransom has suddenly cast the Darkness spell without having to sign his soul away to burn in the Nine Hells.
TRAINING ⫻ Ransom was trained by the finest of swordmasters that a lesser noble family could afford. Ransom learned to fight drunkenly just outside of the tavern or at dawn with nobody present but his foe and their seconds.
LIMITS ⫻ Ransom lacks any real long range options. His hand crossbow travels the furthest, but its accuracy and potency falls off beyond ten paces. Ransom does not have a good answer when it comes to dealing with a large group of enemies. Often, his best option is either to run or find a way to force the mob to funnel themselves into a chokepoint so he can engage them one at a time.
WEAKNESSES ⫻ Ransom may be a dexterous duelist, but his degrading armor and short weaponry leave him exposed to many different avenues that lead towards death. For starters, he is going to be weak at range to true ranged opponents, and a heavy bolt will often find a way to crash through the gaps in his armor if his luck is not present. As well, he will need to keep himself within range of his opponents to truly strike. Thus, while skilled, he may find himself at a disadvantage if he faces more than two targets at a time. He is also especially weak against magic-based casters at range; however, if he can close the distance, their lack of armor shall make it easy for him to engage.
He/Him | 40 | Aasimar | Human Heritage | 6’1” | 180lbs | _______________________________________________ Dazzle _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "Alas, I’m cursed to be more than just a pretty face." ___________________________________
[Highborn Ruffian] ⫻ Prim, proper, posh. These are things Ransom can pretend to be when needed. He’s well-educated, has a decent understanding of history and tactics, and knows whether he should be using the big fork or the small one. Thanks to his lessons, Ransom can flirt fluently in Elvish and try to make a pass at someone in broken Dwarvish. His pedigree is also the only reason he’s any good at fighting and somehow miraculously alive.
[Lowbrow Dandy] ⫻ He’s slummed it long enough to fit in with the scoundrels and the ruffians. Lies are his second language and he can usually detect when others are speaking it. Also, while he might look like he’s clowning around while drunk on sherry, he’s always got his eyes peeled for the bastard wanting to pickpocket the pretty boy.
[From the Fall] ⫻ As an Aasimar, Ransom has a few supernatural gifts from his celestial heritage. He can create a temporary magical light, allowing him to do such neat things like not carry a lantern or play a game of “hide the candle”. He can also kiss a boo-boo and make the pain go away or, if they’re not into that, just use his hands instead. The healing isn’t much and he can’t do it often, but it could potentially stabilize someone. Some Aasimar can even manifest wings. Ransom just ended up spraining his ankle when he tried.
[Bonus to Consitution] ⫻ For a man who is determined to avoid effort at all costs, Ransom is a shockingly tenacious son of a bitch. He’s barely breaking a sweat after a long fight, he feels reinvigorated after a good forced march or a “tactical” retreat, and he can walk straight after enjoying so many libations that it’d make a dwarf go, “Whoa, buddy.”
Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Heaven sent."
Ransom was already on the path of becoming a Neverwinter 10, which is a Waterdeep 8, before his revelation as an Aasimar. Now it would simply be impossible for Ransom to be anything but this pretty after his blueblood was given a divine infusion. The man appears largely human, fortunately lacking the more “alien” features certain celestials manifest, but certain characteristics give away his angelic inheritance. His blonde hair has a faint glow to it when it's exposed to sunlight, creating a halo like effect that lingers for a brief moment when he steps out of its glorious incandescence. Less obvious are the changes to Ransom’s blue eyes, which gradually lighten to a sky blue before darkening to a navy as the day passes. Also, no matter what he says to try and cover up a little bit of infidelity when he comes crawling home after being out all night, it is just glitter and his pale skin does not sparkle in the morning sun.
He is built like a dancer, with surprising strength for someone who groans when he has to lift his own backpack. He looks young for his age, although that is just something from the guys above as Aasimar age slower and live longer than humans once they’ve reached maturity. Ransom is oddly unscarred for someone who claims and appears to be as seasoned of a combatant as he is, so it must be thanks to some magical healing or stretched stories.
