Reserved for The Employer

Name: "Wolfsbane"

Age: 30

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Position and Trade: Common-Born, Sellsword/Captain of the Mountainvault company

Appearance: Wolfsbane's features are commonly obscured by his leather vestments, hood and helm. It is apparent, however, that said man stands somewhere over six feet, and his build is that of a warrior, albeit not too bulky, apparently emphasizing agility and endurance. His shoulders are broad, and his limbs long and sturdy, making him quite imposing. Behind the helm lies a face aged beyond its' years, with thick, sunken features and a pale complexion, starkly contrasted by large dark brown eyes and a scruffy stubble. Even though it is not the most friendly of visages, it does not inspire distrust. A full head of black, messy hair parted to the left reaches somewhere above his shoulders.

Wolfsbane's armor is comprised primarily of tough, padded leather and takes a robe-like form, hanging few inches above ground. An additional, hooded leather vest is worn above it, the lower tip if its' v-like shape extending as far as Woflsbane's waist. A large black belt with an iron buckle, leather gloves studded at the knuckles and knee-high boots reinforced with steel plates complete the set. The armor is predominantly deep red, not unlike the color of damp forest soil, with faded black details. Finally, a steel helm lies behind his cloak, obscuring his face. It is quite featureless save for five vertical slits near the mouth, and a rectangular plate held in place by numerous bolts, that starts at the back of the helm and ends between its' two seperate eye openings.

Personality/Vices/Boons:

Personality: Wolfsbane is a rather calm and collected individual, if not a tad cold. He usually does not speak too much, preferring to carefully consider his words and actions. That being said he is by no means aggressive or uncivil, even though his is quite cautious and not very trusting towards strangers. That changes, however, once he deems someone a friend. He is an extremely loyal companion, and will try his best to aid those he has grown fond of. His morals, however are not pristine. He is not above cheating and lying at those he does not particularly care for, and, due to his line of work, is quite used to killing. Furthermore, he is vindictive, and will not hesitate retaliating at attempts to harm him, even if such attempts come from otherwise legal authority. Lastly, he is easily disillusioned and is quick to dismiss individuals, even those he considers close, if he realizes that they have ill intent.

Vices/Boons:

Tavern Dweller: There are two real homes for every mercenary. The battlefield, and the inn. Even though he does not actively crave it, Wolfsbane will drink massive amounts of alcohol in times of relaxation.
Vice: He can engage in tavern brawls if provoked, and may upset certain teammates with his numerous antics. Depending on his mood, he may sink into temporary depression or become less restrained.
Boon: Wolfsbane is at his heartiest under an inn's roof and in front of a mug of ale. He may lift not only his own spirit but that of his teammates, as he becomes more open and less somber.
Bonus Boon! Wolfsbane has learnt to prepare certain simple, yet nutritious foods and carve meat. Jerky, stew, smoked fish, dried vegetables, and his favorite, the legendary meatbread.

Nerves of steel: Be it in the heat of combat, in the embrace of a strong drink, or in the clutches of fear, Wolfsbane will never lose his calm or his self-restraint.
Boon: Having and odd form of self-discipline, Wolfsbane will retain his wits and act in a logical fashion even in extreme emotional states. That is not to say that he will be completely unphased. In a situation of great fear, for instance, instead of dropping his weapons and running for dear life, or quivering in a corner, he would try to escape with his companions as quickly and safely as possible.
Vice/Boon: There exists a vital flaw in his restraint, however. When faced with overwhelming anger, Wolfsbane may snap and enter a fit of unbridled, barely directed fury. That may be rather taxing for both his companions and himself, if there is nothing around to beat into a pulp. If there are enemies around, they will experience a profound thrashing.
Vice: If angered by an otherwise non physically hostile person, be it companion or other, his frustration will linger, and possibly add up, eventually leading to outbursts.

Man with a Plan: For some strange reason, Wolfsbane seems to know quite a lot about certain scholarly matters.
Boon: When it comes to history, the properties of certain raw materials, folklore, and the past magical practices, his knowledge, although unofficial, and largely empirical, rivals that of a scholar.
Vice: His knowledge of magical history may drive law-abiding characters to distrust him, or worse.

What kind of Person Kills for a Living? : Mercenaries are not the most well-liked bunch. It may have something to do with them not having a stable allegiance, or the fact that they kill for money.
Vice: Wolfsbane's occupation may drive people with certain beliefs to distrust him, or to be aggressive towards him. The fact that he once fought for the Valadean Empire against the northern barbarians, and that he actively defends both his mercenary company and his involvement in the war efforts of the Empire, if provoked, may worsen the situation.

Terrible Secret: A troubled blank look at the horizon, a sudden moment of silence. It may not be apparent, but at times, it seems that Wolfsbane is hiding something.


History: Born in a blacksmith father's and a herbalist mother's household in some nondescript village, the boy that came to be known as Wolfsbane had but two choices. Follow the family craft, or venture out on his own in an attempt to carve a future for himself. His lust for adventure and familiarity with blades from an early age left him a single choice. Join the local militia, initially serving as an errand boy. By the time he was seventeen, he had slain his first brigand. Pleased at first, he became weary with the dull processes of the command and the uneventful, chore-like nature of the army. Whenever an opportunity for combat arose, however, he was arguably the most eager to join in battle, making his skill grow. Eventually, that caught the attention of a headhunter, part of a notorious and secretive mercenary company known as the Mountainvault.

The Mountainvaults were by no means an ordinary mercenary band. Their base of operations was unknown, and seemingly, the only way of reaching them was through an inn with a similar name that attracted all sorts of sellswords, The Vault in the Mountain. Joining was not a simple task either, as the band would carefully offer select individuals to join, and even then, they would need to pass through an indefinitely long period serving as a second-rate mercenary before being inducted in the inner circles, and finally gaining access to their secret lair.

What Wolfsbane later came to know, is that the waiting period was more of a test of character than skill. Many soldiers of fortune were completely amoral, easy to betray their own if the need arose, and motivated by money alone. The Mountainvault differed, preferring to take on causes that fit it's members moral values. Not to say that they were idealistic, but they most certainly had certain standards. After a few months of serving as a blade for hire, he was deemed fit for entering. A cave system somewhere in the foothills of Skytear Mountain, it's massive entrance located behind a majestic waterfall served as their barracks. Passing through it's massive hidden gates was one of young Wolfsbane's greatest experiences.

After numerous assignments spread across the Star Kingdom, the young mercenary experienced his first real call to arms. The otherwise unworthy to be mentioned barbarian skirmishes across the Valadean Empires' northern borders had began to culminate into full-blown war efforts, and the Empire, trapped under its' own corruption, could barely handle the situation. The Mountainvault was amongst a great number elite mercenary groups from around the known world that had been contacted in order to provide support for its' main army. As the purpose was primarily that of security and the protection of northern provinces, the Mountainvault gladly agreed.

The young mercenary naturally followed his company even though still a neophyte, to their appointed guarding territory in the valley known as Harrow Dale. Directly contrary to what officials believed, a barbaric invasion larger than what was expected took place without so much as a warning, and victory, albeit a Pyrrhic one, was only achieved through the timely release of messenger pigeons and the intervention of Imperial cavalry. Many of the mercenaries, including Wolfsbane, however, were captured and transported further within enemy territory. Only with the persistent tracking of the remaining mercenaries were the surviving prisoners released. In the chaos of ensuing combat in what was later revealed to be a barbarian cemetery, Wolfsbane came into posession of a peculiar blade seemingly placed as an offering upon one of the barbarian graves.

After returning to Reyrweald with the remnants of his fighting force, Wolfsbane served in countless expeditions, both domestic and international, achieving the rank of Captain. In recent years, he has been given the opportunity to assume the privileges of a Sellsword-Captain, a subdivision reserved for trusted long-time members, that allowed it's holder to withdraw from compulsory duty and act as a semi-independent blade for hire, only returning to active officer responsibilities for any expeditions he wished to partake in. Gladly accepting it, he now wanders the Kingdom and the world at large in an inexplicable quest to collect knowledge regarding occult matters and folklore from the forgotten parts of the earth.


