BurningCold

Tear the World Down

Collaboration - Suspicion and Subterfuge

Written by Drunken Conquistador, Not Fishing, and BurningCold

Gabriel turned towards the new arrival from his place near the fire. A strong looking man, the sort that would actually have a shot surviving and prospering in a Free Company, and dressed for the part too. But that thought was quickly shoved aside as Agabyzus' seized the chance to warn his host, once again, about the scheming actor. Letting the advice hang in the back of his mind, the former Thorn Captain rose up, raising a hand in greeting.

"I hope you aren't planning on keeping that mask on, my friend. It looks rather uncomfortable and it would be terribly rude for introductions."

Beric offered a warm smile, though none of that warmth quite reached his eyes. He sized Gabriel up, and for a moment was reminded of Derrick. The stranger had the look of a mercenary. Cassius's voice could be heard in Beric's head. His master would be Agabyzus, Cassius began. One of the better ones, in the sense that he never sought power for power's sake. Still, that does not mean you should trust him. Not that it mattered. Beric never intended to trust any of them, not even Cassius himself. Nevertheless, do say hello to him for me.

"Actually, this mask is more than comfortable." Beric stated, but as he said that the mask disappeared from his face. "Sometimes, I forget I'm wearing it." There was a pause, as he considered his next words. "So, we're all here for the same goal, right? I'd hate to have come all this way only to discover that I've gone mad."

"I'm here for sightseeing." Gabriel smiled. "And because a voice in my head tells me to fight the rest of the world."

"Well, tell your voice that my voice says hello." Beric quipped. Despite his relaxed words, there was still mistrust in his eyes.

"Of course, where are my manners?" Gabriel replied in mock shame. "Agatho D'amero, currently hosting Agabyzus." He finished, extending his hand.

"Beric Vendal. Currently being pestered by a theatre-loving fop named Cass." Cassius was naturally offended. This is coming from an illiterate forest-dwelling cutthroat! Beric ignored the Trickster's comeback and looked down at the extended hand. After a moment, he extended his own hand and shook. "What do you know of our mission?"

"You just missed an enlightening lecture from a giant fiery head." Gabriel joked, covering the uneasiness and discomfort that the experience left beneath humor. "In short." He shrugged. "We are to take over the world and remake it in our image or something like that. The usual for the Legion."

The sudden appearance of the self-proclaimed "god of war", Aktorr Xurtas, had left Katerina in a state of quiet musing. Beoris, too, was remaining silent, save the occasional cooing to soothe Katerina's mind when it began to race. His presence was like a ward to fend off the greater demons lurking in her mind; oft it had been Beoris's intervention that steadied her rapid breathing, the clutching tightness of her chest, the uncontrollable shaking that wracked her body. So she sat in silence, even as newcomers filtered into the camp as others slinked off; she did not trust herself to speak. Child, Beoris began. You must calm yourself. I am ever with you, dearest. I will keep you safe. Now, there are new arrivals here. This demands your attention. Go. So, steadying herself with a slow breath, she went.

Two men conversed with one another, not far from where Katerina had once rested beside Fayvre's slumbering form. The first had a rough, vaguely handsome look. Long hair extended down just past his shoulders. The man stunk of mercenary. The other was well-muscled but altogether unremarkable in Katerina's eye, save for the scar extending across his face. What a horrid thing. Agabyzus owns the caped one, child. He is delusional, yet useful. In his time, he was capable of bending the dead to his will. The other belongs to Cassius the Cunning. That one is... good company. Do not allow any charms he may possess to fool you, though. He is ambitious, like me, though he hungers for little else than change. Not once did he speak to me of what he planned to do in the case of our success. He desires chaos for chaos' sake, I suspect.

By the time Beoris had finished his speech, Katerina was within a reasonable range of the two gentleman. Three feet apart, just as her lessons taught her when matters of the court were all she was expected to tend to. She gave a little bow, a graceful smile upturning the corners of her mouth. "Sirs, it is my great pleasure to make acquaintances of the both of you. My name is Katerina."

