About Brewton ParkerFLUFF: BACKSTORY Spoiler: PERSONALITYIt was like Besmara was laughing at them.
That's what one of them said, one of the other survivors, one of his friends. One of the men he had eaten. Brewton Parker was a model member of the Andoren Navy, a young and eager military man, an engineer with especial knowledge and understanding of the catapults and ballistae on his ship. He was well respected, well liked and well utilized. But when his ship wrecked off an uncharted island, his knowledge and skills as a siege engineer were of no use to him nor those around him. Out of fifty crewmen, only the captain, two other men and he himself survived the wreck, the rest lost to sharks and the sea. Those sharks patrolled the shallows around the island, making fishing impossible without putting them at risk. For a time, they survived off salvaged rations from the wreck, the island largely barren except for a natural spring. But two months passed, with rescue nowhere in site and rations running thin. The four survivors tried once more to fish and forage in the shark infested waters, but this only provoked tragedy. They pulled their captain free from the sharks, but too late to save him. With his dying breath, he gave them two last orders. "Make it out, men. Eat me if you have to. Make it out together." The taste of flesh awoke something hidden deep within Brewton. It felt, it felt right, as if this was how it was supposed to be. The sun set and the full moon rose. It was one of his friends who pointed out the changes. His eyes, he said, had gone wide and black, his face stretched and teeth sharp. He had attacked the flesh with singular vigor, eagerly pulling flesh from bone. Parker claimed the man was just jealous. But he spoke truth. For in the moonlight, his ancestor's curse, having long laid dormant in his family, struck for the first time. His skin grew cold and smooth, his face grew pointed and wide to accommodate many sharp teeth, and his hands grew fat and webbed. That night he silently slit the throats of the other survivors and gorged upon their bodies, leaving their bones picked clean. The curse left its mark on his face, even come morning. And in the morning, he was still hungry yet, the hundreds of pounds of meat he had consumed not sating his need for flesh. He considered wading out and fishing, trying to gut one of the sharks and finding what little flesh remained of his captain, but having no desire to be eaten himself, he chose not to. Another month passed. His human visage had returned, but gone gaunt and sallow without food. To make things worse, the spring had almost run dry. The hunger was driving him mad. He shouldn't have feasted so readily. He should have waited, should have kept them alive, shared in the spoils. Guilt was there, too, buried behind the hunger and madness. He had betrayed them. They were supposed to make it out together, damn it! Eventually he could hold out no longer. The sharkman sat at the edge of a low cliff and slowly began peeling back the flesh of his own leg, eating it for sustenance. His blood trickled down and into the water below, where sharks began to gather, aching with the same familiar hunger he possessed. As he ate more and more, the sharks grew more and more desperate, lunging out of the water and reaching for him. Delirious from blood loss and hunger, he laughed and screamed and taunted them, leaning his bloody leg closer to them and pulling it back before they could get a good bite on him. In the end, they were faster. A shark finally managed to grab his leg and pulled him under, where the beasts savaged him. Calling upon the strange curse now afflicted upon him, he wrenched himself free, losing his leg to the monsters. That was the night that rescue came, as if Besmara, goddess of the ocean and strife, was laughing at him. Six hours. If he had waited six hours, he would still be intact. If he had waited six hours, he could have gone back to life in the Navy. The surgeon saved his life, but crippled as he was, he was discharged and left to rot. Parker told no one what happened on the island, but the hunger remained, always. He ate plenty and drank deep, never satisfied, always craving the memory of human flesh. The secret shamed him, haunted his dreams. How could he have done such a thing? And if not human, what was he? After years of drinking away his army pension, he returned home for answers. What fate had befallen him? Could the hunger ever be conquered? There he found his mother. To her and her alone, he confessed his story, his tale of cowardice and cannibalism, and showed her the strange transformations he now had full control over. His mother, to her credit, did not fault her son for his actions. "We're skinwalkers, Brewton," she explained. "Seascars. No one know where it come from, an it han't manifested in our fam'ly line since your great grandfather. But one our ancestors must'a been a, a wereshark. When I first been told the stories I thought they were myth, tall talk, nothin real about it, and they were all so