Jal Jathal

Jal Jathal		CR: 9
Half-Elf Male Tatooed Sorcerer/9
CG Medium humanoid (human/elf)
Init +3		Perception +12
AC 23, touch 17, flat-footed 14 (+2 Dex, +3 armor, +4 shield, +2 deflection, +2 natural)
hp 61 (9d6+21)	Immune: Sleep
Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +5 (+2 vs. enchantment)
Speed 30 ft.
	Weighted Spear: +5 (1d8+1/x3, Piercing)
			+5 (1d6+1/x2, Bludgeoning)
	Light Crossbow: +6 (1d8/19-20 x2, 80' range)
Str 12, Dex 14, Con 14, Int 14, Wis 8, Cha 18
Base Atk +4; CMB +5; CMD 19

Race Abilities:
	Favored Class: Sorcerer
	Elven Immunities - +2 vs. enchantment, immune sleep
	Adaptability - Skill Focus Feat
	Keen Senses - +2 Perception
	Low-Light Vision
	Elf Blood
	Arcane Training - Use wands & scrolls as if 1 lvl higher
Class Abilities:
	Arcane Bloodline
		Metamagic Adept
	Tattoo Familiar 
	Eschew Materials
	4th (5/day):	Dimension Door, Black Tentacles, Charm Monster, Shadow Conjuration
	3rd (7/day):	Dispel Magic, Fireball, Haste, Tongues
	2nd (7/day):	Invisibility, Burning Arc, Darkness, Mirror Image, Stone Call
	1st (7/day):	Identify, Burning Hands, Hydraulic Push, Shield, Silent Image, Shadow Weapon, (Magic Missile)
	0th:		Dancing Lights, Detect Magic, Ghost Sounds, Prestidigitation, Read Magic, Resistance, Spark
	Additional Traits
	Skill Focus (Perception)
	Combat Casting
	Intensify Spell
	Reach Spell
	Spell Focus (Evocation)
	Appraise 		+6	
	Bluff			+16 	
	Diplomacy		+16/+18	
	Intimidate		+16	
	Perception		+12 	
	Knowledge: Arcana	+12
	Knowledge: Dungeons	+6
	Knowledge: Religion	+6
	Perform: Dance		+10

	Affable: +2 gather information
	Outlander: +1 to Arcana and three adept spells
	Tattooed Wanderer: +1 Dance & becomes a class skill
	Seeker: +1 Perception & becomes a class skill
	Harrow Born: Gain a Harrow Deck & +1 Initiative

Cloak of the Mountebank, Bracers of Armor (+3 & Many Garments), Amulet of Natural Armor +2, Ring of Protection +2, Ring of Spell Knowledge I, 2 Scrolls of Enlarge Person 

Character Quiz Answers
On the road on the way into Sandpoint, there is a wooden post with a sign and small mirror. Painted on the sign is “Welcome to Sandpoint! Please stop to see yourself as we see you!” What do you see if you look in the mirror?

“Edi’ear ar-elenea – *” Jal sighed, a disbelieving smirk running across his features as he considered the seeming earnestness of the sign. A half-score days of travel behind him, the dust of the road and the sweat of the way stuck to him like a second skin and now he stood forced to stand and consider the fact in the name of, what, civic minded harmony? Aesthetic virtue? Running a hand through the unruly mop of his hair Jal stepped forward, leaning on weighted butt of his spear like a staff as he peered into the mirror and saw what he expected to see.

Olive skin and a shock of hair the shade of burnished platinum; those and a long limbed grace spoke to the blood of his father. His eyes though, his eyes were of his mother’s kind – the evergreen of summer woods, flecked with autumn amber. That, and the faint half point of his ears. Even hidden as they were, even notched as the left was for misunderstood misdeeds so long ago they still marked him for what he was. Half-blood. Thin-blood, if his mother’s kin were speaking kind.

The smile in the mirror faltered, flickered like a candle-flame at the thought.

The rest he took in at a quickened glance, suddenly uncomfortable with his own reflection. The tattoos were mostly hidden – a blush of ink creeping us his neck and down his arm – beneath the piecemeal colored mantle and scarves that passed as his traveling clothes. And which served to hide the ill adjusted, ill fitting bits of leather he wore in service of survival upon the road. The lamentably empty coin purse at his side, at least, would offer little temptation to the petty thieves and merchants civilization seemed to engender.

Stepping away from the mirror and back upon the road Jal shook his head, the smile creeping back into place as he made his way into Sandpoint.. He had never understood the mistrust of his people – half adopted though the association was: wanderers, traders, dancers and teller’s, made rogues all by dint of difference. Which was silly. T’was not the wanderers the civilized needed to be wary of. After all, thieves, like wolves only ever hunted where there was food . . .

