Cillian Greaves, Biography and Assorted Tales

[Step_Mac]

First Name: Cillian
Last Name: Greaves
Nickname(s): Silly Ian

Appearance
General: A wiry, lithe, slender man with an angular, expressive face and pointed ears; tanned from years at sea, though that has faded just slightly since his arrival in Baldur’s Gate
Race: Half-Elven (Human/Wild Elf)
Age: 29
Height: 5’7” ( m)
Weight: 140 lbs ( kg)
Eyes: Dark green
Hair: Auburn
Facial Hair Style: None, and little sign he could grow any

Personality Profile
General Health: A coiled spring full of barely (or un-) suppressed energy; ill-suited to silence and prone to provoking argument for his own amusement; generally accepting of all sorts, with only a very few peeves expressing themselves as mockery or polite conversation masking private jokes
Deity: Erevan Ilesere, or Valkur, perhaps; while always conscious of the gods in his thoughts, he is flexible and still finding his true faith
Profession: Erstwhile sailor, present adventurer/partner in a caberet/bartender/troublemaker/troubleseeker
Habits/Hobbies: Exploration, particular of anywhere barred to him by locks or decree;
Weapon of Choice: Dual-wielded kukris

Background

Cormyr:

Born of a human father in Cormyr, Cillian never knew his elven mother, nor would his father speak of her. As such, he grew up around the docks of Suzail with elven features but no understanding of tel’quessir languages or culture. His father would say little about her, save when he was drunk and even then was terse and more likely to swing a fist than offer any information.

Cillian grew up wild and undisciplined as his father slipped deeper into drink. The two of them managed to keep a roof over their heads, though just barely, his father working the docks when labor was most needed and Cillian picking up this and that, here and there. While the boy’s elven features attracted unwanted attention from time to time, his generally sunny disposition brought him defenders as well, and survival allowed his skin to thicken as the years passed.

And yet, while defenders they may have been, his friends were unquestionably troublemakers too. Cillian’s quick wit and hands led him down a path that most often ends in incarceration or death, or first one and then the other. The close calls mounted until one evening Cillian returned to find his father sitting in an uncharacteristically upright posture, a canvas sack at his feet.

One unpleasant, uninformative and brief conversation later, his father marched Cillian and the sack down to the docks. Down a tar-stained pier they went in silence, passing piles of crates, feuding gulls and gimlet-eyed men in dirty clothing. Well, his father was silent. Cillian went demanding answers, sometimes in piquant terms and never politely.

At the end of the pier lay a wide-bellied cog, weathered from long, hard travels. A plank ran from the dock up to the ship’s deck, dipping and rising with each small swell that pierced the harbor’s defenses. At the top of that board, a tall, wide man of advanced years and antiquated clothing stood, eyes following the pair as they made their way toward him.

Cillian and his father stopped at the foot of the board, the boy’s eyes narrowed as he scanned his surrounds and his father’s creased as he stared up at the figure on the ship. The man stared back for a long moment, and just as Cillian drew breath to say something -- not even Cillian could have said what -- the man spoke, his voice rough and deep but his words cultured, at least by dockside standards: “The boy doesn’t look like much, Henry. Are you certain you wish to use your chit on him?”

Cillian’s father, Henry, or Hank to those with whom he drank, merely nodded without a moment’s pause for thought. The old man’s gaze swung to the boy with a frown. And then, with a single jowly nod, the old man stepped back from the top of the plank and growled out: “Well, send the lad up then, there’s work to do.”

Hank shoved the canvas sack into the boy’s arms, and then shoved the boy toward the plank. “Get on, boy, yeh heard tha man. An’ a word o’ wisdom fer yer fool self, try ta keep a civil tongue in yer hard head, eh?”

Cillian looked to his father, genuinely confused for the first time in this odd venture, then with a shrug headed up the plank, hesitantly at first and then boldly, springing off onto its deck. He turned to look back, only for a hand to the back of his head to redirect his gaze forcefully from his father to the deck at his feet. Cillian turned to scowl at the old man for a moment, then looked back to the pier to see his father walking slowly back the way they had come.

“You, boy, see Mr. Landry over there and find somewhere to stow that bag. When you’ve done that, come find me in my cabin — you’ll call me Mr. Greaves. I’m sure you’ll find me, you can handle that much, I’m sure.” Cillian paused, but the man’s two arched brows told Cillian that perhaps it would be wisest if he went along, for now. After all, he had long experience in strange situations, more than this old bag did certainly, and there would be plenty of time later to get away when Ol’ Jowls wasn’t watching.

Down Cillian followed Landry into the shadows below, silently praising himself for his cunning and patience, canvas sack bouncing against his back with each step.