You remember them still, when the nights grow cold and the all too familiar darkness claws at the edges of your frail sanity, threatening to tear lose a resolve born of hate and decades of grim determination. Though it has been a scant score of years since that fateful day you find yourself lacking the happy memories of your younger days since for every happy memory you summon forth a dozen more spring to the forefront to cloud your mind, filling your vision with only nightmare. Oh you remember it clearly enough, vivid crimson sluggishly creeping down weathered skin the color of burnt silver, gently dripping from delicate feet to fall in a basin of ash meticulously cleared beneath the dessicated corpses of those you loved so much. You can remember the dread you felt then as you stood watching that too deep pool of coagulating crimson, body trembling as your still young mind desperately tried to process what had happened, clinging to the thought that it was all some twisted nightmare. Yet despite all the memories of that day what manages to shock your now more jaded mind the most is that despite through all the haze and rage you can no longer remember their faces. You recall only the blood, only the ash.
A fugitive you were then from your nightmares and from a law that sought your capture or death, believing then as they no doubt still do now that you and you alone were responsible for the death of your parents and immediate family, a bloody coup for possession of a smoldering, barren estate. And so you ran as you still do now, running from those that would see you brought to justice and though a score of years have ensured your crime is all but forgotten from the majority who would seek you there are other far more long lived creatures who roam the realm in the name of justice. It's saddening that their logic would even fathom that you, a young mer barely out of your first century would be capable of such evil and it baffled you for many years, but time has perhaps hardened your mind. So you run on the budget of a beggar, roaming from township to city and back again living on whatever scraps life throws at you while you search for old contacts of your parents and House. Hoping for even the most gossamer of threads in which to hang your hopes and for far too many years your endless roaming has brought nothing but frustration and anguish though despite all this a last thread of hope remains. With that last thread you find yourself crossing kingdoms through rain and snow and scorching heat, sleeping wherever the road allows while the name of that final hope rings heavily through your very being.
The name is Vern Hornshard of Twin Crossings and that is where you have come to find yourself now.
You smile as once again you find yourself competing with the local rats for lodging. A smile that quickly fades when you remember that you're slowly freezing to death, shivering violently as you desperately try to cover yourself with the threadbare scraps of your traveling cloak and cursing as freezing rain pummels you from above, cutting far deeper than any mere blade ever could. You lay on a thin cushion of grime covered straw and gods know what that has long since frozen atop the hard cobblestone of some shadowed alley deep within the city of Twin Crossings, surrounded by tall buildings made of stout logs and plaster and thank whatever high being that may be listening that at least you don't have to deal with the wind. Sighing deeply you look around the alley and ask yourself why you ever thought you could tough it out in such a place on a night like this while you run your hand over your rather light coin purse. While you may have been raised in a city or on a wagon train you have spent enough time on the road these past years to know that nights like this are lethal to those who find themselves lacking shelter and you have yet to spend enough time in Twin Crossings to get a grasp of how dangerous it is. Shivering you push yourself to your feet as you hear the sound of a stage coach roaring down a nearby street, the horse snorting in futile protestation as it trudges forth through the cold.
Poor or not, it's time to find yourself some shelter.
OOC:(Ivellios and Ryver for ease of future reference.)SpoilerOk. The first few posts wont move the plot by leaps and bounds but are more designed for me to get a feel on your play style and sort of ease into things.
The world is more is a bit steampunky but not blatantly so. Vancian magic is a bit on the low side in this world making you fairly standout and is replaced by magic fueled crafts and quasi-tech. Neither is exactly a dime a dozen but it does exist and is available.
Depending on what part of the world you're in cultures range from dark age to late medieval times which is where most of the world is. More traditional fantasy weapons and armor are still used regularly but are in the beginning stages of being phases out by cannons and guns and whatnot.
Guns are available and houseruled a bit. First of all all crossbows are simple weapons, including hand crossbows and repeating crossbows while pistols and muskets are martial weapons. The stats for the guns are on pg145 of the DMG but as they are guns you only have to make a touch attack to hit with a gun against non-magical armor. This makes them very potent and whatnot but hey, lets face it, guns are potent hence why they replaced swords.
Just sort of let me know what direction you want to go with things in your post with some inner thoughts and motivations and whatnot and we shall go from there.
Enjoy at own risk.