Henry S. Richardson's page

Animal Companion – [Name Goes Here] Dog [Breed?]

Size Small; Speed 40 ft.; AC +2 natural armor; Attack bite (1d4); Ability Scores Str 13, Dex 17, Con 15, Int 2, Wis 12, Cha 6; Special Qualities low-light vision, scent.

Defense
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AC 16, touch 14, flat-footed 12 (+2 Natural Armor, +3 Dex, +1 Size)
HP 16 (2d8+4+3)
Fort +5, Ref +6, Will +1
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Offense
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Speed 40 ft

Melee
Bite +2(1d4+1)

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Statistics
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Str 13 (+1), Dex 17 (+3), Con 15 (+2), Int 2 (-4), Wis 12 (+1), Cha 6(-2)
Base Atk +1; CMB +2; CMD 15
Feats: Toughness
Skills: Perception +5 (1), Survival +5 (1)
Tricks: Defend (Bonus Trick)
SQ low-light vision, scent.

As the youngest son of a minor Duke sequestered away in the northern countrysides of England, Henry Richardson had not grown up with grand prospects for his own life. This was further complicated by being the runt of the litter – the smallest of his father, James's, sons. And, as though fate had not been cruel enough, Henry spent a majority of his youth bedridden and ill. This did not bother him, as he grew fond of reading the classics with the best private tutors that money could buy, but it certainly marked him as the outcast of the Richardson clan.

His eldest brother, Edward, was in line to inherit the family estate, and the twins, Oswald and Enoch, were budding industrialists, ripe to build an empire of their own invention. Even the sole sister of the bunch, Elizabeth, was to be engaged to a long-standing and rather wealthy friend of the family. The Richardsons, it seemed, were poised to become a very prominent family amongst the British elite. These plans did not include the family's weak link.

While Henry had eventually grown healthy enough to attend Britain's esteemed private academies, his health never fully recovered. His apparently random absences and long-term bouts of illness kept him from achieving the grades he desired – the grades his father demanded. So, too, did it stop him from truly mastering any of the finer arts of the low nobility – fencing, riding, hunting, socializing. It seemed Henry was doomed to perpetually live in the shadow of his family.

Come University, Henry was given the opportunity to study at Cambridge. He mustered all of his strength, knowing that this was the moment he could prove himself to his family. The stress proved too much for his body, and he fell ill with his worst case to date. As his vision blurred before him, head pounding with an otherworldly aching, Henry fell into darkness.

He could remember very little of the dreams. The nightmares. Strange and indistinct, distant and faded. All he knew is that he fought the beasts in his dreams, fought against the intangible hands of fate for his very life. As the visions began to diminish, he'd thought he'd won. He imagined himself champion of his own life.

It was then he awoke, days after having fallen into a comatose state, interred on a stone bed in the catacombs beneath his hometown's cathedral. Ancient and forgotten, the dusty tombs were lit only by small shafts of light piercing through the ruined masonry. He stumbled forward somewhat confused, but mostly thirsty. Only a dingy puddle, pooling at the base of a leak, slaked his thirst. He wandered for what felt like hours as the tiny beams of light faded, leaving him in complete darkness. It was then the true nightmare began.

A glimmering figure, not wholly man nor woman, floated from beyond the blackness. A strange glow surrounded it, as wisps of air swirled about it in the cool air of the crypts. It seemed to stare at him – through him – as though he was an intruder. Henry knew better than to believe in ghosts; but he had no other words to describe the apparition. It pointed a gnarled finger at him, its eyes – or lack of eyes, as Henry had now noted – transfixed on his own. Then, it was then the creature let loose its banshee wail - a terrifying screech that no mortal could ever replicate. It came from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing and resonating off the endless stone corridors. Nearly every fiber of Henry's being was petrified with terror, and it took all of his force of will to drive his legs to motion. He did not look back, nor did he know where he was going, stumbling through the dark maze of dead. It was only after he'd burst through the cemetery access doors, nearly giving the groundskeeper a fright of his own, that he stopped to fill his lungs with air. He should have been dead, it had said. He had heard it, the horrid words. Echoes still ringing too clearly in his memory. Had he really escaped death?

