The day began as any other day in the Underdark does, with all encompassing darkness. Not the darkness humans feel when their desires are unfulfilled, nor indeed to that end the darkness a dwarf feels when slamming down the last tankard on a successful night of elf bashing and heavy drinking, knowing the severe lack of female company coupled with the intensive homo-erotic nature of Dwarven kinship, only seemed to create a greater sense of loneliness.
As his eyes slowly adjusted to the low-light vision with which he and his people had become accustomed, Paragon began to check around his immediate vicinity, thanking Callarduran Smoothhands for another night of sleep unharmed. Lazily by his side a sheathed rapier hung just shy of leg length. Unsheathing it he lay on his back and admired the craft of it once more, his simple satisfied smile reflecting back in the untainted metal as true as the first day he lay eyes on it. On his left hand he wears a golden ring with a ruby star set into it, the symbol of a true follower of Smoothhands.
As he lay there in his small burrowing, a few meters into the rock pillar that formed the central spiral into the Drow city of Sshamath (“City of Dark Weavings”), he began his morning ritual, which in essence derives from a quaint cultural sense of humor, and also in part due to his genetic toolkit, inherited characteristics which bring back fond memories of his parents and his birthplace Blingdenstone (“City of Speaking Stones”) which he scarcely speaks of even with his own kind, and is less likely with any other kind.
The ritual consists primarily of prayer to Shevarash, the elven deity of revenge, loss and hatred of the Drow, this he found highly amusing to do in their cities, as he’d discovered it common place that most Drow (that didn't wish to enslave him for gladiatorial combat) also seemed to accept a verbal blessing from the namesake deity, seemingly unfazed, unversed and perhaps for Paragon the most humorous aspect of the blessing, that they seemed to take no offence from it, all of which plays right into his hands, and amuses him no end, (as Deep Gnomes carry a torch for pranks and jokes which are commonplace throughout their culture.)
The deep gnomish wield their weaponry, crafting tools and even unsheathe their silver tongues with equal dexterity, somewhat balanced in their ability to derive pleasure from seriousness, the mundane and pranks as and when the situation dictates. Paragon is no exception to this and his genetic line has heavy influences from both an intellectual, academic background on his mother’s side, and long labouring craftsmanship perfectionism from his father’s side.
Paragon’s name like most gnomish names that follow the traditions of the Deep Gnomish takes its influence from craft and skill, in this case he is named after his father’s profession and thus inherits a rich cultural history of crafting, gem, mineral and metal related names, in this case Paragon is a large flawless diamond, and also a term used figuratively to denote a model of excellence or perfection of any kind; one having no equal; a perfect embodiment of a concept, his parents were not shy when it came to following their perfectionist roots, even if at times it may seem quite arrogant.
Paragon’s parents Alabaster Thundergranite & Heliodor Deepdelving, both derive their names from crafts also. Alabaster’s father was a stone mason and Heliodor’s family craft was gem crafting.
The Deepdelvings were a sarcastic and unassuming family, some were even labelled self-centred and due to this they were somewhat left to their own devices, that said they were not shunned nor were they indeed shunning their kindred, they just kept themselves to themselves.
The Thundergranite’s were a more adventurous and daring family by nature, often venturing into the far reaches of the Underdark in search of new minerals and gems with which they could create elaborate and masterful creations.
Ritual finished and his rapier sheathed once more, Paragon stands himself up and adorns his usual garments and armour, cowl, boots and helm. His sword hand poised over his rapier, like a paranoid gun slinger, he readies himself for anything. Striding out into the dusty air of the new day, he knew not whether he would awaken to see the next one. “Right then.” He thought to himself apprehensively, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling slowly “Another day fighting for my life living among the dark elven.” A wicked smile passes over his mouth, adjusting his cloak with a flourish he darts out of his burrow.
Last edited by Blunkanthrust on Mon May 02, 2011 3:12 pm, edited 3 times in total.
"…when you have stared long into the eyes of the Tarrasque and lived to tell the tale, I shall call you a warrior…"
- Randir, I, Worriers & Warriors. In: Codex Arcana.
((The ongoing miscellaneous extracts of the life and times of Paragon))
Rarely venturing to any area of the Underdark unarmed, Paragon trusted first and foremost his rapier above all things, for it was this well forged friendship of gnome and metal that had seen him through several scrapes where even he had assumed it to be his final hour.
The days that immediately followed the forging of his first blade, would see him remark several times that "rare is it indeed that a blade could match the nimble, dextrous hand of its crafter" to which others would eventually grow tired of his obsessive self complimentary nature, on this particular occasion resulting in what would prove to be a character building dualist tournament.
