1. Characters

Farrival Marchant

Retired actor
Player Character

Farrival Marchant, renowned star of stage and screen! Semi-retired actor repurposing his skills to become... The World's Greatest Gentleman Thief!

What a Piece of Work is Farrival!

HISTORY: Young Farrival caught the acting bug as a child. He heard an impassioned speech defending an unpopular, squalid villager who was wrongly accused of a crime. The speech ennobled villager and showed him to be more than was apparent. Farrival, too, wanted to reveal the truth of the human (orc, elf, etc.) condition.

      Few else in town shared Farrival's theatrical interest. So he put on one-man shows, playing roles of different genders. When he played female-presenting roles, some of the local boys derided him with the nickname "the skirt." But Farrival took pride in exploring perspectives other than his own, and in his willingness to tell all stories, and not to let others put him in a box.

      When he came of age, he left the family business with his parents' blessing. As a struggling young actor "paying his dues," young Farrival had to take work where he could get it. So he learned a variety of arts: he learned to entrance the romantic with his lyre; AND he learned to enchant children with the magic of shadow puppetry.

      While still working to establish himself, Farrival joined a troupe of traveling actors. On their way to a performance, they got lost and stumbled into a lair of goblins. Fearing goblins' reputation and unsure of their intent, Farrival's troupe created "1001 Nights" situation, impressing the Goblin Boss with their stories, puppetry and musicianship. This engagement proved to be longer and more fulfilling than the gig they'd been headed to. Quickly, Farrival learned the goblins' reputation was not all it was made out to be. Over time, Farrival learned Goblin to tell more compelling stories.

      Farrival found a mentor in the legendary Sir Patrick of Picardy. Under his tutelage, Farrival grew to become a widely renowned star of the stage and the (shadow puppetry) screen. And he earned a prestigious acting residence in the Evershoal Royal Theatre Company, putting his traveling days behind him. He also developed a friendship and bitter rivalry with Renaud Gadbois, another mentee of Sir Patrick.

      Although initially drawn to the truth of stories and storytelling, Farrival grew distant from his roots and grew enamored with his own fame and lifestyle. As an actor, Farrival was famed for being able to embody any character and to display that character's personal truth. Being somewhat vain, he did this with as little facial makeup as possible. Yet he could still disappear into any role.

Spoiler: Farrival confided the origins of his name to Renny during their friendship. Farrival's original surname was Merchant, based on his family's profession. He took the stage name Farrival Marchant to honor his upbringing and to be fancy. Given their cutthroat world, Farrival grew worried that he'd made himself too vulnerable. So, he undermined or betrayed Renny in some way, and the rift grew from there.
      To his frustration, Farrival plateaued at "renowned" but could not make the jump to "legend," like Sir Patrick. Then a new production attempted to stage "Orcb--" ahem -- "The Orcish Play." In his 20s, Sir Patrick had famously played the lead, a role which typically went to actors in their 50s or older. With this new production, Sir Patrick, Gadbois, and Farrival were all strong contenders. To bring new depth and verity to the role, Sir Patrick embedded with a group of orcs. But he disappeared and was never heard from again.
Somehow, scurrilous rumors began to swirl that Farrival Marchant was somehow responsible for the death of his own beloved mentor. So, at the height of his career, Farrival retired under a cloud of scandal.


MAGIC: Farrival left with a glove that has magical abilities. It appears like a black, exquisitely maintained leather that somehow fits like latex.

      The back of the palm contains a pouch that stores material components. Components like like feathers stay in the pouch. Components like gold and jewels are stored briefly to attune, then are removed and placed back into his purse.

To "cast," the glove typically produces a small, whitish cube that Farrival throws at the target. But this method is not required.


RECENT HISTORY: Farrival fled scandal in Evershoal for the bucolic anonymity of Quillpond. After a period of despondency, he grew restless. And he missed being famous. Starting and running a community theater failed to scratch the itch. Then Season 1 happened, and Farrival stirred towards a new, unarticulated purpose.

      In Season 2, he returned to Evershoal and created the Harris Teeter persona to hide his famous face during his extra-, sub-, and illegal activities. He learned that in the local Goblin dialect, the word for "lie" is the same as the word for "story." He came face to face with Renaud Gadbois and emerged triumphant. And he largely regained his social standing. This combination of events inspired him to become the World's Greatest Gentleman Thief.

