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Morticar
Moderators: Pegasus Pug!!!, Staff, Peer Reviewer, Wiki Worker
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Morticar
- Approved Character
- Posts: 74
- Joined: Thu Feb 20, 2025 2:55 am
- Race: Human
- Profession: everybody's fool
- Renown: 40
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Templates
- Storybook
- Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Milestones
Miscellaneous
-
Morticar
- Approved Character
- Posts: 74
- Joined: Thu Feb 20, 2025 2:55 am
- Race: Human
- Profession: everybody's fool
- Renown: 40
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Templates
- Storybook
- Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Milestones
Miscellaneous
Personality
- name, Morticar Thrawe (Velane Dufont)
- human, male
- born Cylus seventeenth, 798
- height, 5' 11"
- weight, 173 lbs
- hair, red and long
- eyes, gray
- current location, Rharne
- employment, jester in service of the Dawnstar Social
- marks, none
- languages,
- Common, fluent
- Gernevoir, broken
Appearance
A jester’s task is to smile, and Morticar does just that. Perhaps he smiles with too much teeth, perhaps his eyes fail to crinkle at the edges, but his lips are usually pulled back for one reason or another.
Morticar is a lean man, all tendon and wire with a habit of leaning, slouching, or sprawling across whatever surface is available. His hair is long and red, his skin is pale, and both of these together give him a somewhat sickly pallor whenever the light strikes unkindly. His fingernails are trimmed, his face shaven, and there exists an aura of general cleanliness about him. He hates getting dirty, and makes a point to take care of every smudge the moment he notices it.
In public, he’s rarely seen out of his uniform. It is a black and red outfit with yellow trimmings, with the Dawnstar symbol embroidered on the right shoulder. If attending an event, he prefers to wear a mask which entirely hides his face. Anything else is a matter of taste; his entertaining outfit is left entirely to the whims of his employer, along with all repairs and accessories.
Witchmarks & Mutations
Morticar's Becoming witchmark comes in the form of strange, morphic tattoos that start from the nape of his neck, travel along his spine and end between his shoulderblades.
Morticar's Glamour witchmark ensures his skin always feels soft and clean to the touch. While this might be nice on an ordinary, non-stressful day, it could raise some questions in dirty circumstances. If he falls in mud, for instance, and his muddy hand still feels soft and clean, a perceptive individual might surmise something isn’t right here.
Becoming Mutations
Whenever a totem is assimilated, a black vertebra-like mark will appear along Morticar’s spine. It begins at the base of the skull and could extend in a line down his entire spine, if he were ever to assimilate so many totems at once. This mark will look like a vertebra of whatever spine the totem has; a fish vertebra for a fish, a human vertebra for a human, a small carapace for an insect, etc. The mark will disappear whenever the totem leaves assimilation, and the marks below will shuffle up to take its place on the “shelf.” If someone knows the exact details of this mutation, they will be able to count exactly how many totems he has assimilated at any given time. Morticar’s witchmark will shift to accommodate this “shelving” process.
Glamour Mutations
Physical contact with Morticar leaves a short, pleasant after-tingle. Its strongest manifestation is only the equivalent to warm goosebumps, and strength depends on how long Morticar has touched the recipient. After a quick handshake, the tingle will barely last longer than the touch itself. Long, drawn-out physical contact longer than a minute might see the tingle last for several seconds.
Last edited by Morticar on Wed Jul 30, 2025 5:42 am, edited 16 times in total. word count: 526
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Morticar
- Approved Character
- Posts: 74
- Joined: Thu Feb 20, 2025 2:55 am
- Race: Human
- Profession: everybody's fool
- Renown: 40
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Templates
- Storybook
- Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Milestones
Miscellaneous
Re: Personality
Personality
Reformed ne’er-do-well. Hopeless romantic. Lover of the arts. Always ready with a compliment and a listening ear.
Hanging onto his sanity by a few vicious poems and the hopeful daydream of burning someone to death.
Morticar is a man trapped in his own grief. Every morning is a struggle, every mirror a remider that his body is a coffin. His life is stolen, but he dare not change it ― if he did, he'd have no hope of justice.
Morticar tries to make the best of things. It’s a bit of a struggle these days, trapped in this living grave, but he is a lover of small pleasures, of the sun and birds and of flowers blooming in unexpected places. He experiences amusement by making others laugh, and he experiences joy by making others joyful. He wants to learn the piano, to write poems, to help people relax when the weight of the world wants to crush them.
Learning these things, and quickly, could mean the difference between vengeance and obscurity.
On the outside, Morticar's behavior is much like any jester, albeit a touch rough-practiced. He jokes, laughs, and flirts, he twirls daggers around his fingers and studies what makes people tick, and he loves to be the center of attention at a good party. He's a bit quickened by the fact that every party is a trial by fire, and every moment not spent practicing his trade is another moment his goals might escape him.
For now, he survives. And perhaps, if luck and skill keep him alive, he can one day dazzle the world with some truly spectacular feats of arson.
Hanging onto his sanity by a few vicious poems and the hopeful daydream of burning someone to death.
Morticar is a man trapped in his own grief. Every morning is a struggle, every mirror a remider that his body is a coffin. His life is stolen, but he dare not change it ― if he did, he'd have no hope of justice.
Morticar tries to make the best of things. It’s a bit of a struggle these days, trapped in this living grave, but he is a lover of small pleasures, of the sun and birds and of flowers blooming in unexpected places. He experiences amusement by making others laugh, and he experiences joy by making others joyful. He wants to learn the piano, to write poems, to help people relax when the weight of the world wants to crush them.
Learning these things, and quickly, could mean the difference between vengeance and obscurity.
On the outside, Morticar's behavior is much like any jester, albeit a touch rough-practiced. He jokes, laughs, and flirts, he twirls daggers around his fingers and studies what makes people tick, and he loves to be the center of attention at a good party. He's a bit quickened by the fact that every party is a trial by fire, and every moment not spent practicing his trade is another moment his goals might escape him.
For now, he survives. And perhaps, if luck and skill keep him alive, he can one day dazzle the world with some truly spectacular feats of arson.
Last edited by Morticar on Mon Jul 07, 2025 1:45 pm, edited 13 times in total. word count: 281
-
Morticar
- Approved Character
- Posts: 74
- Joined: Thu Feb 20, 2025 2:55 am
- Race: Human
- Profession: everybody's fool
- Renown: 40
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Templates
- Storybook
- Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Milestones
Miscellaneous
Re: Personality
History
Act One
When she was twelve years old, Velane Dufont watched her father die. It was a curious thing, all the blood and kicking. She wondered how she would move a body twice her weight tomorrow, and how long his coin would feed the family. He reached out to her at the end, as if a reed-thin twelve year old could possibly fight off another adult. All she could do was cover the eyes of her little sister and brother until it was done.
Lucky for them all, the killer had only come for one life that night, and their father had put up quite a fight. When it was done, all the killer took from them was a washcloth to get the blood off her face before she slipped out a window.
The three children were upset by their father’s death, but mostly because he’d left them almost no money, and he’d been the one to come up with lies, bribes, and schemes to earn them more.
Oh, well. Velane had been the one raising her siblings, anyway.
Later in life, Velane would always say she had been born into a crime family, which was… technically true. Their father had been a petty criminal in the Dust Quarter, and she had learned just enough from him to craft the same schemes with her siblings. She was no mastermind, to be sure, but they were small and skinny enough to get into places adults couldn't. It kept them fed, and she made sure to never tangle them up in “big money business” like the Shadow Quarter.
That changed the next time she saw the woman who killed her father. It was a year later that Velane recognized her, sitting inconspicuously in the crowd at the gate between Dust Quarter and Earth Quarter. She sat there for three breaks, staring at one of the few Dust merchants with actual quality goods to sell, which seemed rather suspicious to Velane. When the woman finally moved, Velane walked up to her and exclaimed “I missed you!” One hand laced through the woman’s fingers as if they were family; the other laced through her pockets for money.
At first, the woman was so perplexed by the affection of a random child that she had no idea how to respond. Then she realized the ploy, and grabbed Velane’s wrist. Unfortunately, Velane had already found a vial of poison instead of a coinpurse, which left both of them in a very awkward position if the gate guards came to investigate.
Neither called out. Neither shouted. For a moment, they simply observed each other.
Then Velane introduced herself. She explained, very politely, that the woman had killed her father last year and left the children in a tight spot. Velane didn’t need justice, but she did need money, and she also knew the name of that merchant whom the woman had been staring at. Velane made a habit to befriend anyone who might one day accuse her of theft. What she wanted from the woman was a job. Whatever the woman was doing here, acting all suspicious, wouldn’t an extra set of hands make it easier? Velane had filched the poison vial, so her hands clearly had something to offer.
After a moment’s thought, the woman gave her a simple job: use that vial to poison the merchant, and Velane would have a cut of the profits.
Velane had never thought of herself as a killer, but neither did she think of herself as a particularly good person. Her stomach churned at the thought, but her siblings couldn’t eat morals. She uneasily said yes.
She was even more uneasy when she carried it out. The merchant was familiar. She was an older woman who had caught Velane once and let her go, because she believed Velane could be better than this. Better than a thief. Better than… whatever she was as she gratefully tasted the woman’s offered wine and slipped the poison inside.
For some reason, the merchant’s death hurt more than her father’s. Not as much as the ropes on her wrist, though, once the woman’s brother saw her drop. Her friends came out of the shadows, out of the crowd, seemingly out of the dust itself to turn Velane into a quick mess of bruises and throw her into a basement. She understood, through the pain, that she had been a fool to trust a thug. She had been a fool for many reasons, and now her siblings would starve because of it.
But Nex Worain valued loyal help. The night of the girl’s capture, a shadowy figure drew the watchman away, slipped into the basement, and carried her out.