Paragon won the tournament, but barely, the hilt suffered significant damage in the third dual against Tarathel Coppermantle, whos resposte and thrust, shattered the knuckle guard and inner guard, leaving Paragon's hand quite open and vulnerable for the final battle.
Suffering a flesh wound to the hand, he tore several strips of clothing from his right sleave and bound his weapon to his hand, this was a somewhat daring and masochistic and the onlookers wondered why he was so driven.
Echoing in Paragon's mind was his sense of pride and honour, fighting for his worth and the craft of his blade, to stand amoungst his kindred.
The dualists were evenly matched and it came down to a final point to decide who would win, by this time Paragon's hand was pulsing and the handle had a crimson veneer, both gnomes were utterly exhausted but the tapping of their blades signified the final attempt at deciding a winner.
Pacing some ten strides apart Paragon sensed something was ill at hand, turning swiftly on the ball of his foot he struck upward meeting the on coming blade of his foe, the twang of metal was harsh and piercing in tone. Anger raged up through him like emotional vomit and he spewed his angered strokes with passion and precision back towards his foe. One of these thunders strokes shattered both his and his foes blade. Diving toward him with the fragments of his hilt he stood above him holding the jagged remains of the blade above his heart. "YEILD" he breathed heavily. His eyes blazed white hot. "YEILD". The terrified opponent swallowed hard. "I... I yeild Paragon" Paragon was quite literally dragged off his opponent and it was demmaned by the highest authority in their realm that he go to the reflecting pools, and sit a while to calm his rage. He did so.
He stayed at the pools until he was sent for, for he was deeply embarressed at the nature of the beast that had awoken within him, and it was on this day that he first sort the council of Caladuran Smoothhands and became a loyal follower, seeking discipline within craft and combat, guidance in his darkest hours and inner peace within faith, of course these were not instantaneous outcomes of his dedication, they took place over many months and years and far from being evangelical in his faith, he just conducted his life, in accordance with Smoothhands edicts.
Last edited by Blunkanthrust on Mon May 02, 2011 11:24 am, edited 6 times in total.
"…when you have stared long into the eyes of the Tarrasque and lived to tell the tale, I shall call you a warrior…"
- Randir, I, Worriers & Warriors. In: Codex Arcana.
((The ongoing miscellaneous extracts of the life and times of Paragon))
Paragon had a fondness for poetry, or rather the rhythms of language, but never would he consider singing any of the verses he'd written. Although that being the case on one particular night (a night he'd rather forget) while under the influence of an imported Duergar ale, he stumbled around the tavern lamenting annoyed patrons with the lyrics "You're corporeal I'm ethereal it just wouldn't work."
Confronted by a highly amused drow wizard by the name of Mire, who put a hand to his shoulder whilst softly chanting the touch of idiocy spell, stupefied further by the spell Paragon was quickly and quietly led to a table in the back of the tavern, revealing a potion of clarity he poured a large dose into Paragon's mouth, snapping bolt upright and sober as a vicar on Sunday Paragon's hand flew swiftly towards his rapier, Mire's hand met his gently pushing down on his hand holding the rapier in the sheath, he sternly whispered into his ear "you've already made one poor decision tonight deep gnome, I would strongly recommend you stay that blade."
Oddly trusting of the wisdom this Drow had imparted, he surprised even himself when he slackened his grip. Forgetting himself he instinctively uttered the blessing "Shevarash bless you dark elven" Paragon's eyes blazed with white hot intensity as he awaited the drow's response. Several moments passed before a deep hearty belly laugh erupted from Mire's seemingly small frame. Several other Drow and a table of Deep Imaskari passed judging looks their way. Mire contained himself and smiled. "You must have a name small one, what is it?" he enquired. "Paragon" he responded, and "I suppose you do also?" responded Paragon quite arrogantly. "Aye." said Mire. "You may call me friend."
Last edited by Blunkanthrust on Mon May 02, 2011 11:24 am, edited 2 times in total.
"…when you have stared long into the eyes of the Tarrasque and lived to tell the tale, I shall call you a warrior…"
- Randir, I, Worriers & Warriors. In: Codex Arcana.
((The ongoing miscellaneous extracts of the life and times of Paragon))
It all began, as most good stories do, with a visit to the local tavern and a chance meeting. This particular chance meeting would see Paragon caught up in something quite beyond his means, yet ultimately he had a part to play.
Having just purchased an old smoke ale, becoming quite the guilty pleasure to him now, Paragon paced across the crowded tavern towards an empty seat.
