Jacksonby
01-04-15, 10:52 AM
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You've heard of a cat burglar. Well. What about a cat policeman?
Cat Me If You Can - Memoirs of an Autar
Name: Jacksonby Deville
Race: Celfling
Gender: Male
Age: 145
Height: 5’5”
Weight: 120lbs
Fur Colour: Ginger
Languages: Tradespeak, Elven
Place of Birth: Nauplez
Occupation: Autar
My father used to tell me that progress makes fake sounds in a workshop. It rattles boisterously, clanks needlessly, and trundles on when no gears turn and no oil burns in lantern cap. No matter the machinations of the man before a workbench, it is the ideas in play within that temple to temptation that carve out new possibilities for the course of progress of man and beast alike. The idea, he believed, was the spark that lit the furnace.
Nauplez, then, was a great furnace sparked by hundreds of madmen. I grew up witnessing parts of the city disappearing overnight, and reappearing months later as though nothing had happened. Smoke plumes rose high into the night and day sky almost constantly. When a guildsman found his new cornucopia, his workshop would still for a few drunken nights, and then the spark would ignite the fire anew. Day in, day out, advancement without direction save for the glory of Alerar.
Of course, this political hellhole is all about the glory of oneself as well. Each guildsman used their inventions to further their own agenda and even as low down the hierarchy as they were in the wilds of Alerar’s outback, they rose higher and higher on the mounds of spent cogs and bloodied, broken bodies of competitors. That’s not to say everyone in this town is a sycophantic murderer, just most. I’m not sure if it’s in our blood, or the madness of invention stretches us far too thin to live in polite society.
My father, an exception to this frustrating melting pot of wasted talent, is not a madman. Well, he is. He is just not the sort of mad that plays his hand to picking up a wrench and hitting someone over the head with it until they resemble a squashed aubergine. He is, sadly, the sort of mad that comes with the all-consuming desire to invent something worthwhile and beneficial. Once, upon a time as they say, the Deville workshop was like any other trundling, clanking palace to perdition. Steam was our cloak and finery, and oil our lifeblood.
His decline sent my mother away. Perhaps, if my own enquiries are true, my mother sent my father into a decline long before that, I’ll never get to know. She is believed dead, or married off in Ettermire (both eventualities lead to me never seeing her again). For nearly a century my father has tried and tried again to bring about a revival in his mind and in the money ledgers of the workshop. Of course, turning your only son into a cat has all but shattered his reputation so that if ever he does make something, he will still be ridiculed.
Yes. I’m a cat. They call us Celfling in Nauplez. A dozen or so strange animal once-elves turned into a new form by the so called arcane machinations of Alerar’s fake sound of progress. I’ve gotten used to it, and most people in the city have too. My quasi exile leant itself well to being scouted as an Autar. The nobles of Ettermire, and the king, it would seem, think that an outsider is the best person to correct the wrongs in their midst. I am one man’s mistake correcting the mistakes of another.
My life, it seems, it destined to be full of these little ironies. Still, I enjoy the respect the hat brings, and the ability to travel the length and breadth of the kingdom with relative impunity means I can escape my father’s workshop, and his bitter legacy, without falling for the same madness. We’ll ignore the gin consumption and the spitting. Even though the Autar is the hand of law, an ombudsman amongst frenzied rats, some elves still see my ginger fur and top hat and assume I am to be stroked, fed chow, or kicked and hissed at like a stray. Tosh to them, I say.
Skills:
Law: Jacksonby has intimate knowledge of Alerar’s common and high laws. He studied in the University of Ettermire for six years to become an Autar, which requires annual revision and academic contributions to retain one’s license.
Diplomacy: To mediate disputes and apply judgements, Jacksonby uses charisma and public respect (in some places fear), to comfort, cajole, and confuse defendants into revealing the truth or paying fines.
Acrobatics: Celfling have the benefit of elven lineage and feline finesse. He is capable of performing feats of acrobatics akin to a gymnast and can sprint and climb with the expected level of skill.
Swordplay: Quite often people don’t submit to the law and judgements by Autar’s usually come with, well, what one might call the sharp reminder of fact. Jacksonby carries a short sword and knows full well how to use it.
Knowledge (Alerar): Every road and street in Alerar has to be the Autar’s backyard. As he travels almost unceasingly, Jacksonby reads the maps to learn the kingdom, and observes every exchange to experience the intricacies of dark elven culture.
