Weapons: Fencing Steels ("Fangs") Light Masterwork Crossbow, w/ Black Foxtail
Profession: Scout Mercenary Professional Pickpocket Burglar
"Luck be a fickle thing. Sometimes, you pay in bad luck to earn the good."
Quintis was born into the mercer class, into a family which made most of its wealth on the dealing of furs in Northern Goshen. When war ravaged the trade, and the nation imposed high taxes on the selling of furs, his family was forced out of the trade. Under the harsh conditions Quintis left the family and joined the militia as a wilderness scout.
Through the long stretch, he served in many campaigns for countless petty kingdoms, many of which collapsed or disappeared. In that time, he experienced the death of colleagues, was imprisoned by enemy kingdoms, and learned the finer points of roguery from fellow soldiers. He learned the value of surviving for the self, rather than the futile path of seeking honor, and became a mercenary.
In time, he would establish himself as part of the “Named Few”, the status of mercenary worth knowing and speaking about around campfires.
They tell of a man with footsteps so quiet, not even the god could hear them until they felt his breath at their back. A man whose first strike was never anticipated until it was too late. One with a penchant with leaving a small, simple origami foldings in the shape of a “fox ear” in the homes of his burglar victims, and the bodies of combatants.
One who mastered the fencing steels. Who owns a masterful crossbow, with a black foxtail hanging from the shaft. A wicked thing that takes large bolts and small, ones that breathe fire, and ones that pierce with ice.
One who bears caldrons of black fur, and black warpaint, and a look that pierces into the souls of his victims.
One with a peculiar interest in occult symbology, to navigate around wards and dangerous areas. With ears so keen, he can hear the words of all speak about him, wherever he is, no matter how far away.
… Frankly, he never boasted such things himself. But if they made a good story around the campfire,… why correct them?
The fox crept out a chilly night, and silent low the pale Moon light he'd many a mile to go that night ‘fore he reached the town-o, town-o.
The silent fox came to the bin where ducks and geese were put therein. "A couple of you will grease my chin ‘fore I leave this town-o, town-o.
The sly one snatched the goose’s neck, and cracked the goose a broken wreck; and muffled all its quack, quack, quack, their legs all dangling down-o
The farmer came to top the hill, and blew his horn both loud and shrill, “The fox is out with fresh a kill! Beware, oh town-o town-o!”
- “The Silent Fox”, adapted from a common nursery rhyme