Clyde

"'Strictly speaking, it's not illegal...'"

Introduction
Clyde is well known to the people of Hope as the one-time beggar apprenticed to the aging gnome tinker Thurman. He's an accomplished tinker, but also has a reputation for being able to get hold of a few home comforts for anyone with the coin, due to travelling widely on 'business'. The locals know better than to play him at dice as he is altogether too lucky. He's an excellent hunter, especially when paired with the albino kenku who lives on the outskirts of town and has kept many a Hope resident from going hungry in the colder months, making him well liked.

He's generally cheery, though a little overconfident and prone to rush in where aasimar fear to tread. He's also brighter than he appears, having been taught by his old mentor to keep your cards close to your chest. He prides himself on the breadth of Gnomish and Dwarvish profanities in his repetoire.

Racial Traits: Variant Human

 * Feat: Telekinetic
 * Skill: Arcana
 * Language: Gnomish

Level 1:

 * Expertise : Perception and Stealth
 * Sneak Attack
 * Thieves’ Cant

Level 0

 * Mage Hand (invisible, no components)

Defago
DeFago has lived on the outskirts of town for a number of years. Thurman introduced them, and they often hunt together. Clyde helps DeFago sell on his catches, as well as other items that pass through his possession. Clyde obviously charges a small fee. So small, that he may have omitted to mention it.

Dorvid
Clyde has been through an extended period of intemperence, often leading to him waking up in a bed in Dorvid's clinic. In an attempt to straighten himself out, he has spent the last week helping around the clinic....for free!

Pectinus
Clyde has recently been helping out around the space that Dorvid and Pectinus use for healing and lessons. Pectinus has been attempting some spiritual salvation (sermonising). Annoyingly, he speaks both Gnomish and Dwarvish, so keeps pulling Clyde up on his bad langauge. The verdict on Clyde's soul is still in doubt...

Past
So, my parents decided to leave the Smoke to take advantage of all the opportunities they’d heard about in the Dredges. They didn’t anticipate the unique opportunity to catch a novel disease they didn’t have back home. We made it as far as Hope, but they both deteriorated over the next 6 months. In the end it did for both of them and damn near took me too. Well, there’s no welfare in Hope, so I was on the streets. Pretty soon I’d do anything to stay alive. I did a lot of odd jobs, but I also developed very sticky fingers. If it could be sold and probably wouldn't be missed, then it ended up in my survival fund. In my early teens I graduated to a bit of entrepreneurial burglary. By then I’d discovered my gift, so often managed to come into possession of a handy key. And if not, I found the locks in Hope to be somewhat of similar design and easily opened by a nimble fellow like me. After a few decent scores and buoyed by my own cleverness, I decided to relieve the local tinker of a few sellables. After all, rumour had it he was about 400 and a bit ga-ga. That's when I met old Thurman. To be honest I met his left fist first, swiftly followed by his right fist. It was about 6h before I was conscious enough to meet the man himself. After the initial dislike fostered by my breaking into his shop, then him beating me unconscious, we got on pretty well and he took me in.

It wasn’t completely altruistic on his part. He was very old, even for a gnome, had arthritis, fading eyesight, but a warm fire and stout roof. I had excellent eyesight, full use of my hands and a keen urge to avoid starvation. His real love was creating magic items. He said that humans didn’t live long enough to teach owt like that, but I became a pretty good tinker and my grasp of magical theory could put a few wizards to shame. That meant his services were both highly sought after and very well paid. They were also somewhat clandestine, so while Thurman retained his humble tinker façade, I’d often get sent as delivery boy to some quite dangerous folk. Over the years we became close and he taught me a lot. At home we talked exclusively gnomish, partly because he thought Common sounded like 2 pigs squealing, partly because all his books were in gnomish or dwarvish, but mainly because I think he was a bit homesick. As he became more frail, I took on more of the workload. I also started travelling further afield. Lots of money to be had bringing a few home comforts to the guys manning the toll. I learned quite a lot from them too and was already beginning to feel restless with my lot in Hope. Towards the end, Thurman tended to supervise from his chair. Sometimes he’d be snoring whilst supervising. One day about a month ago he just didn’t wake up. Soon after, the relatives who we seldom saw whilst he was alive, descended on his possessions like vultures.

I have to say, it hit me a lot harder than I thought it would. Consequently, I’ve spent most of the last few weeks on something of a bender. About a week ago I woke up in the clinic set up by those 2 do-gooder clerics (again), having passed out in the tavern (again) and decided (whilst throwing up in a bucket) that it was time to move on with my life. I realised that Thurman had been the only thing keeping me in Hope and I’ve pretty much outgrown the place. At the same time I received a box through a mutual acquaintance, a strange albino kenku who lives on the outskirts of town. Thurman left me a letter and an old journal outlining some of his youthful exploits. The letter talked of his joy at seeing the world. It begged me to not waste my life in a backwater like Hope. Time to make a name for myself, or meet a messy death in the attempt….