Beric was about to question the comment about the giant fiery head, but was not entirely sure of what he should say. Instead he turned to face the newcomer. She was young, too young for this quest. She did not look like she possessed any sort of battle experience at all. Perhaps an aristocrat, or the daughter of a wealthy merchant. Beric's first thought was that she was weak; that she would be dead weight. A dangerous assumption, Cassius pointed out. Everyone here was chosen by a Legionnaire, and they have all been granted powers just like you. Just because someone cannot best you physically, does not mean they cannot best you magically or mentally.

As to her Legionnaire, Cassius continued, He is Beoris the Bastard. Charming enough, I suppose, and hungry for power, though I don't recall ever hearing about what he intended to do with that power. He desires power for power's sake, I suspect.

Beric nodded towards her, his smile fading. "Can't say a highborn girl has ever been happy to see me, but false flattery is better than nothing."

Katerina did not waver. "Who or what we were before matters little now," She maintained the pleasant, even tone of her voice. "We now serve a cause greater than ourselves." Her smile widened by a slight. "Of course I am grateful to meet two new companions." She spoke in genuine, honest shades. "Please do not think me false, sir. Honesty is a courtesy that I expect from others, thus I must give it to those I speak to in turn. I say it again, it is a pleasure to meet you, truthfully."

Within her mind, Katerina felt the reverberations of Beoris' smooth chuckle. Well done, love! Well done indeed. That performance was impeccable. Cassius may know me well enough to be wary of falsehood, but that display just now was the epitome of sincerity. Impressive indeed. Katerina, for her part, continued to look on at the two men. Despite Beoris' praise, there was a sliver of annoyance within her. The first to address her had not supplied a name. How very rude of him.

"I never said it mattered." Beric countered with a cold chuckle. As he listened to the rest of her words, Cassius butted in. I wonder what Beoris has been filling her head with, He wondered. Either she genuinely believes in her own words - meaning Beoris has his hooks deep - or she is continuing to be dishonest, meaning Beoris has trained her well, or she was already like that to begin with. You'll assume she is lying, of course? Beric subconsciously nodded, an act which Katerina would perhaps mistake as agreeing with her. Good. Also, control your body language. They might wonder what you are nodding to.

Once Katerina was finished speaking, Beric looked her straight in the eye, and for a few moments gave her a long, measuring stare, testing her resolve and searching for any trace of deception or betrayal. "Beric Vendal." He said, extending his hand once more, and never once breaking eye contact.

She didn't hesitate to take Beric's hand into her own, thankfully gloved. Why was she shaking hands with this man? He should be kneeling before her. Katerina's eyes never left Berics's, and they never for a moment betrayed anything beyond what she had presented willingly. Then, the ordeal was over and done with, as the other fellow began to speak.

"And I'm Agatho D'amero." Gabriel greeted with a short bow. "A pleasure to meet you." He added amicably. I do hope you paid attention to both of them, Agabyzus warned. No Legionnary could match Beoris and Cassius when it came to deception. Keep your guard up and your secrets away from them and their hosts. Assume that they're made of the same cloth. Gabriel suppressed a snort. As if the Prince hadn't been lecturing him on the faults of his former allies for over a decade already. Valuable lessons should be reinforced, these are not mere sellswords, Gabriel. Keep your eyes open and ears at attention.

So, the rough looking, vaguely handsome man that reeked of hired help had some manners. It was a welcome change from the gruff behavior some of her fellow legionarries possessed. "Agatho D'amero," Katerina began, a trace amount of warmth beyond the typical pleasantries entering her voice. "I look forward to a long and fruitful partnership. Tell me, what brings you here, beyond the call of your master?"

"I found his goals and reasons worth following, milady." Gabriel replied sincerely. "In my years fighting for coin across the Free Cities I came across much that could be made better, just like Agabyzus thought in his days of full life. It's my hope that our endeavor will allow me and my master to follow through this plan and replace the rotten order that straddles the land with something better."

Beric studied both of his companions. I do hope you will show some more manners to the others, Cassius cutted in once more. I said 'don't trust them, not 'do what you can to antagonize them.' In truth Beric's first impression of the girl had not been a good one, but he had noticed how she did not waver, nor did her ruse break, and that he had to respect that. "There is strength in both of you." He grudgingly acknowledged. "I look forward to seeing how that strength works in a scrap." He looked towards Katerina once more, indicating that she was the one the comment was primarily directed to, though his expression was curious instead of doubtful.