Weapons/Equipment/Supplies: Armor: Offering protection against piercing and slashing, as well as great mobility and resistance against the elements, it is obvious why Wolfsbane is rarely seen without his armor.

Bastard Sword: A medium to long blade, this weapon is extremely well crafted, yet it does not seem to be of Star Kingdom make, or Valadean, for that matter. Wolfsbane seems very protective towards it.

Mountainvault Brooch: A solid, circular brooch, with the image of a gate on a mountainside and the words "Nothing is Set in Stone" carved around it.

Sack: Inside an over-the shoulder traveler's sack, made from thick waterproof fabric, Wolfsbane keeps several essentials, such as:

• A sturdy rope for all kinds of uses.
• A sharpened survival knife.
• String and needle for sewing.
• Flint and steel.
• Spare, simple clothes.
• A leather sleeping roll.
• A lantern that can be both held or hung, and an oil canister.
• A herb pouch, containing various plants that have varrying uses, from disinfectants to medicine.
• Meatbread rations. Up until he dropped one half of them and ate the other.

The Contract:

"Were you truly there? In Harrow Dale?" Asked the one closest to Wolfsbane, wide-eyed and in awe. They had met only for a few hours, but theirs was a hearty bunch, and he was far from familiar grounds. "Aye, 'till the battle's bitter end. Stuck a good few of those north'ners. My only regret was not taking their ears!" He bashed the table, shaking the numerous flagons on it and laughed a thunderous laugh. The patrons surrounding it joined in, as they brought their mugs together and guzzled their contents down. As they talked amongst themselves, the man's smile faded slowly and he fell silent. The question had once again stirred memories and an otherwise pleasant moment was shattered. Harrow Dale. Eleven years ago. The Mountainvault was contacted through the Valadean embassy. The newfound barbarian threat became greater each passing day. Raids became bigger and more frequent, and the northern border provinces were razed and sacked repeatedly. Of course, such an assignment was accepted. It was the Mauntainvault way, after all. It was no petty squabble between nobles, no ambiguously ethical expedition. It was simple. The strong preyed on the weak, and the weak needed someone to stand between the two. And so they went.

Oh how excited he was. His first grand battle. Sure, clearing bandit forts was one thing, but this was something else. This was war. They were to provide rear support, prevent any raiding clusters from passing behind their lines and flanking the main force. Seemed like something had organised the stray barbarian Glacier Lords to unite their efforts, improving their tactics in the process. Random raids turned into precise attacks aimed at weak points and less-guarded areas. That, paired with the sheer speed of the barbarian crafts, and their ability to sail even shallow rivers had all but devastated the Valadean Northern Reaches. Harrow Dale was one of these sensitive spots. Situated just outside the borders, it was near the sea and away from major invasion points, and thus provided an excellent and rather easy to pass to less protected cities that lay beyond.

After a grueling week-long journey by foot and sea, they arrived at the camp prepared for them. Wooden fortifications and an officer with a minuscule force greeted them. They said that only single ships worth of men would reach land, and battle was rarely joined. Scouting parties. Nothing more. The first few weeks were uneventful indeed. Until their numbers thickened. At times, they would see their fur-clad forms, barely recognizable due to the distance, simply standing there. They seemed to be waiting for something. The imperial unit was in great unease, and the mercenaries too were almost shaken. Then, it finally happened. Out of the blue, a massive, synchronized landing in the black of night. They had no cavalry, no archers. They were running towards the fortifications, mouths frothing and war-cries echoing between the mountains. Three thousand strong versus seven hundred imperials and four hundred mercenaries.

The gates fell within an hour, maybe less. This was no army. It was a human tide, a force of nature. Frantic, the Mountainvault forces swarmed the gate, forming a shield wall, allowing the imperials to utilize their archers and work on repelling those who would attempt to scale the walls. A simple, yet effective strategy, for the short run, at least. The northern horde was so crazed that they quite literally tore through the wooden walls, beating them ceaselessly with their axes until they gave way. By the time the moon was high, there was nothing left of the fort. This took a toll on their numbers, as the defending forces were quick to cover any new opening, forming numerous bottlenecks before the eventual collapse of their surroundings. With only the advantage of higher ground the defenders seemed doomed and began losing hope, quickly.

He remembered the screaming, the weeping of men begging for their lives before being cut down like, nay, worse than animals. He remembered bellowing war-cries and screams of pain in a language he could not understand. He saw the blood of the northerner pool alongside that of the Imperial. He remembered falling back into a defensive formation with the remainder of his companions, awaiting his inevitable demise. And he remembered a thousand Imperial riders sweeping through the barbarian forces. He remembered warm tears of joy running across his cheeks. And he remembered a cluster of barbarians breaking through their formation, sending whatever remained from the mercenaries into complete disarray.

His very next memories were hazy, and indistinct. He was bound, gagged and dragged through ice and snow. His head felt like it was about to break open. Whatever remained from his base was nowhere to be seen. Hushed, husky whispers came from an unknown source. Whispers in that same incomprehensible language. Once again, he lost consciousness and awoke tied. This time, however he was left on the ground, slouched, his back against others with the same fate as himself. Some awake and kicking, and others moaning, while bleeding out. He moved his head from side to side, sharp pain passing through his spine with every twitch of his muscles. Before he could make sense of the situation, the horror began. The one prisoner sitting on his left was hauled atop a rectangular stone. An altar. The screaming of both the one about to suffer a gruesome fate and of the rest brought him into a relative state of alertness.

All around him, riddled with strange markings, were standing stones, some taller than him. Yet, it was as if he was seeing them from above. He touched the ground in an effort to stop the world from spinning. Instead of snow and soil, he felt cold, smooth stone. Confused, he sat up, ignoring the searing pain. The altar was not behind him, no. He was on the altar. A massive stone platform rising more than a dozen feet above ground, large enough to allow thirty or more barbarians and their prisoners to roam on it, while still leaving space for a small army to stand shoulder to shoulder. Before he could have a chance to further grasp where he was, his gaze shifted back to the altar's center, where one of his poor companions was screaming in protest. As he flailed about, Wolfsbane caught a glimpse of his face. He knew him. It was another of his company. The poor bastard who had once shared countless flagons with him was now being slowly disemboweled and repeatedly stabbed. Yet, he was not being executed. A simple decapitation would suffice. No, this was something different.

He should've seen it the moment his comrade was first placed upon the altar. It was unlike anything he'd witnessed before. Like those stories told about the fae. That they stole children and sacrificed them to their hungry gods. Up until then, he thought practices like these were only the stuff of campfire tales. His train of thought was halted abruptly as a sound filled the air. An unnatural sound, thick as mud that made his the hair at the back of his neck stand. His captors were chanting in unison, with resonating voices, as their victim convulsed in his death throes. A couple of them tossed his body aside like trash, before bringing a new prisoner, this time a half-awake one, already bleeding. He sheepishly struggled, as knives were plunged inside his belly, and hands were thrust inside the wounds. A single barbarian, wearing a heavier attire than the rest, and a strange horned helmet that resembled a massive serpent skull, raised what appeared to be a bloody organ high in the sky, as the dissonant chanting only grew in volume. Air swirled around the altar's centre, as the horned barbarian began yelling in that strange tongue of his, eyes staring blankly ahead. It was as if he was no longer aware of the world around him. Then, a flash. That was all. His mind seemingly refused to recall anything else from that event. All he knew is that something happened.

