tekkaiwallace

Mind, Magic, and Monstrosity

Mort considers the near future.

Whatever it holds, it's likely not going to be peaceful. To guard against unpredictable, chaotic fluctuations of the journey, Mort needs to be ready with a full hand of cards.

Mort knows he is not the best fighter. When it came to fight or flight instincts, he was unabashedly a master of the latter. "Always run away from a hard fight," his father had said, "and if you're not sure if it's a hard fight, run away anyway. The best place to stab an enemy is in the back. Preferably when they're sleeping. And preferably stabbed by someone you've hired. Preferably without a paper trail."

Mort weighs his current wealth. How much money and belongings does he have that he could use to leverage capitalist loyalty? He busies himself by walking up and down the caravan and scanning for people he can talk to. He summons up as much of his old skills as he can in identifying people's desires, weaknesses, and leverage points. What he's looking for are people with knowledge of where they're going, people who have experience dealing with Pathfinders, people who are good at fighting, people who can heal, and really, people who have useful skills.

Mind, Magic, and Monstrosity

(Is Mort flapping outside the window?)

"My mind? Sound?" Mort booms, "I am but a vessel through which the will of greater beings flow! The state of my mind is neither a relevant nor useful question. I will go on this quest. And I will hurt no innocent person. Unless they stop me from going on this quest. Then the innocence of the person is neither relevant nor useful."

He squawks.

Mind, Magic, and Monstrosity

Mort's mind wanders a lot in these dark days. Focusing on a conversation is a bit difficult. There is an intelligent, cultured way to reach a rational, strategic objective here. Some optimized combination of words and mannerisms must exist that can convince this councilor of his worthiness to liberate Lathesa's Roost. There were times, when he drank the right amount of tea in his grandfather's study with the windows open and a nice stiff breeze brushed by, that his mind worked swiftly. This was not one of those times.

"Er, check this out," Mort says, and proceeds to hurl himself at the window, trying to fly while doing that spike thing from his body that kept happening at the most inconvenient times. Mort hopes his insanity, willingness to smash into things to prove a point, and spike condition can prove to be compelling arguments.

Mind, Magic, and Monstrosity

Some part of Mort wants to speak, like regular, functional people do. The problem with chronic depression, Mort finds, is the inconveniently massive amounts of inertia required to do any action whatsoever. So Mort seats himself in Isra'fil's office, and takes a deep breath... and then another... and another...

Finally, after much chewing of his tongue and swatting at his comb, Mort speaks.

"I'm Mort ibn Hytham, of the Makhlab clan, of Al-Tahliq Industries. Sure, you've been holed up here, away from the homeland for whatever amount of time, but you must still know my family.

More silence, and rapid blinking, before he speaks.

"You must also know of the many other families. You must know that, under our custom, especially in the south, that power was, sure, centralized in the capital and doled out by some governor, but real power, real influence, the birds who really made things happen... well, that came down to the clans, dinnit? And things were fine. A tiff here or there, but it was good, under the peace, even you know that."

Mort licked the inside of his beak. Scratched the floor. Twitched. Then, as though suddenly remembering he was in the middle of a conversation,

"Well, now all this awful business has happened. All the birds I know are dead. If there's any trace of my clan left, they've been scattered into the wind, eh? And so are the other clans. Now," Mort picks his beak with a talon, "say we succeed, however damn improbable it is, at all this. Then what? I'm no heroin' type. I'm Makhlab. I know my place. And old habits die hard. If this all works out, and that's a big, honking 'if', then I'm gonna need to be guaranteed my clan's hegemony over the south. Don't tell me you're horrified that I'm still thinkin' about that. It's clan law. Blood first. And if there's a future out there, then it's a Makhlab future.

"So, yes, I'm going to want to find surviving relatives and soldiers. I want to re-establish some semblance of order. There. I'm honest. And I'd rather do it sooner than later. What sort of stuff do you know about liberating our land could be beneficial to my hodge-podge party?"

Mind, Magic, and Monstrosity

We may as well convene for a group discussion about what we want. We may as well walk together to a random councilors office and start shaking them down for info

Mind, Magic, and Monstrosity

Mort broods. If he could feel something, it would not be happiness. He does not want to go on some loony, suicidal mission. But he also does not want to eat, most of the time. To live purposefully is to act in a way that is consistent with what one wants, but what he wants, it seems, is largely immaterial to what he finds his body doing nowadays. It's strangely transcendent, like a parable in one of Master Zhou's Meditations on Mortality. Perhaps the hands of the Gods guide him, and he has truly given himself to Fate, in a true act of self-annihilation. He grimaces at the thought of six immaterial hands touching him, and he ruffles his feathers in annoyance.

