Name- Three
Race- Human, with one elven ancestor 4 generations previous
Age- 34
Height- 5’7’’
Weight- Slim, but not quite scrawny
Physical Description- Three is one of the first people you’d suspect to know something you don’t. Business is business, and there's no way you'll get him to loosen up.
Dark blue eyes, a sharp nose, and platinum blond hair are Three’s strongest characteristics; he’s kept scars to an absolute minimum, and has been blessed with smooth, if ruddy, skin. He keeps his fingernails trimmed short and his face bare aside from a small, short patch on his chin.
Three habitually wears tall, black boots and a pair of plain, yet fine leggings with a variety of fashionable shirts and vests. He carries his rapier on his right hip on a black leather sword belt.
Personality- Three is the kind of person that can insult you five different ways without you even noticing. Even so, he'll probably make sure you notice it. If he dislikes you, you'll probably make
Possessions-
- A sizable wardrobe populated by largely the same styles, albeit in different shades of muted colors and earth tones.
- A ‘front’ home, legitimate in every way.
- A safe house far from his front home, illegitimate in as many ways.
- A chain garrote, for when he has to do dirty work himself.
- A reasonable amount of legitimate bishani.
- Odds and ends.
Major strengths and their hidden weaknesses-
Silvertongue- Three can talk circles around a dim-witted person without them even knowing about it. He's practiced manipulation over his entire life. Why not use it? Three is also very verbally clever and intuitive.
Related weakness: Not all people are stupid, and even less so in the realm of people Three associates with/has to deal with. He has little in the way of legitimate reasoning, so he tries to keep himself around people he knows he can control.
Fencer- Three picked up fencing as a hobby simply because it was one of the things he remembers about his father. He’s not a Corezan master by any means and is actually very average, but he can hold his own in a one-on-one fight with another sabre-wielder. He's found it to be a good stress reliever and a way to vent anger in a non-destructive manner.
Related weakness: In any other situation other than a formal, one-on-one combat situation, running is vastly preferable because of his lack of mastery and the relative weakness of the weapon in relation to the denser blades carried by most in the Marn area.
Contacts- If you’re trying to find someone or something, odds are Three knows where. The perks of working with Paragon are that Three knows his way around the majority of Marn's underbelly and he gets paid by people who want to know something.
Related weakness: In with more people, higher chance of someone running their mouth.
Freelance- Three works for someone he hates. If things go south, he has no qualms with ducking out and selling out anyone he needs to to get amnesty.
Related weakness: Paragon knows Three isn't as loyal as they would like; that makes him a bit more expendable.
Thief- Though Three has not much reason to purloin fruit in the market as he did as a child, he has the uncommon ability to use misdirection and distraction to steal right from under someone’s nose simply by holding a conversation with them while he takes and hides what he wants. Of course, this is within reason; a fruit here, a folded parchment there, but nothing he can't secretly slip into a pocket.
Related weakness: Disuse has dulled Three’s skill at multitasking in this manner, and his overconfidence may get him in over his head should he ever need to employ such methods so many years after leaving the street.
Fake It 'Til You Make It- Three's abilities don't always live up to his reputation/ego, so he has learned to put on an air of confidence to get what he wants. He's also able to be unnaturally trustworthy, or so it would seem.
Related weakness: Those who value putting money where one's mouth is are dangerous to Three's facade, obviously.
Major weaknesses and their hidden strengths-
Small- Three’s greatest advantage on the streets was his size. However, it was then and is now his greatest physical weakness. He’s agile for sure, a talented if raw fencer, and a fast runner, but if he's in a straight-up fistfight, there’s no way he can walk out without at least a broken bone and a ton of bruises.
Related strength: Three is small and fast enough to be able to make it out of a situation if he has some forewarning.
Cocky- Overconfidence plagues Three’s dealings. Many sticky situations he finds himself in are the result of Three either not knowing when to shut up or when to lose the superior attitude.
Related strength: Three’s confidence can be intimidating to others, overpowering what disapproval they have regarding his haughtiness.
Longing for Normalcy- Three would love to have a normal, upper-class life like the one he was supposed to live. This isn't how a synevive should have carried out their natural life. Three is given to bouts of hopelessness that can affect his effectiveness in operations and keep him from latching on to a cause.
Strength: This is one of the only things keeping him with Paragon: the vain hope that one day, things will be better. It's one of his only motivations.
Loner- Three has nobody he can truly rely on after losing his parents and learning the hard way how unforgiving street people can be. He has a yearning to connect with someone, either on a romantic or familial level, but both the nature of his predicament and his learned abrasiveness assures a cold acquaintanceship is the closest one can get to being Three's friend.