      His gentleman thieving is motivated by theatricality and adventure, and somewhat as a bit of revenge against the social class that once shunned him. Farrival may give to the poor, but mostly because that is a compelling story trope, not really because of altruism.


GENTLEMAN THIEF IDENTITY:
I first thought it would be a distinct identity that Farrival tries to keep secret from NPCs. (Name Ideas/Spoilers: Le Joupé ["jupe" is Fr. for "skirt" - skirting the law and a callback to his nickname]; The Velvet Whisper; The Velvet Varlet; Le Velour Voleur [the velour thief]; open to other ideas from GMs & PCs.)

Or it could be an open secret that the rich tolerate because being robbed by a dashing rogue disrupts the ennui, as long as he is not associated with any truly disruptive act. This idea better might better lend itself to competition with Gadbois?

Or it can be something else, I'm open to ideas.


Traits: Knows a story for most situations. Can defuse any tension, so nobody stays angry at me or around me. [From initial creation, doesn't really apply.]

Ideals: Seeing people’s smiles/reactions when I perform. Art should reveal truth. In Goblin, "story" equals "lie." All the world’s a stage.

Bonds: The muse. My troupe/party.

Flaws: Anything to win fame and renown. Thrill-seeking.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Languages: Common, Elvish, Goblin, Thieves' Cant

Appearance: Half-elf male, early middle age, lithe build, salt & pepper hair, brown skin, sparkling eyes.


Affiliations:

• formerly - Alles Well That Anra Well Improv Troupe

• formerly - Shadow & Act -- The Society for Manual/Umbral Storytelling

• inactive - The Greater Selethren Play Society (tiered member)

• it's complicated - The Evershoal Royal Theatre Company, Actor-in-Residence

• inactive - Quillpond Community Theatre, Part-Time Occasional Director

• Lady Harlequin, Patron, Cover/Alibi for Thieving

• Allora 'Lora' Selmercreative collaborator

• Renaud Gadbois - hated rival

• Elliot Strangford - frenemy

Aliases:

• Harris Teeter - low-life street criminal with a price on his head (2x05)

 Billiam Utler - batman to minor houses in Evershoal

Summary - Farrival Marchant, Renowned Star of Stage & Screen

On the cusp of his crowning achievement, Farrival Marchant, the renowned star of stage and shadow puppetry screen, was forced to flee under a cloud of scandal. Retiring to the sleepy town of Quillpond, he sank into ennui over his lost name and status.

But the kindness of neighbors and the call to adventure inspired Farrival to a new career: where circumstance once compelled him, Farrival now chooses to walk the line between fame and infamy. He will strive to repurpose his skills to become... the World's Greatest Gentleman Thief! (But he hasn't figured this out yet – give him time!)

Scandal, Affiliations:

  • Scandal: unspecified, but maybe suspected of the murder of friend and mentor, Sir Patrick of Picardy.[highlight to view]
  • Quillpond Community Theater (Part-Time, Occasional Director) - emeritus
  • The Evershoal Royal Theatre Company (Actor-in-Residence) - it's complicated
  • Shadow & Act, The Society for Manual/Umbral Storytelling (Chief Rabbiteer) - former
  • Alles Well That Anra Well Improv Troupe (member) - former
  • The Greater Selethren Play Society (tiered member) - former

Personality, Flaws, Alignment:

  • Lives to perform and elicit reaction from audience
  • In Goblin, "story" and "lie" are the same word
  • Will do anything for fame and renown
  • Knows a story for every situation
  • Chaotic Neutral

Magic: No training or study. The glove he uses for Stage Hand and the VSM cubes he "casts" are from a prop master who used magical effects to enhance theatrical performances.[highlight to view]

Languages: Common, Elvish, Goblin; Thieves' Cant

Appearance: Half-elf male about 45 years old. Lithe build. Salt & pepper hair, brown skin, sparkling eyes.

Aliases: Harris Teeter; Billiam Utler

The "Batman" Begins

Shaletop

Reflexively, Farrival reached for his good autographing quill. Then, as an actor well-trained in introspection, he asked himself:

Why am I reaching for my good quill? I threw it out years ago.