He sees if there are knives in the barracks, and attempts to stock 8 knives in a carrying belt. He tries on some leather armors and light mails, to see if he can find anything to protect him while allowing him to still take flight. (Wait, can Mort fly?). Mort next looks for throwing stars. He also looks for any sort of chained, long-range weapon he can wrap around himself and fling at enemies. He bosses around some of the serving staff for clothing, camping materials, and foodstuffs.

"And if yeh can do it, get me a strong, hard bottle of something sinful. I need a break from sobriety."

Mort also puts in a request at the local library for books on the geography of the continent, books on the creatures and plants of the continent, mythical/historical lore, and if possible, any sort of functional magical tomes. He files the request under "Mort, Officer of the Six Gods and Six Council People."

He files another request to some serving staff for some sort of pack animal or cart for the party's use. And oh, how could he forget: he needs a few bottles of different poisons.

He then seeks out the Harpy Councilman. Or does he need to do this with his colleagues? Hmm. He grabs another innocent member of the serving staff. "Hey, where do I find wossname, Isra'fil? Tell him Mort bin Hytham wants a word."

Mind, Magic, and Monstrosity

Mort's beak moves as if to speak, but finds that the effort to form words is too much. He knows the Harpy leader by name, from some Who's Who thing he'd read back before all this misfortune. He wants to blurt out his family's proud name. He wants to also shrink into a corner and sleep and never wake.

Still, the talking statues make him wonder if maybe there's some purpose left in the planet for him. The idea of a purpose is a small twinkling light at the end of a dark, tortuous tunnel. He decides to take on whatever the fates have planned for him, and speaks in assent:

"Statues babblin' under some dumb light trick ain't no basis for a system of government, ya loony hoots. Y'all are off yer rockers. But I'm tired of that dungeon, and a breath of fresh air to stretch my wings in is more than this humble bird can ask fer."

Mind, Magic, and Monstrosity

Mort ibn Hytham

Name:

Mort ibn Hytham

Age:

46

Race:

Harpy - Chicken Aspect

HP:

❇❇

SP:

❇❇❇

Job:

Al-Tahliq Regional Minerals Supply Chain Manager lvl2

Magical Affinity:

Air lvl3

Curse:

Curse of Gammaton and lvl3

Appearance

The highest echelons of Harpy Society strike with Eagleine features. Mort does not have these features. He presents as a Chicken. An overweight, depressed, Chicken.

Personality

Very quiet. Depressed. Has trouble maintaining eye contact, or maintains eye contact for way too long. Prefers reading books, though it is arguable whether or not he retains anything anymore. He is quick to violent, though never in a rage. It's all very pedestrian and procedural.

Background

Mahboob "Mort" ibn Hytham is the son of Hytham ibn Bawma, all of the feared Makhlab clan in the southern desert peaks of Es Harpina. In these high, distant eyries, the Laws of Lasetha's Roost, under the 500-year peace, have brought order and prosperity to the pockets of violence once ruled by clans like the Makhlabs. In these good times, they no longer rule every aspect of citizen life. Rather, just some measure of money, blackmail, political leverage, and the occasional shattered ribs No big.

The Makhlab clan has long run Al-Tahliq Industries, which has its talons in everything from mining to refinement to luxury item manufacturing. After Hytham forcibly retired his father, Bawma the Slow as Clan Head, he quickly and violently consolidated power, and through his shrewd and cunning ways, elevated the clan's reputation and power considerably.

Mahboob grew up in the sheltered libraries of his grandfather, Bawma. He was spoiled with books, fermented rat delicacies, and leisure time. For a while, Hytham allowed this to be, being one of those fathers who were prejudiced against those who presented more like chickens. However, with Bawma's deteriorating health and Mahboob's blossoming into a bird reaching adulthood, Hytham decided to toughen his son up the way Makhlab birds should, and gave him his first job: extracting information from a prisoner by extracting the prisoner's nails. Mahboob found to his own horror and fascination, that he was exceedingly good at this sort of thing, and quickly climbed the ranks to become Regional Minerals Supply Chain Manager, a job that mostly consisted of making numbers dance, greasing the right hands, and occasionally picking up the pliers. In a subconscious act of distancing his new identity from his old, he began to adopt the moniker "Mort", a name affectionately given to him by his thugs and minions for his way of seeing everyone as corpses, separated only by flimsy things like time.