"HA!" Exclaimed Raznel quite loudly, startling Paragon who was somewhat in his own little world, managing not to spill a drop of his ale, he turned and blundered into the conversation by means of Solaxle, "fetch me an ale!" Solaxle demanded of him. "...er no" was his thoughtless response. Raznel and Solaxle, give him suspicious looks. "Mouthy one we've got here" Soxale says with a smirk. Enquiring after his name they were informed as to what it was. "I'll call you ale getter" Soxale said with a smirk, "one of it works in the kitchen, they fetch ale, you can be my ale fetcher, now get!" refusing to do so, they take a curious shine to him and he joins them at their table.
The conversation quickly turns to banter about the recent acquisition of an amount of gold of which the lions share appears to belong to Solaxle. Raznel shows Paragon the spoils and his eyes widen at the glowing pouch full of sparkling gold pieces.
Another man stood silently at the side of the table, Paragon would later learn that his name was Duneth Despana, making no attempt to join the conversation just watching, listening, vigilant. Paragon assumed he was the-strong-silent-type, the assumption made an ass of him as suddenly while conversation and ale flowed Duneth leaned on the table with both hands and began to speak to them all.
As it turned out Duneth was a member of the elite bodyguard in Sshmath known as the Charnag, it seemed according to him that Paragon was allowed to freely walk amongst the citizens of the city without fear of persecution or threat of death. Knowing the amount of times he had been called slave, spat at or looked down upon by Drow and other races, he took these words with the selfsame calm and passive suspicion, which dictated his life. Returning a simple smile he relaxed into his chair feeling somewhat under the protection of this hooded man.
It transpired that this man of the Charnag had been tasked with recovering a tome before a task force of illithid, reached it first, it seemed Paragon was allowed to join the group for his knowledge of gem stone and mineral craft, tasked with digging up whatever lurked in the depths of the far corner of the Underdark that they had been sent to.
Checking their weaponry and armor for imperfections, gathering bandages and their whit’s about them, they confidently exited the city via the central spire, barely had they ventured father than a few tunnels deep when they were joined by a further two Drow, the war band had fully assembled and the task was at hand, the illithid mines was their destination.
Many a foe were slain, countless illithid and mindflayer set about trying to disrupt their ranks, but each were afforded their fate without redemption.
After what seemed like an age, they found some ore bearing carts and realised how close they were to their destination. Set upon again, the Drow fiercely drove back the perusing forces, while Paragon stayed out of the way, keeping to himself, hidden within his own and Raznel's magical aids.
...it towered over them darkest of all things Paragon's eyes had ever seen. Blending with the darkness that persisted in their realm; it seemed so perfectly in tune and at peace with the very essene of shade and dark.
Paragon, dwarfed even by reasonably tall chairs and tables, dived into a rock formation and drew his rapier in defence. The Drow encircled the beast and began to engage it in combat. Many times they were knocked down or shoved backwards, and with each occasion they fiercely took the charge back to the beastly demonic shadow.
Paragon closed his eyes and pictured the blades clashing as bardic strings being plucked, opening his eyes the combat became an operatic symphony before him, Duneth and Solaxle seemed to be commanding the tactical advantage over the shadow, it faltered, and they did not. Pressing the advantage they all moved as one and in a single striking of blades, a crashing of metal, the finale, the shadow fell and dissipated into the nothingness which bore it.
...but he hadn't thought they ever would, so he didn’t see a need to at all.
and as they approached the dig site, several pallets, crates, some damaged lay stacked up in the corner, an unearthed chest the centre piece of the chaotic mosaic of materials before them at the tunnel's end, this was their prize.
Dusting off some of the caked on mud with their blades and gauntlets they set about opening it. Opening the chest took several of his companions some considerable strength, and some male pride. Paragon's view was somewhat obscured, but he could see the tall ones were very pleased with what they had found, catching a simple glimpse in the darkness his eyes rationalised that the tome, relic, item was book shaped, and considerably older than any of those present, murmurs of "lost lore" and "the conclave" echoed from the Drow's mouths amidst the mention that all was "Bwael" which Paragon had surmised was a positive term, perhaps in the common tongue meaning a word such as "good" or "positive", but he wasn't sure of this, and they did not translate, this wasn't so much an issue for Paragon as he enjoyed the acquisition of lyric, phrase and words alike, especially ones foreign to his ear.
Duneth and the Drow were in high spirits as they turned to begin the long arduous walk back to Sshmath; smirks a plenty they were elated that they had defeated the Illithid army and recovered the tome.
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Several attempts have been made, to pen paragraphs but, they appear to have been erased, scribbled out, smudged and are generally considered to be in an illegible font, it seems the author has elected for a drawing at the end of the chapter, it is simply given the subtitle:
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"The Victorious Few Near Sshamath"
"…when you have stared long into the eyes of the Tarrasque and lived to tell the tale, I shall call you a warrior…"
- Randir, I, Worriers & Warriors. In: Codex Arcana.