He told no one of his experience in the crypt, but it defined his life. Henry now knew that somewhere, beyond the realm of reality, there truly were the creatures of legend. Sure, it was easy to dismiss it as a remnant of his fever-racked mind. But deep down, in the core of his soul – he knew. And his body knew it, too. Although his health did not spring back to the perfect ideal of his brothers, it had vastly improved. Gone were the days of illness, the bouts of fever, the ranting and raving. It still struck him, often yearly, but a day or two of bed rest sent the illness packing. His headaches, too, revisited him on occasion, but never so bad as that night. He grew stronger and faster, now capable of keeping up with his brothers both physically as well as intellectually. He swore he would never let the strange beings on the edge of the world endanger his life again.

Unfortunately for Henry, his health spelled disaster for his family. As though an omen of ill fate, the Richardson family began to lose all of the progress it had made. Oswald's latest venture had been a deal with a rather convincing charlatan, costing he and his twin both reputation and money. Elizabeth's prospective husband had found another woman to suit his fancy – a woman with a nearly direct bloodline to the throne, no less. The heartbroken sister had fallen in with a poor crowd, and was suspected to bear the bastard child of an even lower Duke. Even Edward, as faultless as their father believed him, had made a social faux pas at the court of an important ally to the Richardson family. Henry's health, it seemed, came at the cost of the family's success. The solution was simple.

And so Henry's trip to America was planned, passage upon the soonest steamer booked, and provisions for an extended stay provided. The implications of permanency were not subtle. On the docks, his sister – belly bulging with the child of a man she had not yet wed – told him what had happened that night. How his father had given up on him, a waste of family resources and a blight on the Richardson line. It had been he who had given the order to bury Henry. Worse, he'd revealed his own suspicions that Henry himself was a bastard. James had no proof, and had merely accepted Henry as his own for lack of it – but how could he have sired such a weakling? Disheartened, Henry bid farewell to the only Richardson who'd cared to see him off.

His time in America was confusing. The people were so strange and uncivilized. They bore strange hatreds towards one another, despite sharing a flag. He wandered for a year, unable to settle down, until he found himself in Devil's Fork. There was no reason for him to be there – the middle of nowhere, South Carolina. It was funny, perhaps, that fate had brought him there. As though somehow the stars, or gods, or whatever drove the lives of mortal men had not garnered enough entertainment from his life. So he accepted it, and the next three years were spent becoming a part of the town.

The town did right by him and he did right by it – quickly becoming something of a guardian. Quick on the draw and accurate enough to hit a fly at fifty yards, people began to talk of the strange Englishman; with his accent, his style, his rifle, and his strange tendency to check every shadow twice. He'd become de facto Sheriff, a title that Devil's Fork hadn't ever seen within its borders. The folk respected him, and he returned the favor with his own vigilant eye.

Henry Richardson is not the most imposing of men, standing at only 5'6”, the shortest male of his line. He preferred to attribute it to his weak constitution, a problem that had plagued his whole life, but his family viewed it was a visual confirmation of his inferiority. He keeps his shoulder length blond hair tied back in a ponytail, out of sight and mind. While moderately handsome, his skin is a tad too pale for someone who spends as much time in the southern sun as he. And try as he might to hide it, his mildly sunken cheekbones betray a history of illness. Yet, while his health may not be as impeccable as his brothers, his time in America has done him wonders. His body is well toned for his height, and he carries himself with a sense of British superiority – not arrogance, but class.

Although once a meek and studious man, Henry's experiences have driven him to become more. He still bears a sense of British propriety in his speech, but the few years in America have already done much to instil a sense of reckless individuality. Willful, but not arrogant, Richardson is a man of caution – not only because he spent most of his life sickly, but because he truly does believe there are forces acting beyond mortal comprehension. He carries himself with a sense of strength that he had not had in England – here, he is the sole Richardson, free from the legends of his brothers or father. Although mention of his family is a touchy subject, he does not hold much ill will against them – in fact, it was probably in his own best interest to be 'banished' to America.