Sitting in an oversized padded chair by a cluttered desk in his windowless study, deep beneath his fortress tower in the mountains of Thesk, Alarah Gomenei stares into the wall. The fat fingers on his left hand tapping nervously in an intricate and beautiful rythm and his right hand clutching a bejeweled quill like the throat of a mortal enemy. His mind is spinning with thoughts and information, conflicting analysis and theorems, equations of force and counterforce, deductions and contradictions, and work. He had much work to do, but lacked both inspiration and, alarmingly, dedication to do it. In a time when the world seem to be ending there's really no time for business.
"The normal rate of economic growth at the level of societal advancement most of Faerun is currently in is between 0 and 2 %, at a positive estimate. Actually GNP-growth is almost entirely governed by the harvest. In good years, positive growth. In poor years, negative growth. Individual businessmen could expect to be far more successful, but even with the extraordinary growth of 100% per year the effect on society at large would be minimal. The larger a company grew, the more differentiated its branches, the slower it's growth would become as it's affected by more and more vectors and the positive and the negative balance each others out to a greater and greater extent. Eventually a company would grow into a mini-state and obey the same economical rules as a nation. The means of production dictates societal growth, an agricultural society cannot grow fast enough to compensate for the devastation of the current wars in the short to mid term. It would take years for any economical reforms to take effect and when you don't have any years to spare, it all seems increasingly futile."
With a disgusted sneer he rips the paper to shreds "Too dark, too depressing, and far too badly worded."
A darkly beautiful woman of indeterminate age appears in the doorway, the insignia of the Emerald Circle on a chain around her neck. "Why do you torment yourself so, my dear? What do you have to proove that is not already apparent? You are an accomplished poet, an extraordinary composer and musician, the best lover I have ever had and, most importantly, a very, very rich man."
"Malacora," he looks at her with an expression of irritation fading into embarrasment, she smiles. "How long have you been standing there? No, don't answer. It doesn't matter." He shakes his head. "I was hoping to influence the world. Presumtuous, I know. What could a fat little man like I ever do to influence this fat little planet?" he gesticulates towards the globe on his table. "I am beginning to realise the hopelessness of that ambition. What do I really have to gain by sharing the insights that have made me rich with those who would be my competitors? Who would I save that deserved to be saved and could not be saved by someone else? No, it was never a matter of salvation. My ambition was always power and my plan was sound. Create a coalition, a great cartel and build a merchant republic under myself. Rule wisely, according to the principles I have set forth and grow, ever grow in prosperity. As if I wasn't fat enough."
"Self-pity will only weaken you, dear, and make you more and more pityful until you truly deserve to be pitied. Regardless of how dark the situation may seem there is always a way out if you but look for it hard enough. You say writing bores you. Solution: Stop writing. You are right, your writing is trite, dull and uninspired. Not compared to others but to yourself. What masterpiece have you created here today?"
"You mock me."
"I speak the truth." She looks at his fingers, still dancing on the wood of the table. "That is your masterpiece. Your music. That is what truly moves those around you, what gets into their very soul and stays there until the day they die. That is your true talent, not numbers and figures and, dry, dry, facts. That is why I fell in love with you, why I would give my life for yours. That is the Truth."
"I think... I think you are right. I should have realised it before, and, and, There is a way! Oh, Love, how would I ever survive without you." The fat little man rises from his chair to embrace her, to kiss her, to sweep her down on the desk and make love to her, again and again and again.
When they are done he starts to write again. Music.
Later that day he will begin the construction of an artifact. A baliset that increases his Performance: music skill with 200 points and enhances several of his epic bard abilities. He will also have his Wizard cohort start the research of an epic mass sending spell.
_____
Also, in light of the remarkable moderation employed by my fellow players in Character Generation I will reduce the level of my PC significantly. Noble: 10, Bard: 30, bardic prestige class#1: 10, bardic prestige class #2: 5.
Since the Noble and Bard classes are considered so weak I think it's reasonable that I have a few more levels than several other PCs who have stronger classes.