Maxwelinski
Description
Maxwelinski Dejacque, a Rakash.
He has a classically chiseled face, reflective sage-green eyes and a fine straight nose. His dark golden brown hair is short and perpetually disheveled, and is worn untamed. He has lightly bronzed skin and a lean, well-defined build.
Maxwelinski Dejacque, a Rakash.
He has a compact and copiously wrinkled square face, reflective sage-green eyes and a pair of raised and rounded ears offset by a short and blunted muzzle. He has a fawn and white-chested coat with black masking, a stubby tail and a lean and well-defined build.
Family and Stuff
Maxwelinski has a horse named Horsewelinski and a babirusa.
And there are people, too. Charlize Dejacque, the beautiful wifinski. Contrejour Dejacque. Cousin-sister Annieka Dejacque, brother-cousin Ruven Dejacque (although his name links to Kaldar skirts, he is in fact a real person), aunt-sister Dresna Dejacque, sister-niece Adlyn Dejacque, sister-cousin Nikima Dejacque, cousin-brother Turuk Dejacque, brother-uncle Ssarek Dejacque, uncle-cousin Alymast Dejacque, sister-aunt Khiersty Dejacque.
The Story
When a Rakash in his prime arrived in the province of Zoluren one day, no one noticed. It's a big province with a big city, The Crossing. If you had asked him where he came from, he might tell you he was raised by wolves. Yes, literal wolves. He insists. It isn't self-depreciating Rakash humor. That's his story.
Abandoned at the young age of 23, his cruel parents left him on a hill to die. Despite his cries - “Ma, Pa, No! I'll get a job!” - he was condemned to exposure. If not for a kindly pack of wolves, he may very well have died. For the next ten years his adopted family nourished him. He relied upon the teat of the wolf to survive. A mere babe.
He survived, but the wolves did not. It had been ten years, you know. They died of old age. Wolves don't live that long. It was 419 when he stumbled out of the forest and found himself on the Northern Trade Route.
Lacking education, skills and the ability to speak beyond rudimentary grunts he set out to make his fortune. He needed to make a living. Get that food. That wolf milk, if you will. He was hungry.
The first guild he came across was that of the Warrior Mages. There he met the big guy, Gauthus. The boss. He was about to introduce himself when Gauthus blurted something out.
“You like killin' things?!”
“W-what things?” Max was rattled.
“You know. Just anything. Killin' is fun.”
Being a Warrior Mage was not for him. Gauthus clearly had something wrong with him. Max left. And as he reflected on the multitude of Warrior Mages outside of the guild, foraging and braiding wild grasses into intricate and useful tools, he wondered how different they were from Gauthus inside. They seemed to be dedicated artisans.
He stumbled into the city of The Crossing, through it's famed Northeast Gate. It wasn't long before he was at the Paladins' Guild. There he met Verika Kennelworth, Paladin Representative. A Rakash, like himself.
“This guild is not for the weak of heart, it is not for the weakl…”
Katamba peaked over the horizon. They both fell to the ground, mid-speech, writhing. Max drooled a little. Moonskin. When he stood up, he and Verika gave each other that look. The morning look of a stranger in your bed. The look of a decision you immediately regret. Shame.
He turned and he walked right out the door, without saying another word. The Paladins weren't for him, either.
After a brief stroll up Magen Road he encountered the Empaths' Guild. He produced a delicate red bird from a small pocket. It wasn't moving. Prydaens lurked.
“Can anyone heal my bird?”
No one responded. He raised his bird high into the air for everyone to see. These Empaths didn't seem to care. He dropped the dead bird and went to leave. When he paused to look back he noticed a slim Prydaen snatch the dead bird up with a cat-like swipe, toss it into the air, and devour it in a few quick bites. All in a quick, practiced motion. Salvur Siksa pointed and laughed. This had happened before.
This Empaths weren't the guild for him, either. But they seemed less awkward than the Paladins.
Just as he stepped out the door, he saw a surprisingly short Elven girl head to the south. He moved to follow, seeing her enter the city's headquarters for the Barbarians' Guild. Then, a distraction.
“Pssssst. Wanna try a dusssk berry?”