Katerina looked back at Beric unassumingly. "You needn't worry about me, Sir Vandal." And that was all she said, just as before, spoken in the same evenly calm tone.

"To more important things, then." Beric moved on. "Who is on watch duty?"

"Two of us have ventured out beyond the light of the campfire. I know not to where they go, or when they should return." She paused. "I say this only if you should volunteer for the role, so that they do not catch you unawares." Another pause. "Though, I am not opposed to keeping watch, myself. I have rather sharp eyes."

"I have sharp eyes in the sky." Gabriel spoke pointing to the sky. "Though there's no such thing as too few lookouts."

"We should do it in shifts. Three makes the most sense. I'll take the first watch. The two of you could work out who takes second or third between yourselves, unless someone else wants to do it." Beric advised. "Can't have some cutthroat out there the woods living up to the name of his job." Of course, he had his own ulterior motives for taking on the first watch. It ensure that he would be the last to fall asleep, and also give him time to practice his new abilities.

Gabriel nodded in agreement. "I will take the second watch then." He wasn't going to fall asleep just yet, he really couldn't bring himself too in this situation, but any rest would be welcome at this point. Plus, Alessandra could use some rest, her wings must be aching after so much flying.

"I shall take the third watch, I suppose. For the time being, I will slumber. It has been many days since I've had a proper rest." This wasn't entirely true. The nights she spent on the open road with Beoris, resting beneath the stars? Those are treasured memories. "Sir D'amero, will you please wake me when you grow weary?"

"Of course." Gabriel nodded. "But for now we rest."

Beric nodded as well. "I'll start once most of us have gone asleep. We can use the moon to know when it's time to change shifts." And with that, he had nothing more to say.

Katerina meandered closer to the fire then, laying upon the ground in the most comfortable position she could manage. Drawing her cloak tightly around her, she allowed her eyes to close shut. It was little more than a ruse and an excuse to meditate; she had no intention of sleeping.

Lochpine Preserve

Malcolm stared blankly at his ceiling, a thin whistle of air the only indicator that he was breathing, save the near imperceptible rising and falling of his chest. His eyes were bloodshot, and his bangs were plastered damp against his forehead with sweat. It was too hot. He hadn’t slept all night, deigning instead to post himself by the shop, should the new hire arrive late in the night. Just in case. So he’d sat in the middle of the parking lot for hours throughout the night, busying himself by counting the number of stars in the sky. Malcolm greatly enjoyed the act of counting things. The simple task of tallying up quantities of various different things was an undertaking that he would throw himself into eagerly. Stars were something of an annoyance, though. Malcolm could swear the twinkly little bastards rearranged themselves every single night.

So around the third time he managed to lose count upon getting into the triple digits, he had decided to that perhaps it would be best to return home.

And that was how he found himself sprawled out on his bed like a corpse hoisted upon a trolley, looking up at the drab gray paint above him for the better part of two hours. Malcolm, having briefly acknowledged the futility and admitted pointlessness of his current task, continued to stare. The ceiling did not stare back. “You, ceiling,” He began to drawl in a monotone, flavorless cadence that was not uncommon for him. “Have a point. How is it fair for me to be lying about here when there’s shit to do?” He smacked a hand against his forehead then, in an expression of mock annoyance. “Of course! The new hire would probably be showing up today.” Plus, there was only one star in the sky that he would have to count. Good old ceiling though. Always helping him out of a bind.

Then, with a grunt and a heavy sigh, he hoisted himself up off the bed and onto his feet. Right. Get cleaned up, get dressed, then figure out what the fuck to do today.

So that’s what he did.

Boots laced, pants zipped, two layers of shirts pulled over his head and one ratty leather jacket shrugged on, Malcolm made his way to the kitchen. Waiting on the counter for him was a generous serving of coffee, still lightly steaming. Halle-fucking-lujah. He sipped tentatively at the brew first, before being assured that it was sufficiently sweetened. Gulping it down greedily, the remainder of the mug’s contents were drained in seconds. Bless Angela. He set about cleaning up the two dirty things he could find in the kitchen; one mug that was his, and another that must have been Angela’s. Malcolm peered suspiciously around the kitchen as he did this, searching for any sign of mischief the brownies might have caused.