Strength: See above.
History-
Three was not born Three, nor was his life predetermined to the life he lives. How he arrived here is a long and winding story:
Three was born to a synevive family and was destined to a life of relative wealth and comfort. His father was the artisan son of a merchant who had retired from his fabrication to manage a healthy business in Marn and deal in trade in other regions like his father. His future was promising, even though his father had illicit dealings with criminal organizations and had a small group of thugs who were paid to run around for him and the like. His father's brother was a guard, but also dealt in racketeering and trafficking.
That future was cut off from Three as a child, that of the surname Harlech, when his parents’ house caught fire in the night and burnt to the point of collapsing, crushing and killing his parents and elderly grandmother who lived in the house. Miraculously, the young boy survived and was discovered the next night by looters searching the rubble for any remains.
After a short debate, they decided to spare the child until they could figure out quite who this person was and what they could get out of him, either from ransom or sale. Before they could, however, Three's uncle appeared among them and told their leader (who owed Three's uncle a few favors anyway) that the child was by all rights his and he was going to take the orphaned Three and find a proper home for him.
At first, he was too traumatized and sleep-deprived to object, and was led to the orphanage without a complaint. Three remembered only pictures and faint memories of his past life, so when he regained full cognition, he had no reason to wish to go back to his former life (notwithstanding there was nothing to go back to). So Three was raised with a group of two dozen other orphans, a stale but sufficient life.
As well-meaning as the orphans' caretakers were, they could not monitor the youngsters all day, especially once they became old enough to roam the city. Once Three was in his adolescence, his natural inquisitiveness and penchant for challenges led to hanging out with some of the street urchins of similar ages; he eventually became well acquainted with some of them, even engaging in some of the minor crimes that constituted the entertainment of a daring young gang member. As time went by, he became less dependent on his caretakers and came to enjoy the street culture.
How Three came about his name is a story all in itself. As the looting pack didn't necessarily want a useless mouth to feed, they taught him how to steal for himself. Though it was far from true, Three's desire to prove himself to them grew into a catchphrase, "It only takes three seconds," referring to his ability to purloin something in three seconds after spotting the object. Choosing to ignore the sexual references jokingly thrown at him concerning it, Three took the moniker, and it became all he went by. As of the present, Three is the only one who remembers his birth name.
As he grew, it became evident Three had a knack for both talking and stealing while talking. He had the rare talent of being able to smile at a stand owner and hold a conversation with him while using his hands to palm the vendor’s goods. Still, he held no special reputation with any. He had barely a bishan to his name, not that he needed it. What did he need currency for when he could steal food, rut for free, and sleep safely in the orphanage?
Adulthood brought even more to the table. Three’s cleverness and inquisitive nature came to its natural conclusion: the young man became a keeper of secrets. However, luckily in Three’s opinion, he avoided attention on a large scale. It was only when he was approached by an inconspicuous-looking figure that asked if he'd fancy doing something with his life that his days as a simple street informant and petty thief came to an abrupt end.
Of course, Three had thought of using his talents for more than getting by before; he hadn’t thought it would ever come to fruition. He was a street thief and a small-time purveyor of information of limited importance. What he didn’t know was his uncle still had eyes on him.
Though Three isn’t one to recreationally tell stories, if he ever told this, he would say he could still remember the man saying in a smooth, dispassionate voice, “Come with me.” When Three looked as if he were about to bolt (which he was), the man grabbed his arm with surprising force and shook his head, discouraging any evasive action he had been about to take.
He didn't resist being led, now less painfully; it wasn't far to Omenbryn, for that was obviously where they were going as they cut across the main road. Oh, boy, Three thought, What would they be bringing me in for? But this man doesn't seem like a guard. He barely even said a word to me. He's certainly not dressed like a guard.
Not a word was said as they entered the headquarters and Three was deposited in what he gathered to be an officer's room. The office was plain, adorned with a plaque and a painting and not much else, with a large oak desk stacked with papers in the middle. He was sat in a plain chair that matched the desk and was told quietly and succinctly to wait for his commanding officer. This is NOT a normal arrest. Something's up.
Three sat long enough to completely dissect the painting and nigh memorize the plaque before he heard the door creak open again. In entered a man he hadn't seen in years. Still, his stomach froze in an instant when he recognized that grizzled face. It had aged considerably, surely the result of stress on the job, but the eyes were still the same soft fire Three remembered looking into and idolizing so many years ago. "Uncle," Three said, and it wasn't at all the mature salutation he had wanted. It was more of a whimper.
