Name: Gerick
Title: The Grey
Age: 25

Appearance:
Gerick stands at a respectable six feet, with unkempt jet black hair streaked with grey. His eyes themselves are also a dull grey, with dark circles looming underneath. His face is angular and gaunt; his skin an almost sickly pale. There are some who say he never smiles (perhaps to hide his rotted, decaying teeth), but he has been known to smirk on some occasions. His nose is somewhat crooked, having been broken once or twice in the past. Lastly, he is of an average build, perhaps somewhat frailer than most, but makes up for this with a surprising speed and agility.

For attire, he wears faded green homespun shirt and breaches, frayed with age and stained with travel. Furthermore, he also wears a pair of brown leather boots that are actually surprisingly well-fitting and sturdy, stained with a small speck of blood that just refuses to come off. Over all this he wears a thick, warm, grey cloak, stained with mud from his travels.

He also carries a steel longsword - the blade has a couple notches and a few flecks of rust, but is otherwise serviceable enough - which is kept sheathed at his hip on a worn leather belt, alongside a dagger in similar condition. His final accessory is one that serves absolutely no combat value; an old, battered, rotted flute that he may occasionally blow. He possesses absolutely no aptitude for this instrument, but it is dear to him nonetheless.

Personality:
Where to begin? At first glance, one would view him as grim, cynical, and depressed. He has a tendency to incline his head at an angle while speaking. As a result he may come across as rather creepy and unhinged - a fair assessment. He has a tendency to mutter or whisper to himself (but usually won't do this in front of others, unless he is deep in thought.) He is also generally pessimistic; quick to throw cold water onto other people's ideas, with a tendency to become paranoid, or to assume the worst when something has gone wrong.

Some may also note that he carries a dark sense of humour, with a tendency to take grisly or disturbing sights with nothing more than a grim remark - although he is in truth putting on a front, for both himself and others. He is not without altruism. He still has concern for others, but he does his best to suppress it, both as a coping mechanism and as a a means to avoid showing weakness. And for those who are just as jaded as he, his remarks may be genuinely amusing.

Also, don't mess with his flute.

Background:
Gerick was born in a small village called Hagoth. His family was rather... unique, truth be told.

His mother had been a scribe from Illistair. With such a stable, vital, well-paying job, there was no doubt that she didn't leave voluntarily. Once, at a young age, Gerick asked her why she no longer lived there, and her response was to simply shake her head and say, "I learned something I wasn't supposed to know," but reveal nothing more. She tried to teach Gerick how to read, and recounted various myths, histories, and legends to him at night.

His father and his uncle were both hunters who had hailed from Jornorston, yet they too were equally evasive about their past, utterly refusing to speak of it. All Gerick knew is that at some point they left, embarking on a life of travel. They were always eager to share tales of their adventures; the places they saw, the creatures they fought, the deeds they did. In hindsight, many of those stories were probably embellished, but they had been enjoyable and informative nonetheless. At some point they met Gerick's mother and eventually settled down.

Gerick also had an older sister, a few years older, with a talent for singing and playing the flute.

Then, one day, when Gerick was nine years old, the village fell to the Filth.

It had not been the first time they were attacked, but this time the beasts were more numerous than ever before. They came almost in a swarm, and the village militia failed to fight them off. Gerick's father died defending his family, with Gerick's mother ripped apart soon after. Gerick himself would have been next, but his uncle came to the rescue. While the village burned, they ran.

If anyone else survived, Gerick did not know. From that point on, they wandered. At first, they shied away from settlements, instead preferring solitary life in the wilderness. Gerick's uncle taught him many things; how to fight with a sword, how to shoot a bow, how to track, how to forage. However, a life in the wilderness was hardly ideal, so Gerick's uncle began to attach himself to caravans, taking meager pay to act as a guard or perform odd jobs.

One such caravan was led by a merchant from Kendles, who dealt with... unusual substances. He paid well, and he had need of reliable hired muscle, so he eventually convinced Gerick's uncle to work for him full-time. And so, at the age of thirteen, Gerick and his uncle wound up living in Kendles. While Gerick's uncle served as a bodyguard, Gerick himself was employed as a messenger, where he learned to move swiftly and stay hidden.

They stayed there for two years, until the merchant was found brutally stabbed to death in an alleyway. At that point, Gerick's uncle decided it was time to leave. They signed on with another caravan, and at this point Gerick was old enough to fight, which meant that they could receive the payment of two men instead of one.

They resumed their old wandering lifestyle, with Gerick growing increasingly mature and skilled. He was a quiet yet not necessarily timid man, having come to terms with his lost family but being numb to tragedy as a result. Yet after two more years, one of their caravans was attacked by some particularly bold brigands. Although they successfully fought them off, Gerick's uncle, the only family he had left, died in the struggle.

Gerick was never quite the same after the moment. In fact, one could say that was what broke him. Without companionship, he wandered alone, unwilling to form attachments with anyone else. He continued to guard caravans and perform odd jobs to get by, as he and his uncle had done before, hunting or foraging when no work was to be found. His uncle had once been a good-hearted and good-humoured man, but became grim and stoic after Massacre at Hagoth, and perhaps in memory of him Gerick wound up becoming a bit of both. After all these years he had kept his sister's old flute, and began to practice with it and even try his voice at singing, though he made no real attempt to be good at either.

Gerick never did settle down or seek any permanent employment, believing that it would all eventually be ripped away in the end. He fell into a cynical depression, that only seemed to worsen as time went on.

Perhaps in an attempt to poison himself, he recently consumed a wild mushroom that his uncle had once told him to always avoid. The mushroom was not truly poisonous, but instead hallucinogenic and mood-altering. The hallucinations ranged from pleasant to nightmarish; he would be surrounded by fearsome monsters, only for those monsters to suddenly become peaceful woodland creatures. He would feel calm and serene one moment, but terrified and anxious the next. His clothes seemed to itch and his collar seemed to choke him, and after he took them off the sun and the grass suddenly felt warm and soothing.

He experienced other things, too, but they have since faded into a blur. There is one he remembers distinctly, though. At some point he saw a hallucination of his deceased family. His sister pleaded for him to not give in to despair, his uncle told him to get ahold of himself, his mother assured him he was destined for higher things, and his father demanded to know what they all died for.

Gerick threw himself into the river to escape them. He stayed under for as long as he could, and before he turned back to the surface, he noticed the glint of silver in the riverbank.

The next thing he knew, he awoke with a headache, clutching a peculiar item to his bare chest. A small silver crown, studded with small blood red rubies, and featuring a slight dent that prevented it from sitting straight across his forehead.

He knew much of the legends surrounding these things, and had to wonder: was this finding mere chance, or was he indeed destined for something greater? Time would tell, but for now, it was an excuse to keep living.

Meanwhile, every now and then he continues to consume the mushrooms. Some might even think it's his favourite food. Sometimes the hallucinations are pleasant, and sometimes they are nightmarish, but what he really searches for are more 'visions.' Whether they are real or not, he cannot say, but he needs to see his family again.

Stats:
Strength: A Man among Men (2)
Reflexes: Reflexes of a Mantis (4)
Fortitude: Skin of Paper (1)
Intellect: Quick (3)
Wisdom: Insightful (3)
Willpower: Will of Will (2)

Skills and Training:
-Swordsman. Gerick possesses remarkable skill with bladed weapons.
-Archer. He is an adequate shot with a bow.
-Survivalist. He knows how to track, forage, and navigate.
-Basic literacy, from his mother. Emphasis on basic.
-Knowledgeable. He has an impressive level of knowledge regarding various myths and stories.
-Well-travelled. He knows quite a bit about the various settlements, either from visiting them himself or hearing second-hand accounts from his uncle.

---

His most memorable moment is, of course, his village being butchered.

.
It was cold, dark, and Laina was utterly alone.

Her and a few other acolytes, bored during the settlement's current migration to new lands, wandered a bit off from the main group though at least still keeping the lights of the main convoy in sight. They were all having silly fun as younglings were often want to have until Laina slipped and fell into a densely wooded gorge.

When she regained her consciousness, Laina didn't recognize anything around her. A dull throbbing pain lancing her from her calf told her that she was hurt, a wet slick feeling around the area indicated something worse.

She wanted to cry. She did. But she also remembered the teachings of Master Knife. Stay still, stay silent, observe and learn, survive. What was she supposed to observe though? What was she to learn? How was she to survive? It wasn't uncommon for those who got lost during migrations to be left behind, the threat of the Filth too great.

So she laid still and cried, pitying herself and saddened by her poor lot in life.