Satisfied that there was nothing unpleasant to discover, he ambled his way out the door and into the bright, balmy morning. He squinted and grimaced, temporarily stunned by the sun’s rays, before slowly stepping forward just in time to hear someone style him as “Tinkerbell”. Spots clearing properly from his eyes as he drew ever closer, the forms of Hunts and Angela became apparent to him, as well as that of the golem, Baldwin.

“Good morning to you, Angela,” Malcolm said with all of the enthusiasm of somebody that had been awake for over twenty-four hours. “I was going to head to the shop, keep watch for the new guy. If he shows, I’ll let you know.” He waved the little purple scrying orb around with a languid flourish. "Thank you, by the way, for the coffee." The troll, Malcolm turned to and gave a little frown. Tinkerbell? Really? “There’s no such thing as fairies.” He paused for a moment, an over-exaggerated look of anticipation on his face. “Nope, nothing. Not a single fairy dropped dead just now. And just like that myth, Tinkerbell also isn’t real.” While his tone wasn’t by any means aggressive, it was certainly unfriendly, and it was certainly unamused.

Lochpine Preserve

@Spiritzer You're all good, he does indeed sleep in the house.

Lochpine Preserve

@Spiritzer It was in jest, friend. Malcolm doesn't much care what most people think of him anymore.

He's too busy being a sad boi.

Lochpine Preserve

@Spiritzer I must soften up Malcolm's mannerisms immediately! Then the troll will surely appreciate him!

Lochpine Preserve

Likes: Cats (not as cuisine!), Herbs, devices from the Human world, experimenting, Human food, Rick, Malcolm (this one is questionable)

@Spiritzer

you wot m8?

Tear the World Down

@Sierra Well technically, Katerina's magics can be cast from afar. In Beoris' time, whole cities could fall as he weaved curses from a safe distance.

She's a long way from that, though.

Lochpine Preserve

Malcolm

Name: Malcolm
Age: 27
Sex: Male
Race: Fairy (Humanized)
Biome: All
Sexuality: Bisexual
Relationship Status: Single

---

---

Height: 5’6’’
Weight: 139 lbs.
Hair: Charcoal shoulder-length mop
Eyes: Pale green
Skin Tone: Pale

---

---

Appearance:

From the tip of his head down to the tips of his feet, Malcolm is disheveled. His charcoal hair, though tangibly soft and visibly clean, bows to no comb. The mess of hair flurries like ruffled feathers in the wind, and sticks out at odd angles at all times. Despite this, he manages to maintain some level of decorum. “Organized chaos”, if you would. His clothes, too, -usually some combination of darkly colored sweater and blue jeans- show clear signs of wear and tear; small holes in shirts and jackets, fraying edges around the cuffs of sleeves, the material of jeans pale and worn where the joints bend; and all of it wrinkled and crumpled.

Surrounding his light green eyes (though a better descriptor for them might be sickly) are dark circles of purplish black that betray a myriad of sleepless nights. His face is altogether fairly well put together, even if, like the rest of his body, it finds itself a bit soft around the edges. To the majority of onlookers, however, any conventional attractiveness is offset by the vacant, faraway look in his eyes. A gaze that is, while not utterly unpleasant, more akin to eerie than dreamy.

Three human years of overindulgence in food and underindulgence in exercise have left him in a state of flux between slim and chubby. He maintains this state through periodic bouts of underfeeding while simultaneously overworking his human body; episodes brought on by frequent bursts of energy and enthusiasm amidst a sea of ennui.