The sound of clashing blades awoke him from oblivion. His companions had come for him. In the midst of a chaotic skirmish, he felt a knife pull against his bindings, finally cutting him loose. He stood up, managing to set his thoughts in order, and, falling on his back, made his way away from the altar and into the field of standing stones. He was stripped of arms and beaten silly. He wasn't so much as in a condition to walk let alone fight. Dawn had began to crack, yet that offered no aid to the his shaken head. All he saw were shadows dancing around these dreadful standing stones, taunting him. It was a maze he was running in, and he could hear footsteps gaining on him. He fell to his knees. A faint glimmer of red in front of a stone was all that he could discern. And yet his pursuer neared. He rubbed his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of vision and balance, but that only served to make him spew. In a near-unconscious haze, he reached out towards the glimmer but fell flat on his stomach, the only thing keeping him awake being the ever-louder sound of heavy footsteps.

He was jolted back into his senses by an ear-piercing yell that seemed to be a call for aid. a northener, eyes wide, axe raised, was about to strike him dead where he lay. Instinctively, he reached towards the glimmer, now appearing as a long, shining shape, with the color of burning embers. He knew he was faster than the other warrior. He had to be. He turned and grabbed it. A hilt. Swinging the object in a wide ark, he hoped to at least parry the barbarian's axe. Yet, as he swung, he felt the well-balanced blade move with such little effort through the air that not only did it stop the axe in its' tracks, but it completely sliced the wooden hilt in half, cutting through numerous hides in the process, and finally, opening up the assailant's chest. He fell down with a wet gurgle and a few spasms before rasping, and struggling for breath.

"Do it. Finish it."

That voice. That accursed voice. What in all hells was that voice. He still does not know, even if he's to this day searching-

Wolfsbane felt a cold sensation wash over his head and neck, awaking from his daydreaming rather abruptly. "'ey you! How bout you scram 'fore I make you, damned Empire-kisser." A deathly silence fell over the table as everyone turned to look at the voice's owner. A rather sizable man stood behind the mercenary, holding a now empty mug of ale, accompanied by two conveniently smaller lackeys. The patrons were hesitant to respond, signifying that said character was rather feared, and rightfully so. He did seem capable of breaking a lesser man in half. The mercenary's head was lowered, wisps of hair sticking on his face. He slowly arose, his right hand trembling and closed in a tight fist, and turned to face the one who had doused him in ale. Great girth, a crooked nose, and a scar running across his cheek. A typical village troublemaker. He woudn't be surprised if the man had served in the Royal Army.

Without concern for his own safety, the mercenary lunged over to the left minion, grabbing him by his hair, and slamming the poor sod's face against his knee. Before the body could fall down, he entered a defensive stance, but that did not stop a fair number of fists from connecting with his gut and head. Yet, he did not care. Awaiting for an opening that finally came, he extended his left hand, bashing the second lackey's throat. As the latter struggled for breath, he turned towards the bigger one. Visibly shaken, he attempted to land a few quick hits somewhere above Wolfsbane's chest, but to no avail. The mercenary, whose brow and nose were now bleeding profusely, unleashed a flurry of strikes against his opponent. Elbows smashed against the patron's face, fists pummeled his solar plexus, and yet he did not stop, even when the other man had fallen to his knees, and given up on shielding his face. Grabbing him by the shirt, he relentlessly beat the whimpering man's face until the swelling, the bruising, and the cuts had turned it into an unrecognizable pulp. He lifted his right hand above his head and prepared to deliver another blow.

"Give that bastard what he deserves."

He snapped out of the haze and looked at what he'd done. His eyes widened for a moment, and, with a mixed expression of surprise and disghust, let go of the man. Turning his head to behold a visibly unnerved table of what could have later evolved to be his friends, he tossed a few copper coins over at the table, picked up his helm along with a small sack that had almost spilled some of its' contents, and left the inn, his head lowered. His little show inside would most definitely deprive him of the only chance he had of finding lodging for the evening, and even worse, he began feeling the distinct taps of a gentle drizzle upon his hood. With nowhere to spend the night, he began wandering about.

The town was a horrid, muddy mess. Half-decayed, blackened shacks were crammed beside one another, decrepit stables barely held sickly and skeletal livestock within, and whatever oil lanterns remained were rusted to the point of breaking down. He stopped for a moment, and placed his helm back inside his wanderer's sack. As he slung it over it his shoulder with an annoyed grunt, the scabbard strapped behind him snagged it. Wolfsbane sighed heavily at the sound of one of his belongings hitting the mud, and turned around to retrieve whatever fell, hoping it wasn't his beloved meatbread rations. A curse flew sharply from his mouth as he saw them covered in dirt. He crouched in an attempt to salvage what he could, but something caught his eye. Not far ahead, illuminated by the faint lantern-light, a rather well-dressed man approached. He locked eyes with him, and slowly rising, placed what few unspoilt rations were left back in his sack. The man smiled gently as he got closer, and kept his hands within sight, so as to signify that he harboured no ill intent.

"Quite a display of might you performed, back in the Lovely Maiden. I must say, I couldn't help but notice your brooch despite the... confusion. Whatever the case may be, I do not want to waste your time, so I shall cut straight to the point. My liege has need of individuals of your skillset." Wolfsbane simply squinted, and stared at the servant with a cautious look on his eye. A sharply-dressed character such as the one standing in front of him would be the first thing he'd notice in an inn as shabby as the one he'd spent the evening in. Something told him that he was followed way before setting foot in the tavern. "Whatever the case may be, have this here envelope." The servant retrieved a rather fancy one from behind his coat, complete with a wax seal. "You'll find whatever information you may need inside." He masked a sneer as best as he could and continued, never straying from a refined monotone. "I suppose you are proficient with reading. Unlike most folk here." Wolfsbane grabbed the letter hastily and snorted before turning his back, continuing his search for shelter. Eventually, he settled with lying among some barrels behind a barn. It had a sufficiently protruding roof and a good deal of hay clumped together, making it the next best thing behind a tavern, yet judging by the latter's condition, it may very well be just as good. Using his sack, before retrieving his precious mestbread, and a few adjacent barrels as an improvised headrest, he got comfortable, after hastily devouring whatever remained from his meal. Shuffling about for a moment, he tugged his sleeves, crossed his arms, and went to sleep with a smile on his face.

Name: Professor Ectemund Aitherweld.
Age: Forty-two years.
Gender: Male.
Race: Human.
Position and Trade: Ectemund occupies the position of historian and - informally, for reasons which shall be made clear in his biography - Professor of Occult History at the University of Eltensbrook. This institution, founded in the wake of the beginning of the Free Era, has, despite its members' best efforts (though lately these have been less and less frequently manifested), remained, to this day, a marginal influence on the academic landscape, tending to focus upon matters pertaining to unorthodox and esoteric spheres of knowledge rather than scientific and technological innovation. This, along with vague and unconfirmed yet persistent rumours of questionable pursuits and practices (including, at one point, the vivisection of Fae and half-breeds and the reconstruction of certain ancient ritualistic paraphernalia of ill renown) held within the University's walls, has resulted in it receiving little in the way of positive attention - and financial support - from the throne, though it has attracted the inquisitive gaze of more than one Royal Censure official.
Ectemund's field of expertise comprises the recordings of magic use throughout known history, with especial care devoted to unearthing the modality of such events. Though such a shadowy, uncertain and unwholesome subject would offer little appeal to a serious scholar, by the means of both notes and works left by his predecessors and extensive individual research of documents such as chronicles, "arcane" grimoires of varying degrees of genuineness, records of unusual legal cases and field reports of the Traitor's War, as well as investigation of folk tales and various locations associated with strange happenings, Ectemund has pieced together a considerable body of lore. The specific details of the overwhelming majority of the cases he has encountered continue, however, to elude him, much to his frustration.

Appearance: Though he is not yet effectively old, years of dedicated labour have left their mark on Ectemund. His frame, though of average size, is slightly diminished by a stoop acquired by poring over numerous manuscripts; his complexion has grown almost sinisterly pale due to infrequent exposure to sunlight, and the skin on his brow and about his eyes is abundantly creased and furrowed as a result of the frequent squinting which has accompanied the steady deterioration of his sight. In other features, such as the unkempt, palpably receding hair of a discoloured chestnut hue and a chin which has seldom undergone more than a hasty shaving, as well as an almost alarming leanness brought about by the practice of allotting the bare minimum of necessary time, at irregular hours, to such a vital function as nourishment, age has been abetted in its consumption by ill-keeping and unhealthy habits. All of this combines to form a gaunt, almost spectral figure which it would be difficult to describe as anything approaching comeliness.