She didn't know how long she lay there, only that it was dark and she was alone and she was going to die. The tears kept flowing until she spotted a dim light in the distance, the sight of which causing her next sob to become stuck in her throat as she remembered how some creatures of the Filth lured those lost and alone like her by offering a saving light in the cold blackness. So again she lay still, forcing down her hiccups and cries as she placed herself as low on the forest floor as she could. The light came closer, so Laina forced herself deeper into the much and mud. It wandered even closer, so she forced herself to still her breath and quiet her mind. Yet still, the light crawled ever nearer, scanning the forest as if searching for her. The light passed over her and in weakness she let out a whimper, causing the light to snap onto her frame, outlining her small figure as she closed her eyes in an attempt to blind herself to her inevitable future.

Yet death did not come hurling after her with tooth and claw. Rather, her face was cupped in a hand that radiated comfort and warmth. Her ears were not assaulted with the slaverings of hunger or desire, but instead soothed with gentle words and a soft voice. Believing herself already dead, Laina dared open her eyes, only to be met with the tired, old face of the abbess.

Laina's tears flowed once more.

The Instruments of Parrel is a sect of Parrel worshippers whose faith revolve around the idea that all their confirmed clergy are the divine, physical embodients of Parrel's will, of which the Convent of Quiet Vigil is one such band of practitioners.

Their stories revolve around the idea that Teid is the creator of many things, but not all. Rather, he knew as a divine being that had no equal nor being capable of worrying about mortal concerns such as death and disease, that there was only so much he could imagine and create. So, as he created the other gods and all the inhabitants that lay upon his world, so too did he gift them with the ability to craft and create as he did. To ensure that his creations could remain free and pure, he made it so that he was unable to directly interfere with works that were not made by his own hand.

Unfortunately, that would prove to be his downfall. When Ligdon forced himself onto Parrel, Parrel begged Teid to remove the cursed child that now lay in her womb. Taken by her pleas, Teid attempted to do as he was asked, but the child was not made by his own hands, and the terrible circumstances on which the child was conceived made it so that when Teid attempted to remove the child, he poisoned it and himself. The Allcreator wasted away as the child continued to grow inside Parrel's womb and when it was born, so too was the Filth, and so too did it signal Teid's death.

Knowing that the corruption of her child and the death of her creator was her own fault, Parrel took stewardship over all that Teid had created in penance. However, even Parrel herself could not always directly interfere in the affairs of mortals, and so she would entrust a select few who would be her divine instruments on the world.

The Instruments of Parrel often divide themselves into four Brotherhoods and Sisterhoods, or Hoods for short: Lantern, Blade, Knife, and Quill.

Lanterns were dedicated to keeping the stories and songs of Parrel alive, leading her worshippers and directing those who sought her guidance.

Blades were dedicated to keeping the world and Parrel's flocks safe against all manner of threats.

Knives were dedicated to keeping the faith pure, rooting out anyone or anything that sought to undermine their work.

Quills were the most mysterious of all the Hoods, and dedicated themselves to interpreting Parrel's will by the arcane secrets of the written word. They hold the secrets of literacy and guard it jealously, hungering for every scrap of knowledge pertaining to the Old World.

Upon being confirmed as a new Brother or Sister of the sect, they shed their old given names, replaced instead with ones that are chosen by themselves. These new names are often of some physical item or object. By doing so, they shed their old bonds and ground themselves to the world, dedicating themselves fully to the task of becoming one of Parrel's many instruments. It is at this time that new members will also choose which new Hood they will don for the rest of their life, provided they had qualified for it beforehand.

The sect has no formal central authority or leadership, but bound together nevertheless through common stories and ideals. No member truly knows how many followers there are, nor of how many convents and churches there may be. In the Convent of Quiet Vigil, Brothers and Sisters sometimes go on a mission to found a new convent or lead a new flock, though word seldom comes back about them.

Quiet Vigil itself was founded and centered around its current and only abbess: Abbess Key. Under her are High Sister Tulip and High Brother Bark, or Mistress Quill and Master Knife, respectively. Under them are Sister Snow and Brother Stone, who are also known as Mistress Blade and Master Lantern. Surrounding them are a number of Brothers and Sisters divided among the four Hoods of Lantern, Blade, Knife, and Quill, descending in most populated Hood to the least. Sister Tulip is the only confirmed Quill Sister among all of Quiet Vigil. Surrounding the Convent itself are a number of ordinary people who have gathered around the convent but do not wish to join it for one reason or another, instead providing support by supplying the common physical labor and goods that are needed to run any settlement.

The Convent keeps itself safe from the Filth by ensuring that all confirmed members have martial training of some sort and, more importantly to their actual survival, by being able to quickly move and migrate when the spread of Filth proves too much for their church members to handle.

Important members of the Convent of Quiet Vigil

Name: Ethelsten of Wisserbury
Title: Apothecary of Her Majesty Parrel the Queen’s Monastery Hospital of Wisserbury
Age: Early middle-age, approaching his late thirties.
Appearance:

In terms of physical brawn, Ethelsten has little of note - being a most stereotypical scholar, he is scrawny and weak, albeit not short of stamina. Thus, while he may not have any considerable bulk, his body has some resemblance of tonation. He stands a little shorter than the average man, though he has the straight, proud posture of a human raised under the wings of nobles.

Ethelsten’s head and face are characterised by a weak, overbitten jaw and puffy lips, which he hides underneath a thick, full and well-kept beard of whitening chestnut hair. His nose, in contrast, is straight and proper, its delicately-shaped bridge running up to separate into two bushy eyebrows darkening a pair of racoon-ringed, verdant eyes, and bordering a forehead wrinkled by years of intrigue. His hair runs long and full down to the top of his neck, covering both his small ears unless tied in a tail.

The clothing worn by Ethelsten normally consists of a white linen shirt for the inner layer, covered then with brown leather tunic followed by a long, beige robe for outdoor travel. Knee-long pantaloons of linen cover his nethers, completed by woolen long socks and a pair of good boots that reach about as high. Usually, the apothecary wears a tall, pointy, white hat that pulls the hair away from his forehead and leaves him looking bald.

---

Background Information:

Ethelsten grew up in Illistair as an adopted son of a childless section of House Filsroix-Dunberg, a once-small union between two merchant families that had grown into a powerful clan to rival some of the greater politicians in prosperity, wealth and position. While he did not grow up under the wing of the main family, his parents’ connections to the other relatives gave Ethelsten valuable friends and allies throughout his youth, granting him access to various tutors and collections of literature. In his early teens, he especially fell in love with the studies of biology and medicine, particularly Parrellian medicine and the works of the Queen’s Apothecariate. As he read on and on, he began to experiment on his own - he would eagerly run around the gardens of his parents’ townhouse in search of wounded birds and animals and bring along his concoctions and bandages. Some, he saved - others, well… Progress requires sacrifice.
Then one day, as Ethelsten was making his way home from the library, he heard a pained squeal. Like the surrounding civilians, he rushed to the source of the cry only to find a man surrounded by two peers, bethieved of one leg thanks to clumsy axe strike by a third pale and motionless peer, whose shock still kept him from dropping the blood-dripping axe. All who saw knew the man were long for this world.

All but Ethelsten.

The lad did not hesitate. He shoved and pushed aside the people in his way, all the while stabbing his hands into his satchel that he kept with him at all times these days. From it he extracted his tourniquet, a leather strap with an iron buckle where the leather was tied to a handle, and as many linen bandages and handkerchiefs as he could find. He knelt down next to the man, much to the surprise of the onlookers. Although they discouraged him from helping, reasoning that even if a child like him could somehow stop the massive bleeding, the man would likely die of infections in a month at most. Even the man’s peers looked skeptically at Ethelsten preparing a flask of barley wine after the tourniquet had been set. As the now-fainted man’s leg was drenched in nose-stingingly strong barley wine, a flock of guards broke through the wall of onlookers. There, they marveled momentarily at the deft, young hands wrapping the bloody leg in white strips and sheets, and one of them in particular made note of the young physician’s face. This guardsman was in truth not a guardsman at all, as his dress much indicated. As fate would have it, this man had been escorted around the quarter by these very guards, and the man’s beige robes, sigiled leather satchel and white, linen hat perfectly described his profession:

An apothecary.

After Ethelsten had finished, the apothecary knelt down beside him and ran his ageing eyes over the handiwork, noting everything from the zig-zagging pattern of the bandages to the brown stains of wine. Ethelsten, meanwhile, was shocked to see the robes and sigils of the order he had read so much about throughout his life - he struggled to control the beats of his heart.