---

---

Skills:

• Minor magical suggestion
• Cooking
• Cleaning
• Lying
• Pretending to be more intimidating than he actually is

Likes:

• Peace and quiet
• Reading
• Sweet things
• Tending to the house

Dislikes:

• Crowds Complex tasks (without clear instructions)
• Children
• Inquisitive strangers
• Brownies

---

---

Brief History:

Malcolm grew up within the confines of the Ranger’s garden, rarely straying from within its boundaries. He watched in timid angst from afar as the Ranger couple disappeared, leaving a young Angela Rick to piece together what her parents had left behind. One day, a then mature Malcolm would find himself venturing out beyond the garden and into the wider world. A chance encounter with a charming young woman would leave him enchanted. For days and weeks and eventually months he would return to where he first saw her, watching her with curiosity and admiration. So the day would eventually come where Malcolm would find himself approaching this young lady. Their romance was a passionate thing, burning twice as bright and burning out twice as fast. Roughly six months after his final departure from the preserve, Malcolm, now in human form, found himself standing uncertainly on Ranger Rick’s doorstep. She took him in, then, and for over two years now Malcolm has been her right-hand fai- er, man.

---

---

Your Story:

B-beep

B-beep

B-beep

B-beep

Swaddled in a tangled mess of blankets and bedsheets, a slumbering form rolled over in mild irritation.

Beep beep

Beep beep

Beep beep

The alarm clock, however, only grew more insistent with each heavy breath drawn in by the resting individual. Emerging from the drab cocoon of darkly colored covering came a clumsy hand, searching for a nightstand that the hand’s owner, eyes still sealed by the remnants of sleep, could not see.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep

The form reached out towards the source of the incessant beeping to no avail. A loud groan emanated from within the cocoon of blankets, before a sleep-addled figure slinked out of the bed, coming to stand upon the cluttered floor. The figure picked his way towards the endless annoyance carefully; blocking his path were piles of clothes, stacks of well-worn books, and clusters of strange memorabalia; carvings of wood and stone, faintly glowing orbs and crystals, and all other manner of paraphernalia.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep

A very tired and very irritated Malcolm was slowly closing in on the source of the noise, taking great care to avoid tripping over any of the various hazards. Fucking brownies must have not only changed the setting on his alarm clock, but also moved the damn thing halfway across the room.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbee-

Malcolm heaved a weighty sigh. Solace at last. His crusted eyes peered cautiously at the neon green digits of the clock. Three? As in three A to the fucking M? His first proper rest in days and the little bastards decide to wake him up at three in the morning? At least with midnight there would have been enough time for him to sink back into the elusive embrace of dreamland. This was just sick. Had he forgotten to salt his door? There certainly wasn’t any other explanation. Another sigh escaped from Malcolm’s lungs, though this one was a slower, sadder sort. It sneaked out from between his lips and through his nostrils quietly, his whole body caving in on itself, just a little. Like a deflated balloon. Malcolm snorted at the thought. He certainly felt deflated. No use standing around though, there was work to be done. There was always something to do.

So the fairy turned human quickly bustled off to the nearby bathroom to clean himself up and prepare for the coming day. The sudden energy that propelled him so was one part anxious, one part manic, and three parts hatred for the very concept of a brownie meddling with his housekeeping affairs. Still, it got him through the day. And night.

Brownies couldn’t work if someone was awake to witness them doing so.

---

Malcolm was dancing. Why? Because it was only half past five, he was on his fifth cup of coffee with far more milk and sugar than was necessary and far less actual coffee than was typical, and the house was nearly immaculate. He’d already washed and re-washed every plate, pot, spoon, and glass to perfection, set and reset every article of furniture to ensure that each piece was in its proper place, and dusted and scrubbed every exposed surface of the house thrice over. Angela’s laundry, too, he’d sorted out. Rested out in front of her bedroom door in neat piles: pants, shirts, socks and unmentionables all carefully arranged for her convenience. So yes, he was dancing. If spinning around in a circle, staring up at the gentle twilight sky, while giggling uncontrollably could be counted as dancing, that is. The popped blood vessels in his eyes married with the pale green irides and the white background of the sclerae to form a sort of twisted holiday festival.

Life was awful, that much Malcolm knew. The brownies fucked him out of his sleep. The nymphs and the dryads made fun of him constantly. The woman that he changed his life for had broken his heart. He might have children over a year old at this point, somewhere out there. He couldn’t fly, he didn’t live inside of a hollowed out magic toadstool, and on the best of days he could barely use his magic. Life was awful. And yet, there he was, laughing and spinning in a circle without a care in the world. It was moments like this where Malcolm felt like he really could fly, if only he could jump from somewhere high enough. Magic and gravity would sort out the rest. There were plenty of places across the preserve that would do the trick, if he ever sought them out.

