Buster FairfaxCHARACTER QUESTIONS
(Please note: Staff is looking for at least three lore references in your application when reviewing.)
What will your character’s name be?
Please briefly describe the physical attributes of your character, including age, looks, height, weight and any notable features:
Buster is a pale-skinned man in his early 30's with a thin build, a sunken chest, and a skinny, long neck. A pair of wire-framed spectacles sit atop his prominent nose. His dark hair has begun to recede at the temples. He is meticulously clean and well-groomed and his clothes are always freshly-pressed with a flat iron.
Following his conscience, Buster seeks to practice medicine in the Quarantined First Province, and to study allopathy outside the confines of either the dogmatic Venerated Apothecary Corps or the corrupt University of Redholme. Here he believes, or rather hopes, that he can practice the healing arts on the most vulnerable populations, free of all the bureaucracy, in a land too shaken by turmoil to pay him much attention.Briefly state your character’s intentions or motivations for entering the First Province:
Born to a small farming community in rural Drolund, Buster was lucky to have been the firstborn son to a pair of land-owning citizens. Prone to terrible illness as a child, it was clear from the beginning that Buster was not built for hard work. Curious, precocious, and introverted, it was decided by Buster's parents that they would encourage him in intellectual pursuits, hoping, perchance, that their child would grow to become one of the clergy, and thus he was tutored to read and write.Please provide a few short paragraphs with pertinent details or notable qualities of your character’s history. This does not have to be exhaustive nor revealing of any information you wish to keep secret:
Their hopes would be dashed when Buster instead focused his studies on allopathy. By the time Buster was reaching adulthood, he had managed to use his limited means to obtain several large tomes on the practice. While most scholars who found themselves driven to learn would look inward, the study of allopathy made Buster more interested in the people around him. He spoke to the locals in his village about their problems and occasionally kindly offered advice on healthy living and the balancing of humors. Those who took his advice found to their surprise that their problems often went away and soon word spread to nearby towns. Buster began offering his services in exchange for donations. He barely made enough coin to eek by, but he found the work fulfilling.
However, there were just as many detractors as there were supporters, some seeing in the practice of allopathy, so foreign to the impoverished farmhands of the region, something sinister and perhaps heretical. His practice ended when during the night while Buster was sleeping in his home, which doubled as his office, it was burned down by an arsonist, with Buster barely escaping with his life.
Buster took this as a sign that it was time, perhaps, to move on. After all, there was so little literature left in the countryside for him to study. Buster took what little coin he had left and made his way to the Eastern Baronies, to Redholme.
First he studied at the University of Arbitrium, but found that he did not like the looks he would get when he asked the "wrong" questions. When he asked for a reference to study at the Redholme University of Medicine and Disease, he felt the recommendation was written with some relief that he wouldn't be such a pest to the brothers of the Apothecary Corps any longer. However, Buster was just as much of a misfit at the Redholme University, which chafed against Buster's small town manners and concern for the poor.
He briefly considered going back home. Perhaps it wasn't too late to accept his role as firstborn and manage his parents' lands, but the thought of it filled him with terrible melancholy. When the opportunity came to make his way into the Quarantined First Province, it didn't sound so crazy as it might have.
As Buster waits in line at the outer gates, he leans against the outpost wall, taking a print of the Republic Sentinel that he had rolled up in his back pocket and ducks his head behind it, attempting his very best to look as though he's a casual reader. It occurs to him that while this would not be the first time he's flirted with something that could get him in trouble, this time it would require lying, and Buster was never a good liar. He looks at the tip of the legionnaires' spears out of the corner of his eye, considering what a cruelly jagged blade would do to his soft flesh.Please write a few short paragraphs of an in-character response to the following scenario:
You have finally arrived at your destination; the Rumbling Pass train-yards. Before you stands a massive outpost, looking to have been erected within the past few years, of which is patrolled by numerous Legionnaires and Church Templar. The outpost guards the only viable entrance to the recently quarantined First Province; the home of Tor, the fallen capital of the Republic. Sitting at the foot of the massive mountain range that effectively contains the First Province within, the outpost serves as the last obstacle you must overcome before entering the quarantined territory.
You and others like you assemble outside of the palisades of the outpost, awaiting the opportunity to speak your case to the presiding Legion officiant who is processing admittance to the Province. Behind him, a passenger train, a marvel of technological advancement, sits idling on its’ tracks, dozens of persons filling it’s numerous passenger cars. A true rarity within the Republic, you can hardly believe your eyes (and ears) as the locomotive releases a massive plume of steam from its’ smokestack. You overhear many a bewildered citizen around you gossip as to how the only truly safe way into the Province is now by rail, for the Rumbling Pass’ mountains are nigh impassible and miles long, with the only safe navigable tunnels being those traveled in the safety of locomotives and rail-cars. You shudder for a moment, pondering how many forsaken souls attempted to flee the cloistered Province through the Pass’ winding, dark tunnels, hordes of Afflicted upon their heels, only to be cut down in the pitch-black darkness.