Ransom carries himself with a cool confidence, yet if one took a sniff they would catch the air of arrogance that only manifests around someone who comes from money. However, looking at the sorry state of the well-worn gear the Aasimar carries with him and it’s clear that he belongs with the crowd who also came out for copper drink night. His half-plate armor is well-polished but clearly battered, his blue cloak is fraying at the bottom and the dye there has become a brownish-gray after being choked by dirt for years, and his boots just seem a tad loose as if they were made to fit someone else. The way Ransom tends to elongate his words while speaking with his melodic voice clearly betrays him as coming from the upper crust, yet the things he says makes him sound like an absolute bitch.
Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Some people say I’m shallow. Is that a bad thing? Nobody ever accidentally drowns in a puddle unless they’re drunk."
MAIN GOAL ⫻ Ransom hopes for a life of leisure. The sellsword route could one day make it a possibility but it’s just so much damn work. He much rather just wed and bed a princess. Preferably a beautiful elf so that there’ll be no threat of icky grays or wrinkles in his lifetime, but hell he’d settle for a barbaric chieftain if the bed’s cushy enough, the wine keeps flowing, and he doesn’t have to join in on any raids.
PHILOSOPHY ⫻ He’ll say anything to get his way. Dogmas, morals, and beliefs exist to be exploited and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with doing so if it gets him ahead. People love hearing that they’re right, and Ransom loves people to believe that he’s on their side. Makes them so much more agreeable. It’s a win-win.
SECRETS ⫻ It doesn’t require that high of an insight check to realize that Ransom is largely superficial. The biggest surprise might be that while it’s undeniable that he’s a slippery, slimy scumbag, the man does have some basic decency. Very. Basic. Just because he’s selfish doesn’t make him heartless. He just doesn’t want a bunch of peasants pestering him when he’s trying to have a good time at the local tavern. Go get some stupid paladin and pray that they don’t smite the whole town because someone botches the sacrament.
Also, he’s not in Greyharrow for the work that he claims to be seeking. More on that later.
SEXUALITY ⫻ He’s no wizard, but Ransom’s been known to cast Knock on boots before. He ain’t a sorcerer, but he can make that Sorcerous Burst with his Thunderclap. He might not have a Wand of Magic Missiles in his pocket, but the mistake is understandable because if he can hit it, he’ll hit it.
FEARS ⫻ Oozes. Responsibility. Mages. Oozes is obvious, what if they got in his nose? Responsibility’s pretty clear, too. Life’s easier when the blame can be pointed somewhere else. Mages, now? That could be considered a bit irrational. Ransom knows that most mages are total little bitches who just wave their hands around, mutter some mumbojumbo, and catch a crossbow bolt to the chest before they can unleash their devastating “make the floor sticky” spell. But then some of them can turn invisible. Control minds. Scry on him when he’s in the john. A strong enough mage could even turn into an ooze. Then what?
Then he’s got a mage in his nose.
WHAT BROUGHT THEM TO GREYHARROW ⫻ Unless there’s a bodacious princess hiding amongst the slackjawed and poxmarked locals then Ransom must only be in this shithole for work. Bodyguard duty, basement rat killing, caravan escorting, dungeon spelunking, whatever gig that comes with some coin up front he’s down to do. Allegedly, anyway. The truth is that Ransom came to town with his work already lined up for him: bounty work.
WHAT DO OTHERS IN TOWN THINK OF THEM ⫻ Beloved, surely, and anyone who says otherwise is just jealous! Okay, not quite. Ransom might be a recent arrival, but this isn’t his first time in Greyharrow. Most people fairly assume that he’s a foppish, playboy loudmouth who’s a bit of a dick but really not worth the price of the rug they’d use to stash his body in. Still, he’s a welcome sight at the Waystone Inn, celebrated for his carousing, his entertaining if largely fabricated stories, and his love for prop bets and gambling despite his nigh legendary bad luck with cards and dice. Outside of that he’s known to have a good swordhand and won’t let someone walk into the obvious pit trap just to get a bigger slice of the treasure.