There was always a part of him that held him back from trying something like that, though. When Malcolm’s head wasn’t soaring in the clouds, he knew exactly what that part of him was. The cynical, logical, bitter piece of him that told him all of the things a happy, high Malcolm never wanted to hear. He would die if he jumped. He couldn’t fly anymore, he would never fly again.

Just like that, the smile faded from Malcolm’s face as the spinning slowly came to a stop. Dizzy and stumbling, his countenance caught somewhere between a frown and a grimace, Malcolm made his way back inside. He poured himself another cup of too-sweet coffee before dumping himself unceremoniously into a chair. He stared dubiously at the mug cupped in his hands. There were several ways to make this drink more exciting and none of them had to do with the copious amounts of sugar already present in the brew. Ah well. So Malcolm raised the steamy liquid to his lips and took a nice long gulp, before setting the mug, now half empty, on the table before him. He began to pour a soft, powdery substance into the mug, stirring the concoction with a small silvery spoon.

It was still too bitter.

---

Warm rays of sun beamed down upon Malcolm’s bundled form. Despite the uncomfortable humidity of the Wisconsin summer, he was clad in more clothing than was probably necessary. Baggy jeans hung around his hips, loose enough that Malcolm had to hook his fingers around the belt loops and hoist them up often, but not so loose that they would fall down to his ankles all of their own volition. A pair of black, ratty, tightly laced hiking boots peeked out from beneath the cuffs of each pant leg. Atop his torso a gray cotton sweater was pulled over a simple white undershirt. Both the sweater and undershirt were privy to a number of faded pink splotches; battle scars of being washed by a vengeful brownie. Worn over the whole lot was a loose-fitting leather jacket that doubtlessly saw frequent use.

To most, the whole getup would be utterly stifling in the current weather. Malcolm found it all to be quite comfortable. Leaning against the wall of the establishment known as ‘Goldie Lochs’, he watched warily as a pickup truck rolled into the lot, before coming to a stop. Malcolm fished around in his right pocket before slowly raising a small purplish orb to his mouth. A two-way scrying device. “I think he’s here, Angela. He’s getting out now. Be here, or don’t, but I’ve got to go.” Hurriedly, the orb was stashed away once more.

Driving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, Malcolm watched impassively as a tall, well-built fellow approached the shop. Nearly a head taller than him.

“Hi,” He called out, his voice unaccented but creeping out slowly. Every pore on Malcolm’s body exuded something akin to either boredom or resignation. The tone of his voice was no different. “Welcome to Lochpine Preserve. At least until you snoop around and the wildlife eats you for lunch.” To the stranger, it would doubtless seem a joke, even if one that was deadpanned and poorly delivered. Malcolm knew better.

Lochpine Preserve

Malcolm

Name: Malcolm
Age: 27
Sex: Male
Race: Fairy (Humanized)
Biome: All
Sexuality: Bisexual
Relationship Status: Single

---

---

Height: 5’6’’
Weight: 139 lbs.
Hair: Charcoal shoulder-length mop
Eyes: Pale green
Skin Tone: Pale

---

---

Appearance:

From the tip of his head down to the tips of his feet, Malcolm is disheveled. His charcoal hair, though tangibly soft and visibly clean, bows to no comb. The mess of hair flurries like ruffled feathers in the wind, and sticks out at odd angles at all times. Despite this, he manages to maintain some level of decorum. “Organized chaos”, if you would. His clothes, too, -usually some combination of darkly colored sweater and blue jeans- show clear signs of wear and tear; small holes in shirts and jackets, fraying edges around the cuffs of sleeves, the material of jeans pale and worn where the joints bend; and all of it wrinkled and crumpled.

Surrounding his light green eyes (though a better descriptor for them might be sickly) are dark circles of purplish black that betray a myriad of sleepless nights. His face is altogether fairly well put together, even if, like the rest of his body, it finds itself a bit soft around the edges. To the majority of onlookers, however, any conventional attractiveness is offset by the vacant, faraway look in his eyes. A gaze that is, while not utterly unpleasant, more akin to eerie than dreamy.