Nex had expected the girl to betray her. Nex was a criminal, and distrust was another name for survival. It was a pleasant surprise to find a little gutter rat with both flexible morals and flexible fingers, and the merchant’s death had given Nex the opportunity to swipe nearly half the entire stock. Velane woke up in the thug’s safehouse, her injuries bandaged and the woman who’d killed her father grinning at her bedside.
The interview had gone perfectly, Nex Worain told her. The young girl had herself a job.
It wasn’t a glamorous job, once Velane got the hang of it. Nex was a low-level mugger who only occasionally worked with teammates that came and went as easily as the weather. Her main prowling ground was the Dust Quarter, particularly those tourists and refugees who wandered into the dust by accident. Nex had a particular disgust for outsiders who took up space in the already cramped quarter, and delighted in driving them away.
Fairytales of cloaked thieves and shadowy daggers soon blended into the reality of watching a location for days on end, or following Nex at a distance while she did the actual work. Velane never did the exciting or dangerous parts; she was too small to fight, and such a useful liar that Nex didn’t want her face to become well-known. When someone needed to die, Nex handled it. When someone needed to be robbed in silence, Velane handled it.
That was alright, though. Every time Velane thought of murder, she thought of the innocent merchant who always thought she could be better than this.
Burglary was… marginally better than murder. Velane took a respectable cut of the spoils, and she thieved and conned a few extra nels wherever she could. It was enough to make a life, even to buy schooling for her brother and sister. Within the next three years, her siblings were able to quit crime entirely and take up good Earth Quarter apprenticeships, which would lead them into lawful lives. Safe lives. Velane couldn’t escape, but she made damn well sure they did.
Although Faith Augistin's efforts to change the Dust Quarter turned shacks into houses and starvation into not-quite-starvation, the Duster Quarter only grew more crowded. Refugees poured in from Rynmere in the wake of the dragon attack, stretching resources and tempers alike. Nex reviled the change, reviled all foreigners who took up space they hadn’t been born for, and she wasn’t alone. Other Dusters began to stay in contact, until Nex got into her head that a proper gang could put things back the way they used to be. She believed Velane was ripe for a real heist. She believed Velane could become their ticket into the Shadow Quarter.
Ironically, it was Becoming that set Velane on a different path.
Noraius Thadian was an old man who had once led half a dozen jesters in service to Rynmere nobility. That was the rumor, anyway, when the refugees gossiped about one of their own moving up into the Earth Quarter. More than that, Nex didn’t pay attention; all she heard was “refugee ascended to the Earth Quarter” over all the other Dusters who’d spent their whole lives trying to make that climb. Nex decided, along with several other disgruntled Dusters, that they deserved that old man's money more than he did.
Velane, at twenty-two years old, had proven herself a reliable burglar -- reliable enough to be sent after Noraius. Well, she was sent after his valuables. But if she said “I’m after Noraius,” it sounded like she was sent to assassinate him.
Velane was surprised to see how large a house the old mancould afford. She was only able to cross a few hallways before someone heard her snooping. She escaped before the interloper was able to see her face, but she escaped with empty hands.
Nex expressed disappointment at her failure.
The second night, Velane entered from the opposite side of the house and found nothing. Even worse, that interloper seemed to have a nose for thieves, and caught her with her hands in the old man’s desk. It was another jester, far too young to be Noraius. She was out the window before he could call the guards.
Nex expressed actual irritation at her failure, which she hadn't done in years.
The third night, Velane came in through a chimney. She finally found an office full of personal documents, but somehow the younger jester had enough foresight to hide in a closet. He burst out, scared the living daylights out of her, and once again failed to stop her escape.
Nex’s patience was at an end. Get something out of that house, she said, or I’ll show you how red my knife can get.
A part of Velane ― the foolish part ― was betrayed at the threat. After so long, she’d hoped to be something more to Nex than a tool. The rational part of her knew that Vex had always been like this.
The fourth night, the jester was waiting for her with silver dinnerware spread enticingly across a table. It seemed rather suspicious to Velane, and she couldn’t very well sneak under the nose of someone actively looking for her, so she tried a different approach.
She slipped through the window and introduced herself.
The jester was intrigued when she explained that all she wanted was a bit of silver from old man Thadian. She’d happily split the sell-off with him, if he only let her take it. If he refused, however, she would be unfortunately obligated to keep breaking in until she found something, and she was fairly certain they’d both rather be asleep at midnight then chasing each other around the house. The jester considered this, and after a long time spent to ponder, admitted that he could, perhaps, be bribed. But not with coin.
“Not with coin?” she echoed, because that sounded like nonsense. “What else could you possibly want?”
“One of your toes,” he replied.
Nevermind, that sounded like nonsense. It took several bits of banter for her to understand that yes, he wanted to cut off one of her literal, actual toes, and that yes, if she allowed him to do that, he would hand over the silver she wanted. Which was incredibly suspicious, so she turned it back to see how much he actually wanted this nonsense: she would accept the deal only if she was also allowed to take one of his toes in return. She expected him to give up, because who in their right mind wanted a deal like this?
Him, apparently. He doubled over in laughter, and accepted. It tickled his fancy so much that he even told her why he wanted toes: he was a becomer, and if she was going to keep breaking and entering, he wanted to learn her “scent.” Initiators and initiates always had a way of finding each other, and she wasn't the only ne'er-do-well after his employer’s money. He preferred a ne'er-do-well he could always recognize, so if she really, really wanted to steal from Noraius Thadian, she’d have to accept his spark in order to do so. They agreed on these terms, he led her to his room, and then his spark created hers.
Morticar, the jester. Once an entertainer of Ryn nobility, now a refugee determined to climb back to the top. Velane wasn’t usually one to care about strangers, but if she was holding someone’s severed toe, it seemed only right to know his name.
There was, unfortunately, a slight mix-up. His fault, he said, and was very apologetic when she realized she had bright red hair and much paler skin than she’d started with. As the creator of her spark, he was tasked with guiding her soul into her self-totem. But with two severed toes in the mix, both primed to become totems, he had accidentally guided her into the wrong one. She had harmonized with his toe.
Morticar had an incredible way with words. If he didn’t, she probably would have beaten him to death right there.
But good news! He could fix it. That was the wonderful thing about becoming; she could just become herself again and never leave. They still had her toe, and he sheepishly taught her how to make a totem out of it. After a whole night of instruction and meditation, she was able to return to her true form, with one drawback ― it wasn’t her harmonized totem. If Velane ever lost the totem of her true form, that form would be lost forever. Unless she made multiple, of course, which he was happy to teach her, as long as she came back tomorrow, and probably the day after that. She could even take the silverware free of charge; he certainly wasn’t going to ask another toe from her after all this.
She had never glared at someone so viciously in her life. No one had ever called her “delightly taciturn” for glaring at them before, because those were silly words. Richfolk used those words because they didn’t know the real way of the world. She told Morticar as much, but he only laughed and called her “elucidating” as she left. She didn’t have to know what that meant in order to blush.
Lucky for them all, the killer had only come for one life that night, and their father had put up quite a fight. When it was done, all the killer took from them was a washcloth to get the blood off her face before she slipped out a window.
The three children were upset by their father’s death, but mostly because he’d left them almost no money, and he’d been the one to come up with lies, bribes, and schemes to earn them more.
Oh, well. Velane had been the one raising her siblings, anyway.
Later in life, Velane would always say she had been born into a crime family, which was… technically true. Their father had been a petty criminal in the Dust Quarter, and she had learned just enough from him to craft the same schemes with her siblings. She was no mastermind, to be sure, but they were small and skinny enough to get into places adults couldn't. It kept them fed, and she made sure to never tangle them up in “big money business” like the Shadow Quarter.
That changed the next time she saw the woman who killed her father. It was a year later that Velane recognized her, sitting inconspicuously in the crowd at the gate between Dust Quarter and Earth Quarter. She sat there for three breaks, staring at one of the few Dust merchants with actual quality goods to sell, which seemed rather suspicious to Velane. When the woman finally moved, Velane walked up to her and exclaimed “I missed you!” One hand laced through the woman’s fingers as if they were family; the other laced through her pockets for money.
At first, the woman was so perplexed by the affection of a random child that she had no idea how to respond. Then she realized the ploy, and grabbed Velane’s wrist. Unfortunately, Velane had already found a vial of poison instead of a coinpurse, which left both of them in a very awkward position if the gate guards came to investigate.
Neither called out. Neither shouted. For a moment, they simply observed each other.
Then Velane introduced herself. She explained, very politely, that the woman had killed her father last year and left the children in a tight spot. Velane didn’t need justice, but she did need money, and she also knew the name of that merchant whom the woman had been staring at. Velane made a habit to befriend anyone who might one day accuse her of theft. What she wanted from the woman was a job. Whatever the woman was doing here, acting all suspicious, wouldn’t an extra set of hands make it easier? Velane had filched the poison vial, so her hands clearly had something to offer.
After a moment’s thought, the woman gave her a simple job: use that vial to poison the merchant, and Velane would have a cut of the profits.
Velane had never thought of herself as a killer, but neither did she think of herself as a particularly good person. Her stomach churned at the thought, but her siblings couldn’t eat morals. She uneasily said yes.
She was even more uneasy when she carried it out. The merchant was familiar. She was an older woman who had caught Velane once and let her go, because she believed Velane could be better than this. Better than a thief. Better than… whatever she was as she gratefully tasted the woman’s offered wine and slipped the poison inside.
For some reason, the merchant’s death hurt more than her father’s. Not as much as the ropes on her wrist, though, once the woman’s brother saw her drop. Her friends came out of the shadows, out of the crowd, seemingly out of the dust itself to turn Velane into a quick mess of bruises and throw her into a basement. She understood, through the pain, that she had been a fool to trust a thug. She had been a fool for many reasons, and now her siblings would starve because of it.