EQUIPMENT ⫻ Ransom has a once elegant rapier that has long lost its luster, a dagger on his belt, and another in his boot. He also has a hand crossbow and will always claim to have at least twenty bolts despite what empirical evidence might say otherwise. He protects himself with some polished but battered half-plate armor, which is like plate armor but instead of getting full coverage he instead has some severe vulnerabilities that aren’t protected because he can’t afford to pay for it–just like in real life! He has a visored helm as well to protect the moneymaker or to serve as an uncomfortable but portable footrest. Ransom has a noticeable lack of practical equipment such as torches, flint, rope, emergency rations, backpacks, bedrolls, and so on because that’s for the help to carry.
FLAWS ⫻ No. He’s perfect*
*Wisdom is his dump stat. To say that Ransom is merely overconfident and prideful would be an insult. The man is hubris incarnate. He would’ve gotten himself killed in a duel years ago if he wasn’t so annoyingly good with a sword. He also has a mild case of a major gambling addiction and will lose all of his gold in a sure fire win if someone does not babysit him.
Backstory ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Ladies, if your jealous husband ever asks why his son is starting to glow, never answer him by saying that an angel put its spark in you. Ruins the marriage."
Originally the heir apparent to the noble Labelle family, Ransom was groomed for excellence. He was educated by the most brilliant tutors, trained by the finest of swordsmen, and taught etiquette by just an utterly–ugh–just the most annoying and snooty old halfling he’s ever met named Mrs. Marmsdale. Then at some point in his teens he started sparkling in places he hadn’t shined before and his dad got all mad at his mom. The court mage (who was an absolute prick) did some magic malarky and, well, one beheading, a second marriage, and a successful pregnancy later and suddenly Ransom was no longer the heir.
And it was such a relief!
Sure, at first Ransom was considering the absolute classic “blanket-in-the-crib” tech for reclaiming his birthright, but then he reconsidered. From what Ransom had been shown, running a fiefdom was actually totally awful. His dad’s entire day was just spent listening to dirty, stinky peasants complain about the dumbest of things–”ohhhh, it didn’t rain and now I can’t eat”, “ooooh, oooh, my money was stolen by this guy dressed all in black and now I can’t pay my taxes”, “oooh, oooh, ooooh, goblins murdered my whole family”–like, what a bunch of losers! Now Ransom could just be rich. Plus, he didn’t have to suffocate a baby and that little asshole could deal with all those annoying poors instead. What a sucker.
Then his uncle on his mother's side had to get involved, making some big hubbub about justice and holy vengeance and how his nephew was the rightful heir and for some reason a bunch of these stupid peasants also got all mad about it. Suddenly oops, there’s a succession crisis. Now, there are two ways to go about such a problem. The first is to go back to that blanket tech, but when the target’s not a baby but a manbaby that gets a bit tough. The second is a civil war, which typically aren’t very fun and/or chill. However, Ransom found the super secret third option that nobody told him about: just leave. Run away. Beat feet. Turns out with no other interested heir present there can’t be a succession crisis.
Problem solved.
He later heard whilst he was traipsing around as a sellsword that his uncle was also beheaded. After a few years of proper “adventuring” (which was mostly just drinking, gambling, and bedroom delving), a nearly broke Ransom made his grand return home. He was certain that everything had calmed down and if he couldn’t move back into his old room he could at the very least get some allowance. As it turns out, those goblins ended up actually being a much bigger problem than they had seemed, and the whole “family murder” thing was still very much their bag.
Ransom no longer had an allowance he could collect and the goblins had turned his old room into a shrine for some Nomog-Gewhatever, so it was back to adventuring. The only problem was that without having a pocket full of platinum to go along with his silverspoon it turned out that he had to actually give it a proper go this time. Any success Ransom had over the years was almost always immediately met with a setback–definitely none of them ever by his own fault ever, it was a surefire bet, he just got unlucky. Either way, he never quite made it.
When times got tough, and they got tough often, Ransom always found himself slunking back to Greyharrow. It’s hard to say what drew him to the place. Perhaps it’s because it’s one of the first towns he visited when he’d initially set out and he just liked the vibe. Perhaps it’s because he’s madly in love with Liliana Scratch despite (or because of) how much she freaks him out. Or maybe it’s because it’s a town full of big, beautiful bounties and once he’s established himself he can trick a group of them to go score some phony treasure just over in them ruins yonder and then have the crew of hirelings he’d posted up there beforehand make some rocks fall. Score all of those bounties in one easy, flawlessly planned go.
