Age: 32 years
Race: Baladuri human
Magic: a sharp tongue and a quicker wit
Height: 6'00"
Weight: 185 lbs
Appearance: Not a small man by any means, Quinn is of middling size for a man, with perhaps a bit more lean muscle than bulk. His form is regularly hidden beneath several thin layers of clothing, designed for adapting to the temperature; each piece is old, tinged with a bit of shabbiness and wear, but nevertheless well cared for. His long yellow hair he keeps mostly in braids, as well as his longish mustache. Quinn wears a perpetual smirk on his face, as if seeing some joke that no one else seems to understand, and the twinkle in his eye only serves to encourage that perception.
Personality: Practically dripping suave charisma wherever he goes, Quinn is perhaps one of the most likeable rapscallions one is ever to meet in Faledrin. He is quick to speak first, quick to greet a newcomer, and quick to get those around him laughing at some joke or other. Not that they laugh alone; Quinn is usually the first to do so. He focuses heavily on the lighthearted or the pleasant, having found that people respond far less readily to a sad or sour tone.
Character strengths/weaknesses:
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Observant: Quinn is highly clever. A quick study in people, he can after a few words divine the right ways to poke and prod a person to go the direction he wants them to.
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Clever: Knowing what to say isn't enough; knowing when to say it can be just as important. Quinn is quite skilled in thinking on his feet, finding the game of mental cat-and-mouse addictive.
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Manipulative: Arguably as much a failing as it is a strength, the manipulation of others comes easily to Quinn. He finds emotions easy to direct, given the right push and prod. In fact he enjoys the effort of doing so, and will oftentimes pit people against one another for the hell of it.
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Unempathetic: There is a distinct separation to be found between conscious emotional distancing and a practiced and subconscious lack of empathy. Quinn falls quite decidedly into the latter class. It's not to say he doesn't work for his perception of the greater good; rather, he puts far more weight on the Ends. The Means are strictly unimportant detail.
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Hedonistic: Oddly, despite the more goal oriented view of 'the Ends justify the Means" he regularly employs, Quinn cares little for the future. If there is a good time to be had, he would rather be involved, consequences be damned.
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Feckless: No, that's an "E", not a "U"; go back and reread it. Quinn habitually shirks responsibility, either for his actions or for requests made of him. Strongly tied to his hedonistic nature, the Baladuri would rather just enjoy himself and forget the consequences of doing so.
History: Quinnin Travers was born in Windfeld in the upstairs room of a tiny inn in the poorest part of the shabbiest dock in town. The son of immigrants fleeing Baladur for reasons he himself never heard nor cared to find out, Quinn grew up around the outcasts of society. Criminals on the lam, prostitutes too old or broken for the richer docks, and sailors down on their luck were the regular patrons of his family's meager tavern,
the Rest. His parents were almost always busy with work, so the customers practically raised him, and from them he learned a great deal about living in their world. He learned to keep your eyes open and to use what you saw. He learned that what you saw could be to your advantage, if you played it right. He learned that to get ahead someone else often had to fall behind. But mostly, he learned that life was harsh and dispassionate, and ended so frequently as suddenly as it'd started, and that as a result it was only right to live like tomorrow wouldn't come.
One woman in particular took especial interest. A half-elf madam at a brothel not too far from the Rest, Eswayt spent much of her time off in the small inn, making small talk with the other patrons and making allusions to her own sordid if colorful past. Quinn would listen intently, fascinated that she could hold her audience's attention for so long on seemingly uninteresting subject matter. Or, as was sometimes the case, intrigued that she could so easily turn one against the other. He eventually found the courage to ask her about her skill, but she laughed him off, stating without reservation that he was far too young to know about such things. Eswayt had seen the boy's own close observations and indeed his less than successful attempts at the art of Gab, so she assured him that he was welcome to come find her when he was a man; she would teach him the ways of the world, she said. Quinn, being all of 13 at the time, had no idea what she meant but was determined to take her up on it. So six years later he did, leaving
the Rest without his mother's blessing to visit Eswayt at
Dusk's Welcome.
The year he spent within its confines wasn't
all bad: he certainly learned much from both Eswayt and her girls in the art of conversational manipulation, not to mention several different pickpocketing tricks, and one of the girls in particular he enjoyed very much. But Eswayt was a harsh task master, demanding perfection, always pointing to the door when he might complain. But he had no home to return to: as his mother had refused him her blessing of travel, his father had refused him a place to return. So Quinn stayed, pushing through the worst and focusing on the best. And so the year passed.
It was after that year when Eswayt introduced him to the Cult of Thieves.
Dusk's Welcome, as it turned out, was a place of ready information, and Eswayt was one of the Cult's stand out brokers of such information, she being a formerly active member herself. She recommended him to the Cult with glowing praise, and after a few days of debate, Quinn was welcomed into the organization.
In the years since he joined, Quinn has gotten to know most everyone there to some degree or other; certainly well enough to accomplish the goals set before him. He became successful, organizing several jobs that turned out to be significant windfalls for the Cult over the years. His front is a small inn, much in the style of his parents, if perhaps a mile or two away: the
Laughing Eel. It's a reasonably popular joint; the beer is always flowing, funded as it is by the Cult, and the well received Baladuri ale loosens otherwise closed lips most effectively. And Quinn is always there, waiting to hear what spills from them.
Weapons: Quinn does his best to avoid fighting at all. Not because he hates hurting people; he couldn't care less. But it's a lot of effort... When he's arsed at all, Quinn fights with a heavy and broad long sword, preferring the power of a heavy blow to the finesse of a precise one.