"Child," he said. That always used to bug him when he was a kid; always calling him 'child' like he was a shriveled hag. Listen to me. This is Uncle I'm talking about. Have some respect, Three. "I've missed you," he continued. "How is life treating you? Don't answer that," he sighed a moment later, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he exhaled. One more breath and his head rose again. As he spoke, he walked over to face Three and leaned back against the desk.
"Your father would never have wanted it like this. You living basically on the street, doing Changers know what. That's why I brought you in today, Three. I'm not asking you to live with me, but take a job here and find someplace here in Marn to settle down." There it was. Uncle never was one for mincing words. "As much as I hate to admit it, I've been collecting information on you. Only because I'm worried about you. I backed out when you were of age, but I couldn't stay quite out of the picture. I have to hand it to you, you've been a good little informant, from what I've heard. That's what you would do- stay out in the street in the daytime, use what you know and who you know to do a little harmless snooping. It would make my job a lot easier, and you would be on Guard payroll with few attachments."
Three didn't “Okay, so what’s the carrot side of this deal?"
"I knew you weren't going to accept just to please me. We pay well, Three. Better than you’re ever going to make stealing fruit and selling petty secrets for half the pay of an honest worker and twice the danger.” Uncle didn't have to work out; he knew he had Three from the look in those sharp blue eyes.
“If it makes you sleep better at night, I'll work for you, Uncle.” Three tried his best to sound apathetic, but he really did care for his uncle.
“That’s what I wanted to hear, Three. Welcome to the Guard- rather unofficially, of course. I'll have to clear it with my superiors, but as you won't actually be a Guard, you won't have to go through mandatory training. You'll merely be an asset on paper. All you'll need is clearance from my superiors and you'll be my official courier and valet while I'm on guard duty. You'll answer directly and only to me.”
"No offense, uncle, but why would I want to be a servant to a guard, even if it's you, when I have all this dirt on me? I mean, I know what I've done and I'm sure it's out there somewhere."
"I had thought of that. I think if any of that comes up I can sweep it under the rug, so to speak." There didn't seem to be much else to say. "So will you or won't you, kid?"
Three only thought for a moment. "Yeah, I suppose. I just need to ask one favor."
"Anything, kid."
"Don't call me that. Call me Three."
Three lasted for a week floating, a relatively normal street rat of 19, waiting for his uncle to get back with him. When he did, he did so in person, as fit his wont when dealing with Three. Nevermind how he knew where Three was; he usually hung around the same spots anyway, so Three didn't worry about it. "Good news," he said. "You've been accepted onto Guard payroll."
"Good," Three replied, hopping off the crate he had been lounging around on. "When am I working?"
"I hadn't really set hours, because I know how important it is for you to be flexible." Changers, Uncle really did know Three inside and out. "Just make sure you're not slacking and you'll be fine. There will, of course, be times when I need you, and I'll usually tell you ahead of time. And just because you're not at Omenbryn eight hours a day doesn't mean I'm not going to give you things to do consistently. It's an occupation for a reason- to occupy you...Three." He savored the word for a moment. "Why do you call yourself that? I'm sure your father would want you to carry his surname."
"Long story. And yeah, I know good old Father was proud of our name. But I'm not Father."
Three felt a pang when he saw the involuntary grimace on his uncle's face. He couldn't bear to let the man down, but at the same time he couldn't stand the feeling of being chained to anything. "Alright. Anything you need me to do now?"
Uncle shook himself out of whatever he was thinking and stuttered, "N-no. I'll expect you in the morning for some orientation, though, bright and early. I won't force you, but just know you're always welcome in my home."
Three couldn't let Uncle down more, so he just cocked a half-smile and said, "Thank you, Uncle." And with that, they exchanged a respectful, succinct embrace and went their separate ways.
Months passed after that day, Three performing tasks both menial and complex. Life was better than it had been, if bland. He had saved his money intelligently with the help of his uncle, and soon he had a humble home in the residential district and a legitimate income. He was off the streets for the most part, until the day he bumped into Jazzy again.
Three knew as soon as he saw Jazzy who he was. He was a flamboyant sodomite that Three had somewhat become friends with because of their mutual background in the orphanage. Poor Jazzy had been abused by one of the caretakers and had never recovered; Three hadn't heard from him in a long time, and had assumed he had sunken into prostitution or been the victim of a lethal crime. "Hello there, Jazzy!" Three exclaimed in surprise with a smile on his face.