A lizard-like creature hissed at him. It was a S'Kra Mur. The S'Kra had a black longcoat and was holding it open with one hand. Stitched into the lining were little pouches filled to the brim with assorted berries, fruits, stems, leaves, herbs and mushrooms. A few seemed to be in powdered form.
“What's a dusk berry?”
“Drop berriessss, not boltssss.”
Max shrugged. This was unintelligible. He took one anyway.
…
“Congratulations, Maxwelinski! You're ready to train for your next rank!” An old Bard was howling shrilly into his face. He winced at the sound. His head hurt. Reflexively he reached into the inner pocket of his coat, produced a small berry and popped it into his mouth.
“What rank is that?”
“Just keep playing instruments.” She frowned.
He stumbled out of the building, but immediately leaned up against the brick facade next to the door. His heart was beating fast. Panic. He rifled through his pockets. A passport to Velaka. Maxwelinski Dejacque. That sounded familiar. He relaxed. Now highly tolerant to the sedative effect of the dusk berry, he merely calmed the hell down. An Elf with the cutest freakin' nose came around the corner, walked up to him and held his hand. They stood silently, calmly. And he remembered.
It was the day the shady S'Kra had pulled him to the side. He had taken something. He heard music coming from a nearby building. It sounded like a bar. He sat down and ordered a drink. The barmaid lectured on and on about what he thought were Elven beers and Toggish grogs. He nodded sleepily and stared at her with a blank expression. His mind wandered to the surprisingly short Elf.
“Just sign here, here, and here if you want to JOIN.” The barmaid had a desperate, severe tone.
He signed, or rather he drew a crude X on the paper. He was taken aside to swear an oath. And then he was taught how to cast a magical spell.
In retrospect it was a lot of bureaucracy just to get a beer.
Maxwelinski, starring in MAXWELINSKI, P.I.
A light rain had just begun to patter down from above in the loose city known as the Crossing. I inhaled deeply on my stump cigar, wincing at the telltale odor of corpse. Three long years and they still haunted me. I looked up at the crude sketches on the wall. Likenesses of the missing Prydaens. All young. The trend of dressing little Prydaens as baby dolls had never fully disappeared, but this was something new.
All of a sudden I heard a knock at my faux flamewood door. The faux sungold plaque engraved “MAXWELINSKI, P.I.” tumbled to the door, faux mistglass shattering everywhere. I put down nine iron ashtrays I had been juggling, snuff my cigar into one of them and call out, “IT’S OPEN DAMNIT!”
This Cleric with an angular face walks into the room. He’s about the tallest drink of holy water I’ve ver seen this side of the Selgotha. He hangs his floating orb thing on my faux copperwood coat rack. His nose wrinkles up.
“It smells like smoke.”
I pull out a sky-blue imnera runestone and cast Zephyr. The smoke disperses.
He sits down in front of me and crosses his legs suggestively, adjusting his cassock. I can feel the blood rush to my ears, but I manage to keep a straight face. I see his anloral shrew pin. Kerenhappuch, typical.
“I have a job for you, Max,” he says. I bet you do, I think.
“And I have some information.”
This gets my attention. I can tell from his look that it’s about the missing Prydaens.
“But first,” he says curtly, “you must do something for me.” There’s the rub.
He slips a piece of parchment from his pouch and pushes it across my faux expensivewood desk. It looks like a child’s drawing of a blob man.
“Do you recognize it? This construct killed thirteen people at the Rangers’ Guild. Me, and my associates, want it. When you find it, call me.”
It looks like every single glass construct ever, but I nod assent. I look up at him, “How do I find you?”
“You’re a Rakash, aren’t you? Just howl.”
He stands up and goes for the door. He moves to jiggle the handle, turns and looks at me. We exchange glances. “You remember how to howl, don’t you?,” he asks, “You just put your lips together and go AAWWOOOO.”
Eyewitness testimony of the umbral moth invasion of Boar Clan, as told to Maxwelinski by an umbral moth
As early as I can remember, when I was but a pupa, my mother told me to watch out for the lights. No matter how pretty they look, just stay away from them. If someone offers you a light just say no. For most of my life I heeded this advice.