But Nex Worain valued loyal help. The night of the girl’s capture, a shadowy figure drew the watchman away, slipped into the basement, and carried her out.
Nex had expected the girl to betray her. Nex was a criminal, and distrust was another name for survival. It was a pleasant surprise to find a little gutter rat with both flexible morals and flexible fingers, and the merchant’s death had given Nex the opportunity to swipe nearly half the entire stock. Velane woke up in the thug’s safehouse, her injuries bandaged and the woman who’d killed her father grinning at her bedside.
The interview had gone perfectly, Nex Worain told her. The young girl had herself a job.
It wasn’t a glamorous job, once Velane got the hang of it. Nex was a low-level mugger who only occasionally worked with teammates that came and went as easily as the weather. Her main prowling ground was the Dust Quarter, particularly those tourists and refugees who wandered into the dust by accident. Nex had a particular disgust for outsiders who took up space in the already cramped quarter, and delighted in driving them away.
Fairytales of cloaked thieves and shadowy daggers soon blended into the reality of watching a location for days on end, or following Nex at a distance while she did the actual work. Velane never did the exciting or dangerous parts; she was too small to fight, and such a useful liar that Nex didn’t want her face to become well-known. When someone needed to die, Nex handled it. When someone needed to be robbed in silence, Velane handled it.
That was alright, though. Every time Velane thought of murder, she thought of the innocent merchant who always thought she could be better than this.
Burglary was… marginally better than murder. Velane took a respectable cut of the spoils, and she thieved and conned a few extra nels wherever she could. It was enough to make a life, even to buy schooling for her brother and sister. Within the next three years, her siblings were able to quit crime entirely and take up good Earth Quarter apprenticeships, which would lead them into lawful lives. Safe lives. Velane couldn’t escape, but she made damn well sure they did.
Although Faith Augistin's efforts to change the Dust Quarter turned shacks into houses and starvation into not-quite-starvation, the Duster Quarter only grew more crowded. Refugees poured in from Rynmere in the wake of the dragon attack, stretching resources and tempers alike. Nex reviled the change, reviled all foreigners who took up space they hadn’t been born for, and she wasn’t alone. Other Dusters began to stay in contact, until Nex got into her head that a proper gang could put things back the way they used to be. She believed Velane was ripe for a real heist. She believed Velane could become their ticket into the Shadow Quarter.
Ironically, it was Becoming that set Velane on a different path.
Noraius Thadian was an old man who had once led half a dozen jesters in service to Rynmere nobility. That was the rumor, anyway, when the refugees gossiped about one of their own moving up into the Earth Quarter. More than that, Nex didn’t pay attention; all she heard was “refugee ascended to the Earth Quarter” over all the other Dusters who’d spent their whole lives trying to make that climb. Nex decided, along with several other disgruntled Dusters, that they deserved that old man's money more than he did.
Velane, at twenty-two years old, had proven herself a reliable burglar -- reliable enough to be sent after Noraius. Well, she was sent after his valuables. But if she said “I’m after Noraius,” it sounded like she was sent to assassinate him.
Velane was surprised to see how large a house the old mancould afford. She was only able to cross a few hallways before someone heard her snooping. She escaped before the interloper was able to see her face, but she escaped with empty hands.
Nex expressed disappointment at her failure.
The second night, Velane entered from the opposite side of the house and found nothing. Even worse, that interloper seemed to have a nose for thieves, and caught her with her hands in the old man’s desk. It was another jester, far too young to be Noraius. She was out the window before he could call the guards.
Nex expressed actual irritation at her failure, which she hadn't done in years.
The third night, Velane came in through a chimney. She finally found an office full of personal documents, but somehow the younger jester had enough foresight to hide in a closet. He burst out, scared the living daylights out of her, and once again failed to stop her escape.
Nex’s patience was at an end. Get something out of that house, she said, or I’ll show you how red my knife can get.
A part of Velane ― the foolish part ― was betrayed at the threat. After so long, she’d hoped to be something more to Nex than a tool. The rational part of her knew that Vex had always been like this.
The fourth night, the jester was waiting for her with silver dinnerware spread enticingly across a table. It seemed rather suspicious to Velane, and she couldn’t very well sneak under the nose of someone actively looking for her, so she tried a different approach.
She slipped through the window and introduced herself.
The jester was intrigued when she explained that all she wanted was a bit of silver from old man Thadian. She’d happily split the sell-off with him, if he only let her take it. If he refused, however, she would be unfortunately obligated to keep breaking in until she found something, and she was fairly certain they’d both rather be asleep at midnight then chasing each other around the house. The jester considered this, and after a long time spent to ponder, admitted that he could, perhaps, be bribed. But not with coin.
“Not with coin?” she echoed, because that sounded like nonsense. “What else could you possibly want?”
“One of your toes,” he replied.
Nevermind, that sounded like nonsense. It took several bits of banter for her to understand that yes, he wanted to cut off one of her literal, actual toes, and that yes, if she allowed him to do that, he would hand over the silver she wanted. Which was incredibly suspicious, so she turned it back to see how much he actually wanted this nonsense: she would accept the deal only if she was also allowed to take one of his toes in return. She expected him to give up, because who in their right mind wanted a deal like this?
Him, apparently. He doubled over in laughter, and accepted. It tickled his fancy so much that he even told her why he wanted toes: he was a becomer, and if she was going to keep breaking and entering, he wanted to learn her “scent.” Initiators and initiates always had a way of finding each other, and she wasn't the only ne'er-do-well after his employer’s money. He preferred a ne'er-do-well he could always recognize, so if she really, really wanted to steal from Noraius Thadian, she’d have to accept his spark in order to do so. They agreed on these terms, he led her to his room, and then his spark created hers.
Morticar, the jester. Once an entertainer of Ryn nobility, now a refugee determined to climb back to the top. Velane wasn’t usually one to care about strangers, but if she was holding someone’s severed toe, it seemed only right to know his name.
There was, unfortunately, a slight mix-up. His fault, he said, and was very apologetic when she realized she had bright red hair and much paler skin than she’d started with. As the creator of her spark, he was tasked with guiding her soul into her self-totem. But with two severed toes in the mix, both primed to become totems, he had accidentally guided her into the wrong one. She had harmonized with his toe.
Morticar had an incredible way with words. If he didn’t, she probably would have beaten him to death right there.
But good news! He could fix it. That was the wonderful thing about becoming; she could just become herself again and never leave. They still had her toe, and he sheepishly taught her how to make a totem out of it. After a whole night of instruction and meditation, she was able to return to her true form, with one drawback ― it wasn’t her harmonized totem. If Velane ever lost the totem of her true form, that form would be lost forever. Unless she made multiple, of course, which he was happy to teach her, as long as she came back tomorrow, and probably the day after that. She could even take the silverware free of charge; he certainly wasn’t going to ask another toe from her after all this.
She had never glared at someone so viciously in her life. No one had ever called her “delightly taciturn” for glaring at them before, because those were silly words. Richfolk used those words because they didn’t know the real way of the world. She told Morticar as much, but he only laughed and called her “elucidating” as she left. She didn’t have to know what that meant in order to blush.
Intermission
It was Morticar’s fault that she couldn’t stay mad at him. It was all his fault for being so… himself. The way he pranked her during their lessons. The way he sang her through the agony of transformation. The fact he actually had more than two thoughts to rub together, which fancy noble types weren’t supposed to have.
A few bits of silver had only whetted Nex’s appetite. The woman was gathering a following, and she wanted more of old man Thadian’s wealth. Apparently, the younger jester was a tough dog to sneak past, always in the right place at the right time to catch whatever scallywag was making a grab for the old man’s valuables. So far, Velane was the only one who had pulled off a Thadian heist, and other Dust gangs were paying attention. Between the refugees from Rynmere, from Quacia, and Rharne’s own poor, there was rarely enough food to go around, and Nex was going to make damn sure her gang’s mouths were fed first.
Velane did try to steal like a proper thief in the beginning, skulking through the Thadian house like a rat, but it was hard to take her nighttime outings seriously when most of her daytime outings involved rearranging her bones in Morticar’s room. The jester was an awfully clever cat, and there was that whole mentor-initiate bond going on, so there really was no getting past him. He loved the way her face scrunched up when he caught her sneaking around, which she knew because he always told her so. He threw the word ‘graceful’ around so easily, and the only way to get any damned valuables was to agree with him that she was graceful. The next night, she had to agree she was alluring. Then came the big words, like ethereal and scintillating and coruscating. Bloody coruscating. That couldn’t possibly be a real word.
“If it makes you blush, it’s a real word,” he would always insist.
“I’m not blushing,” she would always lie.
The whole ‘becoming’ bit was useful, once she got the hang of it. It hurt like bloody murder, but she could just be someone else if her own face got into trouble. Yes, it was incredibly frustrating that she was bound to Morticar’s form instead of her own, but it was also satisfying to see him flustered whenever she mentioned it. The gifts didn’t hurt, either. As a jester who’d made a quick network of Earth Quarter taverns, Morticar had access to luxuries Velane couldn’t dream of, like his own jar of honey, a feather mattress, and a copper bathtub. Of course she spent more and more time at the Thadian house. Of course she kept falling asleep in Morticar’s bed; he had a feather mattress. And very skilled hands. And he knew how to call her “indomitable” in a way that didn't sound foolish.
Of course she knew, in the back of her mind, that there would be a catch to all these favors. She was still surprised out of her skin when old man Noraius Thadian himself walked into Morticar’s room while the jester was away.
Noraius had been aware of all those disappeared valuables ― Morticar was a loyal student, whose gratitude his teacher ran deep ― and he had until now allowed his subordinate the privacy to take them. But he could feel old age catching up to him, and so now it was time for a proposal: he knew Velane was a thief, and he knew that she was entangled with Morticar. He’d be happy to overlook both those things, if she listened to a story.