Mort, however, was only efficient because he was deeply depressed. He sought solace in his books-- and the books gave no solace, just distraction.

When the Behemoth came, whispers reached the Eyries. Hytham, like many other elders, assumed the whispers would stay just that, and thought nothing of the event. His brother Hadi noted that in times of madness and chaos, it was most important that knowledge was preserved. Books, libraries, that sort of thing. He told Mort of the great libraries in the City of Light, and how it would be an ideal place to compile and protect the world's stories and knowledge. They planned one day to visit, to make a pilgrimage to this great bastion of knowledge.

Soon, however, the whispers grew louder, especially in Mort's head. Reality became but a weak fluid that Mort had little association with. Growing panicked and terrified, he ran to his one friend-- his brother, Hadi-- and, in hugging him, impaled him with metal spikes, now protruding from his body.

Mort was distraught, and in a fit, mangled and mortally injured a dozen more of his father's birds as they attempted to quarantine him in a locked room. Here, Mort stayed, drifting in and out of reality. Had it been days? Months? Either way, the food had stopped coming, so he broke down the door and found that no one was left. Not in the house, the neighborhood, or the entire district. There were a few bodies well into decomposition, but nowhere close enough to account for the original population.

Mort traveled to Lathesa's Roost, where his family had connections through his aunt. There, he found a world quickly going mad with chaos, fire, and pathfinder assault. His aunt, Lady Dajaja, had lost most of her holdings and wealth, with only a few servants left in her dilapidated estate. Still, the proud Harpies tried to hold on to their capital. Mort found it easier to go on living when he, once more, had a job to do. He rounded up traitors, informants, friends, enemies, and did what he did best. For a few years, he was able to restore a small nook of power and security for his Aunt. Those who had something to trade or power to share were assimilated into their growing sphere. Beggars and refugees were worthless. Mort swore to Lady Dajaja they would never be one of them.

Until they were. A renewed, surprise assault destroyed everything in one night. And in their flight towards the City of Light, the Madness took his Aunt, too. Without thinking, without feeling, he slashed her across the throat, and watched her body writhe until it writhed no more. Now completely and utterly ruined, he moves on, like a ghost in this world. After passing out on the roadside one night, Mort woke suddenly from a dream, a memory. Something about books, libraries, and the City of Light. He continued his journey, finding once more that the only way to live one day to the next was to have something to do.

This was no time for librarians and guardians of knowledge, however, and Harpies that presented with Chicken features were seldom respected and trusted, within Es Harpina and elsewhere. Still, Mort stuck to his self-appointed mission, finding knowledge and books where he could, and purchasing them-- or not-- to stockpile in nooks and crannies around the city. He looted to eat, and he looted to find more books. It went well for a while-- or about as well as this sort of life could go-- before he was seized by the authorities and thrown into a dungeon.

Coping Mechanism

(Optional) When faced with bouts of madness, Mort sinks into a depressive stupor and becomes catatonic. Does this help? Why does that matter? Nothing matters.

Mind, Magic, and Monstrosity

Mort ibn Hytham

Name:

Mort ibn Hytham

Age:

46

Race:

Harpy - Chicken Aspect

HP:

❇❇

SP:

❇❇❇

Job:

Al-Tahliq Regional Minerals Supply Chain Manager lvl2

Magical Affinity:

Air lvl3

Curse:

Curse of Gammaton and lvl3

Appearance

The highest echelons of Harpy Society strike with Eagleine features. Mort does not have these features. He presents as a Chicken. An overweight, depressed, Chicken.

Personality

Very quiet. Depressed. Has trouble maintaining eye contact, or maintains eye contact for way too long. Prefers reading books, though it is arguable whether or not he retains anything anymore. He is quick to violent, though never in a rage. It's all very pedestrian and procedural.

Background

Mahboob "Mort" ibn Hytham is the son of Hytham ibn Bawma, all of the feared Makhlab clan in the southern desert peaks of Es Harpina. In these high, distant eyries, the Laws of Lasetha's Roost, under the 500-year peace, have brought order and prosperity to the pockets of violence once ruled by clans like the Makhlabs. In these good times, they no longer rule every aspect of citizen life. Rather, just some measure of money, blackmail, political leverage, and the occasional shattered ribs No big.