But then, boom, bang, space. Maybe he just isn’t unlucky; maybe he’s cursed. Either way the plan’s scrapped. And what about poor little hirelings outside of town. Did they get unmade in the reality warping whateverthefuck? Are they still in those ruins, freezing with their thumbs up their asses, thinking that they’ve been played? Does he care? Should he?
Eh.
At least he didn’t pay them up front.
Other ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "What are the odds that there’s a bounty office in Greyharrow?"
The estate Ransom grew up on was named Labelle Gardens. The goblins are still there. They’ve renamed it to Gobelle Gardens. It has become a goblin paradise. Mrs. Marmsdale still resides there and has taught them all how to be proper, real fancylike goblins.
FIGHTER ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "You can tell a lot about a man by his weapon of choice. Longbow? Coward. Polearm? Plebian. Greatsword? Overcompensating."
TYPE ⫻ Fighter (Battle Master)
FIGHTING STYLE ⫻ Ransom is a dexterious duelist, overwhelming his opponents with a flurry of quick thrusts, fancy footwork, and the occasional poor sportsmanship. He views a fight as much of a mental war as it is a physical one, trying to make his foes fumble while punishing their blunders with precision. Ransom would rather score a dozen wounds than gamble on a deathblow that would overextend himself; an infection or a slow bleed out kills a man just as well as a blade. Ransom is a southpaw, preferring to wield a rapier over other swords, and tends to fight with one hand open to allow for improvisation. He might pull out the occasional parrying dagger if he needs to fight defensively, but when steel is dancing Ransom prefers being the one who leads.
CURRENT WEAPONS ⫻ Ransom’s go to weapon is a silvered rapier that has begun to tarnish around the guard. For someone so full of himself, he’s frustratingly able to back up any boasts he might make about his skill with a blade. Ransom has picked up various feints and flourishes, allowing him to use his finesse to disarm an opponent or distract their attention to allow him to hit them where they don’t expect it.
His daggers are fairly run-of-the-mill and often disposable, used primarily in his offhand to parry blades and give himself an opportunity to riposte with his rapier. They have been balanced to be thrown, and coupled with a standard handcrossbow he hides beneath his cloak they can be used to take a sudden cheapshot at a short range.
However, the most dangerous weapon that Ransom wields beside his rapier is the improvised one. A barstool makes for a great sword catcher and a slightly worse club. An oil lantern is a mundane man’s firebolt. A cape might seem impractical in a fight, but through it at some chaps’ head and Ransom has suddenly cast the Darkness spell without having to sign his soul away to burn in the Nine Hells.
TRAINING ⫻ Ransom was trained by the finest of swordmasters that a lesser noble family could afford. Ransom learned to fight drunkenly just outside of the tavern or at dawn with nobody present but his foe and their seconds.
LIMITS ⫻ Ransom lacks any real long range options. His hand crossbow travels the furthest, but its accuracy and potency falls off beyond ten paces. Ransom does not have a good answer when it comes to dealing with a large group of enemies. Often, his best option is either to run or find a way to force the mob to funnel themselves into a chokepoint so he can engage them one at a time.
WEAKNESSES ⫻ (DO NOT FILL THIS OUT, I WILL PROVIDE IT FOR YOU)
Paloma cocked her head as Vin glowered at her for some strange, cryptic reason. They were so weird sometimes, always trying to beam some secret message into her head instead of just saying things outright. Paloma wrinkled her nose back at Vin. It wasn’t like she had asked anything uncouth. Oh, sure, perhaps she had implied some less-than-savory things, but all she had done was ask a young, alone, hungry child at a free community dinner for the underprivileged about–ooooh. Paloma's eyes filled with a mix of panic and sympathy as she looked down at Destiny, the poor girl silenced by the question.