During the day I slept in the shade beneath large leaves or nestled in the camouflaging bark of a large dryad’s tree. At night I came out to drink the nectar of flowering plants with my freakishly long proboscis. Many times I looked up at the stars and felt a pull, an attraction. Those were lights. But they were too far away. I flirted with them, but I was safe.
During the twilight hours I awoke to find columns of people, caravans, headed toward a city. The road was lit with torches. I put this out of my mind and went about my job in the local ecosystem. As the night grew longer the light grew brighter. Light had all become concentrated in one area, visible toward the horizon. The pure dark of the night, the dark that lets you see stars unblemished, had become marred by a reddish-yellow haze.
Light pollution. That was it. It drew me to it like a reaver to samatak. Up to this point in my life I stayed out of trouble. I was a model moth. I had a beneficial symbiotic relationship with night-blooming flowers. I was the fauna, the flora was itself. I pollinated while I drank. My proboscis is also generously endowed by moth standards. You could say I was an exceptional moth.
I don’t remember the journey, only that I was in a city. Trees had been cut into logs, logs stacked to the height of at least three wingspans. All had been lit to produce massive, intoxicating, light-producing fires. Bipeds, Humans and Prydaens, their young, all gathered around.
When I flew closer to the fire, closer to the action, people began to panic. There was screaming. Swords were drawn. I felt hard metal slap against my delicate, powdery wings. I tried to extend my feelers, my furred little legs, even my proboscis. This was a sign of peace. I’d witnessed bipeds do with their own upper appendages.
The people had become hysterical. They were no longer in their right minds. Marty, the moth who lives in the closet of an abandoned farmhouse close to the tree I sleep in during the late spring, flew by just in time to see. I was trying to shake a flailing biped I had managed to secure in my six legs. I was pheromoning, “Biped, calm down! I’m not going to hurt you.” The biped was responding with loud auditory signals and chops from a hand axe.
Almost immediately the word got around to the other moths. The whole forest came to see the spectacle. And the rest is history.
At The Necromancer Rally
A tiny Gnome straddled on the shoulders of a tall Kaldar adjusts her hat. After tinkering with a small, geared device she raises her hand and cues a Moon Mage a few yards away. The Mage, raising his arm, brings a shadewatch mirror into existence. The Gnome smiles and speaks into it:
“Hullo Zoluren! Welcome back to day three of live coverage at the Town Green. As you may know, two days ago controversy broke out when Necromancers descended en masse to protest the removal of a handwritten note by a Cleric. Since then all -heck- has broken loose between supporters of the Necromancers and their detractors!”
With a movement of his arm, the Mage rotates his mirror to capture the crowd. An assortment of adults dressed mostly in lace and dark eyeliner are bunched up in front of the pond. The lipopod has a dubious expression.
The Mage turns back to the Gnome newsperson:
“In just a moment we will hear an organizer of this rally, Evul McHateface, one of the leaders of the so-called “Perverse” faction, address the crowd.”
A tall lich, seemingly chinless, climbs upon a scaffold hastily manufactured from the bodies of fanatical followers. He pauses a moment to brush his Rakash-hide suit and adjust his Prydaen-tail tie. With each step new people dive forward underneath his feet. Finally he is elevated and easily visible above the crowd. He raises his hand and silence descends. A glass bottle lands at his feet with a lone “boo!”
“I come from a long line of Necromancers. My daddy was a Necromancer, his daddy and his daddy before that! They fought with Lyras in the War of Prydaen Aggression! And I tell you, I am PROUD to be a Necromancer! I am proud to stand before you today, here to fight for NECROMANCER CULTURE. Why, we built these provinces before those immigrants, those Rakash and Prydaens, descended upon us in an INVASION. By the way, the Rakash, they have low intelligence and wisdom, let me tell you about...”
A Cleric, having managed to unobtrusively climb on the stage, suddenly springs forth. He casts Fists of Faenella and hits the lich right in the face! A scuffle breaks out and the speech is temporarily disrupted. The shadewatch mirror turns back to the Gnome:
“Uh oh! We seem to have a little interruption. Let’s hope they get it worked out. Maybe we can talk to some of the crowd.”