*Elvish – mild exclamation: “By the sea and stars”
If someone cast Discern Next of Kin on you and you failed your save, what would they learn?

The sorcerers mind is . . . fluid, a burbling stream branching and dividing through myriad recollections and potentialities – wants, experiences and goblin hunts remembered. It’s not that picking the names from the swift-running current is hard but rather the magic finds itself over full, a fisherman’s net cast among a panicked school. A few fish flash brighter, shimmer in the water though, soon the names swim to the surface -

Atara* (spell shifts, translates the word: “Mother”) – bittersweet memories, tinged with distance. An Arcanist’s tower, a laboratory and scriptorum tucked amidst the cliffs of Arsmeril; a home rarely seen, more rarely heard from. Jal thinks it the sad truth of a long life and obsessive temperament that his mother, for all her well meaning cares, forgets her son for years or decades at a time. He is a thing remembered between chapters, the pauses in her research and studies, and at every meeting she is saddened, ashamed at the swift march of time in her offspring. She ever swears to do better, be better – to write, to read the letters written, to involve herself more fully in the too short life of her son.

And then she forgets the meaning of a month or year to the mortal mind, a thing so alien to her own and the letters lapse and the time grows longer until she remembers again and the cycle begins anew.

Father, caretaker, guardian – where Atara’s face is fixed, immutable in time and Jal’s recollection the memory of Deivon is blurred, a synthesis of expression and age. The middle aged Scarf-Dancer with streaks of steel grey in his hair teaching his son the lore of the Kapenia; the older man nearing his twilight, dancing slow but no less graceful leading his caravan over just one more hill, across one more river. The still, waxen mask of his face amidst the pyre on the last day they ever met. The memory is all those things at once, a father of a thousand faces and passions. Many inherited, many remembered.

The bladed scarf the sorcerer wears – but does not use – was his.

Sellis (“Sister”), Onóna (“Twin”) – fraternal twin, takes after their mother’s mein even as Jal takes after their father’s. Distant, wild: a swordswoman desperate for the touch of magic but denied it by blood and circumstance. Currently furthering their mother’s researches as a scout and hunter in the Celwynian ruins. A bond of jealousy unites the twins, each coveting what the other has (a mother’s approval and an <unearned> gift of magic); the common tie from childhoods raised apart by their respective parents.

Notions rather than names in his memory; a half dozen sons and daughters of Jal Deivon scattered amidst the caravans and towns of Varisia. Most are Jal Jethal’s elder, more uncles and aunts in age to their half-blooded brother than siblings proper, one or two younger, sired in the old man’s dotage and cared for by mother’s in other holds and caravans. At least one blood kin stands with the Sczarni and their dealings. Possibly more.

Has your character ever killed a person? By person I mean humans, tengu, dwarves, etc… creatures your character would consider people rather than monsters. If so, when and why? If not, what would have to happen before you’d be willing to kill someone?

“Adventurers? Warriors all – they break the rules of civilization and culture as a matter of occupation.” – Artesia, Vol. 3

Tancavë – yes. Most certainly.

I parley, Hells, I prattle in the face of fighting on account of it – not to spite it or out of some thoughtless guilt but because, well, it is a thing known. Because in the quick, it is easy. Not that it isn’t a contest; far from it, while I may call fire ‘till of late were but meager flames and to put me in struggle at arms hardly serves to give me ’vantage – but rather it is simple. The thought that a problem, that a person need not be dealt with and instead can be simply removed is a tempting direct one, particularly to those whose blood runs quick and hot, be it with power or no. It is too easy to becomes Pharasma’s willing hand, otherwise.

For my part . . . well I’m in turns thoughtless and quick, and I’ve been in scrapes enough that I cannot say if I truly killed: in such things the intent is ne’er murder so much as flight or deterrence. I’ve little guilt for those save the knowing that had I been wiser, better, my own defense might need not have been necessary. But so it goes and so I go, and t’were I truly guilty – or rather, convinced of it – I feel I ought to have changed for the better by now.

Intentional, purposeful death I’ve done but the once. After my father’s passing I – my sister offered me employ, once the Caravan had quit itself of me. She’s a swordswoman by skill and a sellsword by inclination and she had found us work in the Celwynian ruins. She had, in her service at the time, a guide and sometimes partner. ’Ere we returned she had neither.

It’s funny, I suppose, the only true danger we ran afoul of was of our own making – the kaern was deserted, ten centuries dry but for dust and age and the promised artifact nowhere to be found. Nothing sours a mercenary company quite so much as the knowledge that no-one is getting paid.