Personality: Being already endowed by nature with a rather secretive, solitary temperament, Ectemund's studies and profession have done little to temper these traits of his character. In fact, the pursuit of occult knowledge, fraught as it is with subtlety, as well as the antagonism encountered in these endeavours from the side of royal representatives and enforcers and common folk alike have contributed to their strengthening and proliferation in guises and mannerisms, causing him to grow so reserved and diffident as to seem almost misanthropic. On the other hand, years of inquiries and investigations have likewise taught him that valuable information may come from the most unexpected sources, if these are properly approached; therefore, when dealing with people from without the narrow circle of his colleagues, he takes care to affect at least some degree of interest in his interlocutors, subtly prompting them to reveal what they might know concerning the matters which he deems worthy of attention. Such expressions of sympathy as may come from him, however, are virtually never sincere. Though not actually hostile toward anyone in particular, Ectemund sees others, whether they be human or not, merely as potential research subjects or targets for interrogation; any consideration of them is inwardly overlooked, as it is not conductive to his research.
The latter forms, as could be inferred, the greatest focus of his intellectual abilities. Ever since his earliest youth, Ectemund has been driven by an insatiable, morbid curiosity to pry into the darkest, most recondite and forgotten secrets known to him, or indeed anyone. His fascination with magic and the occult arts seems to be the most coherent, structured and obstinate manifestation of this tendency to date. In its foundation there might be glimpsed the aberration pervading his innermost entity and defining his entire character: rather than view the most sinister aspects of the unknown and radically different with dread and suspicion, he sees in them a lure more potent than anything already within his grasp seems to offer, and raises their exploration to the state of his life's most exalted goal.
Vices:
- As mentioned, Ectemund is perpetually spurred on by his unwholesome curiosity, which renders him capable of fixating upon various details regardless of the inconvenience it might cause.
- His generally suspicious demeanour and unwonted interest in strange matters often make him appear untrustworthy to those with whom he interacts.
- His tendency to direct his attention exclusively toward those things which appear to him relevant to his endeavours often causes him to overlook factors of practical importance, impairing his ability to formulate plans and courses of action.
- He possesses an intense and irrational aversion toward high temperatures, and by extension fires, furnaces and all sorts of incandescent substances and locations. He is intensely reluctant to approach any such place and object, and lengthy exposure may result in an outburst of brief, yet violent fever-like mentally induced illness.
- In the course of his research and experiments he has grown, presumably by accident, addicted to a particular hallucinogenic drug reportedly used during ancestral shamanistic rituals. Failure to consume a portion of it at least once every fortnight will lead to him being wracked by painful spasms and his mind being clouded by a sensation as of an oppressive, nausea-inducing void.
Boons:
- Ectemund is as well-versed in his semi-academic discipline as any "professional" occultist, if not more so, and disposes of a wealth of knowledge regarding magic usage and its history.
- His observational and mnemonic skills, already notable at their natural extent, have been sharpened by his scholarly activities to attain great heights, and may serve him well in virtually any situation involving exploration and prying.
- Through analysing multitudes of documents, more or less intelligible, he has reached a remarkable skill in interpreting and employing linguistic intricacies, as well as connecting clues and hints.
- His nigh-obsessive thirst for occult lore often aids him in subduing fear and apprehension in the face of unknown menace and horrifying sights, and he is often unfazed by the most eerie and disquieting of locations and atmospheres.

History: Ectemund Aitherweld was born to a moderately wealthy merchant family which, having originally established itself in trade through logging activity, had long hence transferred its seat to the capital of the Star Kingdom. As he displayed, since an early age, a propensity toward prevalently intellectual pursuits along with the markings of uncommon mental capability, his father saw in him a possibility of raising the family's renown from the world of a nascent bourgeoisie of sorts into some more highly regarded sphere - for instance, the promising field of scientific research. It was with some dismay that he saw his son drawn to weird legendry and folk tales rather than "actually scientific" disciplines; however, being persuaded by the resourceful youth that even such things as those may be made the object of what would qualify as perfectly acceptable "science", he eventually acquiesced to allowing him to continue his studies in this direction in the best institution to be found to that purpose - the shadowy University of Eltensbrook.
In the latter Ectemund found an atmosphere of sinister secrets and furtive complicity perfectly suited for his inclinations and interests, and was promptly accepted into the local academic community after having, on more than one occasion, shown proof of his extraordinary dedication to his pursuits. The University was so much to his liking, in fact, that he elected to remain there until he had accomplished his goals, and possibly even afterwards. Its other inhabitants did not object to this design, and, even when Ectemund's dissertation was placed under ban by the Royal Censure for containing "undesirable materials", unofficially elected him a professor in his chosen field. Not even the passing away of his parents would have stirred him for long, were it not that, among the various properties he discovered he had inherited, there was a curious chest containing what was described as "family heirlooms": namely, several large tomes written in an indecipherable code composed of strange symbols, some of which he had already encountered in his studies in most fearsome connections, and a large dagger of strange make, with an angular, jagged blade seemingly designed for evisceration, other cryptic signs carved upon the hilt and forged from an alloy wherein iron was combined with an unknown metal, granting the weapon an extraordinary light weight and solidity and apparently preserving it from rust. Curious as to how such things should have come into his family's possession, Ectemund initiated a genealogical exploration, which eventually led to the discovery that the name of Aitherweld had once, the span of many generations before, been associated with an edict proclaiming the illegality of some forest-dwelling cult whose name and patrons had been lost to time. Beyond this, his research did not yield any further information, and the mystery of his ancestors' association with that forgotten sect has since woven itself into the scope of Ectemund's interest, promising, in his view, to prove of great assistance in the most daring of his endeavours.

Weapons / Equipment / Supplies:
- Ectemund carries the dagger he discovered among his inherited goods as a weapon, finding that holding it grants him a strange sense of boldness.
- He is clad in the travelling leather-bound clothes which have served him well on many a field expedition in the past.
- Along with himself, he carries some notes wherein is condensed the information he judged most relevant to his current enterprise, as well as some excerpts of the cryptic inherited volumes' code, and a supply of clean vellum and writing implements.
- Among his supplies there are provisions, mainly in the form of bread and cheese, to last for some two weeks if consumed sparingly.
- Finally, he bears with himself slightly over an ounce of the drug he must regularly ingest, in the shape of a fine powder. It is worthy of note that, if consumed by one not gradually accustomed to its use or introduced directly into the bloodstream, it will cause dangerous poisonings which, if not treated, might be fatal. This drug is made with certain rare materials, and a surrogate cannot be produced on the spot.

The Contract:
The pale light of the late afternoon shone through the library's high, somewhat narrow windows, falling upon the deftly positioned table strewn with scrolls grown ragged at their edges and volumes whose pages were yellow and faded with age and the man seated before it. In the bleak, colourless luminescence his twisted, bony finger, already gnarled and bloodless, seemed almost skeletal as it ran along the lines which had once been laboriously traced by some unknown hand, as though striving to scrape away the superficial semantics of the document's contents in order to uncover a deeper, esoteric import concealed beneath these tiresome and irrelevant memorials. Yet, as it reached the end of the page and slid off upon the table's coarse surface, borne more by its momentum rather than the strength of the hand seemingly driving it, it grew manifest that both this fantastic toil and its more prosaic counterpart performed by the eyes and mind of the reader had met with insuccess. Ectemund shook his head and, releasing a barely audible sigh, lifted his gaze from the writing, only to cast it into the shadows which had gathered in a corner of the imposing chamber. He had, in sooth, not expected these accounts to provide any especially illuminating insights, nor, for that matter, anything of interest at all; yet, until that moment, hope had stubbornly nested within him, fending off the meaningless words as though they were so many blows, ere the conclusion, just as meaningless, had finally constrained it to bow before factual evidence. If not else, he reflected, attempting to raise his spirits, he had determined that this document was indeed of no use to him, and the day could not be said to have been altogether wasted. Despite his best efforts, and the fact that this argument was as sound as any, he nonetheless failed to be convinced.