Three human years of overindulgence in food and underindulgence in exercise have left him in a state of flux between slim and chubby. He maintains this state through periodic bouts of underfeeding while simultaneously overworking his human body; episodes brought on by frequent bursts of energy and enthusiasm amidst a sea of ennui.

---

---

Skills:

• Minor magical suggestion
• Cooking
• Cleaning
• Lying
• Pretending to be more intimidating than he actually is

Likes:

• Peace and quiet
• Reading
• Sweet things
• Tending to the house

Dislikes:

• Crowds Complex tasks (without clear instructions)
• Children
• Inquisitive strangers
• Brownies

---

---

Brief History:

Malcolm grew up within the confines of the Ranger’s garden, rarely straying from within its boundaries. He watched in timid angst from afar as the Ranger couple disappeared, leaving a young Angela Rick to piece together what her parents had left behind. One day, a then mature Malcolm would find himself venturing out beyond the garden and into the wider world. A chance encounter with a charming young woman would leave him enchanted. For days and weeks and eventually months he would return to where he first saw her, watching her with curiosity and admiration. So the day would eventually come where Malcolm would find himself approaching this young lady. Their romance was a passionate thing, burning twice as bright and burning out twice as fast. Roughly six months after his final departure from the preserve, Malcolm, now in human form, found himself standing uncertainly on Ranger Rick’s doorstep. She took him in, then, and for over two years now Malcolm has been her right-hand fai- er, man.

---

---

Your Story:

B-beep

B-beep

B-beep

B-beep

Swaddled in a tangled mess of blankets and bedsheets, a slumbering form rolled over in mild irritation.

Beep beep

Beep beep

Beep beep

The alarm clock, however, only grew more insistent with each heavy breath drawn in by the resting individual. Emerging from the drab cocoon of darkly colored covering came a clumsy hand, searching for a nightstand that the hand’s owner, eyes still sealed by the remnants of sleep, could not see.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep

The form reached out towards the source of the incessant beeping to no avail. A loud groan emanated from within the cocoon of blankets, before a sleep-addled figure slinked out of the bed, coming to stand upon the cluttered floor. The figure picked his way towards the endless annoyance carefully; blocking his path were piles of clothes, stacks of well-worn books, and clusters of strange memorabalia; carvings of wood and stone, faintly glowing orbs and crystals, and all other manner of paraphernalia.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep

A very tired and very irritated Malcolm was slowly closing in on the source of the noise, taking great care to avoid tripping over any of the various hazards. Fucking brownies must have not only changed the setting on his alarm clock, but also moved the damn thing halfway across the room.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbee-

Malcolm heaved a weighty sigh. Solace at last. His crusted eyes peered cautiously at the neon green digits of the clock. Three? As in three A to the fucking M? His first proper rest in days and the little bastards decide to wake him up at three in the morning? At least with midnight there would have been enough time for him to sink back into the elusive embrace of dreamland. This was just sick. Had he forgotten to salt his door? There certainly wasn’t any other explanation. Another sigh escaped from Malcolm’s lungs, though this one was a slower, sadder sort. It sneaked out from between his lips and through his nostrils quietly, his whole body caving in on itself, just a little. Like a deflated balloon. Malcolm snorted at the thought. He certainly felt deflated. No use standing around though, there was work to be done. There was always something to do.

So the fairy turned human quickly bustled off to the nearby bathroom to clean himself up and prepare for the coming day. The sudden energy that propelled him so was one part anxious, one part manic, and three parts hatred for the very concept of a brownie meddling with his housekeeping affairs. Still, it got him through the day. And night.

Brownies couldn’t work if someone was awake to witness them doing so.

---

Malcolm was dancing. Why? Because it was only half past five, he was on his fifth cup of coffee with far more milk and sugar than was necessary and far less actual coffee than was typical, and the house was nearly immaculate. He’d already washed and re-washed every plate, pot, spoon, and glass to perfection, set and reset every article of furniture to ensure that each piece was in its proper place, and dusted and scrubbed every exposed surface of the house thrice over. Angela’s laundry, too, he’d sorted out. Rested out in front of her bedroom door in neat piles: pants, shirts, socks and unmentionables all carefully arranged for her convenience. So yes, he was dancing. If spinning around in a circle, staring up at the gentle twilight sky, while giggling uncontrollably could be counted as dancing, that is. The popped blood vessels in his eyes married with the pale green irides and the white background of the sclerae to form a sort of twisted holiday festival.