“Or your grandmother?” asked Paloma, her voice breaking with diminished hope. “An older sister…or brother…or…”
Shit. Paloma's childhood as a Southie hadn’t necessarily been all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, but in reflection she had been a luckier kid than most.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
A different kind of panic rippled through Paloma’s being. Of course now would be the time that Marco finally showed his stupid, sexy face. She needed him–his help, anyway, although she wasn’t going to pretend like the other thing wouldn’t be nice–but now was the worst moment for him to approach. She just couldn’t allow herself to suddenly ignore this girl, she thought whilst ignoring Destiny, missing the fork fly into the kid’s hand entirely as she stared at the fabric on Marco’s shirt straining to keep itself in one piece.
She raised a hand to give him a little flirty wave with her fingers, dropped all but one finger to indicate to Marco to wait for her, and felt herself pulled back as Vin stepped in front of her. A third wave of panic crashed over her, this one heavy with confusion. Paloma had no clue why this was happening, having missed the little girl readying herself with the fork to attack Paloma like she was a succulent Thanksgiving turkey. Some stuck gears broke free of their lust built rust and began to spin again, trying to unravel why Vin had stepped between Marco and–Paloma gave an audible gasp.
Ohmigod, jealousy! she thought, wishing that Gideon would open the goddamn door back up. She was starting to feel flush by the time Latoya had jumped in, introducing herself as Destiny’s friend.
“Paloma. Pleased to meetcha,” she said, reaching past Vin to offer Latoya a handshake, her face blanching in horror as she finally noticed a smear of mashed potatoes on her sleeve from when a cookiemaker had tugged on it and trying to recall if she had waved at Marco with this hand or the other.
She stuffed the concern down as Destiny lied about dropping her plate of food, her worry turning back towards the girl. Initially feeling a bit uncertain about Latoya’s claim to friendship, the suspicion was soon swept away as Destiny broke her heart.
“Why are you all... being soooo nice to me? People don’t just…do that…”
A genuine, unironic awww escaped from Paloma’s lips as her eyes welled up. She would’ve moved to scoop Destiny with her gross, potato soiled arms, but was beaten to the punch by Vin squatting down in front of the girl for a lil pep talk. Softie. Paloma put her hands behind her back and stepped around Vin so she could converse with Latoya, unaware that she would be creating a bit of a smokescreen that would hopefully prevent Destiny’s “friend” from overhearing what was starting to sound like a bit of a worrisome confessional that shouldn’t be dumped on a child just because they’d grabbed a fork before a plate.
“She didn’t drop her plate, actually. She still needs to eat. We were about to go through the line to get some food. I’d ask you to join us, but…,” Paloma gestured to Latoya’s plate. “Maybe you could just save us a seat?”
She glanced sideways at a blinding blur of speed that bumped into Marco.
“Unless you're feeling generous and wanna pass your plate onto Destiny. Poor thing was so hungry she already grabbed a fork. For a moment there it looked like she might eat me,” said Paloma with a laugh, the joy from her face faltering as she saw presumably the mother of the blur talking to Marco, her face obscured by his bulging biceps.
”Vin’s great with kids. She can watch Destiny if you want?” asked Paloma.
Her attempt to charm Latoya into giving herself an opportunity to grill the woman through politeness and sweetness began to unravel as a full Shakespearean tragedy began to play out on Paloma’s face as she watched what she had assumed to have been an apology for being such a SHITTY mother morph into a full on flirtation that begged the question if the cute toddler had merely been used as bait.
“Oh, come on!” groaned Paloma, her annoyance at the competition easily being mistranslated as a sudden and unwarranted pushiness towards Latoya for failure to immediately comply.
Paloma flashed Vin a guilty grin after they called her out for trying to teach their new ward to get others to do the dirty work for her. She stood back up to feign innocence, pointing out with a “now listen here” finger that drooped and wilted as Vin hard rejected the idea of co-parenting. Paloma put on a playful performance in which she was hurt by Vin’s chastistation. She slackened her jaw and dramatically swooned backwards in a mock shock that became real as the little girl interjected that she wanted to make war, not cookies. Paloma pressed her hand to her heart, covering up the imagined wound from where the kid had buried her blade. Ouch!