Once upon a time, the master glamourist Noraius Thadian had entertained across Rynmere. He had performed for kings and queens, seen every barony, and in his many years had come many apprentices. Six apprentices, to be precise, who each found his company in a different way. One had sought him as a path to the stage. Another had been traded as a slave. Another had come for his magic. And then there had been a lowly thief named Morticar, who came into Thadian's home looking for money, night after night after night, until one night he just stopped leaving. Of those six apprentices, it was Morticar alone who had escaped Artere. Noraius had no more glamour sparks to give, but Morticar did. If Velane was apprentice to Morticar, Noraius supposed she was apprentice to them both.
Noraius knew Velane was a thief. But if she agreed to turn in other thieves to the authorities, he would allow her to freely take one valuable in echange for one gang member arrested. He wouldn't turn her out, nor would he interfere in Morticar's personal life, so long as she helped to make the streets safer.
Considering he knew every single valuable she had already taken, and also that she was having this conversation naked in Morticar’s bed, the only reasonable answer was yes.
It wasn’t too bad, though. Not at first. Plenty of Nex’s new lackeys made the Dust Quarter a worse place, and Velane didn’t even have to rat them out herself. She merely told Morticar, who told Thadian, and then somehow a Lightning Knight would show up at the right place at the right time and arrest the right person. Thadian had fistfuls of coin each time she gave him a name, so what did it matter if Nex asked why Velane took so long heisting that house? Velane was an adult now, she could heist however she wanted. So what if she spent more time with Morticar than she did with her mentor?
So what if Nex began to suspect that there was a rat in their ranks?
A few bits of silver had only whetted Nex’s appetite. The woman was gathering a following, and she wanted more of old man Thadian’s wealth. Apparently, the younger jester was a tough dog to sneak past, always in the right place at the right time to catch whatever scallywag was making a grab for the old man’s valuables. So far, Velane was the only one who had pulled off a Thadian heist, and other Dust gangs were paying attention. Between the refugees from Rynmere, from Quacia, and Rharne’s own poor, there was rarely enough food to go around, and Nex was going to make damn sure her gang’s mouths were fed first.
Velane did try to steal like a proper thief in the beginning, skulking through the Thadian house like a rat, but it was hard to take her nighttime outings seriously when most of her daytime outings involved rearranging her bones in Morticar’s room. The jester was an awfully clever cat, and there was that whole mentor-initiate bond going on, so there really was no getting past him. He loved the way her face scrunched up when he caught her sneaking around, which she knew because he always told her so. He threw the word ‘graceful’ around so easily, and the only way to get any damned valuables was to agree with him that she was graceful. The next night, she had to agree she was alluring. Then came the big words, like ethereal and scintillating and coruscating. Bloody coruscating. That couldn’t possibly be a real word.
“If it makes you blush, it’s a real word,” he would always insist.
“I’m not blushing,” she would always lie.
The whole ‘becoming’ bit was useful, once she got the hang of it. It hurt like bloody murder, but she could just be someone else if her own face got into trouble. Yes, it was incredibly frustrating that she was bound to Morticar’s form instead of her own, but it was also satisfying to see him flustered whenever she mentioned it. The gifts didn’t hurt, either. As a jester who’d made a quick network of Earth Quarter taverns, Morticar had access to luxuries Velane couldn’t dream of, like his own jar of honey, a feather mattress, and a copper bathtub. Of course she spent more and more time at the Thadian house. Of course she kept falling asleep in Morticar’s bed; he had a feather mattress. And very skilled hands. And he knew how to call her “indomitable” in a way that didn't sound foolish.
Of course she knew, in the back of her mind, that there would be a catch to all these favors. She was still surprised out of her skin when old man Noraius Thadian himself walked into Morticar’s room while the jester was away.
Noraius had been aware of all those disappeared valuables ― Morticar was a loyal student, whose gratitude his teacher ran deep ― and he had until now allowed his subordinate the privacy to take them. But he could feel old age catching up to him, and so now it was time for a proposal: he knew Velane was a thief, and he knew that she was entangled with Morticar. He’d be happy to overlook both those things, if she listened to a story.
Once upon a time, the master glamourist Noraius Thadian had entertained across Rynmere. He had performed for kings and queens, seen every barony, and in his many years had come many apprentices. Six apprentices, to be precise, who each found his company in a different way. One had sought him as a path to the stage. Another had been traded as a slave. Another had come for his magic. And then there had been a lowly thief named Morticar, who came into Thadian's home looking for money, night after night after night, until one night he just stopped leaving. Of those six apprentices, it was Morticar alone who had escaped Artere. Noraius had no more glamour sparks to give, but Morticar did. If Velane was apprentice to Morticar, Noraius supposed she was apprentice to them both.
Noraius knew Velane was a thief. But if she agreed to turn in other thieves to the authorities, he would allow her to freely take one valuable in echange for one gang member arrested. He wouldn't turn her out, nor would he interfere in Morticar's personal life, so long as she helped to make the streets safer.
Considering he knew every single valuable she had already taken, and also that she was having this conversation naked in Morticar’s bed, the only reasonable answer was yes.
It wasn’t too bad, though. Not at first. Plenty of Nex’s new lackeys made the Dust Quarter a worse place, and Velane didn’t even have to rat them out herself. She merely told Morticar, who told Thadian, and then somehow a Lightning Knight would show up at the right place at the right time and arrest the right person. Thadian had fistfuls of coin each time she gave him a name, so what did it matter if Nex asked why Velane took so long heisting that house? Velane was an adult now, she could heist however she wanted. So what if she spent more time with Morticar than she did with her mentor?
So what if Nex began to suspect that there was a rat in their ranks?
Act Two
Velane almost hoped for old man Thadian to be cruel. Rich types were selfish, along with anyone who cozied up to them. She wanted him to get some personal benefit when Nex’s lackeys disappeared, because good people wern't supposed to pay attention to Dusters.
Velane had spent her life cultivating cynicism as carefully as she cultivated her skillset. A better life, the choice to do the right thing, those weren’t luxuries meant for her. She wouldn’t have been able to give her siblings those options if she’d ever allowed them for herself.
But Faith had changed the Dust.
Thadian had escaped the Dust.
When Morticar said “You deserve better,” in off-handed moments when neither of them really paid attention, she believed him a bit more every time.
The changes were small at first. Velane would return to the Dust Quarter, her pockets full of food that Thadian didn’t mind losing, and notice a scrawny child who needed the food more. She’d wander by the orphanage and teach a stranger how to make a nel “vanish” behind someone’s ear. Morticar would play his lute for the Ryns still stuck in the Dust, and she’d watch his back to make sure no one hurt him. She would casually mention how Nex planned to rob a shipment to the soup kitchen, and somehow the shipment would come at an entirely different time.
Then, one night, she accompanied them to a performance. Nex rarely questioned a tavern visit ― Velane had always been introverted, and Nex liked to see her protege cut loose once in awhile ― so it was no trouble at all to spend an evening away from work. It wasn’t even trouble when Morticar took his performance off the stage and circled her table. She had spent her life running away from attention, but because it was him, and because he always teased her with this song when they were alone, it took no thought on her part to flick her wrist and make a nel seemingly appear from behind his ear. She’d never made an audience gasp in delight before. She’d never had an audience at all. But as the alcohol flowed and patrons lined up to see her make nels appear from their ears, too, she began to think that perhaps the center of attention wasn’t such a bad place to be.
When she arrived one trial to find a room of her own set up in the Thadian house, no one mentioned it. There was no surprised gasp or declaration of kinship. She put her things in the cupboard, and that was that.
One performance turned into two. A trick of nels behind the ear turned into a handkerchief disappeared from one hand to “reappear” in the other. Larceny was a skill based misdirection and quick fingers, which Velane had always used for theft. Theft was what it was for, according to Nex and the Lightning Knights and everyone else in the world. But if Velane could pick something out of a pocket, she could just as easily slip something into it, and there was no end to the astonishment when someone reached into their own pocket and found the playing card they’d just picked from her deck.
The first time Velane stood on a stage, she wore Morticar’s face. It was a bit embarrassing to feel stage fright in her own appearance, but he only teased her gently, and he was positively tickled to make a totem out of her so there weren’t two duplicates walking around the same tavern. Wearing each others’ bodies, she made cards vanish as he backed her with a lute, using his glamour to whisper instructions in her ear whenever the social cues became confusing.
She asked about that whispering magic after the show, and he repeated Thadian's story. There had once been a cadre of entertainers in Rynmere, six followers to the master glamourist Noraius Thadian. Of Thadian’s apprentices, Morticar alone had escaped Artere. Morticar had gained his becoming spark from his old life as a thief, but his glamour spark was born from Thadian. He pulled a bargain out of Velane in exchange for this story: if she joined them permanently, if she left the life of a thief behind the same way Morticar had once done, he would pass Thadian’s glamour down to her.
She didn’t know how to answer. She struggled to consider what life might be like if she left Nex. But the more she thought about it, the less she thought about anything else. There was no more talk of glamour that night, she became a regular presence at Morticar's side whenever he performed.
Three performances became five, and Nex’s leniancy at Velane's new social life thinned. Tensions were rising in the Dust Quarter as Cylus grew deep and supplies ran low. Duster against refugee, Ivorian against Quacian, every divide in the city seemed to tighten with each passing trial. The rebirth of year seven twenty-three seemed to hold its breath as they all waited for the tension to break. Velane had to take more from Thadian every time she visited in order to convince Nex she was actually working.
Then, a brawl outside the Painted Swine that turned sharp. Someone without a care for the rules of Rharne brought a knife to a fistfight, a sacrilege to any devotee of Ilaren.
