Andres de Evry Montaignaise Musketeer Reputation -10 Virtue --------- Fortunate Hubris --------- Hedonistic Traits --------- 2 Brawn 2 finesse 2 Resolve 3 wits 4 panache Swordsman School ------------------- 1 Double Parry (Fencing/Knife) 1 Feint (Fencing) 1 Tagging (Fencing) 1 Exploit Weakness (Valroux) Advantages ------------- Able Drinker Montaigne Literacy Scoundrel Membership: Musketeers Skills --------- Courtier: 1 Dancing 1 Etiquette 1 Fashion 1 Oratory Criminal: 2 Gambling 1 Quack 1 Shadowing 1 Stealth Streetwise: 1 Socializing 1 Street Navigation 1 Underworld Lore Athlete: 1 Climbing 1 Footwork 1 Sprinting 1 Throwing Fencing: 2 Attack (Fencing) 1 Attack (Parry) Knife: 1 Attack (Fencing) 1 Attack (Parry) I am a fourth son, which is a particularly depressing prospect when one's father is the Duke of Evry. Did I say am? I meant was. Amusing anecdote behind that really, but anyway... Among the Montaignaise nobility, where all of the father's lands are handed down to the eldest only, to have three sons is a bit extreme. Having a fourth son after that is downright vulgar. It harkens back to some Vaticene time when superstitious peasants screwed each other out of some divine duty. I've a good mind to confront my sire and question him as to just why he could be so gauche as to give me life. Except that recently, he has come down with a slight case of rigor mortis. Quite an interesting tale behind that one too. Anyway, after I emerged from my swordsman education, I found myself confronted with the ubiquitous option available to those asses of breeding who can never hope to rest on the seat of power: loiter in the Court and kiss the asses that are sitting on the seats of power, grab a comission and order around asses with shittier lives than you, or quietly jam a knife into the familial asses who had the audacity to get in line front of you. Being a man of fine intellect, I decided to take my worthless lineage somewhere where there were those who would credit it, and began to spend my time among the seedier parts of Paris. A fine knack for games of chance has served me well and managed to keep my standard of living high enough that members of the Court could be unafraid to come to my apartment. And that, of course was my main source of income. Keeping the intermeshing gears of the higher levels of the Underground and the lower levels of the Court. (The grease, of course, being purchased from one of the more fashionable Jenny houses.) And all of that was going fine and well until it came time for my eldest brother, Pierre, to marry some dainty little thing from the East. The whole family had returned to the Maison for a great deal of wine and feasting and dancing and other assorted rot. When the festivities had ended, all repaired to the residential wing for a good night's rest. Except for me, who after a long night of libations being poured unto and into myself, repaired to a highly reputed house of ill repute run by a charming lady with a fascinating, yet very well concealed appendage (or so I'm told). For me, the night was one of fiery passion, culminating with le petit morte. For my brothers, it was a house of fiery maison, culminating with les gran mortes. Shortly after my furtive departure, a large conflagration seemed to have erupted for no apparent reason spreading quickly through the rooms of my brothers and consuming a great deal more of the house and my two brothers before it was finally stopped. The more mathematically inclined of listeners will now be wondering how I could have made such a obvious flaw in my calculations in re of the quantity of my ex-siblings. Alas, no. Brother number 2, Jean-Michele, is a notoriously squemish drinker and avoided most of the fine liquers available that night. Thus he claims that he was sober enough to spring out of the bed at the first smell of smoke and spirit my father to safety outside while, presumably the spirits of my brothers kept them in a state of unconsciousness and catalyzed their conversion to ash. Then later that night, several servants witnessed my father walk off a large cliff. He then failed in his attempts not to be killed. Now it's fine for a fourth son, fifth in line to be Duke of Evry to be a notorious scoundrel in Paris. To be such a scoundrel and instead be the brother of said Duke and next in line for said duchy, is a bit risque. To be such a scoundrel with such a rank whose family died under unusual circumstances and who does not appear to have anyone near him who could protect him from attacks by just about anyone at all is downright suicidal. So, to the Musketeers!