The Makhlab clan has long run Al-Tahliq Industries, which has its talons in everything from mining to refinement to luxury item manufacturing. After Hytham forcibly retired his father, Bawma the Slow as Clan Head, he quickly and violently consolidated power, and through his shrewd and cunning ways, elevated the clan's reputation and power considerably.

Mahboob grew up in the sheltered libraries of his grandfather, Bawma. He was spoiled with books, fermented rat delicacies, and leisure time. For a while, Hytham allowed this to be, being one of those fathers who were prejudiced against those who presented more like chickens. However, with Bawma's deteriorating health and Mahboob's blossoming into a bird reaching adulthood, Hytham decided to toughen his son up the way Makhlab birds should, and gave him his first job: extracting information from a prisoner by extracting the prisoner's nails. Mahboob found to his own horror and fascination, that he was exceedingly good at this sort of thing, and quickly climbed the ranks to become Regional Minerals Supply Chain Manager, a job that mostly consisted of making numbers dance, greasing the right hands, and occasionally picking up the pliers. In a subconscious act of distancing his new identity from his old, he began to adopt the moniker "Mort", a name affectionately given to him by his thugs and minions for his way of seeing everyone as corpses, separated only by flimsy things like time.

Mort, however, was only efficient because he was deeply depressed. He sought solace in his books-- and the books gave no solace, just distraction.

When the Behemoth came, whispers reached the Eyries. Hytham, like many other elders, assumed the whispers would stay just that, and thought nothing of the event. His brother Hadi noted that in times of madness and chaos, it was most important that knowledge was preserved. Books, libraries, that sort of thing. He told Mort of the great libraries in the City of Light, and how it would be an ideal place to compile and protect the world's stories and knowledge. They planned one day to visit, to make a pilgrimage to this great bastion of knowledge.

Soon, however, the whispers grew louder, especially in Mort's head. Reality became but a weak fluid that Mort had little association with. Growing panicked and terrified, he ran to his one friend-- his brother, Hadi-- and, in hugging him, impaled him with metal spikes, now protruding from his body.

Mort was distraught, and in a fit, mangled and mortally injured a dozen more of his father's birds as they attempted to quarantine him in a locked room. Here, Mort stayed, drifting in and out of reality. Had it been days? Months? Either way, the food had stopped coming, so he broke down the door and found that no one was left. Not in the house, the neighborhood, or the entire district. There were a few bodies well into decomposition, but nowhere close enough to account for the original population.

Mort traveled to Lathesa's Roost, where his family had connections through his aunt. There, he found a world quickly going mad with chaos, fire, and pathfinder assault. His aunt, Lady Dajaja, had lost most of her holdings and wealth, with only a few servants left in her dilapidated estate. Still, the proud Harpies tried to hold on to their capital. Mort found it easier to go on living when he, once more, had a job to do. He rounded up traitors, informants, friends, enemies, and did what he did best. For a few years, he was able to restore a small nook of power and security for his Aunt. Those who had something to trade or power to share were assimilated into their growing sphere. Beggars and refugees were worthless. Mort swore to Lady Dajaja they would never be one of them.

Until they were. A renewed, surprise assault destroyed everything in one night. And in their flight towards the City of Light, the Madness took his Aunt, too. Without thinking, without feeling, he slashed her across the throat, and watched her body writhe until it writhed no more. Now completely and utterly ruined, he moves on, like a ghost in this world. After passing out on the roadside one night, Mort woke suddenly from a dream, a memory. Something about books, libraries, and the City of Light. He continued his journey, finding once more that the only way to live one day to the next was to have something to do.

This was no time for librarians and guardians of knowledge, however, and Harpies that presented with Chicken features were seldom respected and trusted, within Es Harpina and elsewhere. Still, Mort stuck to his self-appointed mission, finding knowledge and books where he could, and purchasing them-- or not-- to stockpile in nooks and crannies around the city. He looted to eat, and he looted to find more books. It went well for a while-- or about as well as this sort of life could go-- before he was seized by the authorities and thrown into a dungeon.

Coping Mechanism

(Optional) When faced with bouts of madness, Mort sinks into a depressive stupor and becomes catatonic. Does this help? Why does that matter? Nothing matters.