The Gnome turns to a pudgy Human shuffling by. Bearing the signet of the Traders’ Guild, the Human seems to be panting with each step. He heaves forward with heavy pockets filled with coins on top of his own weight.
“Hullo sir! Did you come for the demonstrations?”
The Human Trader pauses to catch his breath before pulling out a cloth, wiping the residual blood of the peasantry from his hands as he responds,
“It’s all bad. All bad, I say! The Clerics are just as bad as the Necromancers! Both sides. All violence! BOTH SIDES, I say! And that little Cleric girl tearing down notes. Bad I say! That is PRIVATE PROPERTY!”
A strong gust of wind blows, dislodging the Trader’s orange muskrat fur toupee from his head. He manages to catch it between stubby fingers before finishing, “Now, excuse me. Excuse me, I say! I have a huge meeting with the Prince. My serfs have revolted and I need the guards to put those losers down!”
The Trader waddles off and attention turns back to the Gnome:
“There you have it, folks! Clerics just as bad as the Necromancers? I dunno! More on that later. We’re about to hear from Knobby VanDuplicitous, prominent figure in what has come to be known as the “Philosopher” faction of the Necromancers.”
A man with unnaturally white, even bone-white, teeth gives the crowd a big smile before starting:
“Friends let us unite! They call us Necromancers – but who gets to say what a Necromancer is anyway? Are you a Necromancer, am I? I don’t even know what the word means! I think they just call anyone they don’t like a Necromancer.”
Kobby produces a severed hand from his cloak and points one of its fingers accusingly at the crowd of Clerics gathered, “Is that it? You just call us Necromancers because you disagree. Well, I say you are the -real- Necromancers!” The crowd erupts in mixture of noise. He raises his voice and continues:
“And who gets to say Necromancy is even wrong, even if I am a Necromancer? Why, just the other day I saw a shop in Therengia sell a cupcake to Rakash. What if I don’t like that? How is me not liking that any different from some people not liking Necromancy!” More noise. The crowd grows increasingly hostile. He continues:
“And what of burning our notes? We have a right to post our opinions in Prydaen blood ink penned on their fresh hides. Where has the TOLERANCE of the Gods gone now! Why do Clerics hate FREE SPEECH?” He punctuates every point with a jab of the severed hand he is holding, splattering the row closest to him with drops of blood. A few in the crowd have begun to forage branches, piling them and starting little fires. A nervous-looking Trader pushes his way through the Necromancer side of the crowd. He seems to be selling frozen peaches on sticks.
It isn’t long before one of those delicious but hard frozen treats is hurled and a melee breaks out. The Gnome makes a hasty gesture at the Moon Mage. The Mage quickly opens up a moongate and the three-person crew duck through. The Gnome peeks her head out to deliver a closing, “Stay tuned folks! Next up, our coverage of the war with North Therengia. Why -ever- do they hate us!” She ducks back through the moongate and it closes behind her.
Assorted songskis for your enjoyment
Prydaens of Ilithi
It’s a song about Prydaens, Meow, meow, meow! Ilithian Prydaens, Raw food chow! When the Prydaens came to Shard, They pattered right on in. On itty-bitty Prydaen paws, These teachers-of-the-kin. It’s a song about Prydaens, It’s so sickeningly sweet! Shard-dwelling Prydaens I say, eating up raw meat! When the Elotheans saw the Prydaens, They were jealous of their hair, And Prydaens lived in fear a time They couldn’t go nowhere. And then they passed a law, Prydaen hunting banned! No more Prydaen fur toupees, And no more Prydaen ashtray hands! When the Prydaens came to Shard; The lands became humane, Elotheans were no longer seen, As thieves of Prydaen mane When the Prydaens met the Elves, They got along real sweet! The Elves got the choicest parts The Prydaens ate raw meat! And the tradition, It continued to this day, The Elves at their tables, Prydaens below at play! And Prydaens they did mingle, With every Ilithic race! And had the kin that they pleased, In each and every place! And so they all ate raw meat, To this very day, So have a bite of something raw It’s the Pry-Ilithic way! So says Pry d’Ann the Bard, So just you listen close Pick some raw food off the floor Then pop it down your throat!