The apothecary ordered the guards to fetch a stretcher and stood up, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. Ethelsten rocketed to his feet and looked down. For an uncomfortable pause, the apothecary said nothing. Ethelsten was certain that the master had uncovered a mistake - the bandage was too loose; the barley wine, too weak; the--

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder. Ethelsten looked up at the smiling, shaven face and then at the apothecary’s other hand, in which laid a sigil.

“Take this to your parents, son. Tell them Estebahn of Wisserbury gave it to you.”

Ethelsten knew that name. He had seen it on the covers of countless tomes - a legend in the world of medicine. Too awestruck to even formulate a response, he was left in the alley, surrounded by crowds that managed to absorb the gravity of the situation before him. Much faster than his sensations could return was Ethelsten tossed into the air as a hero. A warmth manifested in him - a joy and a dedication. He would devote his life to the practices of the Apothecariate, and he would aid every person he could. So he swore as he soared up and down above the crowd throughout the alley.

The boy brought the sigil back to his family and told his parents what he had done. Both could hardly believe it, but the sigil was in his hand and Ethelsten had never been much of a pickpocket. Thus he was sent to Her Majesty Parrel the Queen’s Monastery Hospital of Wisserbury, a section of the academic quarter, and there, the boy quickly grew into a man under the guidance of his mentor Estebahn, and his skill only improved as time went on. However, as he aged and the praise built up, a blackness of vanity filled his once altruistic heart. His connections to his family had made life at the monastery quite comfortable for him and his friends, though his high spending and standard of living upset some of his older peers. As Ethelsten neared his thirties, he had become an integral part of the monastery’s daily affairs, having been elected to serve among the high apothecaries. It would be one black day in his thirty-sixth year that all of his work would be taken away from him.

A shipment of wounded from outside the gate came to the monastery - nothing was out of the ordinary in that regard. Such events were weekly, or even daily at times. Ethelsten donned his robes and approached his patient, a young guardsman whose day at work had likely been his first. The apothecary was confident in his skill, however - today would not be his last.

“... The crown…”

Ethelsten looked up. The guardsman was looking at him with groggy eyes - or looking past him. It was unclear whether he was truly conscious, but nevertheless, Ethelsten had been certain the lad had said something.

“... The crown…” the lad repeated. Now Ethelsten was certain. He wrapped the final strips of linen around the cut on the guard’s leg and approached his head.

“What crown?”

“... The crown…”

The guard was evidently much too wary to answer his question. However, just as he was returning to work, Ethelsten noticed a gilded glimpt in the box of the patient’s belongings. He shot a sideways glance at the guard - the poppies were beginning to take effect. The only noise in the room were two breaths - one slow and dull; the other quick with anticipation. Ethelsten approached the box and duck around quietly. There, underneath a coin pouch and a sweaty shirt, was indeed a golden crown, more beautiful than any jewelry he had even laid his eyes on. He removed his hat and tried it on. It was a perfect fit, even for his sharp skull.

Another sideways glance aimed at the patient left his eyes. He asked himself so: What would a simple guardsman do with such a beautiful artifact? Sell it, naturally, then gamble away the money. No - no, no, no. Ethelsten couldn’t allow that. It was far too valuable for such a fate. No - it was Ethelsten’s duty to take it, take it and…

Huh, what would he personally do with it?

Ethelsten looked back to the histories he had read as a child - some of them features crowns, and those adorned the heads of kings and queens. Once more, he planted the crown on his head, this time walking over to a wide, green glass flask on his shelf to mirror himself in it.

Yes… He knew exactly what to do with it.

There came a weak groan from the bed behind him and Ethelsten nearly threw the crown across the room as he pulled it off. He would have to be careful - already he had enemies at the top. Him stealing from patients would be a most perfect pin to stick in his wheels. He stuffed the crown in his satchel and continued as usual.

When the patient woke up from his poppy-induced coma, he asked groggy questions, most regarding a certain shiny crown he was certain he had brought with him. Ethelsten gave him a smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“Son, hallucinations are common after blood loss.”

“But, Master Ethelsten… I was certain I-...”

The guardsman was sent on his merry way back on duty later that day, thoroughly convinced that it had all been a dream. Ethelsten locked the door to his room. For the first time in nearly a week, he dared open his satchel. The golden glitter within sent tremors through his bones and sparks through his veins. He reached inside and felt the cold, clean metal against his fingertips. Softly, he wrapped his hand around it and--

“Ethelsten?” came a voice followed by a series of knocks. Ethelsten sucked in a panicked breath and satcheled the crown once more, swinging the bag behind his back. He dusted himself off and opened the door. On the other side stood his old mentor Estebahn, over-ripened with the type of age that turned his currently grinning face into a nightmarish scowl. Of course, the two of them shared nothing like the friendship they once had had - their relationship had suffered greatly as Ethelsten had grown wiser, better, arrogant, and Estebahn, older, stricter, paranoid. The once-inseparable teacher and student relationship had been drowned in bitter acids of rivalry.

Ethelsten knew why he was here and opened as they once had, inciting an even more malicious smirk from his former mentor. “Oh, we are merely here for a quick look-over. A sister informed us that a patient of yours had dropped something on the way out and we would like to help you find it.”

Ethelsten had begun to sweat. No one had been with him throughout the whole procedure - the nurse who had undressed his patient was among his most trusted. Had she betrayed him? Had she perhaps been one of his informants all along?

“What would that be?” Ethelsten had responded as calmly as he could. “Certainly, if he left something behind, I shall find it right away and have it sent to the barracks.”

“Yes, you see - it may be faster if we look together.”

“I really don’t think that’s--”

“Look, I even brought some friends to aid us further.” Behind Estebahn had flanked guards. Ethelsten had felt a surge of panic in his belly, and the grinning elder could smell the terror reeking from him like a horrid perfume. The elder smacked his lips over greening teeth and paling gums as he stepped inside.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“You know what I’m talking about, son.” The elder’s tone quickly lost the false affection he had forced earlier. Now the guards had surrounded Ethelsten and the apothecary blinked in every direction, desperate for an exit. In his panic, he thought of a single sentence.

“What would you do with it?”

The elder pursed his wrinkly lips and hummed. “... I haven’t given it much thought.” He shot Ethelsten a sharp sneer. “What would you?”

It was at that point that one of Ethelsten’s closest allies and friends, Gadwick, arrived at the commotion and bellowed, “What is going on here?!”

Despite the elder’s best efforts, neither him nor the guards could avoid a growing crowd now that they had been discovered. No matter the crime of the culprit, one did not kill someone inside a monastery to Parrel the Queen - not so all could see, anyway. Estebahn was forced to retreat, granting Ethelsten the opportunity he needed.

He told Gadwick and his other friends as much as he could afford to and explained that his enemies had grown brave and impatient. He would have to flee the monastery - perhaps even the city. His friends agreed, and so they aided him first out of the monastery, then out into the wilderness aboard a peasant’s cart.

There, armed with nothing but a hidden dagger and the knowledge in his head, the apothecary remained, letting the beast dragging the cart decide where he would go next. However, it wouldn’t truly decide. In his satchel of supplies laid, after all, his destiny.

Personality:

While Ethelsten is very much a sociable and amiable character, he may be perceived as arrogant and patronising to some. He also has a tendency to favour a wealthy lifestyle and can be of the complaining sort if achieving such is impossible. He is ambitious and to a certain degree altruistic, though the childlike joy from helping people has been replaced by a more cynical care for the money and knowledge granted to him for his work. Summarised, Ethelsten can be described as kind, yet arrogant and corrupt. His favourite food is roast pheasant with bread and gravy.

As long as the peoples of Pertovia have worshipped the Queen, there have existed those that follow the path of the physician. They started out as a union of medicinemen and shamans who found comfort and purpose in her words and love, seeking to replicate it on Pertovia through the act of rescuing others from bitter death. This movement quickly organised itself in small camps known as Homes of Healing where the sick and wounded would be treated free of charge, and medicine could be studied and debated.

Over time, the movement grew and the need for greater control and infrastructure grew, as well. As the number of patients quickly spiraled to an impossible number to treat, some began to demand fees of food and valuables to balance the stress of work. At first, the fees were quite low, and some medicinemen grew incredibly rich due to their deft skill and shrewd sense of business. These wealthy medicinemen began hiring the others in the order that they deemed fit to work for them, paying them in food rations. All who worked for them were obligated to charge a fee when treating their patients, a percentage of which would be given to their leader. Now, most of their weakest patients could no longer afford treatment, and were forced to look elsewhere. Some of the shamans saw this as a gross violation against the code of Parrel, and thus left the movement to travel to other parts of the country, starting similar movements over again.