At that moment he was interrupted by a sequence of approaching steps, light and leisurely, which came from the direction of the door leading to the library's first room. Lifting his eyes, he saw it was Sigismund the warden – a curious sight in these regions of the University, as the portly yet diminutive fellow seldom visited the library, and in fact was almost never seen in the western wing at all. “Why, here you are!” he exclaimed, brandishing what appeared to be some sort of missive in his right hand as he approached the table, “The historians told they last saw you somewhere about the courtyard, but, as I know them, they might well have been referring to yesterday... Thus I had to seek you myself, and, as I wanted to avoid Montbach's spiders – the cursed beasts – for as long as I could, I thought I may begin from the western wing... Here, see what our correspondent in Asterwatch has heard. I dare say this will be a sufficient reward for interrupting your work.” He handed what he had been carrying to Ectemund, who had been gazing at him with a certain impatience and proceeded to swiftly peruse its contents. Having completed this, he glanced back at the warden. “A manor? What am I to do with this? This seems to be something for our antiquaries. Or for those people studying the excesses of decadent nobility, as they claim – those who filled half the southern cellar with their outrageous rack. Or even for Montbach with his “postulates of decay”, if it truly is in such a deplorable state. At least he would stop breeding vermin in his chambers... Why is it you shew this to me?” “You see, that is not any manor, but Dunwick Manor.” Sigismund replied, “For as long as I have known of it, there has been speech of strange doings, so to say, about it. It is said it has an effect – a mystical influence, even. It blights the land, and those living upon it... And, will you believe it, nothing has been heard of its owners for decades. Such a place does not simply become vacant... No, there is something very unusual and very wrong at work there, this I can tell you.”

Ectemund slowly stood up, leaning slightly upon the table to support the weight of his emaciated form. The light behind the windows had waned, and, before his eyes, the faint shadows of twilight seemed to spell out, in alien alphabets, enticing promises of darkling horizons awaiting his discovery so that they might unveil vistas he had been vainly seeking in the records scattered before him. In his worn eyes there had awoken the glimmer which sometimes slumbered, yet could never truly be extinguished. His voice, previously little more than a whisper, rose for a moment to a height reverberating with unyielding energy. “To Dunwick Manor, then.”

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_{P O S I T I O N A N D T R A D E}

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Born a slave, shall forever be a slave, though he walked out his plantation one noon a free man. Reuben bears stronger resemblance to his human ancestry, enough so that he could mingle amongst them unnoticed. Humans often make disparaging remarks about elves in his presence, prodding him to contribute scathing remarks of his own, unaware the friendly chap didn't suddenly remember he left his stove burning at that instant. Reuben lives in constant fear of being discovered an elf impersonating human origin, as he knows of few who have tried and fewer still who did not suffer dire consequences in said discovery. He has never experienced true acceptance amongst elf nor human, though he harbors a deep resentment towards his human lineage, and regards his visage more so a tool than anything of pride.

Reuben is poorly educated as one could expect. His dominant hand’s able to write little more than his signature, though his calloused palms can work a ranch and its husbandry with great efficiency. As of late, Reuben’s relegated himself to working with pirates on dangerous heists, even joining a brigade of scoundrels and bandits on his mission to gather a bottomless supply of coin.

_{A P P E A R A N C E}

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Eyes a sparkling blue like the waters surrounding his native swamplands. Skin bronzed to a golden peach under bright sunlight, and softened to a pale brown in gentler ambiances. Reuben trims his hair every morning to display the human contour of his ears. He stands at nearly six feet, bound by muscle, and often clothed in the same outfit day by day.

mugshot [+]

_{P E R S O N A L I T Y / V I C E S / B O O N S}

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Reuben is a man-sized teddy bear – as his daughter would tell you. Elsa loves resting her golden head on his broad hairy chest, the thud, thud, thud of his big heart throbbing at her earlobe, the broad circumference of his belly that her small arms can barely wrap around. He may be able to shoot a bandit from a horse 100 feet away but Reuben isn’t one to resort to violence. The first time he killed a man still follows him, ruins every pleasant dream with a snapshot of his exploded mind matter glowing in a crimson puddle. Reuben is a man who will empty his shallow pockets for a soul in need if it meant sleeping under an awning behind a local tavern than getting a good rest in one of its straw beds. But Reuben has also seen little of the world around him having been cloistered on an island plantation his whole life. One could beguile a Reuben as easily as one could trick a child. His defenses against manipulation are nonexistent, and many a time has he caught himself attached to the strings of a nefarious plot when it was too late, when the damage had already been done. Entrusting in the good nature of others may very well be his downfall.

His personal mission in life is to acquire enough money to buy out the plantation from his Master, and eventually the entire island of Barbosa where several elf families have been enslaved for generations. Achieving such a lofty goal has proven rather difficult, as anyone could imagine it would be for an uneducated man of undignified birth to secure himself stable employment. Hence he has relegated himself to pursuing dangerous work offering a higher wage than being a street-sweeper, often serving on pirate crews that looted the mansions of rich families and dignitaries in the dark of night. Reuben has warmed a few prison benches for his offenses, and the deep regret lowering his head in shame persisted even as he walked out his cell doors. Thoughts of his wicked behavior, of regretful encounters on his war to freedom. He may no longer work the plantation but he has never once considered himself a free man.

Reuben experiences heightened synesthesia on occasion – certain words can shift the colors of objects within the vicinity, sensations trigger memories in specific body parts, numbers become colors, names become vibrant tastes. He keeps this secret well-guarded as he wishes not to be regarded insane, or worser still, accused of peering into a magical realm. He has little idea where this condition came from but it has followed him since childhood. Reuben may actually grow to dislike someone because the colors of their name form such a vomit inducing array of color that it will literally leave him feeling sick every time that individual comes around, to which he will insist they take on a more pleasant nickname. As anyone could imagine, Reuben named he and his wife’s daughter, and renamed several of the dishes his wife cooked within their shack so as not to lose his appetite.

_{W E A P O N S / E Q U I P M E N T / S U P P L I E S}

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Reuben carries little more than the skin on his back, the boots on his feet, and whatever torn shirt or leggings he could snatch from the nearest clothesline. He always slips a coin under the front door of the next man to discover his clothes missing. The handle of a rusty flintlock peers out the back of his waistband, and a switchblade rests beside his calf within his boot. Though he cannot yet read the delicate cursive, he carries with him a small children’s book his wife read to his daughter and he at night. He would sooner give up his knife and gun than to hand over this little book. Reuben also carries the snipped corners of his ears within a leather coin purse.

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Thunder shot colorful birds from thrashing tree canopies towards the misted mountains above as sparks of electricity scattered across the exploding sunset and marched crabs across the blowing sands to the nearest algae-covered rock – Barbosa was an island as beautiful as it was dangerous. Crashing waves yanked sand creatures out to rolling sea. Thatched roofs blew off in the howling winds. Beach shacks shook upon their wooden stilts, waterfalls pouring down their abused roofing onto any warming fire combating the nippy tradewinds. When the storm gave way to a tangerine sunrise bursting over the horizon, fallen palms buried anything that wasn’t swept away in the monsoon. The elves of this land stepped out their huts and strode their worn sandals over fallen debris cluttering the wetlands. Here on the Isle of Barbosa spanned a lucrative cane field roasting under the sun, elven hands snatched up her sugary husks as their owners squatted within her murky waters. The water was fresh, but almost tasted a salty bitterness from the sweaty temples bent over these fields day in and day out, with their almond eyes risen to the stucco mansions watching them atop green mountains. These manors of esteem were carved from hardened earth and brimstone to withstand the worst of Barbosa’s mood swings, and draped elegant vine curtains down their massive fronts. The elves could only hope to trade up for such estate, or at least wet their marble floors instead of standing knee-deep in floodwaters.


