Tidings.
¤ Age, approximately.
"Thirty, perhaps."
¤ What Are You?
“A tactile physician, oftentimes a surgeon.”
A doctor. A procurer of vile medicines and surgical instruments. Nightmarish, but respected.
¤ What defines you?
“They fear us, but we are welcomed, nonetheless.”
Weird. Salamander’s slithering demeanour and proclivity for plural pronouns tends to unnerve his surroundings. He’s unnaturally quiet, and is drawn to sickness like a fly to dead flesh. When not working, his hands tremble – tales of withdrawal from his beloved opiates. He offers generous trades in exchange for intact cadavers.
¤ Who are you?
“We came from the North. The clan is dust, now, but we preserve its knowledge through practice.”
Salamander hails from a small clan in the Eastern reaches of the jungle, known for its bizarre spirituality and affinity for medicinal studies. They had long worshipped the opium poppy and the hallucinogenic properties they had when consumed in excess, relaying them as blessed “visions” to the Northernmost tribe of sun-worshippers. They flew tapestries painted with a peculiar, skull-like insignia; a fearful image to untrained eyes, but merely the proposed façade of their strange patron.
His upbringing is a hazy subject, even for him. His people were often emotionally disjointed from one another, pushing for knowledge above all else, and so his relationship with his parents was one of formality and mentorship. He learned to read and write, and studied practically, digging his hands through purchased cadavers and surveying the arrangement and affliction of their entrails. Such grisly exposures dulled his sense of emotion, and hardened him against the sight and smell of carnage.
For generations, he and his ancestors had been tolerated by their devout neighbours, who heeded their presence as talented chemists and surgeons. But the Sun God would apparently tire of their heathenry, and the tribe would burn them to cinders in the name of their scalding deity.
Emerging from his underground sanctuary, he beheld the remnants of his brethren; scorched husks amidst smoke and debris, and piles of poppies, still crackling with cinder. Their demise had been expected, and thus his mourning was shallow. He plucked the surviving opium seeds from their pods, loaded his caravan, and left. He would not return to the North.
Salamander had survived the ensuing genocide by mere chance, but not without consequence. His flesh was marred by flame, though not gravely so; by some miracle, his hands had been spared, along with his vision, and patchy portions of his body. He thanks the Poppy for this, though since his arrival at Steelbird Landing, he hides his dreadful portrait beneath sterile cloth and bandaging.
Though he fancies himself as a travelling doctor, his permanent abode at Steelbird Landing is a modest clinic, lined with dubious medicines, tools, and an absurd collection of glass bottles. Indeed, he values the rarity of intact glass, and pays generously for such things. Most of his supplies are acquired through trade, but he tends carefully to the many specimens which line his crooked greenhouse, particularly his small population of opium poppies.
¤ What do you want?
“Knowledge, purpose. A cure for everything.”
¤ What do you believe?
“There is much to learn. The world offers insight, projecting their spirit through the Poppy. They gift us with visions, vestiges… a narrow path to a less dire future.”
¤ What do you follow?
“Blood. The Poppy calls to us, keeps us calm. My vitae yearns for its cradle. Our hands tremble without it.”
¤ A scarcity embodied:
“Attainment. It is never enough. Too many to cure, too many to save. One plague always leads to the next.”
¤ Basic Instincts:
- Salamander will always keep his face hidden.
- A satchel of basic medicines is always kept on his person.
- Opium serum is always within reach.
¤ What is the worst thing you've ever done to stay alive?
“We hid, while our clan burned. The heat still reached us and twisted our flesh. Such is our punishment.”
¤ Who did you fail to save? What did it cost?
“We could not aide the Sun God’s acolyte. Couldn’t stop the blood. It was repaid with the blood of our clan.”
¤ Who's intentions do you question?
“Copperhead enquires regularly about poison. Offers more generous trades each time, as if desperate. He tells us it is only for pest control, but such ichor is enough to kill a man thrice over. We will continue to refuse, for now.”
¤ Who wants you all to themselves?
“The raiding packs to the East heed us kindly when we trade. They ask if we want to stay, as a permanent fixture among their number.”
¤ Who or what do you worship?
“The Poppy. It is the vestige which steadies our surgical hand, and offers insight into what will come to pass.”
“The Poppy calms our blood. Leaves us steady, and secure. Projects shadows upon the walls, and shapes among the trees. Whispers hints of salvation into our ear, and guides our hand as we cut through the flesh of the afflicted. It wants us to succeed against the plague.”
[WIP]
S A L A M A N D E R
¤ Age, approximately.