Jazzy jumped when he heard his name, but when he saw Three, the frightened look melted into a curt grin. "Three," he said in his soft, lilting voice. "What a surprise." He seemed out of his element. Maybe he was embarrassed, but for what? Nervous, maybe.
"Yeah, pal. What're you doing these days?"
"Oh, I make my way around," Jazzy replied, obviously avoiding it as completely as possible. "What do you do? You seem well off."
Three hadn't even noticed how much his clothing, his grooming, his speech had changed since he had started working for his father. Now, it all seemed so stark. "Well, yes," Three said. "As you remember, my uncle was a guard. A little over a year ago, he approached me and hired me off the streets. I make a decent living now as his aide."
"Working for the government, eh?" Jazzy said, with a hint of disapproval only someone who knew him would catch.
"Yeah, what's wrong with that, Jazzy?"
"Well, it's just that...here, let's talk in here." Three had barely even noticed they were walking as they spoke. Now, they stood in front of a nondescript building shoved between two larger businesses. Jazzy ducked in the door and motioned for Three to follow. The front room was rather dark, with light from a candle and from slits in the ceiling. Dust wafted through the air freely. It was the last place Three expected a freakishly clean young man like Jazzy to lead him to.
"What's so secret, Jazzy?" Three said, starting to get exasperated. All of a sudden, Jazzy started to speak very quickly. He told him about an underground group called the Paragon that was dedicated to helping people like them, orphans and shifters and the oppressed, to free them from the government's unfair treatment. It took a bit of convincing, but Three trusted Jazzy enough to figure what he said was true. If it was, it would be a dream come true for Three's rebel spirit. Jazzy said they were looking for someone to enter for communications. He explained that he knew this because he had met with them a few times, and even done a few favors for them. Three agreed to meet with them, but Jazzy didn't specify a time or place.
Their parting was awkward, but trust was evident between the two. Three obviously had no idea how this Paragon was going to contact him; he had heard of them in passing, but he had little idea what they were or who the group included. His mind went wild with fantasies about the Paragon and about what would make Jazzy want in and then want out so badly. Finally, he received a letter from a nondescript courier that didn't look him in the face or slow his stride when he handed him the folded and sealed parchment.
'Hello, Three,' the letter read. It continued to confirm that Paragon knew who he was and what he had said to Jazzy. These guys get around. Whoever had written it had the authority to say he would grant Three access to Jazzy's position if he performed a service to confirm his loyalty. Some pointless papers that surely had some use in Paragon hands. Then came the hard part: they were on the desk of Three's uncle. They obviously know my connection to him... 'Luck be with you and we hope to continue this relationship.
-Please burn after reading.'
What have you gotten yourself into, Three?
It took a week and a half of (in Three's opinion) pointless and needlessly complex assurances of everything from physical health to loyalty and belief in the cause (which he found to be surprisingly to his liking in any case) for Three to be officially accepted into the cell Jazzy had only just held a position in. Three was willingly spending less and less time around his uncle as he sharpened his skills in preparation for whatever Paragon had for him. Days passed in a blur as Three's superior revealed more and more as to what he would be accomplishing for the Paragon; he was mentally and physically ready to do whatever they asked of him, maybe unto death. When his uncle pointed out to him (though of course he didn't know why Three wasn't around) how little he was arriving for work, all Three could say was, "Sorry, Uncle."
Then he found out about Jazzy.
He wasn't really even supposed to know; a fellow trainee who he had limited contact with spoke in passing (in an illicit conversation, too: they weren't to make small talk) of a young man being killed after another took his spot, some queer kid with an odd name.
"...Jazzy?"
"Yeah, something like that."
Three, dizzy and confused, left the other man standing there. He had just spent Changers knew how long being indoctrinated by these pseudo-rebels and all the while they didn't even have the heart to keep a promise. They had promised Jazzy could go, right? They wanted me more than him. I was better; they wanted me more. He had to go home and think.
There was a message there on his step when he arrived. It was another assignment, another task meant for someone ultimately expendable. An upgrade from the last, but still meaningless in the long run.
At first, Three couldn't get past it. He still did what they wanted, but without the former passion, and without the near flawless excellence of before that stemmed from his fanaticism. Three asked his uncle, very discreetly and out of the blue, what he would do if he was part of a group that saw him as worthless. His response made something in Three click.
"Prove them wrong."
Three resolved to do just that.