The next night, there was a fight in the Earth Quarter. Another brawl ended with a knife, and another round of pearl-clutching at what cowardly bastard would do such a thing. Syroans, some said. Troubadors, said others.
And Nex? Well, Nex knew those Ryn refugees weren’t Rharnean. Non-Rharneans never respected the rules of a proper brawl.
A lot of people agreed with Nex, and Nex liked to be agreed with. As Velane spent more time with the entertainers, her mentor’s company was quickly taken up by other Dusters with a shared hatred for anyone not native. A punch here, an insult there… what did it matter if they also pulled knives out during a fight? The refugees weren’t Rharnean, they didn't follow Rharnean rules, so there was no need to keep Rharnean rules when dealing with them.
For a Ryn jester, suspicions were high no matter where they went. Morticar found himself turned away from venues, despite the hundred calls for entertainment. It seemed every performance ended with someone bleeding out in a back alley, and xenophobia whispered behind cupped hands: A true Rharnean would never. The Mummer’s Ball is still in the air. When the harlequins play, Syroa comes calling.
Tempers boiled over when the sun returned. In the Dust, Rharneans and Ryns alike carried knives and sharpened sticks, clinging together for mutual protection. Then came the news none of them could have predicted: Faith Augustin, dead in Scalvoris. The Hope of the Dust Quarter, lain low in dust of her own.
Grief rocked the Quarter. But where others wept, Nex saw opportunity. She didn’t even have to wait for a reason; a Rharnean harlot turned up dead after the news, tucked behind the shacks of two Ryn families. Nex rallied her Dusters, Velane included, and dragged the adult Ryns out of the house. No trial, no Knights, just the assumption that the Ryns were responsible for every dead Rharnean in their territory.
Then, another body turned up in Little Ivorian. A Rharnean Ithecal, for whom the locals were all too happy to blame their Quacian neighbors. Nex found allies amongst Little Ivorian, thrilled to pledge her gang to their vengeance. Another body in the Ryn slum, which Nex was even happier to avenge. Another body amongst the Quacians. Knives brandished amongst all, and trust offered amongst none.
Then, under the chaos, there came another whisper. The individual murders, the ones that kept turning up when hatred reached its hottest, hadn’t been carried out with knives. The victims were found drained of blood, their coloration gray and pale as a result of the exsanguination.
To a common thug like Nex, the difference didn’t matter. But to a becomer like Morticar, it sounded familiar. Velane’s spark was too new to Feed, but he could tell her what the Feeding technique entailed.
Although Velane was still new to becoming, she was an old ally to Nex. Her mentor had always hated foreigners, but she had never been so organized. Certainly, she had never been able to respond to disturbance nearly the same break it happened, and she seemed always prepared for what type of body they would find.
As knife gangs rose in Dust and Earth alike, the jesters wondered if there was something deeper than xenophobia simmering in the quarter. Morticar went to investigate Little Ivorian, and Velane resolved to investigate the Dust.
She returned to Nex with her head held low, her hands full of nels and apologies upon her tongue. She'd been trying to live the life of a thief by herself, spending so long away, but it was too difficult. Nex had always been the better planner, brawler, protector.
Nex had never been fond of apologies, but she had always been fond of flattery. The older woman was intrigued to have her old protege back, but there was emphasis on the ‘old.’ Now there were plenty of individuals who wanted the honor of ‘protege.’ Velane had been an effective assistant, but she was no longer the only one, and if Nex was truly going to shape the Dust Quarter in her own image, she needed a right hand lieutenant she could trust.
The test she put forth was simple: a “friend” of hers was being bothered by two particularly nosy Ryn jesters in the Earth Quarter. Whoever killed those jesters would become Nex’s right hand.
Velane had no time to think or prepare a lie. As her competitors took to the hunt, all she could do was run ahead of them. She knew Morticar was in Little Ivorian. Thadian, she had no idea. And even if she’d known both, she only had time to warn one.
It was the first time Morticar had ever been angry at her, though it seemed more grief than fury. Of course he wished she would have saved Thadian instead of him, but of course they both knew she never would have. They fled the Ithecal district, but couldn’t move fast enough. Morticar knew where Thadian had gone, and they came to an Earth Quarter tavern with a crowd already gathered in the back alley. An old Ryn harlequin, dead from another fistfight turned into a knifefight.
Three of the gang members were still there. They caught sight of Morticar, and saw an opportunity for double the fame. They saw Velane, too, and started the fight as if they expected her to help them. That element of surprise was just enough to pry Morticar out before they could kill him, but at a cost: her self-totem was destroyed off in the fight. She escaped with a broken arm, and Morticar with a cut down his back, but they left enough damage to get back to the Thadian house.
There, they had a break to breathe, maybe less. Velane wanted to flee Rharne. Morticar wanted revenge. Nex had attacked them for sticking their noses in a “friend’s” business. Someone wanted them to stop questioning, and had killed Thadian for it. Morticar wouldn’t run, no matter how Velane pleaded, but he had a gift if she helped him kill Thadian’s murderer: his glamour spark. With it, they could whisper to each other from across a room without anyone else hearing, and once this hunt was over, they could become anyone else. With four sparks between them, they could kill Nex and whoever had sent her after them, and then they could disappear.
Both of them stood in their own forms, injured. But they both had the power to turn into each other, and leave those injuries behind. Velane had lost her self-totem, but Morticar still had a totem of her true form, and once this was done she could easily make another. What he wanted was to get both of them into Nex’s presence, and he could only do that with glamour.
She had never been good at murder. But for Morticar, she agreed to try.
They each changed forms, Velane into Morticar, and Morticar into Velane. Both uninjured. With no knowledge of when the others would come to the house, Morticar gave her a single task: play dead. Play dead no matter what she saw, heard, or felt. Play dead even if she felt like she was on fire, drowning, even if she heard people scream that they knew she was pretending. Play dead even if the world ended, and he would make sure the world believed her.
The spark of his glamour came as a strike against her ears, so hard and painful that her eardrums were blown out. Then came a ringing, and she could have sworn were fists hammering at the windows. She saw Nex break into the house. Her veins filled with fire, and her mouth filled with blood.
She lay down, and she played dead.
It hurt her. It terrified her. Nex crushed her fingers; competitors forced her mouth open and filled her lungs with water; old man Thadian himself crawled out of the floorboards to drag her underground. At the beginning, she knew it wasn’t real, but moments dragged into bits and bits into breaks. It just kept going, terror after terror and torture after torture. But she played dead, no matter how many old men tried to bury her. She stayed the silent ragdoll, no matter how many fingers were broken.
And then, eventually, she felt the difference between the pain of a broken bone and the reality of one. She saw the difference between a glowing fire and the real effect it should have had on her flesh. The dirt felt cool on top of her, but didn’t limit her movement. Her senses crawled back, and she learned the difference between illusion and truth.
The first thing she differentiated was the illusion of hands on her neck, and the very real hands dragging her feet.
Velane came to her senses just she was delivered to Nex’s safehouse.
Morticar used Velane’s face to claim credit for his own death. In Velane’s ear, he repeated instructions over and over again how to make an external glamour back at him, to let him know she was awake in a way no one else would hear. Velane tried, but her spark was too new to make itself heard, and she didn’t dare move for fear of breaking the glamour over her.
Morticar suggested the corpse be thrown to the Ryns, to show them what happened to outsiders who tried to climb over Dusters. Nex had no argument. Once Velane disposed of the corpse, Nex said, their friend wanted to meet her. The three of them would celebrate a job well done at the Painted Swine, and Velane would learn how many nels she could get by serving as Nex’s right hand.
As Morticar and two others dragged Velane across the Ryn slum, his voice repeated in her ear: Nex and the “friend” at the Painted Swine. Nex and the “friend” at the Painted Swine. They left her splayed in an alley between two refugee houses, and Morticar demanded the other two gang members follow him. We’re out of sight. Glamour will stick for five bits.
She waited five bits, until someone came to loot the corpse. The looter shrieked when she sat up, blood vanishing and her slashed throat seeming to heal itself in a blink. Velane staggered to her feet. For a moment, Velane really did become a thug; she took the looter’s ragged cloak and covered her motley uniform. She aimed for the Painted Swine looking like a common beggar.
Nex spotted her two streets away. The older woman wasn’t at the Swine, like she’d said she’d be. She was flanked by her followers. All of her followers. None of them were at the Swine, except Morticar in Velane's place.
Nex stopped when she saw Velane, hidden inside Morticar’s appearance. A dead jester back from the grave.
“That lying little cheat.” Nex laughed as she said it, like it was all a hilarious joke. “You really did turn her into a fool.”
An explosion rocked the Quarter. Under the Painted Swine, barrels of alcohol caught fire and blasted half a dozen surrounding buildings. Flames stretched across the Swine’s block, and when Velane ran toward them, Nex didn’t even try to stop her. The gang laughed, said something about ‘fools,’ and fled the destruction.
The tavern was already an inferno by the time Velane caught sight of it. The explosion had knocked out the walls and half the surrounding buildings, and in the time it took for Velane to sprint the journey, the fire had already sunk its claws into the houses beyond. In the midst of Saun in the poorest district, houses were already dry as bone and brittle as kindling.
People fled their homes to see what had happened, then back inside to grab their families. Some of them ran without grabbing anyone. The latter were the ones most likely to survive.
She ran toward the fire, just for a moment, just to feel the heat in case it was part of the test. It had to be part of the test. She’d just been burned and drowned and beaten by ether, but that was the curse wrapped up in the blessing. Her spark knew what was real, even when she didn’t want it to be.
The crowd swept her back. It was a stampede, strong trampling the weak with the force of a tidal wave. She couldn’t resist, and as the Dust Quarter was swallowed by fire, the crowd spat her out on the outskirts of Rharne.