Master Rockinney rarely grazed a silver-toed boot through his coastal wetlands, preferring to stare through the silken curtains of his villa patio upon every back bent over the crop fields. Though his features always hid behind a wild curly wig, his ivory cheeks still burst into flames under Barbosa’s unrelenting spray of sunshine. Local boys prowled the murky waters in his place, necks browned as the slaves they oversaw – Hound Boys, he called them. It wasn’t until the Mistress Rockinney threw her last glass of champagne on her bastard of a husband that he could be seen in daylight, cloaked in shadow under an umbrella of ferns. The Master was a fearful sight to behold strolling amidst the early morning fog with that skinless hand gripping the stalk of his weapon against the sun and his corpse complexion shifting its red eyes over the elves squatted before their canes, pretending His breath wasn’t blowing over them. But they couldn’t ignore His face watching them from the water. It was the face of El Chulo, a walking disease sloughing its skin into flesh puddles throughout the jungle deep, eager to melt the next man down to a wet spot in the forest. If you believed in the elven tales you knew never to let the Master touch you. Though Master touched whomever He pleased. Stared at whomever He wanted with those eyes bulged forward like a hen, cheekbones sagged down with fat, the bone structure of a sinking ship distorting his peeling face. When a man of such homely features took elven wives for himself no one questioned it: nary a human lady would lay with him, riches, status, and gold or not.


Mother Reuben was torn from her natural husband to serve as the Master’s wench for a night. Nights turned into weeks. The swell of her belly grew, but the space within her shack had shrunk when her fifth child entered the world. On the dusty floorboards slept four other of her children, curled up inside scratchy blankets with their pointy ears peeping out. In the far corner, huddled against the iron stove was little Reuben. He knew never to lay his comforter down near Seamus – his mother’s husband. His heavy foot would fall off his hammock and stomp the boy’s shoulders, shoving the child’s nose into the floorboards as if he wished him to suck his last breath. A swift pan to the dome struck the man out his murderous intent, though Marisa’s loving hand dabbed a wet cloth to the scar forming near her husband’s scalp. When her words would not speak loud enough she had no choice but to beat reality into him: Reuben may be half an elf, but the boy was fully her son.


Morgana jumped the broom with good old Reuben mid-way through their teens. The elven woodsmiths hammered together a beach shack for the newlyweds, it stood inconspicuously amongst the other shacks along the coastline, though what lied beneath the sands made this one unusual.

Morgana tended to the Master’s kitchen, cheeks reddened over the smoke of a pan fire as her nimble hands scraped a knife over a dripping tomato, narrowing her eyes at the hot oils popping back at her bare face. Those same hands soaked tubs of meat within the sink for a company’s worth of men until the tips of her fingers grew wrinkled and pruned and sore. Those same hands carved out turkeys into a shell of meat, enough to feed the Master’s visiting cousins, and curved enough knives around the body of a potato to suffer a bloody nick or two by sundown.

A rubbish bin sat outside the smoking kitchen doorway, catching papers from educated hands drifting through the back hallway. Many a time Morgan grabbed the hem of her billowing dress and sunk down to the floorboards in a swift snatch at whatever crumpled parchments lay atop the pile, shoving them within her swollen bosom on her trek back to her shack. Sometimes these papers were ruined by champagne spills, other times she would spread them out across the floorboards of her shack, revealing a detailed map of the nearest landmasses. Reuben’s eyes could hardly believe the vastness of the world surrounding him. He knew nothing of the Star Kingdom, of anything outside the folklore passed down the generations. All he knew was this island and the life of a slave. Reuben hungered to see these wonders for himself, the meteor showers over Grimwald Canyons, the twin waterfalls of Bunbury diving hundreds of feet into the earth’s core, to travel the world a free man with his wife at his side. He was going to do it. Morgana laughed at the thought, though she could see the determination in her husband’s eyes. She resented his plot, calling it dangerous and stupid, to which even he himself agreed – but it was worth a shot. For the sake of the elves tied to this plantation.

He decided to cut the corners of his ears.


The son of the plantation’s blacksmith arrived to their hut. In his gloved hands two metal pieces smelted into the shape of a human ear. Though the gangly teen found the proposition distasteful, a mockery to his proud elven blood, if this boy could shoot, stab, or bleed something he would do it. Reuben sat upon the edge of his hammock, his wife’s comforting fingers running down his back as his eyes narrowed on the blacksmith’s gloved hand stabbing those plates into the smoking belly of their stove. He slammed the stove door shut, and flicked a wrist over at Reuben’s older brother standing in a shadow. He snatched his brother’s head into a headlock, slipping a brawny palm under Reuben’s chin to clamp his jaw shut. One holler and the blacksmith threatened to leave him looking a true halfbreed bastard indeed with only one ear standing. Reuben stared up at him wordlessly. A lifetime of beatings couldn’t compare to those red-hot plates squeezing his earlobe, torching delicate skin into smoke, dribbling a stream of waxy cartilage down his cheek like a melting candle once those plates kissed each other and snipped his upper earlobe off into his lap. If the terrible pain did not stop his heart, fear of his brother snapping his neck nearly did as his mouth struggled to open into a scream.

Every strand caressing the exposed skin stabbed like needles. If bending under the burning sun after heavy rocks embedded in the soil and rolling them up the winding cliffsides of the mountains in sweat-heavy rags dragging down his limbs did not shorten his breath enough, every wind that coasted by brought tears to his eyes. Morgana tried to rub a salve over the open wounds but Reuben couldn’t withstand the touch of her fingertip. He wanted to bring a knife to the sides of his scalp, though the woman urged him to keep his length in fear the Master would see what he’d done to himself. He was the man’s property, after all, and had no permission to do such a thing to himself. If women could suffer childbirth surely he could suffer this. He agreed with those sentiments, but he almost regretted doing it. Almost.

When Sunday spilled her morning rays over the croaking wetlands, the slaves were given a hearty serving of turkey stew to carry into their shacks. Rueben’s tongue dragged over every corner of his wooden bowl, snatched his wife’s bowl to his face when she was through, and even licked his daughter’s dish clean of its meaty gravy – though Reuben had made it to the second decade of his life he was still fed the same rations as a teenage boy. His stomach sometimes growled in the early hours before he was called to labor and exhaustion then took the place of hunger.

The Master and his company strode indoors to entertain themselves, abandoning a picnic table crowded with the porcelain dishware of a full-course meal seated along a delicate white tablecloth. A silver bowl sat at the head of the banquet, housing a thick turkey thigh dripping fat into a moat of gravy. Reuben found his lips curling into his mouth at the sight, urging themselves to stay that way. He folded his arms behind his back, and looked over each shoulder as his bare feet inched towards the long table, allowing his nostrils to swell around the succulent fats coasting in the breeze. With haste, both hands dived into the bowl of leftovers, and his feet carried him off towards the banana grove.

Master Rockinney returned with a raised brow – though he had eaten himself full, he was now peeved by the sight of an empty bowl that most certainly wasn’t left that way. His blistered hand clasped onto the offensive bowl and lowered the rim to the sniffing nose of a hound dog, and the beast shot off towards a row of trees overlooking the ocean blue. Soon a pack of hounds rushed through the banana leaves whipping at their snouts until all six of them howled and yapped up one tree in particular. The Hound Boys caught up to the ruckus and began shouting and yelling obscenities as they dragged Reuben down to the soil, and threw his body against a wooden fence overlooking the picnic table.