Next, as an actor well-trained to integrate mind and body, his consciousness caught up to his face, which was beaming invitingly at a gaggle of people across the street.

But why am I beaming invitingly at that gaggle? What’s got them all atwitter in disbelieving, hopeful excitement?

Penultimately, as an actor well-trained in stating the obvious, loudly so the cheap seats can hear:

Fans?! How the deuce could they POSSIBLY recognize me?

At last, as a man almost entirely untrained in magic, he realized:

Oh shit. It’s been an hour.

Farrival twitched up his collar as he blended into a conveniently passing throng. He turned a corner, then pulled down two buttons from his collar attached to hidden straps which, like blinds, truncated his long coat into a waist coat, which he quickly reversed as he ran a hand through his hair to restyle it.

And like that, Farrival Marchant disappeared again. He was replaced by an anonymous factotum, hurrying to some “networking opportunity.”

He pretended to look around for a friend who was running late so he could check that his fans weren’t giving chase. Satisfied, he approached another throng. Hoping to change disguises once more for safety, he turned a small flourish with his gloved left hand. But no cube appeared.

Ah, of course. It’s been THREE hours. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow. So, magic availing nothing, I shall rely on my artisanal skill at disguise! Three years of rust cannot occlude decades of finely burnished talent!

He wore a wide-eyed hopeful grin that was sincere to both Farrival and to “Billiam Utler, ex-army steward seeking employment as a household retainer.” He resumed humming a tune from the back of his mind as he diverted around the throng of pedestrians and tried to re-orient himself.

Where the deuce am I?

A week ago, Farrival had dipped a toe into the murky waters of the city’s underworld. Every day since then, he’d had swum the salty waters of the city’s underling world: the assistants and professional service providers who did all the nobles’ unappreciated work – those who drew the baths and those who drew up the contracts, both easily summoned with the snap of a lordling’s finger and then dismissed as easily as a Stage Hand.

Some aspired to win a noble’s favor and be plucked up to a higher station. Others, contented or bedrudged, persisted in drudgery simply to keep what station they had.

But all knew the lives and habits of their superiors far better than they would ever be credited for.

Wistful, Farrival was drawn back to the days when he’d had support staff of his own.

Ah, my personal assistant… the gnome — what was their name? Anyway, they were very reliable.

Oh, and my valet, dear… um ... F- Frob?  Is that a name? Dear, sweet Frob, the very soul of discretion!

His mood darkened at the thought.

But were Frob or any of them truly so discrete? After all, the rumor never could have spread without help. But surely my beloved staff wouldn’t have gossiped about me – I treated them so well! 

No, no, no. Stay in the moment, Farrival. Remember your training.

A few quick breathing exercises and he was re-focused. He grinned.

My dear Mister Staten and the rest of your fine, feathered ilk: as the Bard taught us, “there is a world elsewhere.” Once I learn to access this world of lackeys upon which your world of lords is roughly balanced, I shall be a step closer to learning your secrets! Or to paraphrase the Bard, ‘The lackey’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the calendar of the king!’

Re-oriented, Farrival spied the coffee house he was searching for, a meeting place for menials and majordomos.

As he opened the door, for a moment Farrival audibly hummed the tune that had been playing in the back of his mind for over a year.

Tarantara!

Undetected

Shaletop

Farrival pressed flat against the side of the Griffith Manse, the metal studs of his clothing clinked against the stone with what must have been an unearthly clatter.

He paused.

Miraculously, only silence filled the pause. But Farrival could barely tell with his own heart pounding so hard.

Not hearing an armed response, he flourished an invisible Stage Hand towards the window 40 feet away. Ever so slightly, he tested the window before opening it. Stage Hand was damn practical for safety, especially for Farrival who was not particularly good at detecting magical traps or any sort of magic. But he yearned to be closer to the action, closer to the risk. He muttered, still richly and resonantly, to himself:

How dull it is to pause, to make an end

To rust unfurnished, not to shine in use!

Some work of noble note may yet be done.

After all, a spotlight is a spotlight, even if it is shone by a security guard.

