Ebon Highroost is a liar. For him, that has always seemed to be his most marked trait, and it is what his master, Jerom Fellwind, would always call him. “Liar,” he would say, as they roamed the countryside, practicing themselves, their important arts of fraud, of infiltration, of lying.
Ebon was a born liar, or so his parents told him. Almost pathological, Ebon grew up from an early age, hanging with a bad sort in the great city of Caliphas, making Ebon an Ustalav native. He stole, he gambled, he participated in activities that to this day he is still ashamed of. Eventually, his gang had gotten into the worst sort of trouble with the law enforcement, caught stealing from the guard’s barracks. Ebon tried every trick in his arsenal of lies, but it was to no avail, and they angry guardsmen threatened to leave them in the dungeons for the rest of their days.
During his imprisonment, a strange visitor approached, another Tengu who called himself “Deathsbane.” He told him he was to be his executioner and opened his cell, but Ebon had a suspicion, a gut feeling he got for looking at the Tengu. He had dressed for the part, clad in black with a cowl covering most of his features. It was an unusual position for a Tengu in the city, but that wasn’t it. It was something in his voice and in his eyes that told him the other Tengu was lying.
“You’re lying,” said Ebon. The larger Tengu smiled. “What is your name,” he asked, “how did you end up here?” “The name’s Pyat.” He said it with as silver a tongue he could muster. “These jackboot guards wrongly imprisoned me for a thievery I didn’t commit. I… ” “Liar,” said the Tengu. “It takes one to know one. Follow me; we have much to discuss.”
From that day forward Ebon called the Tengu, “master,” yet only learned his true name, Jerom Fellwind years later, and considering the man who told him, Ebon took even that with a grain of salt. It was true, however, the man did, in all other social circles go by the name of “Deathsbane.” “A moniker of mine,” he called it, “a meaningless title with a meaningless implication. I am no more an enemy of death as you are a carrion crow.”
Jerom was a man on, as he called it, “a sacred mission.” It was not however, for any particular god, as Jerom was a polytheist, yet took upon his mantle the duty of protector of the weak, of the communities infested with chaotic forces that sought to bring the citizens of these small hamlets to their knees. It was no specific cause, but it was his cause all the same. Jerom was old, however, and was searching for a protégé to carry on his work. He found that student in the young Tengu liar in Caliphas.
“I am no shining knight riding to rid the world of evil atop his steel clad destrier,” he used to say. “The Tengu body, nor the Tengu mind, was built for that kind of strain of head-on combat. We are a covetous sort, greedy yet intelligent and duplicitous. You yourself are a fine example of these kind of traits. No, our path is not one of frontline assaults and gallantry. Ours is a line of subterfuge, of lies, secrets within secrets and a complex web of deception to fool our enemies into thinking us… well less as allies and more than enemies. Take it from me, never try and make allies with your enemies. Sure, it will bring you closer into the fold, but the danger there is always greater than you can possibly imagine. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, but not so close as they can slip a knife into your back.”
Ebon took to his teachings well enough, and soon the two travelled the countryside rooting out evil and chaos where it lay, whether an undead infestation in one town, or a cultist plot in the deepest bowels of a city. They were the unsung heroes of many a different community, averting the deaths of many, using guile and mystery where it was required and even assassination only when it was utterly necessary.
Ebon earned the name “carrion eater” through his innate ability to scent out both the dead and the dying. This led the way to many of the groups they infiltrated to mock this ability, and when Ebon complained to Jerom of this, the older Tengu only said, “It is a good thing. Let them name you. It gives them a perceived power over you. Use that. Let them think they have the power, for it is easier for these men and women to trust in themselves than a stranger. Act the part, pretend to spurn the mocking. Let them have it. Let their preconceived notions bud and flower. We can only learn through their ignorance.”
One day, however, as the two were infiltrating an assassination scheme in the depths of Riddleport, Jerom, was somehow discovered. There was little time, and as the two attempted to escape the town, Jerom “Deathsbane” Fellwind intercepted them, yelling for Ebon to go and make his escape. He was tracked throughout the city, and just when he thought they were about to catch him, Ebon was helped by an unlikely man, a Professor Petros Lorrimor, who had spent the last few days researching the runegate of Riddleport. The Professor selflessly helped Ebon into the back of hay wagon, and stood fast as his pursuers questioned the man and even offered a great reward for his capture.
After they had both escaped the city, Ebon thanked the man furiously, asking in what way he might someday repay him. The Professor told him he might one day, where he would call on him to ask for his assistance. The two parted company and for the next few years Ebon tried his best to continue his master’s work, but could never accomplish what Deathsbane could.
After this time Ebon received a letter from the small town of Harrowstone, letting him know that the man who had helped him years ago was dead, and that he had been included in the man’s will. Ebon immediately began his journey back to his homeland, to Harrowstone, wondering all the time why he had been included in his will, and what secrets did the enigmatic Professor’s hometown have to offer.
