Name: Martyn Taine
Class: Thief Trainee
Special: Lockpick
Character Skill: Potential
Affinity: ??
Personal Fault: Guarded: -2 DEF when 3 or more allies are within 3 squares.
Personal Skill: The Wind Whistles: +15 Evasion when HP is over 50%.
Preferred Stats: SPD, LCK
Weapon Profs: Sword (E)
Total Level: 1
Level: 1
Progression Spent: (330%/330%)
HP: 16+3 (75%)
STR: 4 (55%)
MAG: 1 (55%)
SKL: 5 (50%)
LCK: 2 (45%)
CON: 4+2
AID: 3+2
DEF: 3 (20%)
RES: 1 (15%)
SPD: 4 (55%)
MOV: 5
Name | Type ( ) | Rng | Wt | Mt | Hit | Cr | Ql
Iron Knife | Side (E) | 1-2 | 5 | 4 | 90 | 0 | 45/45
Vulnerary 3/3
Bio: Martyn was born on the coast of Izzarra, the eldest child of a popular merchant family, more notable for their local philanthropy and dabbling in politics than any extravagant successes in business. The boy spent his early years in and around the coastal city where his family had made their home, watching the sailing of ships in the harbor near as much as he watched the comings and goings of those men and women who chose to visit his parents. Captains and merchants, mostly, to discuss business. But scholars, too, come to meet and discuss the ideas of the day, joining together for the salons often hosted by Martyn's mother.
The latter struck the growing young man's fancy, encouraged by his tutors, and he would often join in the salons himself, either to listen or to voice his own views on developing philosophies. Political philosophy in particular proved of more than passing interest to him, and more than once he waxed eloquent over the virtues of good governance, and of the relative merits of kings and councils. While mildly disappointing to his father, at first, Martyn's love for scholarship eventually convinced the man to send his son abroad to pursue such studies in one of the greater universities in Mordo.
Of course, everything changed when the war began.
News of the assault on Kalart shook Martyn to the core, shattering the man's faith in his king, forcing him to reassess the views and values he had spent his younger years advocating. Even so, while the king may have been abandoned in his heart, the nation and its people were not. He argued long and fiercely against his peers--many of whom he had counted as friends, for a time--in defense of his country, only to find himself threatened with imprisonment. And when the king died, and the occupation began, he was to contend with far worse than that. Letters from home stopped coming. He was hounded in the streets. More than once, he was promised death if he continued to speak against the violence inflicted upon his homeland. Nevertheless, he persisted, and only through a stroke of luck and the warning of one he still called a friend did he manage to escape the noose.
Martyn fled his studies, returning to the city where he had once made his home. But there was little left worth calling that. The streets were patrolled by soldiers of Mordo, the people taxed and beaten into poverty. Those who dared speak out, as he had, faced repercussions. Even his own family did not go unaffected. The salons ended with the imprisonment of his mother. The money began to dry with the death of his father from stress and illness. And beneath it all, the rumblings of resistance continued.
Martyn fell in with a group of partisans, determined to fight off the oppressive invaders. For several months, he and his band--and it increasingly became his band, with the death of its former leader to a knight's blade--attacked supply lines, struck at undermanned patrols and garrisons, and even once managed to send a small ship bearing an arms shipment burning to the bottom of the harbor. But these attacks drew attention, and once the higher command of Mordo caught wind of it, he found himself well in over his head.
The armies of Mordo came down, hard. His band found itself hunted down and destroyed, most killed, the rest scattered to the far winds. Once again, a last minute warning let Martyn himself escape, fleeing as quickly as he could as soldiers tore his old home apart in an effort to find him. He spent days fleeing them before they finally gave up the chase. But with his face by now known, and the remaining resistance movements increasingly being destroyed, he continued to run. First to Anecca, where he lost himself for a time in the desert. Then beyond to Viterine, where he could survive by applying his skills as a tutor.
But the call of freedom is strong, and the cries of his people echo over the deserts and mountains. He could not keep himself away forever. So he packed up his bags again, taking what tools and equipment he could buy or steal, before heading southeast. Back, to join the rebellion.
Martyn was born on the coast of Izzarra, the eldest child of a popular merchant family, more notable for their local philanthropy and dabbling in politics than any extravagant successes in business. The boy spent his early years in and around the coastal city where his family had made their home, watching the sailing of ships in the harbor near as much as he watched the comings and goings of those men and women who chose to visit his parents. Captains and merchants, mostly, to discuss business. But scholars, too, come to meet and discuss the ideas of the day, joining together for the salons often hosted by Martyn's mother.
The latter struck the growing young man's fancy, encouraged by his tutors, and he would often join in the salons himself, either to listen or to voice his own views on developing philosophies. Political philosophy in particular proved of more than passing interest to him, and more than once he waxed eloquent over the virtues of good governance, and of the relative merits of kings and councils. While mildly disappointing to his father, at first, Martyn's love for scholarship eventually convinced the man to send his son abroad to pursue such studies in one of the greater universities in Mordo.
Of course, everything changed when the war began.
News of the assault on Kalart shook Martyn to the core, shattering the man's faith in his king, forcing him to reassess the views and values he had spent his younger years advocating. Even so, while the king may have been abandoned in his heart, the nation and its people were not. He argued long and fiercely against his peers--many of whom he had counted as friends, for a time--in defense of his country, only to find himself threatened with imprisonment. And when the king died, and the occupation began, he was to contend with far worse than that. Letters from home stopped coming. He was hounded in the streets. More than once, he was promised death if he continued to speak against the violence inflicted upon his homeland. Nevertheless, he persisted, and only through a stroke of luck and the warning of one he still called a friend did he manage to escape the noose.
Martyn fled his studies, returning to the city where he had once made his home. But there was little left worth calling that. The streets were patrolled by soldiers of Mordo, the people taxed and beaten into poverty. Those who dared speak out, as he had, faced repercussions. Even his own family did not go unaffected. The salons ended with the imprisonment of his mother. The money began to dry with the death of his father from stress and illness. And beneath it all, the rumblings of resistance continued.
Martyn fell in with a group of partisans, determined to fight off the oppressive invaders. For several months, he and his band--and it increasingly became his band, with the death of its former leader to a knight's blade--attacked supply lines, struck at undermanned patrols and garrisons, and even once managed to send a small ship bearing an arms shipment burning to the bottom of the harbor. But these attacks drew attention, and once the higher command of Mordo caught wind of it, he found himself well in over his head.
The armies of Mordo came down, hard. His band found itself hunted down and destroyed, most killed, the rest scattered to the far winds. Once again, a last minute warning let Martyn himself escape, fleeing as quickly as he could as soldiers tore his old home apart in an effort to find him. He spent days fleeing them before they finally gave up the chase. But with his face by now known, and the remaining resistance movements increasingly being destroyed, he continued to run. First to Anecca, where he lost himself for a time in the desert. Then beyond to Viterine, where he could survive by applying his skills as a tutor.
But the call of freedom is strong, and the cries of his people echo over the deserts and mountains. He could not keep himself away forever. So he packed up his bags again, taking what tools and equipment he could buy or steal, before heading southeast. Back, to join the rebellion.
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Topic: FEF: Liberation of Izzarra OoC Thread: Ded (Read 69687 times)