Reuben stared at his toes under His Master’s stare, knowing a damning grease to be buttering his cheeks, caked under the bed of his nails, saturating spices into the wet stain down his shirt. A rough hand tugged the back of his shirt past his shoulders, and as one of the overseers swung a wooden board overhead there came a shout, “Don’t you dare hit that man! Can’t you see he’s a human being?!” A delicate hand caught hold of the overseer’s wrist and fought with him to lower the board. The boy knew better than to struggle against a Duke’s wife and tossed the wood to a patch of grass. All attempts to inform the madam of the halfbreed’s dirty blood fell on closed ears – apparently she was an expert on such matters and had never seen one so unabashedly human in all her days. Her ruby mouth crumpled with disgust to think humans enslaved amongst elves on this godforsaken plantation and she stormed off down the dusty driveway with a Master Rockinney bowing at her heels like a slave, imploring the duchess to heed his words. A toothy smile spread over Reuben’s face to be spared a beating, but when he saw the faces of the other elves, his expression faltered. They looked at him like he was a traitor.

That night salty rumors spread throughout the plantation – Reuben getting spared beatings now? Marisa’s son, the halfbreed? Surely he thought himself too good to be an elf. Why else would he cut off the only feature he shared in common with us? Reuben pleaded that though the Master had let him off, once the duchess and her company departed he wasn’t spared an inch of the Master’s wrath, just like the rest of them. They dismissed his words. Whenever company came round the other elves sweated under the blazing sunfire, while Reuben stayed inside his shack save more misunderstandings arise. He was even handed a tray of bread rolls to stave his hunger lest he repeat last time’s offense. According to Reuben those damned rolls were stale as a rotting foot, but the other elves weren’t having it. Who in their right mind would complain about the quality of bread rolls while his ‘compatriots’ are out killing themselves in the heat? Hell Reuben had it easier than the women when the Master’s Masters rolled through, his hands weren’t marred with nicks and scrapes but covered in butter and jelly.

Reuben started to act up around the plantation – throwing pineapples at the Hound Boys, urinating in the cane water – proving to the other elves he wasn’t above being punished. The Master did not take kind to the disturbance, and debated what to do with this troublesome elf. He decided to throw this fool out of his plantation, under command that he never return if ever he wished to see his wife and children alive someday. Knowing Reuben he would come crawling back to the Master’s feet, and indeed he was found standing behind a tree down yonder for several days, he had not moved a step from where he was dropped off, his arms wrapped tight around the thick birch to support his weary frame. The Hound Boy who spotted him came with news from the Master: he could return to his people, but only after fulfilling a dangerous request. The word danger sent his eyelids opening, but he followed after that boy like a leashed animal in hopes of seeing the faces of his family again…

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“You planned on leaving this place someday. Here I am fighting to stay.” – a yellow stench painted every syllable to drool off that tongue, a putrid yellow as the teeth that spoke them, a rotten-smelling yellow as this room would be without the windows hovering above their sills. The plush furniture seated throughout the burgundy boudoir became fertile grounds for unpleasant sound-scents: the wash bowl resting beside a hand-crafted nightstand cupped purple water, purple like the crushed herbs inside mama’s ointments, one could feel a familiar sting whenever a cloth splashed into the water. The vanity clicking against the back wall had blackened its mirror, and its groaning cherry hardwoods desaturated to a malevolent shade of ivory, white as the bones its handles were carved from. Only one man had a mind to envision such landscapes, as to anyone else, this master suite was as elegant as they come from the clawed feet of its silver oil lamps to the majestic curtains flowing down the bedposts.

There were only two men left in the room – one staring into a corner, and another who’d become the skeleton under the bedsheets. His veined hands scraped down the crisp linens like a drowning fool grasping at water as he would hard earth. The mattress squeaked upon the four corners of its king-sized bed, then fell silent amidst a backdrop of thunder. Lightning flashed behind the massive windows and the winds threw their ruby curtains open, bleeding a patch of moonlight onto the maple floorboards as a spray of droplets wet the mist curling through the boudoir. This mist too was yellow, and smelled of cat urine the blacksmith’s son carried at his hip to ward off spirits.

Reuben’s curious habit of seeing sounds colored the dark corner he was told to stare into, though the corner of his eye watched a shadow painted on the wall, the silhouette of a deflating man slumped down a mound of pillows. A trembling hand raised a tissue to its cheek as the shadow wheezed out, “Those ears would only get in your way, it’d be the first thing people saw when they looked at you. I know your reasons for doing it. Blood is telepathic.” Reuben could hear a smile in the man’s voice, and for the first time in thirty years – no, not even after a hundred years would he ever have a father.

A wet cough punctuated the thought, “You and I both look forward to never seeing again.”

A soft click touched the nightstand, a nectar splashed into the bowels of a ceramic cup, then a single gulp rinsed it down which worsened into a series of coughs as though the medicine was somehow too thick to swallow. A fist pounded at the shadow’s chest before a heavy sigh blew into the room. “Long before the roses return at the end of the season this room will have become my coffin. The doctor is aware himself of a remedy for my ailmen—” As if to introduce itself, the shadow heaved forward into its napkin, a sickly explosion shooting out its mouth. The trembling hand dragged a tissue down its black face, “My skin is sitting in a bucket at my bedside, and more flakes to these sheets with every passing moment. An immunity to the world’s dirt is damn near impossible without its protective coat, a casual sneeze becomes a death sentence, though I shan’t overwhelm your mind with such talk.”

Master Rockinney grew silent for a few moments, save the tempest rasping out his nostrils as if a furnace took the place of his lungs. “No one…no one has yet found it. I’m in need of a rare bush that grows vertically down a cliffside – the Boulder Lily, it only grows during the hunting season when vultures take roost in the mounts, plucking at whatever fool dares climb up there.”

Reuben crinkled his brow as the cawing of vultures colored his space to a soft pink. His thick fingers curled inside his palms at a hot steam blowing over his hands as when his child fingertip glowed pink from tapping at the red-hot cooktop. The memory was extinguished by the mist speckling onto his wrinkled forehead, and the shadow jerking forward into another coughing fit, every other word from the Master was another cough, until he collapsed back onto his fort of pillows. “Boy…do you know why I chose you?”

Reuben merely stood there. He never spoke a word to his Master in all his life and wasn’t apt to start doing so now.

“There’s a chance I could die from this remedy, a ‘good chance’ as those who resent me would say. Most men are highly allergic to its fragrance, a mere touch of its petals can guarantee death.” The shadow dotted a rag along its hairline, “I need you to tear off one of the petals and eat it. If you live long enough to make it back to this plantation I will know you have immunity. And when the brew has been made, you will drink of it as well. As you have my blood there is a fifty percent chance that if you eat it and live I might be able to withstand it.”

Reuben’s hands clasped together, and his mouth sat upon their calloused knuckles as a sigh blew through his nose. He knew the man fathered four children who dwelled within this estate, Reuben remembered calling out to them as a child to throw his coconut ball back to him, and how they walked past the slave child as they would a ghost. Emmerson, Max Griffin, Manuela, and dear Lemontia were all too precious to touch their lips to this strange remedy, even if their blood was a closer match by virtue of being fully human.

“Prove successful and you will be able to return to this plantation and live amongst your kind even after all the trouble you’ve caused me. I will be gracious enough to overlook it.”

Reuben did not nod his head in agreement, nor offer a word of consent, as the Master was laying down His law, His terms of agreement – Reuben could take it or leave it, do as He said or suffer a lifetime of loneliness.

A soft click struck the nightstand, followed by a spoon clicking against a porcelain rim. “As you depart these doors you will be handed a parchment including a list of names, contacts who have a good mind as to where it may live. I advise you save the one titled The Employer for last – my men knew nothing of this gentleman, where he came from, or what work he had in mind in exchange for the nearest direction to my cure, though this contact responded to me with utter confidence. Save him for last.”

The heavy bedroom doors groaned open into a golden foyer, and a pair of soft hands grasped Reuben’s shoulders, escorting his boots sideways across the room so that he never laid eyes on the prideful master withering away on his bedsheets. Reuben’s broad palm was opened before him, and in it slipped a folded parchment. The folds opened up into a detailed sketch of the exotic flower, smaller depictions from several different angles, and even a diagram of its usual placement within rock formations. Below were only a few accompanying words written in crimson script. Reuben could almost believe one of the master’s grandchildren wrote this text, as if written by a child for another child, or a grown man with the reading comprehension of one. After squinting his eyes down at the words, Reuben reminded himself to burn the parchment on his way out. Reuben may be a slave – but he was not fool enough to surrender to his master’s compromise. He was going to contact The Employer first.