She’d heard stories of infernos, but never seen one. She hadn’t realized that the length of such firelife wasn’t measured in breaks, but in trials. Time crawled by, and just… kept going. Heroes responded, coordinated the firefight, but it kept burning. People in the flames just kept screaming. Her hands just kept shaking.
She didn’t see Nex in the aftermath. She didn’t look for her. She took up tools to build trenches, she carried stragglers to the medics, she carried food to and from the kitchen tents. She got used to being called ‘he,’ and waited for someone to come out of the fire wearing her face.
One trial turned into two. The fire was halted in its tracks. Two trials turned into three. Beasts of despair skittered through the wreckage to devour the emotions of survivors. Three trials turned into four, and rain quenched the fire low enough for search teams to start their long task. Ghosts, Velane heard. Souls already dead began looking for those still alive.
When the air of the Dust Quarter was cool enough to breathe, Velane began looking for answers.
She found Nex’s safehouse burnt down to cinders. She retraced her path to where Morticar had left her, glamoured to look dead. There, she stood in silence for five bits, the same time she’d waited to move. The time it took for Morticar to walk to the Swine. She imagined how much time he’d spent there. She wondered if anyone had met him at all.
Velane went toward the Painted Swine. She wasn’t sure who saw her, or why, but she’d barely laid eyes on the wreckage when she blacked out. A hit to the back of the head, from someone who had snuck up behind her.
She awoke in chains, lined up with other Dusters plucked off the streets. Accused of arson? Recognized as a performer and guilty of Syroa worship by association? Velane couldn’t guess. With gags in their mouths and their cells packed to bursting, there was too much clamor to sort out things like names and crimes. The law needed someone to blame, and with so many someones to choose from, plenty of them had no records of even being arrested. All Velane knew for certain was her rage. It scorched her from the inside out, demanding to go back, to tear apart the charcoal until she had found Morticar’s body and the name of whoever had done this. Nex’s name burned inside her, followed by the name of every person-shaped animal who had ever followed her. Nex’s “friend,” a blank space with a name yet to be written.
Velane left herself in that fire as easily as an old jacket. Her face was gone, along with any hope of getting it back. That was no tragedy, though. Compared to a soul, a mentor, a lover, the loss of a face was no loss at all. As for identity, well… identity hardly mattered in prison. When a red-haired Ryn man was swallowed up in the search for a culprit, that man had no name. Who cared if he was Ryn or Rharnean, or what he’d been before these chains? All that mattered was that one day, he was going to build a revenge that made death by fire look like an easy drift into sleep.
Velane had spent her life cultivating cynicism as carefully as she cultivated her skillset. A better life, the choice to do the right thing, those weren’t luxuries meant for her. She wouldn’t have been able to give her siblings those options if she’d ever allowed them for herself.
But Faith had changed the Dust.
Thadian had escaped the Dust.
When Morticar said “You deserve better,” in off-handed moments when neither of them really paid attention, she believed him a bit more every time.
The changes were small at first. Velane would return to the Dust Quarter, her pockets full of food that Thadian didn’t mind losing, and notice a scrawny child who needed the food more. She’d wander by the orphanage and teach a stranger how to make a nel “vanish” behind someone’s ear. Morticar would play his lute for the Ryns still stuck in the Dust, and she’d watch his back to make sure no one hurt him. She would casually mention how Nex planned to rob a shipment to the soup kitchen, and somehow the shipment would come at an entirely different time.
Then, one night, she accompanied them to a performance. Nex rarely questioned a tavern visit ― Velane had always been introverted, and Nex liked to see her protege cut loose once in awhile ― so it was no trouble at all to spend an evening away from work. It wasn’t even trouble when Morticar took his performance off the stage and circled her table. She had spent her life running away from attention, but because it was him, and because he always teased her with this song when they were alone, it took no thought on her part to flick her wrist and make a nel seemingly appear from behind his ear. She’d never made an audience gasp in delight before. She’d never had an audience at all. But as the alcohol flowed and patrons lined up to see her make nels appear from their ears, too, she began to think that perhaps the center of attention wasn’t such a bad place to be.
When she arrived one trial to find a room of her own set up in the Thadian house, no one mentioned it. There was no surprised gasp or declaration of kinship. She put her things in the cupboard, and that was that.
One performance turned into two. A trick of nels behind the ear turned into a handkerchief disappeared from one hand to “reappear” in the other. Larceny was a skill based misdirection and quick fingers, which Velane had always used for theft. Theft was what it was for, according to Nex and the Lightning Knights and everyone else in the world. But if Velane could pick something out of a pocket, she could just as easily slip something into it, and there was no end to the astonishment when someone reached into their own pocket and found the playing card they’d just picked from her deck.
The first time Velane stood on a stage, she wore Morticar’s face. It was a bit embarrassing to feel stage fright in her own appearance, but he only teased her gently, and he was positively tickled to make a totem out of her so there weren’t two duplicates walking around the same tavern. Wearing each others’ bodies, she made cards vanish as he backed her with a lute, using his glamour to whisper instructions in her ear whenever the social cues became confusing.
She asked about that whispering magic after the show, and he repeated Thadian's story. There had once been a cadre of entertainers in Rynmere, six followers to the master glamourist Noraius Thadian. Of Thadian’s apprentices, Morticar alone had escaped Artere. Morticar had gained his becoming spark from his old life as a thief, but his glamour spark was born from Thadian. He pulled a bargain out of Velane in exchange for this story: if she joined them permanently, if she left the life of a thief behind the same way Morticar had once done, he would pass Thadian’s glamour down to her.
She didn’t know how to answer. She struggled to consider what life might be like if she left Nex. But the more she thought about it, the less she thought about anything else. There was no more talk of glamour that night, she became a regular presence at Morticar's side whenever he performed.
Three performances became five, and Nex’s leniancy at Velane's new social life thinned. Tensions were rising in the Dust Quarter as Cylus grew deep and supplies ran low. Duster against refugee, Ivorian against Quacian, every divide in the city seemed to tighten with each passing trial. The rebirth of year seven twenty-three seemed to hold its breath as they all waited for the tension to break. Velane had to take more from Thadian every time she visited in order to convince Nex she was actually working.
Then, a brawl outside the Painted Swine that turned sharp. Someone without a care for the rules of Rharne brought a knife to a fistfight, a sacrilege to any devotee of Ilaren.
The next night, there was a fight in the Earth Quarter. Another brawl ended with a knife, and another round of pearl-clutching at what cowardly bastard would do such a thing. Syroans, some said. Troubadors, said others.
And Nex? Well, Nex knew those Ryn refugees weren’t Rharnean. Non-Rharneans never respected the rules of a proper brawl.
A lot of people agreed with Nex, and Nex liked to be agreed with. As Velane spent more time with the entertainers, her mentor’s company was quickly taken up by other Dusters with a shared hatred for anyone not native. A punch here, an insult there… what did it matter if they also pulled knives out during a fight? The refugees weren’t Rharnean, they didn't follow Rharnean rules, so there was no need to keep Rharnean rules when dealing with them.
For a Ryn jester, suspicions were high no matter where they went. Morticar found himself turned away from venues, despite the hundred calls for entertainment. It seemed every performance ended with someone bleeding out in a back alley, and xenophobia whispered behind cupped hands: A true Rharnean would never. The Mummer’s Ball is still in the air. When the harlequins play, Syroa comes calling.
Tempers boiled over when the sun returned. In the Dust, Rharneans and Ryns alike carried knives and sharpened sticks, clinging together for mutual protection. Then came the news none of them could have predicted: Faith Augustin, dead in Scalvoris. The Hope of the Dust Quarter, lain low in dust of her own.
Grief rocked the Quarter. But where others wept, Nex saw opportunity. She didn’t even have to wait for a reason; a Rharnean harlot turned up dead after the news, tucked behind the shacks of two Ryn families. Nex rallied her Dusters, Velane included, and dragged the adult Ryns out of the house. No trial, no Knights, just the assumption that the Ryns were responsible for every dead Rharnean in their territory.
Then, another body turned up in Little Ivorian. A Rharnean Ithecal, for whom the locals were all too happy to blame their Quacian neighbors. Nex found allies amongst Little Ivorian, thrilled to pledge her gang to their vengeance. Another body in the Ryn slum, which Nex was even happier to avenge. Another body amongst the Quacians. Knives brandished amongst all, and trust offered amongst none.
Then, under the chaos, there came another whisper. The individual murders, the ones that kept turning up when hatred reached its hottest, hadn’t been carried out with knives. The victims were found drained of blood, their coloration gray and pale as a result of the exsanguination.
To a common thug like Nex, the difference didn’t matter. But to a becomer like Morticar, it sounded familiar. Velane’s spark was too new to Feed, but he could tell her what the Feeding technique entailed.
Although Velane was still new to becoming, she was an old ally to Nex. Her mentor had always hated foreigners, but she had never been so organized. Certainly, she had never been able to respond to disturbance nearly the same break it happened, and she seemed always prepared for what type of body they would find.
As knife gangs rose in Dust and Earth alike, the jesters wondered if there was something deeper than xenophobia simmering in the quarter. Morticar went to investigate Little Ivorian, and Velane resolved to investigate the Dust.
She returned to Nex with her head held low, her hands full of nels and apologies upon her tongue. She'd been trying to live the life of a thief by herself, spending so long away, but it was too difficult. Nex had always been the better planner, brawler, protector.
Nex had never been fond of apologies, but she had always been fond of flattery. The older woman was intrigued to have her old protege back, but there was emphasis on the ‘old.’ Now there were plenty of individuals who wanted the honor of ‘protege.’ Velane had been an effective assistant, but she was no longer the only one, and if Nex was truly going to shape the Dust Quarter in her own image, she needed a right hand lieutenant she could trust.
