About Anton MarakovAnton Marakov
Backstory: Stanimir Marakov has the dual distinctions of standing in one of Brevoy's noble houses, and being an arcanist of some renown. In his former adventuring days as the wizard of the Five Knives Company, a small band of adventurers and opportunistic mercenaries, he specialised in summoning otherworldly creatures to aid his allies and overwhelm his foes. Unfortunately, the days of the party were cut short when one member, the warrior Francesco Rossi, was slain - the group disbanded shortly after, heading their separate ways. For Stanimir, that was home, to Brevoy. He retired to New Stetven, married his childhood sweetheart (the wry Marya Lebeda), invested in a few businesses, and settled for a life of research and theoretical arcane study. He managed a brisk trade of identifying magical items other adventuring parties brought through, and amassed an impressive private collection of magical objects and tomes. When Marya announced that she was pregnant, Stanimir didn't quite know how to take it. On the one hand, a child would make a magnificent apprentice. On the other, nothing in his years of study had prepared him for the challenge of fatherhood. He was nothing if not adaptable, though, and to his delight, his son, Anton, inherited his thirst for knowledge and keen intellect. He was a fast learner, the very image of his father, and the light of Stanimir's life. Yet he was a frail, sickly boy, prone to catching every cough and sniffle that came around, and spending large amounts of his childhood bedridden and weak. He still wanted to learn, however, and Stanimir spent many long days and nights at his son's bedside, schooling him in the ways of magic. Yet as Anton grew, his health remained consistently poor. He was a gangly youth, brittle-boned and dry-lipped, prone to illness and possessed of a persistent dry, hacking cough that shook his shoulders and scraped his throat. As Anton entered his twelfth year with no sign of improvement, even from the priests and apothecaries Stanimir and Marya called in, the proud father became determined to take things into his own hands. He withdrew. Anton spent the next several years of his life seeing his father as a grim spectre, hunched over books or crouched in prayer, his nosoi familiar a chilling reminder of his final fate. The two wizards spoke little, engaging in their own research - the older, calling outsiders for counsel; the younger, delving instead into the study of transmutation. Somewhere, in these dusty tomes, was the answer - a way to transcend the limitations of his final form, to strengthen his bones and lungs with magic. Marya fussed and flitted, worried that she was losing both her boys to their fruitless research. Yet while Anton's good memories of his father slowly faded, replaced with those of a desperate, gaunt fellow, his own research yielded some results - he was able to route pure magic into his weak organs, suppress his coughs and shakes. He mastered his first spells - they weren't flashy, but they were effective, and held immense promise. He was well into his twenties when his father approached him in the library - the first time he'd done so in years. "I've got an opportunity for you," he said, and for the first time, Anton was aware of how exhausted his father looked, his features pinched and heavily-shadowed in the light he'd conjured. "There's an expedition heading into the Stolen Lands. I think it would do you good." He stood, squeezed his shoulder briefly, and went to the door. "It leaves in four days," he added, before leaving. Anton found himself at the gates four days later, his pack slung over a thin shoulder, dressed in his patched robes and sturdiest boots. His spellbook was heavy at his hip, and a gnarled staff was clutched in his hand. After hugging his mother goodbye, he was surprised to see his father there, ready to see him off. And he had a parting gift - a silver pendant, surprisingly heavy, with a shimmering green stone in the centre. "It's of fey make," was the only explanation given. "It should help you out there." Having bestowed his odd gift, he was gone once more. Hanging the amulet around his neck, Anton drew a deep, shaky breath, and took his first steps into the unknown. Appearance: Pale for a Taldan, and with a name more grand than his appearance, Anton is a thin and reedy man, frail and bookish even by a wizard's standards. Standing just over six feet tall, with straight black hair pulled messily off his face, wearing faded robes patched in several places, he nonetheless carries a cunning intellect in his pale blue eyes - an intellect that has served him well in his studies of the universe, its rules, and the art of bending them. Spellbook:
Level 0: Acid splash, arcane mark, dancing lights, detect magic, detect poison, flare, ghost sound, haunted fey aspect, light, mage hand, mending, message, open/close, prestidigitation, ray of frost, read magic, resistance, spark.
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