Those that did remain hired builders and crafters to turn the Homes of Healing into great stone castles, to honour Parrel, of course, but mostly to elevate themselves to what they felt they deserved to be: kings and queens. As their once humble camps grew into castles, guards and specialists needed to be hired - people congregated around these sources of health and wisdom, and as did the Filth. It is not known how many of these monasteries have fallen to the Filth, be it either through direct destruction or slow corruption from within, but around Pertovia, there are colossal ruins engraved with desperate final prayers to Parrel, signed with apologies for neglect.

It was not until recent years that this movement which has risen and fallen all over the country for hundreds, if not thousands of years, found a haven of safety in Illistair. With such great walls and well-trained guards in employment of the mayor, the now-dubbed Apothecariate of Her Majesty Parrel the Queen could concentrate their funds elsewhere. Thus, the greatest monastery on the island was built: Her Majesty Parrel the Queen’s Monastery Hospital of Wisserbury, with extensive capacity for both patients and students. If one wishes to become an apothecary, this is the place to learn.

Apart from within certain monasteries, the order has little to no communications with other factions, and can by no means be considered one great organised effort that spans Pertovia. They simply exist all over for a time until they either fade away, break apart or are destroyed by the Filth. In addition to Wisserbury, there are two other operational monastery hospitals on the island: Osterbury, a small church to Pertovia on the outskirts of Illistair - lately, they have suffered greatly at the hands of the Filth and are at the brink of collapse; and Nursenbury, a large monastery in Jornoston led by a cult of Parrel with a particularly disliked spin on the Queen’s canon.

Name: Isolda Foy, Currently calling herself Ingrid Feldspar

Title: The Kinslayer, The Red Knife of Kendles, Friendly

Age: 25

Appearance: Isolda is roughly 5'5” and has pale skin that looks slightly sunburnt. Her hair, which used to be a dark brownish-blonde, is now black thanks to various natural dyes. Considering the Friends of Foy may still be looking for her, Isolda is less concerned with preserving her original hair color and more interested in not getting killed. The former thief has the same pale blue eyes as her late mother, Angrboda Seidr, and the same heart-shaped face. However, due to spending the last three years living off the land, Isolda's visage has become gaunt and her high cheekbones are quite prominent. This is also reflected in her physique. The dark-haired young woman has the wiry musculature of an athlete or someone that spends most of their time outdoors. Her current hardships notwithstanding, Isolda has a warm, welcoming smile that makes her eyes crinkle in a manner some might consider childlike. However, one need only look into those blue, strangely sad eyes to see this "child" has witnessed a fair amount of pain and suffering.

Isolda generally wears undyed homespun garments, though she occasionally makes a point of speaking with traveling merchants in hopes of bartering for new clothes. At the moment, she's wearing a beautifully dyed, dark blue hooded cloak of Jornish wool. This fine cloak is draped over a ragged breastplate of cured leather and a long-sleeved homespun tunic. Breeches of undyed homespun as well as black-dyed calfskin boots and gloves complete Isolda's eclectic ensemble. The young woman rarely goes anywhere without her travel-stained leather knapsack, and she always has at least two or three daggers tucked into the wide leather belt around her waist. Truth be told, she looks like the average traveler you might encounter on Pertovia's dangerous roads.

One thing that does make her stand out is the silver chain she wears around her pale, slender neck. A wooden medallion that has been carved to resemble the face of a snarling wolf dangles from this chain. Isolda keeps the necklace tucked into her tunic to avoid drawing undue attention to herself, but, when she's alone, she'll often glance at it with a look of profound melancholy. It's one of the few things that can dislodge the former thief's perpetual grin.

Personality: Isolda is a kind-hearted, generous woman that will not hesitate to help others. Of course, she's no fool. Due to her upbringing and the circumstances surrounding her departure from Kendles, Isolda approaches most situations with a great deal of caution. If a traveler on the road is behaving oddly for no apparent reason, Isolda will find a place to hide so she can discern if she's about to walk into a trap. Once her paranoia has been quelled, the former thief is always ready with a smile and an offer of food or drink, which she'll trade for news of the goings-on in Pertovia. The moment violence threatens, however, the dark-haired woman will either try to flee or, if escape isn't possible, draw her daggers and set to work. Unlike many of the bandits that wander the wilds, Isolda derives no joy from killing. In fact, her normally cheerful expression becomes almost sickly when she fights. She also never strikes first if she can help it. There's a hesitance, perhaps even a hint of fear, to Isolda when she fights that makes her graceful, swift movements jerky and spastic. While she's able to dart around slower, heavier blows, it's clear the dark-haired woman is weighed down by something beyond the physical. In any event, she has no compunctions about looting those that have attacked her.

This is Pertovia, after all, where death lurks around every corner.

Background Information: Isolda Foy was born in an isolated hovel near the western edge of Kendles during a terrible thunderstorm. Her mother, a stoic, pale woman with fiery reddish-orange hair and blue tattoos adorning her body, was named Angrboda Seidr and claimed to hail from some frozen hellscape on the mainland. Her father, on the other hand, was none other than Waldemar "The Wolf" Foy, the charismatic and ruthless leader of the Friends of Foy. The Friends of Foy, which were known by most as the Friends, happened to be one of the most powerful bands of thieves, cut-throats, and assassins in the village. In any case, nobody is entirely sure what transpired during the night of Isolda's birth. The only people in the ramshackle hovel were Waldemar, Angrboda, and a midwife Waldemar trusted. As the rain petered out and the last echoes of thunder boomed across Kendles, only the Wolf and the midwife emerged. Waldemar was clutching a small, pale infant with hair as dark as his own as he made his way back to the manor house that served as the Friends of Foy's headquarters. Anybody with half a brain assumed Angrboda died in childbirth, but others weren’t so sure. Waldemar had many enemies, and it was no secret that this soft-spoken, foreign woman held a special place in the gang leader’s heart. Perhaps the Wolf was simply tying up a loose end?

Regardless, Waldemar Foy had what he'd wanted for several years. He had an heir, someone he could pass his teachings, and the Friends of Foy, onto before he passed. He wasn't a young man anymore, and, between the endless Filth attacks and the dangers posed by Kendles' other gangs, Waldemar knew it was only a matter of time before death claimed him. The Wolf was nothing if not pragmatic. Why else would he have his heavily pregnant beloved give birth in a shack, away from the prying eyes and listening ears of his adversaries?

Despite the volatile and unpredictable nature of Kendles, Waldemar was able to give his daughter a surprisingly stable upbringing. His first priority, of course, was to teach her how to defend herself, and nobody in the village knew more about knifework than the Wolf. He also spent a great deal of time instructing her on how to move swiftly, confidently, and most importantly, quietly. By the age of six, Isolda, who quickly earned herself the nickname "Friendly" because of her bright smile, was spending hours on end with stilettos in her hands while she darted across the rooftops of Kendles alongside her father.

During these training sessions, Waldemar would also lecture his daughter about the other groups that struggled to eke out some kind of existence in the village. Most of them were little more than roving bands of thugs, but a few were dangerous enough to challenge the Friends. The Coterie Reborn. The Silver Lane Bullyboys. The Pariahs. The One-Eyes. And, of course, the Filth Eaters, the most deranged and terrifying gaggle of madmen in the entire settlement. This gang was the greatest threat to the Friends of Foy, and Waldemar made a point to teach Isolda how to recognize the signs of an imminent attack by these crazed worshippers of the Filth. He also took great pains to ensure his daughter learned to read and write, though he was shocked by how quickly she mastered reading. Isolda struggled with writing for several years, and still writes much slower than she reads, but she was already reading Hamlin's theses on Filth incursions by the time she was twelve.

Waldemar, despite his better judgment, doted on Isolda while impressing upon her the importance of what was expected of her. The Friends of Foy needed to be her first and only priority.

And then, not long after her eighteenth name day, something unexpected happened.

Isolda was accompanying a small group of Friends as they visited the Last Stop Tavern, one of Kendles’ more permanent and well-known structures, to collect “protection money.” As the thieves were making their way back to the sprawling, fortified manor house the Friends had claimed as their own not long after their founding, they were attacked by twenty Filth Eaters. While the gangs of Kendles fought each other all the time, everyone knew Isolda Foy was the Wolf’s daughter. She was well-liked by many due to her affable nature and willingness to help others. Her kindness notwithstanding, Waldemar’s wrath would be cataclysmic if he learned his daughter had been hurt or worse. Isolda put her knives to good use that day, but, in the end, there were too many Filth Eaters and too few Friends of Foy. As a hulking, heavily scarred thug with a pock-marked face knocked her to the ground, however, something changed. Isolda heard what sounded like drums pounding in the back of her head. Her friends, her father’s men, lay bleeding and shitting themselves in their death throes around her. And now, this whoreson was going to kill her.