The test she put forth was simple: a “friend” of hers was being bothered by two particularly nosy Ryn jesters in the Earth Quarter. Whoever killed those jesters would become Nex’s right hand.
Velane had no time to think or prepare a lie. As her competitors took to the hunt, all she could do was run ahead of them. She knew Morticar was in Little Ivorian. Thadian, she had no idea. And even if she’d known both, she only had time to warn one.
It was the first time Morticar had ever been angry at her, though it seemed more grief than fury. Of course he wished she would have saved Thadian instead of him, but of course they both knew she never would have. They fled the Ithecal district, but couldn’t move fast enough. Morticar knew where Thadian had gone, and they came to an Earth Quarter tavern with a crowd already gathered in the back alley. An old Ryn harlequin, dead from another fistfight turned into a knifefight.
Three of the gang members were still there. They caught sight of Morticar, and saw an opportunity for double the fame. They saw Velane, too, and started the fight as if they expected her to help them. That element of surprise was just enough to pry Morticar out before they could kill him, but at a cost: her self-totem was destroyed off in the fight. She escaped with a broken arm, and Morticar with a cut down his back, but they left enough damage to get back to the Thadian house.
There, they had a break to breathe, maybe less. Velane wanted to flee Rharne. Morticar wanted revenge. Nex had attacked them for sticking their noses in a “friend’s” business. Someone wanted them to stop questioning, and had killed Thadian for it. Morticar wouldn’t run, no matter how Velane pleaded, but he had a gift if she helped him kill Thadian’s murderer: his glamour spark. With it, they could whisper to each other from across a room without anyone else hearing, and once this hunt was over, they could become anyone else. With four sparks between them, they could kill Nex and whoever had sent her after them, and then they could disappear.
Both of them stood in their own forms, injured. But they both had the power to turn into each other, and leave those injuries behind. Velane had lost her self-totem, but Morticar still had a totem of her true form, and once this was done she could easily make another. What he wanted was to get both of them into Nex’s presence, and he could only do that with glamour.
She had never been good at murder. But for Morticar, she agreed to try.
They each changed forms, Velane into Morticar, and Morticar into Velane. Both uninjured. With no knowledge of when the others would come to the house, Morticar gave her a single task: play dead. Play dead no matter what she saw, heard, or felt. Play dead even if she felt like she was on fire, drowning, even if she heard people scream that they knew she was pretending. Play dead even if the world ended, and he would make sure the world believed her.
The spark of his glamour came as a strike against her ears, so hard and painful that her eardrums were blown out. Then came a ringing, and she could have sworn were fists hammering at the windows. She saw Nex break into the house. Her veins filled with fire, and her mouth filled with blood.
She lay down, and she played dead.
It hurt her. It terrified her. Nex crushed her fingers; competitors forced her mouth open and filled her lungs with water; old man Thadian himself crawled out of the floorboards to drag her underground. At the beginning, she knew it wasn’t real, but moments dragged into bits and bits into breaks. It just kept going, terror after terror and torture after torture. But she played dead, no matter how many old men tried to bury her. She stayed the silent ragdoll, no matter how many fingers were broken.
And then, eventually, she felt the difference between the pain of a broken bone and the reality of one. She saw the difference between a glowing fire and the real effect it should have had on her flesh. The dirt felt cool on top of her, but didn’t limit her movement. Her senses crawled back, and she learned the difference between illusion and truth.
The first thing she differentiated was the illusion of hands on her neck, and the very real hands dragging her feet.
Velane came to her senses just she was delivered to Nex’s safehouse.
Morticar used Velane’s face to claim credit for his own death. In Velane’s ear, he repeated instructions over and over again how to make an external glamour back at him, to let him know she was awake in a way no one else would hear. Velane tried, but her spark was too new to make itself heard, and she didn’t dare move for fear of breaking the glamour over her.
Morticar suggested the corpse be thrown to the Ryns, to show them what happened to outsiders who tried to climb over Dusters. Nex had no argument. Once Velane disposed of the corpse, Nex said, their friend wanted to meet her. The three of them would celebrate a job well done at the Painted Swine, and Velane would learn how many nels she could get by serving as Nex’s right hand.
As Morticar and two others dragged Velane across the Ryn slum, his voice repeated in her ear: Nex and the “friend” at the Painted Swine. Nex and the “friend” at the Painted Swine. They left her splayed in an alley between two refugee houses, and Morticar demanded the other two gang members follow him. We’re out of sight. Glamour will stick for five bits.
She waited five bits, until someone came to loot the corpse. The looter shrieked when she sat up, blood vanishing and her slashed throat seeming to heal itself in a blink. Velane staggered to her feet. For a moment, Velane really did become a thug; she took the looter’s ragged cloak and covered her motley uniform. She aimed for the Painted Swine looking like a common beggar.
Nex spotted her two streets away. The older woman wasn’t at the Swine, like she’d said she’d be. She was flanked by her followers. All of her followers. None of them were at the Swine, except Morticar in Velane's place.
Nex stopped when she saw Velane, hidden inside Morticar’s appearance. A dead jester back from the grave.
“That lying little cheat.” Nex laughed as she said it, like it was all a hilarious joke. “You really did turn her into a fool.”
An explosion rocked the Quarter. Under the Painted Swine, barrels of alcohol caught fire and blasted half a dozen surrounding buildings. Flames stretched across the Swine’s block, and when Velane ran toward them, Nex didn’t even try to stop her. The gang laughed, said something about ‘fools,’ and fled the destruction.
The tavern was already an inferno by the time Velane caught sight of it. The explosion had knocked out the walls and half the surrounding buildings, and in the time it took for Velane to sprint the journey, the fire had already sunk its claws into the houses beyond. In the midst of Saun in the poorest district, houses were already dry as bone and brittle as kindling.
People fled their homes to see what had happened, then back inside to grab their families. Some of them ran without grabbing anyone. The latter were the ones most likely to survive.
She ran toward the fire, just for a moment, just to feel the heat in case it was part of the test. It had to be part of the test. She’d just been burned and drowned and beaten by ether, but that was the curse wrapped up in the blessing. Her spark knew what was real, even when she didn’t want it to be.
The crowd swept her back. It was a stampede, strong trampling the weak with the force of a tidal wave. She couldn’t resist, and as the Dust Quarter was swallowed by fire, the crowd spat her out on the outskirts of Rharne.
She’d heard stories of infernos, but never seen one. She hadn’t realized that the length of such firelife wasn’t measured in breaks, but in trials. Time crawled by, and just… kept going. Heroes responded, coordinated the firefight, but it kept burning. People in the flames just kept screaming. Her hands just kept shaking.
She didn’t see Nex in the aftermath. She didn’t look for her. She took up tools to build trenches, she carried stragglers to the medics, she carried food to and from the kitchen tents. She got used to being called ‘he,’ and waited for someone to come out of the fire wearing her face.
One trial turned into two. The fire was halted in its tracks. Two trials turned into three. Beasts of despair skittered through the wreckage to devour the emotions of survivors. Three trials turned into four, and rain quenched the fire low enough for search teams to start their long task. Ghosts, Velane heard. Souls already dead began looking for those still alive.
When the air of the Dust Quarter was cool enough to breathe, Velane began looking for answers.
She found Nex’s safehouse burnt down to cinders. She retraced her path to where Morticar had left her, glamoured to look dead. There, she stood in silence for five bits, the same time she’d waited to move. The time it took for Morticar to walk to the Swine. She imagined how much time he’d spent there. She wondered if anyone had met him at all.
Velane went toward the Painted Swine. She wasn’t sure who saw her, or why, but she’d barely laid eyes on the wreckage when she blacked out. A hit to the back of the head, from someone who had snuck up behind her.
She awoke in chains, lined up with other Dusters plucked off the streets. Accused of arson? Recognized as a performer and guilty of Syroa worship by association? Velane couldn’t guess. With gags in their mouths and their cells packed to bursting, there was too much clamor to sort out things like names and crimes. The law needed someone to blame, and with so many someones to choose from, plenty of them had no records of even being arrested. All Velane knew for certain was her rage. It scorched her from the inside out, demanding to go back, to tear apart the charcoal until she had found Morticar’s body and the name of whoever had done this. Nex’s name burned inside her, followed by the name of every person-shaped animal who had ever followed her. Nex’s “friend,” a blank space with a name yet to be written.
Velane left herself in that fire as easily as an old jacket. Her face was gone, along with any hope of getting it back. That was no tragedy, though. Compared to a soul, a mentor, a lover, the loss of a face was no loss at all. As for identity, well… identity hardly mattered in prison. When a red-haired Ryn man was swallowed up in the search for a culprit, that man had no name. Who cared if he was Ryn or Rharnean, or what he’d been before these chains? All that mattered was that one day, he was going to build a revenge that made death by fire look like an easy drift into sleep.
Epilogue
Two years. That was how long it took for the red-haired prisoner to find an opening. A warm Ashan day, a city holding its breath as airships hung in the sky overhead, and one grand stroke of luck saw an explosion shatter the walls of the Lightning Knight Headquarters. Some prisoners died. Some prisoners stayed trapped in their cells. And some prisoners, like the sly redhead man with no record of arrest, slipped through the broken walls into freedom.
A history of larceny got him clean, respectable clothes and soap to wash his face. A lifelong talent for deception earned him the good opinion of those he met. With a bit of practice and a few heartfelt lamentations at the explosion, not one average street-goer would have thought him an escapee. But good opinions weren’t enough; he would not waste his luck by merely escaping. If fortune gave him freedom, he would take it for all it was worth.
Rharne. Still tall, still whole, its stones showing no mind to the shacks around its base. The City of Storms above its City of Dust, with its cinders all settled under two years of memory. Once, the man had sworn off thievery in pursuit of a better life. Now, he would use whatever tricks could feed his fury.