Gentle hands steered Reuben through the grand foyer, his brilliant eyes swept over the lofty ceiling, counting all the tropical birds etched into its rainforest mural as his broad shoulders were driven towards the grand entrance doors. His chin turned towards his shoulder so his eyes could fall on a thicket of blond hair peering around a corner, and curved his mouth into a smile, to which the bashful maid puckered her lips at her husband. His gaze dropped to the pretty faces that followed him to the door, and brought his mouth close to their daggered ears, “When I return, He nor any of his sons will have dominion over you. That I promise.” The maidens widened their glossy eyes at him for a moment, then twisted the golden handle of the front door, and saw to it that Reuben saw himself out.

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Name: Tanis

Age: 34

Gender: Female

Race: Fae

Position and Trade: Tanis is an apothecary by trade, although due to her being a Fae she is a rather underappreciated, underpaid, and sometimes even unwanted one.

Appearance: Tanis is exceptional amongst the Fae because the first thing most notice about her are not her long, knife-like ears, but the hideous, cracked web of burn scars peeking out from behind her hair that spreads from the right corner of her full lips, up her cheek, and end around her right ear lobe. Her brown, tangled, sun-bleached hair is parted in such a way the it spills over the burnt side of her face, and at the right angle Tanis can almost look like a halfway decent catch. She has a sharp, elven nose, high cheekbones, and bright yellowish-orange eyes that resemble the color of gold. Her smiles consist of white, somewhat crooked teeth, and lines have begun to form on her forehead and next to her eyes on her lightly tanned skin.

Standing just below five-foot-five, a teetotaler lifestyle combined with frequent walking left Tanis with a lean figure. She dresses for travel and tends to stick to more masculine clothing for sake of avoiding any long gowns getting snagged on brush. Usually she wears a somewhat soiled cotton tunic with tattered sleeves and dark pants that fit a little loose that she tucks into heavily worn boots. Around her neck she wears a black string as a necklace that has a simple silver ring looped through it that she tucks into her shirt for safe keeping. Tight brown gloves protect her calloused hands from thorns and irritants when picking ingredients. A sash tied high around her waist keeps her shirt from billowing and she rarely goes out into nature without throwing on an indigo shawl to provide her head with some protection from the sun when necessary. Tanis loops a well-worn satchel over her shoulder and across her chest so that her hand almost always rests upon its flap, protecting the herbs, vials, and bandages tucked inside.

Personality: Tanis carries herself as a woman of demureness and modesty. She is polite, well-mannered, and soft spoken, and seemingly comes off as a hospitable, earnest, and hardworking individual. She does not curse and does not imbibe in drinking, gambling, and other “crass” matters. If Tanis ever does have to speak ill of someone, she generally tends to muddle her words with euphemisms instead of through direct insults. An early life of servitude has embedded her with a habit of lowering her head and avoiding eye contact in social situations, as she is cautiously well aware of her position in the world as a Fae. Despite her apparent meekness, Tanis is far from a shrinking violet and enjoys hearing tales about perilous travels and trials of combat. Likewise, she could talk somebody’s ear off when it comes to her passions, be it herbalism, alchemy, or cooking, although questions about her past life will often result in her clamming up or quickly excusing herself.

Beneath the surface, Tanis is a venomous woman consumed with bitterness and anger that she keeps bottled up tight. Her main motivation in life, and the reason she needs the promised riches of Dunwick Manor, is to extract revenge on the mercenaries who have wronged her. Being unable to determine who these mercs actually are has driven her to view most sellswords with suspicion and disgust. Likewise, she is slow to trust humans and tries to always be aware of her environment in case the local uneducated riff raff turn hostile upon encountering a Fae peddling her “witch magic in a bottle”. Tanis is not quick to lose her temper, but she does not have infinite patience and under stressful situations it is not uncommon for her swallowed rage to spew forth—even to the point of violence.

Tanis considers herself to be a realist, and in return has a rather pessimistic and skeptical view on the world in a whole. Although she will express sympathy to strangers, she is uncharitable and will always politely refuse to give out handouts when it comes to her medicine. Likewise, she when she commits an act that has repercussions she only worries about her own well being and will only after the fact express regret for inconveniencing or even endangering others. Really, it is quite possible that her entire purpose for seeking revenge is to not exact some kind of justice, but to ensure that her own neck stays thoroughly protected. In the end, she sees herself as a petty women with lofty goals and little hope of ever achieving peace—and, admittedly, being filthy rich would be a rather nice perk to have as well.

Boons: Cuisines - Tanis is a talented cook. While the more folksy type of people will say that a well-cooked meal could lift one’s spirits to help them overcome even the toughest of challenges, Tanis just tends to think that it’s best to have somebody around who can make the limited ingredients found around a camp become nourishing meals that don’t taste like dirt and twigs. Plus, it’s always nice to know exactly what has gone into your dish.

Prescriptions - As a trained apothecary, Tanis is able to whip up salves and potions that can heal minor wounds, ailments, and treat shaky nerves assuming she has the supplies. She is also capable of stabilizing more grave injuries, setting bones, and producing antidotes and antivenoms. Her speciality, however, is poison, and she has crafted a hybrid oil that, upon entering the body, is almost always fatal.

Recollective - Tanis also has an incredible memory, and rarely forgets anything she has ever seen or heard. Largely helpful when it comes to preparing meals or medicine, she also has a rather uncanny ability to find her way through seemingly identical city streets and wandering forest paths assuming she has been to her destination at least once before. Likewise, she never forgets a face or a name.

Vices: Cowering - Tanis favors flight over fight and tries to avoid being directly involved in conflicts that are both verbal or physical. While she will not back down from her goal and can defend herself if needed, Tanis cannot be completely relied upon to help others when situations turn sour and is not above throwing others to the wolves if it means that she will momentarily not be hounded—yet she wonders why there are none she can trust to completely have her back when something wicked falls upon her.

Pursued - Unfortunately, Tanis is right to be suspicious of others. There is a small but worthwhile bounty placed on the head of the woman in the Valedean Empire by the son of her former master, although the description of elf with burn scars sadly (and fortunately) fits a number of escaped and freed servants—although there is only one who worked for the Roth’s. As well, mercenaries still spread tells of the Fae poisoner that worked for the Ashworth Company and many would do drastic things to get their hands on her formulas. She is forced to keep her history tightly under wrap and is not the most convincing of liars.

Retributive - Tanis doesn’t just never forget, she also never forgives. Grudges steer her life and influence almost all of her decisions, from great plans of revenge to downright petty stubbornness. Due to her somewhat volatile fury, her retaliations often overshadow the original sin and even with her capable memory she fails to see that these plots often lead her towards self-destruction.


Weapons/Equipment/Supplies: Tanis’s shoulder satchel is nearly exploding at the seams with miscellaneous leaves, twigs, pastes, vials, bandages, paper pouches, and a mortar and pestle for the preparation and preservation of medicines and toxins. She also keeps an emergency supply of food rations tucked in the smaller secondary compartment to prevent any accidental contamination. Tanis hangs a large waterskin from her sash next to a small bulge that betrays the location of her hidden coin purse. She carries two knives in her sash as well on the opposite side from where her satchel rests. The first is a broad, slightly curved knife that she can use for butchering, cutting stems, or striking flint to create fire. The second is a small stiletto, the tip of which has been coated with oil from the vial of Ashworth’s Bite that she keeps hidden underneath her tunic alongside other poisons and antidotes. As well, she has more than enough medical supplies strapped in the saddlebags on her donkey to last her for some while as well as a week’s ration of food and water, a bedroll, rope, and a heavy cloak in case of bad weather.