Time and Specialization within the CoT: Quinn has been with the Cult of Thieves for nearly a decade now in Espionage as a Front Man. By no means a high level member initially, the man has nevertheless made a name for himself within the organization and has consequently been trusted with jobs of import. His inn,
the Laughing Eel, also functions as something of a safe house for the Cult. The jobs he does are arrangement or ambassadorial in nature: Quinn meets with clientele to plan and contract the Cult's involvement in some scheme, and he meets with suppliers to arrange for whatever they might need to get a job done. He's also been known to stir up a crowd for fun, inciting them to near or actual riot, though he's yet to have used this talent in any particular official manner. Connected as he is to Eswayt and
Dusk's Welcome, Quinn retains an active information network through the prostitutes there.
Associates: Being one of the more current senior members, Quinn voted in favor of most of the Cult's current membership. To do so, he formed an opinion as to why they'd make good additions to the CoT. And of course, he was thoughts on every member beyond their intrinsic usefulness, regardless of whether he helped induct them.
[spoili]
•
Tamerlin: "I've never met a more paranoid bastard, but in this line of work, that's a boon, definitely. Between that and whatever gods-forsaken hidey holes he's got himself, he'll makes a good addition. Not a bad guy otherwise, if a bit too much 'bleeding heart' for my tastes."
•
Moira: "Blending into a crowd. Never could manage that feat myself; be good to have someone who's lived it. Well, and getting blackmail. That's always good. Its also a point in her favor that she's stuck around with that Alfred character, despite his...Alfred-ness. She'll do."
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Kylar: "Does this job just appeal to the grim and generally unhappy? Because damn: I'm going to have to increase my Baladuri ale supply. But hey, he's an herbalist with a perchant for poison; the Cult would be foolish to turn that down."
•
Milly: "She found her way into the Labyrinth. That's no small feat. What more do we need? ... Well, yeah. Invisibility is a nice trait, too. Damn magic; I forgot she's a halfie. Ah well. Mills is a bit quiet for my taste, but I'm gonna see about breaking her outta that shell."
•
Arthur: "He's a good street presence, with a decent head on his shoulders. And his connections to other such streetrats could do the Cult well in the future."
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Cordelia: "Oracle is an interesting one. I mean, she's nearly as secretive as Eswayt was when I first met her, only she's stayed that way the entirely time I've known her. But hey, reading people's minds is something of a nifty trick, so I'm not complaining. Er, too much."
•
Sothal: "He's a good leader; that's all you can ask for, right? Of course, he's perpetually depressed, it seems like. He'll relax with a pint; who wouldn't? But dammit if he doesn't do that nearly enough for my tastes. Have to say, though: that teleport thing he does is spectacular."[/spoili]
Writing Sample:
[spoili]
"...then Oracle did her thing, and the bastard was drooling on the floor, completely dumbstruck." Quinn leaned forward on the bar top, miming a line of drool with his hand.
The Eel was emptier than usual, the evening crowd having seemingly curtailed their debaucherous alcoholic frivolities in favor of the more visceral, martial ones. The Games were happening this week, and his usual patrons were sure to have a fair amount of money or property gambled away on their respective candidate. But that caused the innkeeper little worry; they would be back, if perhaps later than usual, either to celebrate with several rounds of good Baladuri ale or to drown their sorrows and the last few coppers they might have into a glass of Faledrin whiskey.
But in the meantime, he was using the lull to catch up with an old friend. Eswayt sat on the customer side of the bar, perched a bit unsteadily on a tall stool. She rolled her eyes, smiling in that way parents smile when their child has told them a strange or unfunny joke.
"That's quite the account, Q," the old woman chuckled, her strong voice only a touch patronizing. She held his gaze, one eyebrow raised in consideration. "But you need to cut down on the bullshit a little. Anyone who knows the dear woman would never believe that she'd Blank out anyone like that."
Quinn grinned in response and shrugged.
"Most people don't bullshit like you do, Es; it's hard to bullshit a bullshitter." His face grew serious as his tone lost its humorous edge. "Just like you can't bullshit me. What's wrong?"
Eswayt turned her head, looking away from her former student as she considered her surroundings. The tavern was originally an old warehouse, renovated and and almost rebuilt from the ground up to the inn it now was. It was fairly obvious: the walls bore few cracks and still retained their lacquered shine, the furniture for the most part still bore their original legs, and most notably the place had yet to stink of sweat, piss, and stale spilled beer, as so many other, older inns did. But even the best quality will lose its shine if not cared for, and it was obvious that Quinn had done so. Yes, it was apparent to the old madam that he was doing well for himself. That made me proud. And she was not about ruin his success with a burden. Turning back, she smiled.
"Nothing that a little hard work can't fix." The brothal was in minor debt. It wasn't anything she and her girls couldn't handle. She hoped. "We'll be fine, Q. You focus on your involvement with the others, and with your own place. I'll be around, should you need any advice."
Practically hopping if he stool with an agility that belied her age, Eswayt turned away and strolled through the front door with a wave of her hand.
"Fare well, dear."
And she was gone. Quinn watched after her, browsed furrowed in concern. Despite her assurance, he couldn't help but feel worried. But she was right; there were things that needed doing. In particular, a shipping supplier needed...relieving of his shipment. Torrin Balast; the Cult was finally acting against him. Quinn found himself smiling. Reaching under the bar, the Baladuri pulled out a bit of parchment, the inkwell, and a quill, and began writing letters of introduction for those who needed them.
[/spoili]
Hair: Brown