A face, a name, and a reputation were what he needed to dig under those cinders and unbury the bones. His own face was too precious to risk damage, but that could be solved with more faces to wear. His name was two years buried under those cinders, but a little wash and polish could turn Morticar Thrawe into a name everyone trusted. That was the wonderful thing about reputation, and the ability to change his face like clothes; Morticar Thrawe was a humble entertainer who would never harm a fly. Any unsavory person who happened to show up when he went somewhere, well, that just couldn’t be Morticar. He wouldn’t even insult someone unless they did it first.
And he definitely wouldn’t burn anyone to death unless they really, really deserved it.
A history of larceny got him clean, respectable clothes and soap to wash his face. A lifelong talent for deception earned him the good opinion of those he met. With a bit of practice and a few heartfelt lamentations at the explosion, not one average street-goer would have thought him an escapee. But good opinions weren’t enough; he would not waste his luck by merely escaping. If fortune gave him freedom, he would take it for all it was worth.
Rharne. Still tall, still whole, its stones showing no mind to the shacks around its base. The City of Storms above its City of Dust, with its cinders all settled under two years of memory. Once, the man had sworn off thievery in pursuit of a better life. Now, he would use whatever tricks could feed his fury.
A face, a name, and a reputation were what he needed to dig under those cinders and unbury the bones. His own face was too precious to risk damage, but that could be solved with more faces to wear. His name was two years buried under those cinders, but a little wash and polish could turn Morticar Thrawe into a name everyone trusted. That was the wonderful thing about reputation, and the ability to change his face like clothes; Morticar Thrawe was a humble entertainer who would never harm a fly. Any unsavory person who happened to show up when he went somewhere, well, that just couldn’t be Morticar. He wouldn’t even insult someone unless they did it first.
And he definitely wouldn’t burn anyone to death unless they really, really deserved it.
End Credits
- Rharne Calendar: Rebirth 723
- Cylus 9 - A trend that many find unsavory and disturbing, is that of many youths beginning to take up small knives and blades which they hide on their person, and then use in brawls. Several incidents occur in the back courtyards of taverns and in alleyways, where victims are found stabbed, beaten, and bleeding out. This practice is often blamed on underground troubadours, whether rightly or wrongly, as they're thought to be linked to the dead Immortal Syroa. This blasphemy of bringing blade to a fist fight is condemned by the Thunder Priesthood, and Ilaren herself is rumored to consider bringing back some form of arms control or peace-bonding.
- Cylus 29 - Late in Cylus, the pent up boredom and restlessness of being kept indoors, for most folk, has led to a demand for cheap and broadly available entertainment. Many venues thusly host theatrical plays and performances, in taverns and other popular venues known to cater to groups of people. Some of these incidents turn violent as the content of these plays scratches at the raw nerves of Rharneans, citing recent events. Like the All-Taverns Tournament and Mummer's Ball.
- Ashan 17 - In Rharne, because of some of the rowdier performances in the prior season, a curfew has been imposed upon those running theatrical performances and plays in the various venues around Rharne. Those found to be in violation of curfew are threatened with arrest. Business Owners are up in arms, and the consequences for owners who violate this guideline are being litigated by the Council. Nevertheless, the Lightning Knights are given discretion for how they deal with individuals who directly violate this temporary measure.
- Ashan 122 - The Founder's Festival typically takes place in the Glass Quarter during five trials in Ashan. These trials may vary from arc to arc, but generally occur during the end of the season when the weather is warmer. Stalls and tables are set for a public banquet, and a feast is held day and night for all five trials to commemorate the Immortal Ilaren and the founding history of Rharne. The Festival includes speakers from various factions and businesses, busker performances, storytelling, and plenty of alcohol. Local taverns also tend to hold a variety of fighting competitions throughout the city.
- 123 Ashan - Faith dies in the Pirate Attacks in Scalvoris
- On the second night of Founder's Festival, disparate groups of local Troubadours take the stage at Starling Gallery for a special late night performance, flaunting their acting skill in spite of the authorities. They do so without license to perform that night, but when questioned the owner of the Starling Gallery informs them that they paid well for the spot. This is in clear violation of a curfew imposed early in Ashan against theatrical performances. During their performances, variations of the histories of the Founding of Rharne are shown and told, some borderline heretical, going as far as to depict the death of Leviana in gruesome detail, while Ilaren is shown as a unsympathetic drunkard, and villains such as Faldrun and Syroa are shown as tragically heroic.
The Lightning Knights are forced to respond to this breaking of curfew, and assemble outside of the Starling Gallery in force. The memory of the All-Taverns Tournament is fresh on everyone's mind as people fear the worst out of this group of troubadours. Red and black banners and streamers are hung up and down the street of Starling Gallery and Opera House. Suspicion is high among the populace, but many people attend performance as a lark, despite the risk of apprehension by the Lightning Knights.
- Rharne Calendar: Hot 723
- All cycle long - The rise of knife gangs and encouragement of brawling throughout the tavern circuit has resulted in tempers flaring across the Quarters. Around select neighborhoods, disorganized gangsters begin gathering followings to them. They often will lay claim to a particular modus operandi. One Gang in Little Ivorian prides themselves on their skill with blackjacks and cudgels. The Knife Gangs smear the blood of their enemies and victims on their clothes, giving them a distinctive appearance, favoring red clothing. The numbers of gangs grows as the civil unrest does, and if nothing is done about the disorganized waves of violence, it threatens both the Shadow Quarter's Dominance over the streets, as well as the carefully cultivated order of the Government.
- 5 Saun - A group of Quacian Ithecal, frequently clashing witih the Ithecal of little Ivorian, have formed a protective gang in a slum between the Dust Quarter and Earth Quarter, they call themselves the Stone Dragons. The tension between Little Ivorian Ithecal and the Quacian Ex-slaves has grown to a head, to the point where many of them migrate from Little Ivorian to that slum. Subsequently, several murders in Little Ivorian are blamed on the group, who neither deny nor acknowledge responsibility. The victims are found drained of blood, their coloration gray and pale as a result of the exsanguination.
- 15 Saun - An unexplained fire breaks out in the Dust Quarter, near the Painted Swine. Very soon, the tavern is threatened, and when the flames spread to their stores of alcohol and drugs, a great explosion rocks the Quarter, destroying many homes all at once. This leads to the violence that has plagued the city throughout Saun coming to a head, with crushing crowds of people all over, pushing each other over and stampeding. Death and destruction wreathe their way through the Dust Quarter, unless the fires are contained. There will be much death regardless.
- 25 Saun - Whatever the result of the fire, the populace has doubtless suffered unduly, and many search for a person to blame for it. Some blame a stray bolt of lightning from the top of the mountain, which one or two witnesses swear they saw. Others blame mummers and theater troops. Yet more lay their blame on the refugees that have crowded into the Dust Quarter, with their strange customs and rituals. Everyone blames their neighbor, and disunity has never been higher in Rharne.
- 35-40 Saun - Fed up with the civil disunity and degradation of lifestyle in the Dust and Earth Quarter, many stage an exodus in the wake of the fires, seeking to settle the lands beyond Rharne City, or perhaps beyond. The Voice of Rharne is said to be spotted fiddling on his own roof, cackling at the night sky as twilight once again falls upon Rharne.
- 121 Ashan, 724
- Amongst other happenings, the Lightning Knight Headquarters is bombed. Many prisoners either die or escape.
Last edited by Morticar on Fri Jul 18, 2025 4:46 pm, edited 39 times in total. word count: 8458
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Morticar
- Approved Character
- Posts: 74
- Joined: Thu Feb 20, 2025 2:55 am
- Race: Human
- Profession: everybody's fool
- Renown: 40
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Templates
- Storybook
- Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Milestones
Miscellaneous
Re: Personality
Last edited by Morticar on Wed Jul 30, 2025 5:35 am, edited 3 times in total. word count: 14
-
Morticar
- Approved Character
- Posts: 74
- Joined: Thu Feb 20, 2025 2:55 am
- Race: Human
- Profession: everybody's fool
- Renown: 40
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Templates
- Storybook
- Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Milestones
Miscellaneous
Re: Personality
Residence
Morticar lives in a quaint Earth Quarter residence with one large room, three average rooms, and one small room. Only the large room and two of the average rooms have windows. It is cut almost entirely out of the mountain stone, within a half-break’s walking distance from the Glass Quarter gates. The furnishings aren’t fancy, but they’re sturdy and comfortable.
- large room
- living room: one fireplace, one dining table, four chairs
- average room
- bedroom: bed, wardrobe, footlocker
- spare bedroom: bed, wardrobe, footlocker which is empty
- kitchen: wood stove, ceramic oven, washbasin, laundry tub
- small room
- pantry: many storage shelves, food
Last edited by Morticar on Mon Jul 07, 2025 1:30 pm, edited 3 times in total. word count: 105
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Morticar
- Approved Character
- Posts: 74
- Joined: Thu Feb 20, 2025 2:55 am
- Race: Human
- Profession: everybody's fool
- Renown: 40
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Templates
- Storybook
- Wealth Tier: Tier 5
Milestones
Miscellaneous
Re: Personality
Possessions
- 4 outfits, average quality
- jester's motley
- formal outfit
- casual outfit
- beggar's outfit
- skill kits, average quality
- cosmetology toolkit
- thieves' toolkit
- writing toolkit
- weapon care kit
- weapons, average quality
- dagger
- rapier
Heirloom
- good-quality masquerade mask. Fully covers face except for eyes, painted white with simple black and red designs.
Last edited by Morticar on Tue Jul 08, 2025 2:24 am, edited 3 times in total. word count: 52
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Morticar
- Approved Character
- Posts: 74
- Joined: Thu Feb 20, 2025 2:55 am
- Race: Human
- Profession: everybody's fool
- Renown: 40
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Templates
- Storybook
- Wealth Tier: Tier 5