In the Crimson Hills
an ancient goblin butcher, mortals see him as a rather frail and emo twenty-something
Wizened (Chirurgeon) Autumn Court
Stats Int 3 Wits 2 Resolve 3 Strength 2 Dexterity 2 Stamina 3 Presence 2 Manipulation 2 Composure 2
Academics 1 Investigation 1 Medicine 5 (trauma/triage specialty) Occult 2 (ritual magic specialty) Science 2
Athletics 1 Brawl 2 (specialties: vs wounded targets +1, when outmatched +1) Stealth 1 Weaponry 3 (blades specialty)
Endurance 2 Autumn Mantle 1
Autumn 2, Stone 1, Shadow 1, Artifice 1
Health 8 Willpower 4 Glamour 6/12 Wyrd 3 Clarity 6 Seeming Blessing: 1 glamour = 9 again on dex pools or +Wyrd to dodge. 9 again on Medicine rolls. Seeming Curse:
Size 5 Defense 2 Initiative 3 Speed 10 Armor 0 Experience 0
Avery was a typical upper class college kid that didn’t want to work for his grades. He had been handed everything else in life, and expected college to be the same. He spent his days playing video games, downloading porn, and engrossing himself in other all-American hobbies. His grades were terrible. As he began to look for easy ways to improve his lot in life without having to put his nose to the grindstone, he eventually turned to occultism. He researched and performed rituals to make his work easier, confident that they would get him through school. He was as bad at magic as he was at Chemistry 200. As his grades started to drop and it became obvious that the “magic” was having no effect at all, he spiraled completely out of his own mind and quit school. He spent his days wondering why his life was so unfulfilling, unwilling to take any personal responsibility for his failures. He became convinced that he was meant to live an exciting life of adventure off in some fantasy world, and inspired by his occult books, he began wishing every night that the fairies would come take him away to make something useful out of him. On the ninth night, they did.
The master, of whom he remembers very little, was a sadistic creature who enjoyed mortal suffering. (s)he kept a vast stable of mortals which (s)he used for amusement. Every day these mortals were set out against one another in deadly combat, battling in gladiatorial matches that left winners and losers alike in bleeding agony, kept alive only by the will of the master. Avery thought this was Bad Ass with a capital Awesome, and couldn’t wait to learn to fight in immortal faerie combat. So the master denied him. Avery was locked instead in the filthy, bloody stable beneath the gladiator rings, forced to administer the gruesome surgeries and sadistic magics that readied the slaves for their daily deathmatch in the timeless space between the battles.
This continued for years. Decades. Centuries possibly. Avery lost the ability to sleep or track time- he could only keep working, stitching the fallen together, sewing limbs to torsos and heads to bodies. He eventually discovered that he could attach even inorganic objects through the magic of the fae, and began performing bizarre grafts to create monstrosities of flesh, metal, and magic that pleased the master when they creaked their agonized forms into the arena. Avery’s body and soul twisted with his work, becoming gnarled and hunched. Where there was once a lazy boy, there was now a grim and steely goblin. On a primitive, unthinking level, he realized he had to get away and began stealing away parts from the fleshy chop shop that was his existence.
His memory of the escape is hopelessly foggy. The master had invited several other of the Gentry to watch a day of sport; he remembers brightly colored pennants and impossible figures. He remembers the feeling of seven legs and fifteen blades around and within him, sewn to his skeleton and nervous system. He remembers being covered in blood. He remembers seams tearing and arms falling as they ripped at the gated exit from the pit. And he remembers his new body, the muscles, bones, and reinforced tendons, the misshapen skittering modifications of escape, being ripped from him by the Thorns in a scrambling sprint through nightmare terrain toward escape.
Now he goes by Hekitt, his mortal last name. He hates the Gentry with a rage that any Summer courtier would salute; the only thing he hates more is himself. He knows, deep down, that he got his wish: the faeries DID make something useful out of him, and he owes it to the world to see to it that they don’t do the same to anyone else ever again.