She felt a tug on her sleeve come from one of her little Keebler elves. She turned to see a ratty little punk with missing front teeth hold up their absolute abomination of a cookie with the kind of pride that only a child could hold for something that would only ever be defined, and this is put as politely as possible, as utter shit trash. How they’d manage to make the icing that color and consistency was baffling before Paloma realized it wasn’t icing but mashed potatoes. She was also pretty certain that turkeys didn’t have a beak between their legs.
“Wow. That’s pretty…” Dumb. Deviant. Dogshit. “...unique! Let me help you with the next one.”
Paloma squeezed herself onto the bench amongst the kids, grabbed a cookie, and began to show the kids step-by-step how to not ruin all of the work she had already put into the treats before bumming them off on a bunch of untrained, unpaid, and underage laborers. Yet even the slight pull of the Samaritan was not enough to keep the attention of the youths whose heads kept drifting towards Vin as they set a training date with Destiny, not wanting to miss out on any drops of wisdom when it came to dropping some bully trying to steal their bikes.
Truth be told, Paloma couldn’t help but listen in as well, her instructions becoming mumbled as she tried to scoop up the Vin lore. She’d seen enough–things she would never unsee, despite pretending as if she had seen nothing–to no longer warrant everything up to just tough talk. Hell, she’d seen enough that a good part of her wanted to pull the kid aside once Vin was out of earshot and tell them to buzz off for her own safety. But Paloma also saw something as Vin shifted the talk from beating up people bigger than yourself to making sure that the kid was eating right. It was enough “proof” to allow Paloma to carry on with her wishful thinking when it came to Vin and their more, ahem, concerning qualities.
She smiled softly at her secretly sweet stooge with a look that bordered on admiration that was soon backhanded off of her face by an unflattering, unaffectionate nickname.
“Loudmouth!?” echoed Paloma, who had merely intended to mouth the words but was seemingly incapable of even doing that quietly. A wave of giggles passed around the cookie circle and brought productivity to a halt as the gaggle of kids began a chorus of Loudmouth, Loudmouth. It broke Paloma, who was no longer able to pretend that she was peeved, as she chuckled at herself.
“ I ate yesterday. That’s enough,” said Destiny.
Paloma stopped laughing. She didn’t need the Samaritan inside of her to feel a swell of indignation. Eating yesterday most certainly was not enough given how late in the day it was now, especially for a growing kid. She jumped out of her bench seat and rushed towards Destiney, leaving the children caught with a case of the sillies to stir themselves back to work. Along the way, Paloma threw a dirty, accusatory look around the Hollow Tap, a spray-and-pray method in an attempt to shame non-present caretakers. She swooped down to Destiny’s height, looking as if she was going to smother the girl with an inescapable hug, but pulled short and reached out to give the girl a reassuring squeeze on her bony shoulder instead.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s not nearly enough,” said Paloma, trying to hide her anger by drowning it in sugar. “Besides, it’s Thanksgiving. Even if you aren’t hungry, the whole point of the holiday is to eat until you feel sick and then you eat some more. Vin’s gotta pretend to work, but I can go through the line with you, Destiny. The only thing I’ve eaten today was icing. In fact, I’m starting to feel a little weak. I might need you to help me through the line. Oooh, my head. Sooo hungry…”
Paloma covered her face as she pretended to massage a migraine, using her other hand to shoo away a random lady who had overheard Paloma’s bellyaching and had started to fish around in her purse for some ibuprofen. Still shielding her face from Destiny and groaning in hunger, she flashed another coded message at Vin through a series of blinks that she was certain would be interpreted fully and clearly until she realized a flaw in her plan. She dropped her hand and raised an eyebrow at Destiny.
“Destiny, where are your parents?” asked Paloma, who suddenly seemed to have recovered from her hunger-based agony. Even still, her stomach tightened. “It’s just that Vin should probably meet them before training you. Just so that there wouldn’t be any problems, y’know? I'm sure they'd appreciate a preview of the lesson plan.”
Couldn’t sic her minion on those abusive fucks who starved their own kid without knowing where they were.
Neziul
Antlers
CassidyTheButch
ML
Simply Not Real
NoriWasHere
Blizz
Passable Writer
Evil Ghost Note
