Virgil Stoneblade was an aged gambler and drunkard who took a fickle shine to Varyn. On good days he would teach him games of chance over cheese and crackers or how to recognize or manipulate odds into your favor. On bad days, the salty old drunk might throw you out with a new bruise across your jaw or a slight limp. On one particularly cloudy day, Varyn seeks out Virgil and finds him in a darkened corner of his favorite (i.e. cheapest) watering hole with a knife in his side. Before the normal bar-flies and crowd take notice, however, Varyn pockets the Dwarf's purse which was always kept off his body but within reach. This was a typical habit for the gambler that was enacted when or where markers might be called in.
Virgil was an older Dwarf, well past the comfortable 250 years where many still worked on or near the docks. He wasn't precisely lame, but he did use a short stick to help steady himself as he walked about town. It was even money whether this was for some physical ailment or his massive consumption. Out on the streets of Bruinstead, you never saw him without a small knit cap; faded and worn, it had seen a fair number of winters itself. Mind you, the second he crossed a threshold it surreptitiously appeared in his coat pocket, exposing his deep asymmetric widow's peaks and what remained of his thinning silver mane straining forward that it might tickle his forehead. His eyes were somewhat sunken into their sockets, but that gave his gold-rimmed eyes a noted glimmer when he spoke excitedly. He held a broad flat nose, much like the rest of his kin, with invisible scars from past breakings. He kept a modified cut of his facial hair, a callback to his time on the sea. Feathery mutton chops laid beneath a voluminous, bushy mustache, the vast majority of which matched his silver tresses, or what was left of them, save his unkempt eyebrows and an odd swath of color running down each cheek which resonated with a youthful brindle hue. If ever he rambled on for more than a few words the mustache appeared to be trying to loose his lips from the rest of his head like scissors, but with the aid of his dimples gave the impression of a flume-operated pipe when he smoked.
The pipe itself was a quaint little thing. Obviously made from a hollowed out claw, the origin of which often changed to suit the most recent rendition of stories that spewed forth on pleasant, mead-laden nights. Virgil was a philosopher with a caustic wit which brought smiles all-around and often, but kept friends few and far between. He rarely got too specific about his role aboard and abroad, but he was old sea dog at heart and could spin a clever a yarn as any decent bard. Additionally Virgil kept his namesake, a large Bowie-sized stone knife with a driftwood handle in a shoulder strap beneath his left arm. Dice and cards were among his most fond games, but rarely did he turn away from fiddling with chance. He was a friendly gentleman, if a nervous sort, but ambidextrously deadly from across the room with a dagger (or dart as the case may be). Often uttering unique colloquialisms when he expressed himself there, "Quit monkeying with the drift wood (discard pile)" or spewing awkward, personal entreatments to Bahamut (this realm's Luck deity).
((Visually think of a stocky Yosemite Sam, with the temperament of Doc Holliday))
Virgil's Stone Blade is above-sized for a dagger, but not quite large enough to be considered a short sword, so it uses a 1d5 or 1/2(1d10) when calculating damage. (doubtful will ever come up)
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