"Thirty, perhaps."
¤ What Are You?
“A tactile physician, oftentimes a surgeon.”
A doctor. A procurer of vile medicines and surgical instruments. Nightmarish, but respected.
¤ What defines you?
“They fear us, but we are welcomed, nonetheless.”
Weird. Salamander’s slithering demeanour and proclivity for plural pronouns tends to unnerve his surroundings. He’s unnaturally quiet, and is drawn to sickness like a fly to dead flesh. When not working, his hands tremble – tales of withdrawal from his beloved opiates. He offers generous trades in exchange for intact cadavers.
¤ Who are you?
“We came from the North. The clan is dust, now, but we preserve its knowledge through practice.”
Salamander hails from a small clan in the Eastern reaches of the jungle, known for its bizarre spirituality and affinity for medicinal studies. They had long worshipped the opium poppy and the hallucinogenic properties they had when consumed in excess, relaying them as blessed “visions” to the Northernmost tribe of sun-worshippers. They flew tapestries painted with a peculiar, skull-like insignia; a fearful image to untrained eyes, but merely the proposed façade of their strange patron.
His upbringing is a hazy subject, even for him. His people were often emotionally disjointed from one another, pushing for knowledge above all else, and so his relationship with his parents was one of formality and mentorship. He learned to read and write, and studied practically, digging his hands through purchased cadavers and surveying the arrangement and affliction of their entrails. Such grisly exposures dulled his sense of emotion, and hardened him against the sight and smell of carnage.
For generations, he and his ancestors had been tolerated by their devout neighbours, who heeded their presence as talented chemists and surgeons. But the Sun God would apparently tire of their heathenry, and the tribe would burn them to cinders in the name of their scalding deity.
Emerging from his underground sanctuary, he beheld the remnants of his brethren; scorched husks amidst smoke and debris, and piles of poppies, still crackling with cinder. Their demise had been expected, and thus his mourning was shallow. He plucked the surviving opium seeds from their pods, loaded his caravan, and left. He would not return to the North.
Salamander had survived the ensuing genocide by mere chance, but not without consequence. His flesh was marred by flame, though not gravely so; by some miracle, his hands had been spared, along with his vision, and patchy portions of his body. He thanks the Poppy for this, though since his arrival at Steelbird Landing, he hides his dreadful portrait beneath sterile cloth and bandaging.
Though he fancies himself as a travelling doctor, his permanent abode at Steelbird Landing is a modest clinic, lined with dubious medicines, tools, and an absurd collection of glass bottles. Indeed, he values the rarity of intact glass, and pays generously for such things. Most of his supplies are acquired through trade, but he tends carefully to the many specimens which line his crooked greenhouse, particularly his small population of opium poppies.
¤ What do you want?
“Knowledge, purpose. A cure for everything.”
¤ What do you believe?
“There is much to learn. The world offers insight, projecting their spirit through the Poppy. They gift us with visions, vestiges… a narrow path to a less dire future.”
¤ What do you follow?
“Blood. The Poppy calls to us, keeps us calm. My vitae yearns for its cradle. Our hands tremble without it.”
¤ A scarcity embodied:
“Attainment. It is never enough. Too many to cure, too many to save. One plague always leads to the next.”
¤ Basic Instincts:
- Salamander will always keep his face hidden.
- A satchel of basic medicines is always kept on his person.
- Opium serum is always within reach.
¤ Spill Your Guts
¤ What is the worst thing you've ever done to stay alive?
“We hid, while our clan burned. The heat still reached us and twisted our flesh. Such is our punishment.”
¤ Who did you fail to save? What did it cost?
“We could not aide the Sun God’s acolyte. Couldn’t stop the blood. It was repaid with the blood of our clan.”
¤ Who's intentions do you question?
“Copperhead enquires regularly about poison. Offers more generous trades each time, as if desperate. He tells us it is only for pest control, but such ichor is enough to kill a man thrice over. We will continue to refuse, for now.”
¤ Who wants you all to themselves?
“The raiding packs to the East heed us kindly when we trade. They ask if we want to stay, as a permanent fixture among their number.”
¤ Who or what do you worship?
“The Poppy. It is the vestige which steadies our surgical hand, and offers insight into what will come to pass.”
Hear the Whispers...
“The Poppy calms our blood. Leaves us steady, and secure. Projects shadows upon the walls, and shapes among the trees. Whispers hints of salvation into our ear, and guides our hand as we cut through the flesh of the afflicted. It wants us to succeed against the plague.”
Own What You've Become
[WIP]