Brooks is a tall, stocky, hairy man with the physique of someone who gained muscle without trying to show off, or perhaps from a lifetime of labour. He has long, greying hair that he combs back into a loose ponytail with bushy eyebrows and steady green eyes. His beard is more grey than anything else, though it shows flecks of ginger and red from time to time. His nose is ever-so-slightly crooked and the lines on his face appear to be from decades of frowning. His hands are calloused but their movements are delicate. His nails are kept short for his job - he wears no wedding ring and there are no indications that he had ever worn one in the past. He has no piercings and no tattoos, but he does have a few scars on his left shoulder, abdomen and knuckles.
In terms of attire, Brooks wears whatever he has to for the autoshop - most of the time he is in a set of oil-stained blue overalls and some rugged working books. The outfit is made up with thick leather gloves; a quirk that seems to persist in all of his outfits is the set of thin gloves, owing it to a combination genetic skin condition and years working with chemicals at the shop that now leaves the skin on his hands flaky and prone to blister. To help cover himself up, Brooks favours jackets and thick jumpers even in the middle of summer.

The Eldritch Pestilence

» All-consuming Power: Brooks’ right arm has been overrun with some sort of lovecraftian beast. The flesh has turned a deep violet - the hairs stiff and coarse, the nails black and ridged. Some teeth grow out from misshapen angles with no lips to cover them - open sores litter his muscles with craters. From the elbow downwards thick, glistening tendrils run the length of his arm. Though this gives his appendage strength beyond human limitations, and the ability to fling a dark mass of viscous, quivering, burning energy at will, the being is parasitic and the repercussions are severe.
» Maybe You’ve Heard Of Me: Brooks has spent most of his life in Brier Hill. He worked his way through from attendant at the gas station to inherit the local autoshop from its previous owner. He has his usual haunts. People know his name as an unremarkable, albeit very guarded fellow. He has some close acquaintances, particularly in the diners and the Inn he goes to for drinks.
» Survivalist: With his own vegetable garden, greenhouse, and a reportedly hand-made cabin just on the outskirts of the thick pine woods surrounding Brier Hill, it comes as no surprise that the rumours of Brooks being one of those survivor-nuts tend to come up in most conversations about him. In reality, he has just spent a very long time preparing himself for the worst - a day where he is so disfigured that he can no longer show his face in public. As such, he knows how to hunt and live off the land.

» Excessive Treatment: As stated before, Brooks’ curse has more repercussions than benefits. The arm is in a state of constant infection, which requires almost daily care to maintain and slow the spread of corruption. It hurts to move it - even more so to keep all the slithering parts of it contained under a set of bandages. It requires frequent discharge of the fetid magics it produces, usually in a method not too dissimilar to bloodletting - allowing those ‘spells’ he can fire to drip and bubble into various biohazard barrels in his basement.
» Fever fatigue: Even under all the precautions and care Brooks takes, an overexertion of his strength or his body tends to lead into coughing fits of dark, bloody phlegm. His human body was not made to work symbiotically with an ancient parasite. Worse still, this puts all doctor’s visits off the menu - even though he has some form of healthcare for his job, Brooks cannot risk going to a doctor for anything physical.

Brooks had long ago resigned himself to his fate. He does not know how long it will take for this parasitic infection to spread and consume the entirety of his body, but he spends his remaining time working tirelessly towards the worst - a life of isolation...or a quick, clean death on his own terms.