It strikes you as peculiar that so much effort has been made in securing a means of logistical supply and personnel transportation into the fallen First Province. You’ve heard rumors before of Quarantine Zones; entire Municipalities and even Territories being cut-off from access due to the blight of the Torment and the over-abundance of the walking dead – but in most instances, no one is ever trying to get into to those forsaken places. Yet here, mere miles from the ruins of Tor, masses congregate in order to make their way into the First Province Quarantine Zone. If you hadn’t known any better, the entire scene – the Outpost, the mass of military personnel, the throngs of citizens and the hissing locomotive – resembles more of an evacuation rather than a one-way ticket into anarchy and lawlessness. As you make your way closer to the train-yard outpost, you can’t help but recall all of the wild and crazy stories concerning all manners of rumors about the First Province since it’s fall two years ago. Some say that the treasures awaiting the bold are beyond measure – others swear that Salvation and Ascension is guaranteed for those who would follow their Faith and help reclaim the First Coast.
Where the truth lies, you’ve no idea – you only know that you’re here, at the precipice of it all, and your destination is within reach.
You watch, somewhat defeated, as but a scant few of the hundreds that approach the outpost officiant, who stands at the outer gates of the outpost flanked by a few heavily armored Legionnaires, are actually allowed to pass through the man-door and into the outpost and train-yards proper. You see some swarthy fellows slip pieces of gold to the officiant, while others plead their cases and rationale as to why they should be allowed to enter the recently fallen territory. Some appear to provide some sort of paperwork to the officiant, flashing official looking papers from a Faction or influential Prelacy house, who promptly waves them through. While watching and eavesdropping, you manage to overhear the well-rehearsed speech the officiant provides to those whom don’t provide paperwork or grease his palm, the words monotone and nasally.
“By decree of the Venerated Church, the First Province is a mortal health hazard, and as such, is quarantined under Article Eighteen of the Republic Treatise of Health Act of 1320. Citizens who do not possess a Quarantine Visa issued by one of the recognized Factions of the Republic are considered non-essential to the reclamation of the First Province. Under Article Eighteen, non-essentials seeking entry into an official quarantine zone must petition for entry into a said zone, and state just cause for the issuing of a Quarantine Visa by the perimeter authority.”
The officiant snorts in disdain, then adds the last line to the rehearsed monologue:
“State your business and make it quick, citizen; we’ve enough bodies in there to keep us busy for years without adding yours to the pile, and those VIC are stirring up problems something fierce as of late.”
You ponder the situation for a moment, evaluating your options. It is well known that with the right connections and the right amount of coin, one can get their hands on a Quarantine Visa from any one of the major Factions or Prelacy Families of the Republic, or even a passable counterfeit from more nefarious sources. At the same time, it would appear that the officiant doesn’t appear to be above some simple bribery – although his price may be hefty. However, despite it all, you’re sure that some of those let in appeared to have made a convincing case with the officiant without resorting to subterfuge or immorality. Gathering your wits, you step forward towards the officiant, and make your decision as to how to gain access to the First Province.
He remembered back to when this all began at the University. His frustrations were becoming too much to bear and yet he swallowed his concerns as he spoke with his colleague, a doctor who had frustrations of his own. His head was in his hands and he related his situation to Buster: the Foundry had transferred him to the First Province and wouldn't accept any appeals of their decision. The colleague's wife was refusing to go with him to such an imperiled place. His life, as far as he was concerned, was ruined.
While Buster was shocked to hear of his friends' fate, an idea sparked in his brain, one that would be mutually beneficial to both involved.
"And what if your paperwork were to disappear?"
"Disappear? What do you mean?"
"Just that. What if your paperwork were to disappear into thin air?"
"I... suppose that if it were to disappear it would not be there. It matters not, I daren't resist."
"But if your paperwork were to, by happenstance, disappear it would take them some time to reissue it. The wheels of bureaucracy move ever slowly. Perhaps it would give you more time to plead your case, at worst it would allow you some small, precious time to convince your wife to go with you."
"Well, I hadn't thought of that... but I couldn't just 'lose' my paperwork. They certainly would suspect me."
"But what if you hadn't lost your paperwork? It was simply lost. Why then you would have nothing to hide."
"I do say, Buster, you're ever so peculiar."
He must have known when Buster absconded with his paperwork in the night what exactly had happened. As Buster, now at the outpost, the paperwork in his pocket, worried that his colleague may have ratted him out he noticed his hands began to twitch and refolded his gazette, just as the officiant called him forward.
As Buster approached his eyes fell once again on a spear tip, glinting in the sun. Buster fought down a lump in his throat as he placed the stolen paperwork on the table. The officiant almost seemed disappointed to see official-looking paperwork, stamped with the seal of the Foundry. There won't be a bribe from this one. Tired from his long shift, the officiant wordlessly waved Buster in. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about at all.