Cat: Jacksonby is a cat. Just in case you missed that. He has an unnatural predilection to playing with bundles, hissing at dogs from fences, and dairy products that seem to be habits he cannot shake. Don’t get him wet, either. He doesn’t like that.
Abilities:
Catapult: As a Celfling, Jacksonby moves twice as fast running as a physically fit dark elf his age. He can jump higher, leap further, and dodge quicker as well. This is represented as an X2 agility modifier.
Caterwaul: Often sizzled with gin, Jacksonby can disarm with sardonic, bitter truths, and wordplay. He will always talk/intimidate before fighting, but even when he is nude, he is armed. He has sharp teeth and claws (iron strength) to fight with.
Catch: Jacksonby has excellent spatial awareness and almost never fails to catch something that his size, strength, and height could catch. He cannot catch arrows or bolts, but has been seen snatching daggers and rocks going about his duties.
Equipment:
Jacksonby has little in the way of possessions outside of the armaments and uniform and tools of the Autar. Even then, these remain the property of the King’s court and are reclaimed from his body or from his person should he die or lose his license.
Catalogue: A collection of books of law and cultural observations that form an Autar’s knowledge and combined experience. They often are riddled with noble family secrets and business code words that give an Autar power over steel and sternness.
Cataphract: Jacksonby has a iron shirt of mail to the knee, leather under armour, neck brace, and fixed helmet and goggles. He can ride wearing this gear, along with heavy boots and woollen undergarments with comfort and ease.
Catnap: An iron, double-edged short sword with a black cross-guard and leather wrapped pommel. It is kept on the right hip on a sturdy belt, and is a human smith design to fit more comfortably in a cat’s paw then elven fingers.
Catatonia: Various chemicals in vials and bandoleers and instruments which allow an Autar to enforce a less lethal approach. Induce sleep, memory loss, and paralysis often come before the criminal waking up in the docks. Jacksonby dabbles himself.
Catnip: A wooden and reinforced frame bicycle with excellent craftwork that allows Jacksonby to traverse Alerar and its narrow streets with speed and comfort. It was his father’s only real invention before the accident, originally for a postal man service.
You've heard of a cat burglar. Well. What about a cat policeman?
Cat Me If You Can - Memoirs of an Autar
Name: Jacksonby Deville
Race: Celfling
Gender: Male
Age: 145
Height: 5’5”
Weight: 120lbs
Fur Colour: Ginger
Languages: Tradespeak, Elven
Place of Birth: Nauplez
Occupation: Autar
My father used to tell me that progress makes fake sounds in a workshop. It rattles boisterously, clanks needlessly, and trundles on when no gears turn and no oil burns in lantern cap. No matter the machinations of the man before a workbench, it is the ideas in play within that temple to temptation that carve out new possibilities for the course of progress of man and beast alike. The idea, he believed, was the spark that lit the furnace.
Nauplez, then, was a great furnace sparked by hundreds of madmen. I grew up witnessing parts of the city disappearing overnight, and reappearing months later as though nothing had happened. Smoke plumes rose high into the night and day sky almost constantly. When a guildsman found his new cornucopia, his workshop would still for a few drunken nights, and then the spark would ignite the fire anew. Day in, day out, advancement without direction save for the glory of Alerar.
Of course, this political hellhole is all about the glory of oneself as well. Each guildsman used their inventions to further their own agenda and even as low down the hierarchy as they were in the wilds of Alerar’s outback, they rose higher and higher on the mounds of spent cogs and bloodied, broken bodies of competitors. That’s not to say everyone in this town is a sycophantic murderer, just most. I’m not sure if it’s in our blood, or the madness of invention stretches us far too thin to live in polite society.
My father, an exception to this frustrating melting pot of wasted talent, is not a madman. Well, he is. He is just not the sort of mad that plays his hand to picking up a wrench and hitting someone over the head with it until they resemble a squashed aubergine. He is, sadly, the sort of mad that comes with the all-consuming desire to invent something worthwhile and beneficial. Once, upon a time as they say, the Deville workshop was like any other trundling, clanking palace to perdition. Steam was our cloak and finery, and oil our lifeblood.
