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Message: <blockquote data-quote="ajanders" data-source="post: 802483" data-attributes="member: 3271">Iron NPC EntryI swear I didn't read Merak Spielman's at all.  Just a coincidence.Ingredients:Key Phrase: "He who can, does; he who cannot, teaches"Other Ingredients: Abandoned love; A cat, black as midnight; "New kid on the block"StatBlocksThomas Fontaine, Male Human Exp2: CR 1: hp 6:Init +1 Spd 30 ft.  AC 11, touch 11, flatfooted 10: Atk+1: SA None, SQ Blind: AL N.  SV: Fort-1, Will+4, Ref+1: Str 8, Dex 12, Con 8, Int 15, Wis 12, Cha 10.Skills: Craft (Bookbinding) +7, Craft (Calligraphy)+7,Decipher Script +8, Forgery +4, Knowledge (architecture/engineering) +4, Knowledge (Geography)+6, Knowledge(History)+6, Knowledge(Local) +6, Knowledge (Nobility & Royalty) +6, Profession(Scribe)+8Feats: Skill Emphasis(Decipher Script), Skill Emphasis(Profession(Scribe))Languages:Common, Elven, Dwarven, Halfling, Gnome, DraconicThis stat block does not include the calculations for blindnessHistoryThomas Fontaine loved books.  He loved the smell of the paper, the sound of the turning pages, and the beautiful contrast of fine black ink on fine white paper.So it was really no surprise when his parents apprenticed him to one of the scribes in Mor's End.  It was even less of a surprise when he finished his apprenticeship two years early, completed his masterwork (a set of elegant ledgers for the Mor's End clerks) in six months.A year later his services were in constant demand: he could quickly and elegantly transcribe or translate any conversations in the common (or even uncommon) languages of Mor's End, then make a neat book out of them.  He was intimately familiar with the official documents of the city and capable of drawing them up so neatly the official clerks might have thought it was their own work.  His work in all the trade and diplomacy of the city meant he grew well informed about regional politics and economics, so he began to write small bulletins for some of his best clients to keep them informed of events in the city.  The new kid on the block was making a great name for himself.Then disaster struck.  As Thomas was bleaching a fresh supply of writing paper, a strange cat, black as midnight, leapt through the window of his workroom, onto his workbench, and into his container of lye.  The caustic liquid splattered everywhere: including into Thomas' eyes.  The cat fled back out the window and disappeared into the night, never to be seen again by anyone in the neighborhood.  But Thomas was blind, and his scribing days were over.He continues to live his life as best he can, which is not so bad as it might be.  Although he cannot read, he still makes a good living teaching languages and translating, and occasionally supplements that by acting as a private tutor for those who wish to learn about politics, history, or geography.  If you ask him, he will say he's very happy: he's very grateful he has skills that keep him from being a beggar, and he doesn't miss his books at all.  No, never.  You'll never see him cry about his woes.Of course, the lye has seared his tear ducts shut.Description:  Thomas is tall and decidedly scrawny, with a mass of red hair, beard, mustache, and sideburns, freckles, and milky white eyes he usually hides  under a thick scarf.  Formerly he was something of a man of fashion, but he now wears simple robes of a solid color: usually black or gray. Adventure hooks:1.  A cleric or paladin who needs to perform a quest of atonement may be ordered to heal Thomas' eyes.2.  Thomas is a valuable source of information about Mor's End and it's environs.  PC's with questions about laws, trade routes, history or landforms will find him cheaper than a formal sage.3.  Thomas may have made some enemies with his rapid success.  If they think blinding him wasn't enough of a revenge, perhaps next time they'll send a bigger cat...say, panther size...through his window.  That should rouse the whole neighborhood and attract the watch.4.  This strange cat, black as midnight, has been seen at some other places in the city.  It was at Mother Hubbards house just before the fire broke out.  It dug up some herbalist's prized bed of healing herbs.  It sauntered up Robert Thatcher's ladder while he was at lunch: as he climbed back up, the ladder slipped from the roof.  He broke both his legs in the fall.   But nobody claims any responsibility for it, and nobody knows who the owner is.  Is it an ill-behaved stray, or an omen of disaster?  Or, whisper the superstitious codgers of the city, does it cause the disasters?</blockquote>

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