The Therengian Wedding Duel
The Therengian wedding duel! The nobl’st of customs. The woman not allowed to speak, just watch the men and trust ‘em. The Therengian view on girls, Is quite traditional. A Therengian girl’s rights you see, are quite conditional. The man he does not ask the lass, He goes straight to the pops And if he kisses something crass The pops lets him set up shop Because the Therengian man believes That it’s somewhat fatherly. And that a romantic thing to see Is women sold like property! The Therengian wedding duel! A Theren man selects a Theren bride. The woman cannot run or flee, There’s nowhere she can hide. And if a Theren dad says no; And he makes a fuss; They can have a violent row, The winner considered just! Because in Theren might is right; The strong they crush the weak! And thus the Therengian wedding duel, is the tradition that they keep. So if you are a Therengian girl, And your mind is free. Pack your bags, escape at night And run away to sea!
Scholarship
(This might be based on Juicy J's "Scholarship")
You need some extra plat to pay the Academy with It just so happens, I've got a lot of it Spin around the Empath pole, do the splits Then come and teach me scholarship You an Empath chick, you an Empath chick Keep healin', then teach me scholarship You an Empath chick, you an Empath chick Keep healin', then teach me scholarship Heal that cat - prepare a spell Dead body, didn't go too well Disarmed a box and lost a hand Killed a squirrel, shock again You an Empath chick, you an Empath chick Keep healin', then teach me scholarship You an Empath chick, you an Empath chick Keep healin', then teach me scholarship Coins and gems Tips and plats Stay trippy Eat georin grass You an Empath chick, you an Empath chick Keep healin', then teach me scholarship You an Empath chick, you an Empath chick Keep healin', then teach me scholarship Touched a tamarisk tree I'm doin' al-chem-y Shiftin' in the city Now they arrestin' me You an Empath chick, you an Empath chick Keep healin', then teach me scholarship You an Empath chick, you an Empath chick Keep healin', then teach me scholarship
A Prydaen Freestyle
Got a cleft lip, but I rap Better call me a kit, not a cat Eating live birds and some rats Prydaen - I'm a kit, not a cat Sharpen up my claws Pointy teeth in my jaws If bein' Prydaen was a crime I'd be breakin' all the laws Tail floppin' like a monkey You know I never bathe So I smell like somethin' funky And you know I never shave Raw meat junkie Yes - I said I never bathe How I wear a shoe? Got pads on my foot How do -you- do? Prydaen soul dark, soot Evil to the root Town guards they call me kitty Hesitate to let me in the city Prydaen life really gritty Insert some cat profan-ity Feelin' safe in the bank Showing off my hub rank City rough like a shark tank Birthin' tough Havin' kits in the bank Yes, havin' kits in the bank Don't make a stank I'm havin' my kits in the bank
Reverend Rafaeli's Prayer
Blessings, my children! My little potpies You’ve got Glythtide’s body And Dergati’s eyes Blessings, my children! My little tadpole tails Everild eating sausage Eluned eating whales Blessings, my children! My little love blankets If baby Be'ort is bad Then you must spank it Blessings, my children! My little cups of curds A full third of the Immortals’ Animals are birds I hope you liked my prayer Try not to be jelly Two friendly kisses From Brother Rafaeli!
Fratvarit Rap
Alchemy is confusin' But alcohol's a solution It's a technical truth Not a lyrical illusion First you mash the apple Like a spousal battle Let the jug sit Then give it a rattle When it starts to brew Increase the heat to two At this point it's bitter And an explosive mixture So you better be careful Know the fumes ain't healthful Eyes on the prize The final product make you wealthful Then you crush the peppercorn With an elder deer horn Shake it in the bottle A drop'll sleep a newborn So that's how you star it In the game of fratvarit Now keep a crossbow loaded 'Cause Rakash keep the bar lit
Short Song for Saphryna
Who heals you when you're sick and stuff? Saph, Saph! Who hugs you when you're feelin' rough? Saph, Saph! Who fixes you when a box goes blast? Saph, Saph! Who picks you up off of your, er... Behind, behind!