And Isolda erupted.

Consumed by a blinding rage unlike anything she’d experienced, the eighteen-year old woman rolled away from her assailant’s killing blow. She started cackling, laughing as if this whole scenario was a joke as she hamstrung the brute and slit his throat. The remaining Filth Eaters tried to circle Isolda, but she never stopped moving. Her iron stilettos danced through her pale, slender fingers, opening throats and spilling blood in a way that seemed so achingly beautiful, so sweet, so magical. For some reason, her throat hurt. It ached. It burned. It wasn’t until Isolda stood, alone and surrounded by corpses, in front of the Last Stop Tavern, that she realized it was because she’d been screaming the entire time. Blinking and looking down at her slender, toned frame, Isolda Foy saw she was drenched in blood and the Filth Eaters were dead. The people of Kendles that had come to watch the spectacle, many hoping to see the arrogant Friends of Foy knocked down a few pegs, just stared. Slowly, Isolda painfully limped back to the manor house and called for someone to find a healer. Waldemar heard whispers and rumors of what had happened, but, in truth, he was just glad his successor hadn't been killed.

Time marched on as it always does. The Friends of Foy continued to grow in strength and power, eventually absorbing the One-Eyes and the Silver Lane Bullyboys, though there were still enough lesser gangs, not to mention the Filth Easters, to keep them from completely controlling Kendles. Isolda flourished, becoming wiry and slender despite her love of fine drink and rich food, and started assuming more control over the Friends’ day-to-day activities. Her father was proud beyond words. And she hadn’t had another incident since the battle with the Filth Eaters, but memories of that conflict still haunted Isolda. She had no idea that kind of rage lurked within her.

Still, there was so much to do and never enough hours in the day. Isolda enjoyed spending time amongst the rough, uncouth people of Kendles even though her interactions with some of them ended violently. In truth, she often wondered what the village could become if it weren’t for the constant infighting and Filth incursions. She also marveled at how resilient and determined the few families that had made the settlement their home were. Isolda admired them, and, over time, many of them came to know her as a decent, altruistic woman with a good head on her shoulders.

A week before her twenty-second name day, Isolda was counting the day's take in her father’s office within the Friends of Foy's manor stronghold. She dropped one of the Illistair ration stamps she’d been inspecting, and it fell under the desk. As she bent down to retrieve it, however, the blonde-haired woman noticed something odd. There was a small iron lockbox beneath her father's desk. After a brief moment of hesitation, Isolda’s curiosity got the better of her so she grabbed the lockbox and managed to jimmy it open.

Inside were a few random objects. A lock of reddish-orange hair. A silver chain with a wooden medallion carved to look like a snarling wolf’s face dangling from it. And a letter written by Isolda’s father that was addressed to her mother. The words were unspeakably sweet and tender, but Isolda felt her heart drop into her stomach when she read that Waldemar regretted killing Angrboda but believed it had to be done. He couldn’t afford to have weaknesses his enemies could exploit.

Her mother, a woman that Isolda had never known, had been murdered by her father.

Now, the young Kend knew Waldemar had his reasons for doing what he’d done. And yet, the more she read through the letter, the more frantic the drums beating in the back of her skull became. Without even bothering to put the lockbox back, the young woman rose from her father’s desk and made her way to his bedchamber. The two men guarding his room were dozing at their posts so it was a simple matter for her to sneak up and cut their throats as rage consumed her.

This wasn't right. She had to stop. She needed to stop and think about what she was doing.

But she couldn’t.

The drums were like thunder in her head. Isolda heard someone let out a wet gargle and felt something warm splatter across her face. And then she blinked, wiping gore off her pale, heart-shaped visage, and looked down at her father’s corpse. It looked like he’d been mauled by a dog. Isolda tasted blood in her mouth and spat something leathery out onto the bed. It was her father’s left ear. Breathing heavily and hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, Isolda immediately opened one of the windows in her father’s chamber and dove out into the darkness. The silver chain with the wooden wolf medallion hanging from it was clutched tightly in her right hand.

And so it was, with screams of outrage and horror following her, that Isolda Foy abandoned her childhood home.

She was confused, scared, and full of regret. Why had she done this? The last time this had happened was nearly two years ago, and now her father was gone. Slain by her own hand. Shuddering and vomiting on the roots of a nearby tree, Isolda continued to run, putting as much distance between her and Kendles as possible. Unbeknownst to her, the remains of her father so horrified the Friends of Foy they started referring to her as the Red Knife of Kendles. And as the Kinslayer.

Over the next three years, Isolda Foy, who often went by the name Ingrid Feldspar to avoid recognition, wandered Pertovia, doing her best to interact with people as little as possible. She was a monster. She had to be. She’d killed her own father. No man or woman is more hated than the kinslayer. This guilt ate at her, gnawing at her constantly, and yet, she forced herself to keep smiling. Yes, she’d done a terrible thing, a monstrous thing, but what was done was done. She still needed to eat and find clean drinking water and the wilds of Pertovia were far from safe. She could wallow in her guilt and shame after she found what she needed to survive.

Recently, after seeking refuge from a violent rainstorm inside a crumbling ruin carved from white marble, Isolda found something unusual. It was a simple ivory circlet with a large, oval-shaped onyx set into the front. It was a crown. The young woman picked up the crown and stowed it in her knapsack, trying not to think of all the stories she’d read about crowns and the terrible fate that oft befell those that wore them, before setting off into the darkness once more.

After all, the darkness is where monsters belong, isn’t it?

Favorite Food: Isolda's favorite dish is roasted pheasant smothered in gravy along with as much red wine as she can drink. Preferably more red wine than she can drink.

Physical
Might: 2 (A Man among Men)
Coordination: 3 (Reflexes of a Cat)
Fortitude: 2 (Skin of Skin)

Psycho
Intellect: 3 (The Quick)
Wisdom: 2 (Straightforward)
Willpower: 3 (Plenty of Will)

Skills and Training
-Knifework: Thanks to her father's rigorous training regimen, Isolda can turn almost anything with an edge into a lethal weapon. As Waldemar always used to say, "You can never have too many knives."

-Quiet as Death: Another part of Waldemar's tutelage involved teaching his daughter the finer points of sneaking around places she shouldn't be. Unfortunately, this particular skill would ultimately result in the Wolf's demise.

-I Know People: Despite being away from Kendles for nearly three years, most people passing through the settlement have either met or spent time with Isolda at some point. She’s befriended many of them, and some may be willing to help her in the future.

-Survival at any Cost: Spending three years in the wilds of Pertovia has bred a certain toughness into Isolda. While she’s still willing to help others, the young woman has no intention of dying for anyone without cause.

-Quick Hands: As a former member of the Friends of Foy, Isolda knows how to relieve people of their belongings through trickery and stealth. She does tend to be cautious when picking her targets, however.

-Literate: Waldemar “The Wolf” Foy always intended for his daughter to take control of the Friends of Foy after his death. With this in mind, he taught her how to read and write, though she vastly prefers reading over writing.

-The Beast Within: Isolda has no idea why there are moments when her anger becomes an all-consuming, overwhelming inferno. All she knows is these fits are usually presaged by the sound of drums thundering in the back of her skull. This berserker rage doesn’t make the young woman any stronger, but it does make her more willing to take risks in the heat of battle. It's also what ultimately earned her the monikers "Kinslayer" and the "Red Knife of Kendles."

Most Memorable Moment: One moment that will always stick with Isolda is the image of her father’s mangled, bloody visage staring up at her from his bed. That feeling of gut-wrenching, sickening horror and shame when she realized she'd killed the man that had taught her everything haunts the former thief to this day.

When a young man named Waldemar Foy fled some unknown horror in Jornorston and claimed a crumbling lean-to as his own, nobody in Kendles paid much attention. The dark-haired Jornishman was ambitious, but so was everybody that hadn't experienced how dangerous life in the village could be. He'd learn soon enough. Surprisingly, after spending a year in Kendles, Waldemar's quick hands, wit, and willingness to do the most menial and thankless tasks earned him a place in the settlement’s most respectable gang. The Coterie. The leader of the Coterie at the time, a gorgeous woman named Celeste Kalten, eventually took Waldemar under her wing as a protégé, and, if rumors were to be believed, a lover. This gave Waldemar access to the meager resources the Coterie had at its disposal.