The window lifted with slight pressure and Farrival raised it only as high as needed. Dashing towards the opening, he levered himself through, flipping over the sill, and landed in a crouch.

Silence.

Seemingly undetected by the guards and house staff, a smug grin curled Farrival’s mouth and pushed his eyebrow rakishly upwards.

He rose and surveyed the room. A bureau, a small desk, not recently dusted. A spare room. 

“Hmph. Beneath me. Let’s find the main stage!”

Farrival opened the interior door and stuck his head out. All clear, he padded down the hallway. Making his way from room to room, he soon drifted into autopilot. Sadly, there was nothing remarkable about this house - he’d seen its like countless times before. “This Griffith fellow lacked flair! And so did the Changeling who offed him.”

Soon, a hallway led him to the front foyer - main receiving room and proscenium to the entire house. On the threshold, Farrival paused to listen. 

He thought, “Still undetected. That certainly won’t hold much longer. Not much place to hide. Looks like I’ve no choice, though, drat the luck. And that large, grand staircase - there could be anyone on the other side! A contingent of liveried guards ready to duel! Or, perhaps the last, loyal personal armsman. Or even just a … a … a cook! A cook of exceptional dedication!”  

Reflexively, he executed a quick breathing exercise, and then entered the foyer.

As he walked, not a single squeaky floorboard paid notice to his cat-like tread.

“Ahem. Hello?”

He remained undetected.

Suddenly, a sound and the feel of pressure on his pocket! 

In an instant he thought: “Of course, Farrival, you fool! Some cunning foe has lulled you into the open with false security!” His mind whirled with options: Riposte with Strangford’s Point! No - rebuff the assailant with Thunderwave! NO! Breakspeare! Surely, that Orcish bard of bards has penned words meet for such a conflict!”

He drew in his breath to project for the entire house to hear.

Then he paused, somehow with yet more time to think. “Wait a minute. Why have I not been stabbed yet?”

Farrival reassessed the threat. No throbbing pain or gouts of blood. He turned around. No cunning foe.

“I say there, hello?”

The noise and pressure again. He reached into his pocket.

“Ah.” He withdrew the small rock, polished and rune-etched. “My alarm.”

“Damn! My alarm!”

Farrival bolted back along his path and back out the window. He raced along the house grounds and pushed his way through the privacy foliage to the main road.

He was late for his job interview.

Undetected

Shaletop

Farrival pressed flat against the side of the Griffith Manse, the metal studs of his clothing clinked against the stone with what must have been an unearthly clatter.

He paused.

Miraculously, only silence filled the pause. But Farrival could barely tell with his own heart pounding so hard.

Not hearing an armed response, he flourished an invisible Stage Hand towards the window 40 feet away. Ever so slightly, he tested the window before opening it. Stage Hand was damn practical for safety, especially for Farrival who was not particularly good at detecting magical traps or any sort of magic. But he yearned to be closer to the action, closer to the risk. He muttered, still richly and resonantly, to himself:

How dull it is to pause, to make an end

To rust unfurnished, not to shine in use!

Some work of noble note may yet be done.

After all, a spotlight is a spotlight, even if it is shone by a security guard.

The window lifted with slight pressure and Farrival raised it only as high as needed. Dashing towards the opening, he levered himself through, flipping over the sill, and landed in a crouch.

Silence.

Seemingly undetected by the guards and house staff, a smug grin curled Farrival’s mouth and pushed his eyebrow rakishly upwards.

He rose and surveyed the room. A bureau, a small desk, not recently dusted. A spare room. 

“Hmph. Beneath me. Let’s find the main stage!”

Farrival opened the interior door and stuck his head out. All clear, he padded down the hallway. Making his way from room to room, he soon drifted into autopilot. Sadly, there was nothing remarkable about this house - he’d seen its like countless times before. “This Griffith fellow lacked flair! And so did the Changeling who offed him.”

Soon, a hallway led him to the front foyer - main receiving room and proscenium to the entire house. On the threshold, Farrival paused to listen. 

He thought, “Still undetected. That certainly won’t hold much longer. Not much place to hide. Looks like I’ve no choice, though, drat the luck. And that large, grand staircase - there could be anyone on the other side! A contingent of liveried guards ready to duel! Or, perhaps the last, loyal personal armsman. Or even just a … a … a cook! A cook of exceptional dedication!”  