The next assignment Three was given happened to be twofold- intercept a missive headed for his uncle's desk and collect any information about the official ceremony that honored Marn officials for their service. The first was easy. Just head down to the office and 'accidentally' snatch it with the pile of correspondence he should have delivered the past three days that had piled up. Three's uncle pretended not to notice when he picked it up, but he couldn't help the awareness that comes with decades of guard service.
"I worry for you Three," his uncle said, breaking the casual silence that had held since Three came in the room. "The Paragon...dangerous people. Not inherently evil, mind you. A city can use a little stirring up, and especially this one. But their methods will bring nothing but more hurt than the hurt that caused them to form." It was rather eloquent for the grizzled officer's vernacular, and it chilled Three to the bone. Nobody knew he was in Paragon, he had personally taken care of that on top of the measures Paragon themselves had taken.
"They're all I have, uncle," Three tried to say, but he could barely make out a hoarse whisper. "I tried to see the good in what you did, uncle, and I see that you genuinely want to help people, but you can't be a clean appendage to a diseased body. It just doesn't work. The system needs to change before it can be used to build."
"Listen to yourself, Three! That's brainwashing and you know it!"
"You're just blind, uncle. You're justifying your own behavior by throwing out generalities just like you always do. I promise you, uncle, if there were other ways, more peaceful ways of achieving peace, I would be there. But water doesn't work when the spark remains. You have to starve it out. And how else to do that but make a bigger fire?" And with that, Three left. He delivered what he needed as he always had, a pensive, passive look on his face. Three's uncle hadn't kept him from leaving with the sealed message he took. Three couldn't tell whether or not that was accidental.
Three carried out orders, not sure whether his faith in Paragon had been steeled or shattered by his argument with his uncle.
Two weeks later, Three passed a board littered with wanted posters, public announcements, and news. That reminds me, I haven't gone to see Uncle in a few days. I should go this afternoon. A large-print headline caught his eye. "Guard Officer Struck Down At Ceremony," it read. Three snatched it in assumptive fear; a hurried scan of the article confirmed his fears. ...was assassinated by unknown assailants at a ceremony commending he and four fellow officers for their longstanding good record of service in the Marn city guard... The article went on to note the assassins were unknown, nor was there a clear motive. Cold horror turned to blinding anger.
"Rook!" Three shouted, slamming the door open and clearing his desk before his superior could react, replacing it with the crumpled announcement on the desk.
"You're going to sit down and shut your ungrateful mouth if you want to walk out of here with use of your arms, Three. Be glad I like you." Three complied, but the look on his face was pure malice. Rook continued without even looking at the parchment.
"Yes, we do regret the unfortunate relation between yourself and the deceased. However, there are several reasons why you should...here, I'm gonna cut the political bullshit and tell you why you should suck it up. An officer's an officer. He wasn't a priority, but we'll take what we can get, and we made out with some better targets and the end of the day in any case. You were close enough to get us the intel we needed to take him down, and you delivered, and very well, I admit. Reason two- you probably needed to get rid of him. That was a dangerous attachment. Reason three- let's be real here, you weren't getting anywhere. I've seen that in your eyes, you want to sit in this chair. That's never going to happen as long as I'm kicking. It sure as hell wouldn't have happened until you did something big. That was something big. So congratulations, we're considering bumping you up a notch on the ladder. There's promise in you yet, kid. Now get out of here, I'm tired of making a speech. I'm sure someone will be in contact."
Three left with a despicable taste in his mouth and a horrible feeling in his chest. He was gone. He was really gone. Think about it, Three. You have nothing else to you now. This is your life. You made your bed; now lie in it. That's the first time Three really realized he didn't believe anymore. He was heartbroken at first because he felt betrayed. Now all he feels a cold, patient vengeance. Vengeance against Marn for raising him, for breeding this rebellion, and the Paragon for stabbing him in the back. No rest for the wicked.
That was ten years ago. The grief is gone, but it left a scar on an already pockmarked soul. Three is now Rat coordinator. He's proven them wrong, but until his vengeance falls, he bides his time, a wolf in the clothing of a sheep in the clothing of the wolf on the other side of the snarling match. A snarling match that would soon descend into a bloodbath.
When the bloodbath comes...that will be Three's day. When.......if only it were tomorrow.......
[Okay, now let’s get cracking!]
11-27: Plan is to revise so Three is a guard employee, employed by his uncle to keep him off the streets. He's recruited by Paragon because of his skills and connection to the Guard. Three starts to work his way up the ranks, then finds out he did something that enabled Paragon to assassinate his uncle. This shakes his loyalties and now the only one he can trust is himself.