Including poisons like anthac root and lycia sap.

It was no surprise to anyone when Celeste was found dead in her bedroom a few years later, a puddle of spilled red wine spreading beneath her pallid corpse like blood. What was astonishing, however, was how effectively and swiftly Waldemar conducted the investigation to uncover the Coterie leader's murderers. In less than a week, he'd found the conspirators and had them drawn and quartered in Kendles' main square. Even the Coterie's eldest members were impressed.

After a brief period of debate, these aged thieves unanimously chose Waldemar as the interim leader of the gang until a more suitable candidate could be found. They never managed to find one. It wasn't long before Waldemar was either "persuading" Kendles' smaller gangs and guilds to join the Coterie or outright destroying them. This period, which lasted nearly five years, would come to be known as the "Reign of the Wolf" by the Kends, and it is considered one of the most dangerous times in the village’s history.

By the time Waldemar "The Wolf" Foy celebrated his twenty-fifth name day, the Coterie had been rechristened the Friends of Foy, and there were few factions within Kendles willing or able to defy them. Furthermore, they took over a fortified manor house that had once belonged to another band of thieves the Friends had conquered. Not long after this, Angrboda Seidr arrived in Kendles. Something about the stoic, foreign woman captivated Waldemar, and he wasted no time in courting this beautiful stranger. They would ultimately marry, but it took them several years to bear children. And the cost, unfortunately, was Angrboda's life.

Despite his beloved's death, Waldemar continued to lead the Friends of Foy for the next twenty-two years before he was slain, supposedly by his daughter, at the age of forty-seven. In the wake of their leader's demise, the Friends of Foy have been locked in a seemingly endless conflict with their greatest rival, the Filth Eaters. Of course, most of the village's inhabitants know it's only a matter of time before the Filth returns and batters these two warring gangs into submission.

Current Leaders of the Friends of Foy: Baldric Kroppen and his two lieutenants, Tylo “Tiny Tylo” Schaffer and Claudia Wurtz

Name: Keira
Title: The Brave
Age: Late Teens
Appearance:

Keira is short even for her age. She has an average build, a shoulder length mop of dirty blond hair, jade eyes and a face best described as plain. A long scar slashes across her left cheek where she once just barely avoided being stabbed in the face. She wears an old black coat, thigh length boots and long finger-less gloves over a simple tunic. She has a belt with a few pouches holding various supplies (such as rations, two hip flasks and her trusty pickax) and a rucksack holding a worn shovel, rope, a small axe, and other essential materials. Numerous knives are pushed into the tops of her boots. Atop her head she wears a battered old wide brimmed hat that hides her bronze crown for the time being.

Said crown is made from old bronze and is described with words in an old tongue made illegible by time. Five mismatched oval shaped green gems of various kinds arc from one brow to the other over a central moonstone that sits like a pupil and iris-less third eye on the forehead. This central gem seems to be the only to have not been a replacement. The traces of pigment can be seen on the moonstone and eroded writing.

---

Personality

Keira is energetic, curious, tenacious, self confident and can be a cocky little shit at times, though that’s mostly only when she is drunk. She is convinced that she can handle anything with a bit of skill, cunning, hard work and heaps of determination. She’s also has a genuine interest in history. You don’t make part of a living off of digging up old things if you aren't interested in what you’ll find.

Keira hates the Filth with a passion unusual for someone who has only lost their home to it. Is is a hatred and anger unhampered by fear. Some say the girl is still filled with that typical youthful belief in her own invincibility but in truth she is entirely aware of her own weaknesses and yet still believes that if she struggles hard enough and for long enough she can overcome anything.

Background Information:

Keira does not remember her parents and was instead raised by her grandfather, an old recluse who lived in an old hovel built in, and under, the remains of a massive old tree. The old man was a rather well known sage who lived out in the middle of nowhere and dispensed wisdom to those who would make the long journey to find him. Heroes, scholars and stalkers, all seeking the wisdom of the past, have all passed through the man’s door but more often he played host to nomadic tribes in search of a night's entertainment or desperate common folk seeking answers in an entropic world. The old man was once an archivist from Illistair but was thrown out for some slight against the previous mayor and has since built upon his knowledge though stories others have shared with him over the many years since.

Keira grew up among all this, among the stories, guests and old trinkets that litter her grandfather's home. While he raised her as best he could, from a young age Keira realized she could not rely on the aging man forever, and so even at a young age she had mostly taken over the task of getting food on their table. Gifts from guests are an unreliable source of food and so she has learned to hunt the beasts of the woods, to catch them in snares and trap falls, and to farm meager crops around their woodland home.

Her final source of sustenance began when she stumbled upon some relatively untouched ruins and, thinking of all the old trinkets her guardian already had, decided to seek out one more as a gift. The old man has worn the old copper ring she found on that day ever since. Since that day she has grown to be a somewhat proficient archaeologist, digging up the graves of old kingdoms and presenting her grandfather with them for appraisal. Any of her finds that they decide not to keep she pawns off too people in the large towns. She prefers Kendles, because the scum that call it home took no issue in selling a teenager vodka, which has become the lass’s main vice, nor did the patrons of her favorite bar have any problem teaching her a few unscrupulous things like how fistfight or throw a knife.

For a time life was good, or as good as it could be after the end of the world. They had food, friendly guests and an ever increasing supply of oddities. But her grandfather wasn’t getting any younger and though his mind remained as sharp as ever his body was slowly failing him. As time went on he became less and less able to look after himself and forest living began to take its toll. Keira began to fear for his safety while she was away, a fear that came to a head when the filth came for their tiny home and the trove of artifacts they had squirreled away from there.

Keira had been spending less and less time away when the attack came, but even then it was pure luck that she was there at the time. Before that night every time she had encountered the monsters before she had run or hide like she’d been told since she was young, but knowing her grandfather would never be able to escape the hoard she went outside to confront them. She was not particularly strong or fast or tough, nor wise nor particularly cunning but when the horrors that plagued this world came for her and her own she did not flinch, she did not falter and she held her god damned ground. On that day she learned three things. That she despised the Filth with her entire being, that the nightmarish creatures could be felled, that they could be beaten, and that she would not be able to win against them forever. Not here. Not alone.

When dawn came the two of them made their way to Illistair, carrying only what they could. There they convinced the new mayor to look past her grandfather's transgressions against his predecessor and, with the help of a few contacts (old and new) in the archivist's ranks, gained entry to the city. They moved into one of the cramped homes nestled within its walls only to encounter an inevitability almost as bad as the Filth. Rent. Keira has taken up treasure hunting full time while her grandfather plays host to a more select cadre of guests who enter the city hungry for his wisdom.

Months after leaving Keira was traveling close to their old home and decided to look it over for anything of value left. The filth had come and destroyed most of what they could not carry with them to the city, yet in the shattered remains of a locked chest she had brought home the night before the attack she found what had finally stirred their wrath: a crown.

To her there could only be one explanation as to why they had tried to kill them for possessing it and yet failed to destroy the artifact itself.

Fear.

Name: Rodrick “Red” of… where’s he say he’s from, again?

Title: Why, Red’s not enough for you?

Age: Somewhere around thirty. It’s hard to tell.



There is, in truth, not much red about Rodrick. His hair and beard, as scraggly and unkempt as anyone’s, though not completely wild, are more of a light brown that could at best pass for a vague russet in poor light. Nor is his skin anywhere near what one may call ruddy; even when heated by drink, its worn, calloused span is of a sallow, almost greyish hue. Indeed, one look at this short, stockily built man will not reveal much regarding the origin of his moniker, nor his age - discolouring tones in his hair and creases on his face betray that he cannot be younger than twenty-five years or so, but beyond that, he could be anywhere across two decades. What such a look would show, though, is that he evidently does not neglect the simple needs and pleasures of the body despite an altogether harsh life. Under his furrows, callouses and mess of a beard, he looks well-fed for someone who wanders the road, stands firmly on his feet and never shakes or fidgets, come cold, rain or uncomfortable silence. Attentive if weary eyes look out from under bushy eyebrows, and when he speaks one almost does not notice the gaps and spots of grime among his yellowed, but robust teeth.

His attire is likewise a cut above the worst of the ragged misery met on the travelling path, consisting of worn and oft-mended, but clearly well-made warm woollen travelling clothes, turned to an indistinct beige by age and use. Covering them are a light boiled leather cuirass and pair of boots that might not be out of place on a soldier, completed by a rigid cap and a belt holding the hem of his tunic doubled-up to shorten it. Tied to it are likewise an axe and a knife, used but well-kept, and a few simple wooden charms, supposedly to ward off the Filth and other misfortunes. What is remarkable about him, however, are the pouches and bags he carries, a full three, capacious and firmly fastened.