Reflexively, he executed a quick breathing exercise, and then entered the foyer.

As he walked, not a single squeaky floorboard paid notice to his cat-like tread.

“Ahem. Hello?”

He remained undetected.

Suddenly, a sound and the feel of pressure on his pocket! 

In an instant he thought: “Of course, Farrival, you fool! Some cunning foe has lulled you into the open with false security!” His mind whirled with options: Riposte with Strangford’s Point! No - rebuff the assailant with Thunderwave! NO! Breakspeare! Surely, that Orcish bard of bards has penned words meet for such a conflict!”

He drew in his breath to project for the entire house to hear.

Then he paused, somehow with yet more time to think. “Wait a minute. Why have I not been stabbed yet?”

Farrival reassessed the threat. No throbbing pain or gouts of blood. He turned around. No cunning foe.

“I say there, hello?”

The noise and pressure again. He reached into his pocket.

“Ah.” He withdrew the small rock, polished and rune-etched. “My alarm.”

“Damn! My alarm!”

Farrival bolted back along his path and back out the window. He raced along the house grounds and pushed his way through the privacy foliage to the main road.

He was late for his job interview.

With Apologies to the Bard

To be or not to be, that is the question:

Whether ’tis more notable in the public eye

To resume my days of outrageous fame and fortune,

Or to take arms against a coterie of villains and by opposing end them?


To lie.

To cheat out, no more.

And by “cheat” to say I turn my face to be fully seen by my adoring audience

Who, in my visage, doth ken the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.

’Tis a command performance on which I’ve reminisced.


To lie.

To cheat.

To cheat perchance… to steal!

Ay, there’s the rub, for in that steal-th of thievery,

What gems may come once I have shuffled off the magically etched tracking numbers

May give me new cause!


For what lowly knave would bear the villain’s wrong, the insolence of the law, the proud man’s contumely

If they could, with deft Stage Hand, their comeuppance take?

Since they cannot, shall I then play the knave and skirt the law?

To be seen and not to be seen in my roguish masque?


Aye, there’s the respect to give parameter to my new life!

And thus my native hue of elocution is painted o’er with the casting of a minor illusion

And I seize the name of action!


-Farrival Marchant, RSS&S. Written in contemplation of the skullduggery and plots of Season 2 and the fact that the Goblin word for "story" is the same as their word for "lie."

With apologies and thanks to the great Orcish bard, Kilhelm Brakespeare.

Farrival Marchant - 1x0 Character Summary

Fleeing scandal, actor Farrival Marchant retired early and moved to Quillpond one or two years ago. Once, he was Farrival Marchant, Star of Stage and (Shadow Puppetry) Screen! Now, he has been reduced to Farrival Marchant,

-Part-Time- Occasional Community Theatre Director.

"On the stage, Farrival had truly found his calling as he embodied the truth of the human (or orcish, elvish, etc.) condition! To entertaining and enlighten an audience of hundreds! There was nothing like it. He had only just reached the pinnacle of his craft. For a half-elf in his 70s, he'd expected to continue for another century. Oh, and the fame! The fancy, elegant parties!.

"All of that is lost now, and irretrievably so, it seems. There's no coming back from THOSE sorts of rumors! Was his nemesis, Renaud Gadbois, behind it all? Or did Farrival have only himself to blame?"

Farrival dropped his quill. He rolled his eyes and exhaled explosively. "Sweet Matilda, that's navel-gazing and self-indulgent! Even for me!" He pushed away from the writing desk and stood up. "Well, at least I've started my memoirs. There's a victory in that. I suppose."

He trudged around his rooms, poking idly at this and that. Some _objet d'art_ he'd brought from his old life. Some gewgaw that came with the rooms. What did it matter? Sooner or later, his path brought him back to the window. He bleakly watched as his neighbors and the life just passed by.


Affiliations:

formerly - Alles Well That Anra Well Improv Troupe

formerly - Shadow & Act -- The Society for Manual/Umbral Storytelling

inactive - The Greater Selethren Play Society (tiered member)

it's complicated - The Evershoal Royal Theatre Company, Actor-in-Residence