His decline sent my mother away. Perhaps, if my own enquiries are true, my mother sent my father into a decline long before that, I’ll never get to know. She is believed dead, or married off in Ettermire (both eventualities lead to me never seeing her again). For nearly a century my father has tried and tried again to bring about a revival in his mind and in the money ledgers of the workshop. Of course, turning your only son into a cat has all but shattered his reputation so that if ever he does make something, he will still be ridiculed.
Yes. I’m a cat. They call us Celfling in Nauplez. A dozen or so strange animal once-elves turned into a new form by the so called arcane machinations of Alerar’s fake sound of progress. I’ve gotten used to it, and most people in the city have too. My quasi exile leant itself well to being scouted as an Autar. The nobles of Ettermire, and the king, it would seem, think that an outsider is the best person to correct the wrongs in their midst. I am one man’s mistake correcting the mistakes of another.
My life, it seems, it destined to be full of these little ironies. Still, I enjoy the respect the hat brings, and the ability to travel the length and breadth of the kingdom with relative impunity means I can escape my father’s workshop, and his bitter legacy, without falling for the same madness. We’ll ignore the gin consumption and the spitting. Even though the Autar is the hand of law, an ombudsman amongst frenzied rats, some elves still see my ginger fur and top hat and assume I am to be stroked, fed chow, or kicked and hissed at like a stray. Tosh to them, I say.
Skills:
Law: Jacksonby has intimate knowledge of Alerar’s common and high laws. He studied in the University of Ettermire for six years to become an Autar, which requires annual revision and academic contributions to retain one’s license.
Diplomacy: To mediate disputes and apply judgements, Jacksonby uses charisma and public respect (in some places fear), to comfort, cajole, and confuse defendants into revealing the truth or paying fines.
Acrobatics: Celfling have the benefit of elven lineage and feline finesse. He is capable of performing feats of acrobatics akin to a gymnast and can sprint and climb with the expected level of skill.
Swordplay: Quite often people don’t submit to the law and judgements by Autar’s usually come with, well, what one might call the sharp reminder of fact. Jacksonby carries a short sword and knows full well how to use it.
Knowledge (Alerar): Every road and street in Alerar has to be the Autar’s backyard. As he travels almost unceasingly, Jacksonby reads the maps to learn the kingdom, and observes every exchange to experience the intricacies of dark elven culture.
Cat: Jacksonby is a cat. Just in case you missed that. He has an unnatural predilection to playing with bundles, hissing at dogs from fences, and dairy products that seem to be habits he cannot shake. Don’t get him wet, either. He doesn’t like that.
Abilities:
Catapult: As a Celfling, Jacksonby moves twice as fast running as a physically fit dark elf his age. He can jump higher, leap further, and dodge quicker as well. This is represented as an X2 agility modifier.
Caterwaul: Often sizzled with gin, Jacksonby can disarm with sardonic, bitter truths, and wordplay. He will always talk/intimidate before fighting, but even when he is nude, he is armed. He has sharp teeth and claws (iron strength) to fight with.
Catch: Jacksonby has excellent spatial awareness and almost never fails to catch something that his size, strength, and height could catch. He cannot catch arrows or bolts, but has been seen snatching daggers and rocks going about his duties.
Equipment:
Jacksonby has little in the way of possessions outside of the armaments and uniform and tools of the Autar. Even then, these remain the property of the King’s court and are reclaimed from his body or from his person should he die or lose his license.
Catalogue: A collection of books of law and cultural observations that form an Autar’s knowledge and combined experience. They often are riddled with noble family secrets and business code words that give an Autar power over steel and sternness.
Cataphract: Jacksonby has a iron shirt of mail to the knee, leather under armour, neck brace, and fixed helmet and goggles. He can ride wearing this gear, along with heavy boots and woollen undergarments with comfort and ease.
Catnap: An iron, double-edged short sword with a black cross-guard and leather wrapped pommel. It is kept on the right hip on a sturdy belt, and is a human smith design to fit more comfortably in a cat’s paw then elven fingers.
Catatonia: Various chemicals in vials and bandoleers and instruments which allow an Autar to enforce a less lethal approach. Induce sleep, memory loss, and paralysis often come before the criminal waking up in the docks. Jacksonby dabbles himself.
Catnip: A wooden and reinforced frame bicycle with excellent craftwork that allows Jacksonby to traverse Alerar and its narrow streets with speed and comfort. It was his father’s only real invention before the accident, originally for a postal man service.