Rodrick is someone who does things most people would rather not for a living, and, in his opinion, that counts for something, both for himself and for the world that has come to see such things. That is not to say that he thinks very highly of himself; used to having no one but his own thoughts as travelling companions, he has learned to see what he takes to be the simplicity of his character with a good-tempered humility. A sign of what times have come to though he may be, he is still the man who genuinely enjoys the rough solace of a bed under a roof every time, and whose desires are no loftier than a cut of roasted lamb and a keg of ale; who holds to superstition and stolid fatalism because he lacks the faith to be truly religious; who went and left behind home and family because he wanted to live more than he believed in whatever they were taking a stand for. All of this he knows and is not ashamed of, for which one may brand him a callous and craven dullard. As long as his pockets are not empty, he will not mind.

For all this, he is not one to avoid company. Quite on the contrary, after his spells of solitude he has come to appreciate the presence of his fellows, and in good fellowship can be a jovial speaker, running his mouth about all and sundry as if to make up for the silence of his expeditions. This gregarious spirit even goes a little deeper than his wind-bitten skin, for, despite not being a paragon of altruism, he dislikes the sight of suffering, and will on occasion lend a hand to those in the direst of straits. However, most of the time the pragmatism of a difficult life and the cloud of mistrust that follows any outsider win over, and, as he has done in the past, he shrugs and walks along. The world has taught him other lessons beyond self-satisfied introspection, chief among them being that in the end, it’s always every man for himself. Like it or not, that’s just the way it is.



What’s there to my story? Sure, I’ve seen things, but everyone has if you ask around. Course, maybe not the kind I mean, not everyone, heh. What, that’s good enough? All right, I’ll start from way back at the beginning.

I’m from a little place way there to the west. What’s it called? Don’t bother, you wouldn’t know it, and if you do, you know why it don’t matter. It had people from a bit all over, but most of them’d come from Jornoston some generations afore. They’d disagreed over something with the head priest, I think. Nobody really knew by then, not even my folks, though they were from that stock too. I’d been thinking I’d go clear it up some day if anyone remembers at all, but you know the trade, all the time goes to moving hand to mouth and back.

Anyway, early as I can recall, there was five of us, mother, Parrel remember her, brother, two sisters. Never seen my father or heard much of him, not even sure he was the same one for all of us. Maybe that’s why I’ve been Red since then, you know. Mother, though, she’s not one you’d forget that easy. Woman damn well held half the place up on her own. Wasn’t the mayor or anything, but you got the feeling that without her things wouldn’t be going half as well. Still had time left to chase us around to do things, too. Taught us that if you stop, you’re good as dead straight up. Only way to make it out there.

The Filth, they came damn near every night. A right proper marvel that the place lasted generations. I think it was ‘cause it wasn’t much of a place to start with. You know how they near don’t care for no-good rags like you and me? Sure, they can’t stand a place where folk live. But I think they just couldn’t be bothered enough about our two mudholes. Never was many of them, and never seen a single big one back then, thank the gods. So, they kept us up at night, tore up a couple folks pretty regular, but didn’t come big enough to straight-up stomp us out. Until they finally did, course.

As luck had it, it was in our time. Lot of us were of age by then, even me, young folks coming up all over. Mother was still holding up strange well for never sitting still a moment. So, before, was always the old folks that thought what to do. Didn’t need much thinking for that, so we sort of got by just like that. But then, there was that fellow Enghard, lived a couple houses from us, near the middle. Couldn’t be much older than my sister Bethe, she’s the first of us. His old man’d been one of those who decided things, and when he kicked over, Enghard got it in his head we needed one proper leader, a mayor like in the Walls. Had to be him, ‘course, and I’ll be fair, he was made of the right stuff. Sharp head, his, but damn was it hard. So he starts saying that we’ve been going good for a while, Filth shouldn’a scare us, we got to start doing better. Now us, me and brother and sisters, and other folks too, old and young, we tell him, Enghard, what’re you thinking, we’ve been going good so far, we don’t need changes. But we can’t get it into that thick head he got, and a lot of the others liked what he’d been saying. Mother too, she liked it a damn lot.

A bit goes by with us talking and nothing really comes of it, and then one day after he’d been out a while with a caravan that went through now and then, he comes back with a few sheep. Everybody asks what’re you going to do with these, we don’t have room for them in here. Well, he answers, that means now we just need to get bigger, right? Now before then the Filth’d been getting angrier for a while, they must’ve known we were up to something. We weren’t that far from everywhere that we didn’t know what happened when a place got big enough to rile them up all fierce. So a lot of these folks that weren’t convinced, they started saying fuck it, we’re not sitting around waiting for the Filth to get full mad at what Enghard’s doing, and they got up and left. And one day sister Bethe gets us together, rest of our families too, some of us had one by then, and lays it out like it is. This keeps going, we’re all dead soon, we better get out too. Everybody agrees, some know places they’d rather go already.

Then we go to mother, lay it out to her too, and ‘course she’s not having it. She’s never been afraid of the Filth in her life, she’s not starting now, going to show the fuckers what good folk can do when they got a mind to it. We go back and forth some, but neither’s getting through to the other. So we say, that’s good, but you know these things never work out good, and we don’t feel like we’d get killed just to show them, we’re going. And that’s farewell. She must’ve been proper disappointed with us, but didn’t really show it, she right was of the good folk. I regret it? A bit, maybe, I’m no Filth to just leave it. But I know, and you know, that there’s no helping things like this. No shame in getting by whichever way goes.

Sure enough, I been back there once. You can’t even tell there were ever people living there. That’s that.

We’re out of the place, then, and that’s where we go different ways. Bethe and brother Johan, they want to go to Jornoston. It’s a big place, safe as it gets, and though they don’t take people in on the usual, since our folks were from there back when maybe they’ll let them stay. Sister Magrett and her man are going down south, where his folks are from. Haven’t heard of them since. Ligdon keep them, but you know what that usually means. Everyone else goes other ways.

And me? I was the last, still young like when you want to see things. The others’d gotten past it already, but not me. So I take up the scraps I had, and I say, gods keep you, I’m going to see what’s in the world. They try to get me to come with for a bit, but at last we say farewells, and I get going. I’ll tell you, I’d no idea really of what I’d do from then. Was a long way to any other place, I didn’t have a thing worth a damn. Then I remember, there’s the old tower I’d heard of a few times, maybe I can go look at that first.

I get on the path and it takes a while, but then I come to it. Got to tell you, there’s something about old broken places that feels just right to me. Not good, just right, like that’s the place I got to do something, see every corner of. Could sit all day looking at one, then get up and look around inside it for another. That’s how it is. And I found that out then. There’s not much left in the tower, but it feels a way that gives little chills, like when you hear the wind and the rain but you’re at home and don’t have to go out. Still remember it now, damn clear.

I get in, and inside it’s a lot more dull, but I think maybe there’s something else worth seeing under all the rubble. It’s heavy and grown over with weeds, but I don’t have a better thing to do, so I get to digging it up. Turned out there really wasn’t much else, but I do find some old scraps. Looks like iron, but isn’t a bit rusted, even after all that time, just dull. Most of it you can’t tell what it used to be, but there’s a knife with some signs of the handle that look real unusual, a kind I’d never seen. I take it up, maybe I can sell it for something. Way I was then, anything’d have been good.

So, then I start towards where the closest place was. It’s a couple days, so I sleep under trees and eat some berries on the way. Damn awful sleeping, that, at first, but you get used to it after a bit. When I’m there, I show it to the smith, see if he can make anything of it. Well, he scrubs it, tries to sharpen it, or whatever he did there, and will you believe it, he’s giving me an almost new axe for it. An axe’s good for a lot of things out in the woods, and for that old thing, it was the best bargain I’d ever seen. That’s when I start thinking, if I keep something like this going, I’ll make a living all right.

And that was how it started. Was tough at first, but you can get the hang of anything if you give it time, you know. I’d go into an old place, dig around, and sometimes I found something that’s worth something to someone. Sounds easy, don’t it? From here, sure, you can talk about it like it’s nothing. But out there, where it’s the real thing, it’s a whole other matter. You walk for days, huddle every night afraid the Filth’ll catch up to you, then you get there, poke around in the dust and stones, huddle again by night, and if you’re lucky you pull out something good before your food runs out. If you don’t, tough break, nobody there to catch you. I’d had a lucky strike the first time, and thrown it away, I found out. Who’d’ve known an old dull knife like that can be worth way more than an axe in the right place? Got a few more rotten deals like that before I wised up. That’s part of the life, too. Know the good places.