small, Brewton, I thought they must of been just egzaggerations. They were stories of, of granddad smilin a huge nasty smile to scare the childrens, of tearin apart legs of lamb and venison raw with sharp, ang'lar teeth an lettin the blood drip down. I thought folk were just bein dramatic. Tweren't nuthin like the kind and gen'le man I knew." She stared at the wall for some time before continuing. "I wept when you decided to be a sailor. Thought it might, thought-," she pinched the bridge of her nose and laid her hands in her lap, gazing down. "Son, d'you remember the stories I'd tell you, warnin you not to go to the beach at night?" "Yes'm," he nodded. "Diya ever?" He was still and silent for a time before nodding. "Bless your heart child, I, I hate that you been saddled with this. Gods forgive me." His mother left the room and returned with a silver dagger, offering it to him freely. "If it ever get too much, Brewton, use it. I want you to kill yourself." With those parting words, he left home, never to return. He found work on a merchant liner, friendly folk that didn't ask questions, who appreciated his knowledge and expertise. The hunger still ever present in his mind, he often found himself thumbing the silver dagger, debating the merits of living. He drowned his worries in drink and other men, and came to enjoy life once more. Traveling in the Shackles he grew to know many rough and tumble types that worshiped the same god what doomed him so long ago. Besmara, ocean lady, goddess of change and strife. They'd whisper prayers to her during storms and rough waters, wishing for safe passage and for their lives to continue. And when things didn't get better, they saw it as a kind of sick joke, laughing to themselves and shaking their heads. In time, Brewton Parker saw things similarly. His life had been a cruel joke, and the punchline was coming. He and Besmara both would be there to see it. So when he got drunk and comfortable in the Formidably Maid, well the punchline was coming. Spoiler: APPEARANCEThere are a few sides to Brewton Parker. When sober he's often dry and laconic, sarcastic and bitter, when drunk he is lively and affable, all smiles and friendly banter. Despite being generally sociable and cooperative, he is very private when it comes to matters pertaining to himself or his past.
Brewton eats and drinks easily twice his share, anything to drown his eternal hunger for human flesh. Though it has been years since the incident, he dreams about it constantly. It's only his respect for humanity and his fear of ostracism that keeps him from seeking out a chance for more. He prefers the company of men, though he'll f&~+ anyone in a pinch. He does not enjoy the beach, as it brings unpleasant memories, but since he started doing business in the Shackles, he finds that harder and harder to avoid. Spoiler: SECRETSWith dark hair and deeply tan skin, Parker is tall, angular and awkward. He often walks with a stoop, and hobbles from place to place on crutches or on his wood leg. With his prosthetic he's somewhat dextrous and accomplished, yes, but wearing it too long hurts his hip and he likes to give it a chance to rest.
His body is near entirely hairless, thanks to his wereshark ancestry, but wherever hair should grow is slightly blueish, as though he had just shaved. His grey eyes often look a bit vague and vacuous, and he'd be the first to admit there ain't much bouncing around between them, but he's observant and capable enough. In his shark form, his mouth widens and stretches forth, his teeth retract and replace themselves with many, many layers of sharp, jagged teeth. His eyes go wide and black, and his skin gains a tint of grey blue. Sometimes gills will sprout from his neck to just below his pectorals, his hands and foot will web, or he'll even grow a notched dorsal fin. His lower lip is full, the top, thin and cruel. He smiles often, showing his wide array of sharp, crooked teeth, and sneers more than that. Despite his large and varied appetite, he remains thin and lean, and ever, ever hungry. Spoiler: 1. Unknown to him, there was another survivor of the crash. A friend hid in the lifeboats, and when things started to look bleak, they cut and ran early. The two are both unaware the other survived, and would each recognize each other upon reunion. His cowardly friend might even still be in the Navy
2. Brewton doesn't make a habit of telling people how he survived for a whole season on a desert island, though many have suspected. If confronted about it, he just goes quiet. 3. Having gained full control over his powers, he is very hesitant and nervous to display any of them publicly. "I'm just a very good swimmer, sir," he says if anyone questions anything. But when pressed for survival, he has had to depend on his shark form several times now. CRUNCH:
SHEET Spoiler: GEARSkinwalker (Seascarred) Tidal Hunter Ranger 1
Init +0; Perception +8
Spoiler: 175 starting GP, 10% increase on all prices
Sawback Silver Dagger (29.7)
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