Life was awful, that much Malcolm knew. The brownies fucked him out of his sleep. The nymphs and the dryads made fun of him constantly. The woman that he changed his life for had broken his heart. He might have children over a year old at this point, somewhere out there. He couldn’t fly, he didn’t live inside of a hollowed out magic toadstool, and on the best of days he could barely use his magic. Life was awful. And yet, there he was, laughing and spinning in a circle without a care in the world. It was moments like this where Malcolm felt like he really could fly, if only he could jump from somewhere high enough. Magic and gravity would sort out the rest. There were plenty of places across the preserve that would do the trick, if he ever sought them out.

There was always a part of him that held him back from trying something like that, though. When Malcolm’s head wasn’t soaring in the clouds, he knew exactly what that part of him was. The cynical, logical, bitter piece of him that told him all of the things a happy, high Malcolm never wanted to hear. He would die if he jumped. He couldn’t fly anymore, he would never fly again.

Just like that, the smile faded from Malcolm’s face as the spinning slowly came to a stop. Dizzy and stumbling, his countenance caught somewhere between a frown and a grimace, Malcolm made his way back inside. He poured himself another cup of too-sweet coffee before dumping himself unceremoniously into a chair. He stared dubiously at the mug cupped in his hands. There were several ways to make this drink more exciting and none of them had to do with the copious amounts of sugar already present in the brew. Ah well. So Malcolm raised the steamy liquid to his lips and took a nice long gulp, before setting the mug, now half empty, on the table before him. He began to pour a soft, powdery substance into the mug, stirring the concoction with a small silvery spoon.

It was still too bitter.

---

Warm rays of sun beamed down upon Malcolm’s bundled form. Despite the uncomfortable humidity of the Wisconsin summer, he was clad in more clothing than was probably necessary. Baggy jeans hung around his hips, loose enough that Malcolm had to hook his fingers around the belt loops and hoist them up often, but not so loose that they would fall down to his ankles all of their own volition. A pair of black, ratty, tightly laced hiking boots peeked out from beneath the cuffs of each pant leg. Atop his torso a gray cotton sweater was pulled over a simple white undershirt. Both the sweater and undershirt were privy to a number of faded pink splotches; battle scars of being washed by a vengeful brownie. Worn over the whole lot was a loose-fitting leather jacket that doubtlessly saw frequent use.

To most, the whole getup would be utterly stifling in the current weather. Malcolm found it all to be quite comfortable. Leaning against the wall of the establishment known as ‘Goldie Lochs’, he watched warily as a pickup truck rolled into the lot, before coming to a stop. Malcolm fished around in his right pocket before slowly raising a small purplish orb to his mouth. A two-way scrying device. “I think he’s here, Angela. He’s getting out now. Be here, or don’t, but I’ve got to go.” Hurriedly, the orb was stashed away once more.

Driving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, Malcolm watched impassively as a tall, well-built fellow approached the shop. Nearly a head taller than him.

“Hi,” He called out, his voice unaccented but creeping out slowly. Every pore on Malcolm’s body exuded something akin to either boredom or resignation. The tone of his voice was no different. “Welcome to Lochpine Preserve. At least until you snoop around and the wildlife eats you for lunch.” To the stranger, it would doubtless seem a joke, even if one that was deadpanned and poorly delivered. Malcolm knew better.

Well, there he is! Just to clear up some confusion for onlookers, anything that might not seem quite right was cleared with @eclecticwitch ahead of time. I'm sure she'll kindly let me know if there's been an untended discrepancy.

Also, the post at the end details events in Malcolm's day leading up to his first encounter with @ShwiggityShwah's William Graham, for the sake of clarity.

Lochpine Preserve

@eclecticwitch Are we all to be limited to one character? Or is it possible to submit multiple?