Kendles’s where you start, and where it’s over, too, if you can’t keep your eyes open. You won’t be getting good pay for a thing, some assholes with knives’ll want a cut of it, and if you show around too much you’ll end up with empty hands and a stab in the gut. But there’ll always be someone who’ll take anything, even small stuff what other big places won’t have and small ones can’t afford, and it’s easy to spend what you get well. Sleep under a roof a few nights, have a couple good meals before you get back out. That’s why you see me come back here every time.

The Walls, I’ve only been a few times, and aren’t anxious to get back. It’s damn far, and when you get there they don’t even let you in. Sure, if you’ve got good finds, you’ll get a fair trade, but good luck getting anything for their own damn coins in their own damn city if you’re from outside. Not worth the trip, I tell you.

Jornoston’s a special one for me. Remember how Bethe and Johan were going there? When I gone to see, turns out they made it, and got homes there too now. Guess it did count for something that our folks were from there. Anyway, they see me, say it’s great living there, quiet and safe as anything, people done real warmed up to them after a while, got families there now, all this. They tell me to settle down with them too, they’ll make it smooth with the people there. I say I don’t know, I’ve got a thing going now, show them some stuff I thought they’d like, them being all of faith in that place. And they do look right pleased, take me to show it to some priest they had there, bit of a shifty man, but not all that bad when you get talking, you know. Got some loose hands, too, with the trade he gave me. So I keep going there on the regular when I find something godly-looking, and that’s a good time for the pockets. Brother and sister’re still at it, only now they’re just saying I should settle in when I get too old to keep this up. I’m thinking, maybe. Sure, I know what they all say about the place, and it’s true, when you’re there something’s always sort of off in the folk. But I don’t really get better looks elsewhere, and I got family there, so it can’t be as bad as the word goes, you get it?

So that’s how it’s been going for years now. I get out, look, find, get back, sell, live for a bit, then it’s all over again. The better you get at it, the deeper you can go into the old places. The edges’re barely any good, I’m not the first one to think like this, but if you keep going further in, there’s things all right. Not just things you can take, sometimes just seeing them’s enough to make you think a real turn. I’ve been through some stuff in them places now, got enough stories to keep us here ‘til next harvest time. Here, I’ll show you something I got of late. Big one, innit? Got to be a crown or something, you see the sharp bits on the edge here. Course, you can’t tell under all this grime, but if you look at it this way, see how this little spot shines? It’s got to be a right kingly one.

Wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out like that, with where I found it. Was the second time I’d gone that far into any broken place, huge one, was one of their old castles or palaces or something. About half of it’s still standing, walls, rooms, all. Got the usual weeds growing in, and puddles of some kind of scum all around, but no live Filth anywhere, that’s why I went further in. Even got down some stairs under the ground, which isn’t a good thought usually, but this time I sort of knew there had to be something good in the end, you know? Them walls kept standing all this time, it’s got to be worth something. Underground, place’s not that big, though rubble’s closed up a lot of doorways, so you can’t really tell. Kept almost shitting myself thinking it’d start crawling with Filth suddenly, but nothing like that happens. So, deep at the end, there’s a place like one of those grave rooms, and on a carved stone that’s tipped over in some of that dirt, there’s this. Was damn wary about it, but there wasn’t anything else to take, so I nab it up and get out.

And I’ve had the thing since. Weird, but nobody’s cared to bargain for it so far. Why don’t I scrub off the grime? Damn, if it was shining like this all over the whole time, I’d have a crown less and a knife more somewhere in no time. ‘Sides, I’ll tell you, it just doesn’t come off. Tried knife, stones, water, fire, nothing gets it. Strange, you think?

That’s how things are in the trade, lad.



Physical

Might: 2

Coordination: 2

Fortitude: 3

Psycho

Intellect: 2

Wisdom: 3

Willpower: 3

Much of Rodrick’s practical knowledge comes from his early years, when he was one of many pairs of hands always needed somewhere. Then, he learned carpentry and mending torn cloth, tending to some meagre crops and fighting off the Filth and other threats. He never came to excel in any of these, but can still do a serviceable job at whichever if called upon. Later, as he settled into his new life, he had to learn skills like living off the land for days or weeks at a time, navigating his way through the most nondescript and labyrinthine of ancient ruins, discern what salvageable objects might be of value, selling them for a price that would satisfy him (if not what they really might be worth) and watching out for menaces to his purse and life, be they human or less so. His simple curiosity and observant spirit have led to him gathering a few tales about how people might have lived in the past, and hazard a few educated guesses of his own thanks to what knowledge he gathers in the field. Frequent talks with his surviving siblings have also given him a smattering of Jornoston’s religious lore, though that is not something he speaks of eagerly, claiming he never could make much of these matters.



The story I remember the best? That’s a good one, I’ll tell you why. Most every time I’m talking about this, folks’ll think it’s when I got out of the place I lived. Giving farewell to your mother like that, leaving her, they say, that’s got to be something you don’t forget. Well, they’re right, you don’t forget that easy.

But I’ll tell you this. You get what I do to get along? If you’re thinking like that, you don’t. When you go in the old places, you better forget the stuff you think’s that matters out here. Inside, you see the things of a world that’s not there anymore, and if you’re there a long time like me, you start to think a bit like that. What’s it matter how good or bad things are? There was people like you around there, and now they’re dead as good as the stones you’re walking on. If you’re not careful, it gets to you, this thinking. I’d know.

So what’s the worst thing that can happen to you when you get thinking like that? Well, what’s the worst thing out there, plain and simple? That’s right, the Filth. So you know what’d happen if you was thinking like that and you find them? You can’t, you’d need to do it yourself to, but you get the drift.

And still what’s worse, I seen where they come from. Sure, we all know they come from their rings. But how’d you think we know? Cause some folks seen it a few times, and some of them got back to tell. Well, you're looking at one of 'em.

Was the furthest I've ever gone into one of the old places, 'fore then and since. It was big, not the way you usually hear big about. I mean more as right big. Place could've fit the whole Kendles into it and still got room left, and that's just the part as was still upright. Couldn't guess what it must've been like that long ago. I'd gotten there early round noon, and I'd been walking through stone houses bigger than anything in the countryside till it got dark. Not much luck finding things there. Maybe the place was just too big, couldn't've searched the whole of it in a day.

I'm thinking, I'll go a little further, then I'll stop for the night, no good to be abroad when it's dark. I turn around a wall, and it's there I see it. The houses end suddenly like they're cut off, the woods don't start until a good deal further, and about halfway to them, there's it standing, one of those rings. Big one, I don't know how a bunch of rocks this tall shaped like that keeps standing at all. Can't see it clearly from where I'm at, and damn sure I'm not getting closer, but the ground round it looks sick, barely anything growing there.

I stand there, looking like I can't pull a step back to get behind the house again, and that's when I see there's a kind of, I don't know, smoke, fog inside it. Nowhere it can be coming from but the ground, and it's just there, nowhere else around. Then they start coming.

They're not coming out of anywhere, 'cause they weren't inside a thing before. They're getting through the ring, but I can see a bit past it, and damn sure there wasn't anything behind it afore. It's a thing I can't really tell how it is, 'cause stuff like that don't happen, but I see it just like that.

They're coming through, little ones, big ones, I think some weren't even walking but in the air like huge flies. It's like a muddy river, only tall as you are, and with waves, see that roof? Bigger than that. Well, and I'd been walking through the old place all day, remember, and those thoughts I'd told you about, they were getting to me. So, I'm there and can't even look away, and I think, we can't even stop a plain river, how the fuck's anyone think we can keep away something like this? Walls aren't no good, doesn't matter how big, they're so many and they come through a spot what was empty like this. I start getting more of these thoughts. You know if there was a time before the Filth? Must've been? Well, I don't know, I right don't know.

They must've known I was there, I think, that way they know what's around them. They just plain didn't care. You know me, I'm worth two coins to anyone, and for them? I must've been like one of them pebbles I'd been walking over the whole day. Didn't matter, that's that.

I don't remember how I got out of there. Didn't sleep for days afterwards, barely ate, just kept walking. Never gone that place again. Sure, I'm an idiot to get out there at all, but some things get through even to me. It's not just the ring, I know they're everywhere, but the old place's before it. And that one, I've seen them come through it.

That, lad, that's a thing you don't forget.