T’was like lancing a boil and suddenly the years past between them burst out rancid and ugly, like rotting blood from a corpse that didn’t yet know it was dead. The man, the partner, a Chelaxian devil whose name I ne’er bothered to learn and whose temper I had all too well started it, I think.

I won’t bother you with the lie that I was ‘saving’ her; my sister is all things I am not and she could, were she so inclined break me with as much effort as cracking an egg. He injured her, true, hurt her in the course of the altercation – that she would have struck back with her own fury the likes of which would have made him crumple and beg forgiveness didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that she’d been holding back from breaking him from the very beginning: My father was dead. My mother so far lost to her immortality as to be called stranger and my sister, my twin, my Onóna was bleeding by dint of excess mercy and misguided loyalty -

It wasn’t a fair fight, for I gave him no chance to; by the time the scarf slipped around his neck t’was good as done, and by the time he first felt the blades within it t’was too late. It was not an honorable thing, nor a good one, but it remains a thing I have done and a thing I have no wish ever to do again.
Following the recent struggles against Nualia a number of Sandpoint homes are vacant. Mayor Deverin has offered a home to any PC willing to settle in Sandpoint. Do you take her up on her offer?

“*Bar’mana? You thought – no, no I’m afraid I left the Mayor disappointed. I told her that I am caravan born and roaming raised, which is true as far as it goes. The truth, though . . .

This ends. And don’t presume me sanguine on this, I mean not in the mortal way of things, though given all that’s past it would not be so unreasoning a thought. Simply, someday, I shall tire of Sandpoint or Sandpoint shall tire of me. Master Vinder might make good his oath to geld me for offenses real or imagined against or with or about his daughter; e’en my present accommodations in the Dragon might come to let. A mistimed word, a tongue loosened and blood quickened by too much wine – I doubt not my ability to wear out my welcome. And if not, well; I am young and the world is old and I would see more it’s breadth and span ere I die. In either event it is best to limit what baggage I might collect, much less carry." – Jal Jathal

*Elvish – “What, the house?”

What does your character most fear?

“Do you mean that which I ought fear, or that which I do? Were I wise I would fear that which good men fear; the loss of things loved and yearned for. Family, fidelity . . . those things outside of myself which grant meaning. Were I reasoned I would fear the things that stalk the wide world in shapes unnamable; things of mortal terror or moral dissolution. But I am too selfish to be wise and too thoughtless to be reasoned so what remains, what remains is a thing so common as to be petty ’were it not for the warring of my blood.

I am a creature divided, you see. Ageless elven flesh mated with quicken’d mortal blood, one ever in rebellion to the other. All that I am knows I am a thing born deserving and of an elvish span; a span that I shall never live to see. I am an immortal thing born dying; by seconds, by heartbeats, by the swift passing of days. And were I but my Father’s son I would not keen it so, t’would be a thing informed but forgotten ’till my passing day rather than a marrow-deep ache known with each waking.

Time, time is what I fear. I fear the numbering of my days, of the not-yet-now that finds me a stranger to myself. I fear the when where my silver hair dulls to ashen white, my eyes cloud like unpolished stone and my bones turn brittle while my skin tans to leather. I fear infirmity, I fear weakness, I fear death not of my own folly or making. I fear the first wrinkle, the first dulling of the eye or blemish of the feature caught in the reflection of an upturned glass – I fear the day that I might no longer lie to myself, that day when time does catch me and marks me old. The day, that day of days when the best parts of me all lay behind and there is naught left but the long unwinding ahead." – Jal Jathal
How does your character get their laundry done?

“Jal? Yeh, I cleaned for him for a bit. Made a fair bit at it too – man’s too kind with his coin not to. Didn’t no mind that he coulda just done it his’elf with his magic or wotnot. Emi – that is to say Lady Ameiko – did tho. Sorcerling’s been staying her, what, a month, almost two, ever since the festival? Ain’t e’er see her lose patience with him – despite all his carrying on, mind – ‘till then. Didnae take kindly to what she called the “ill use” o’ my time. Called him five kinds of lazy an somesuch; he didn’t take to that, shouted alot about magic and responsibility and artists versus tinkers or something or other. Don’t know right how it ended, either, ‘cept that Jal does his own washing now. An ’fore you ask it ain’t with magic, either. He’s down with the other washerwomen e’ery wealday, gossipping like a fishwife . . ."

- Bethana Corwin, maid & server at the Rusty Dragon

Jal Jathal

The Rise of Karzoug stephengingell Cirlot