Pedwyn's page

Pedwyn had an interesting conversation partner on his boat ride. Purgatory perhaps, and this my chattering devil. The dark haired human suppressed a groan as his companion continued to speak.
" Soh ash ah was sayin' there's them 'venturer's crawlin outta this hole. Walks inta tha bar fully armed an' armored. Ah ask'em what'll they have an yanno wha' they do?" The elderly man had grabbed Pedwyn from his comfortable seat and had dragged him all over verbal creation. the clerics attempted excuses of needing to perform his daily prayer receiving a sly grin from the old timer.
"Followers ah' the huntsman pray at supper time. If tha's wha' ya really are. Can' say ah'v ever met a follower ah that one with such a brutal brand on em. Ain' much his style." Had been the old mans reply, a single eye winking slyly betraying the rest of his body's charade of a drunken fool. Before Pedwyn had even the chance to respond, glancing down to the deeply burned symbol on the back of his hand, the man pressed forward.
" Now where was ah' ah' righ' "wha'll ya hav " an this bearded brick wit' less teeth'n brain cells breaks one'a meh tables an they sit at it after their magic folks fixes tha thin' Now ah' course I ask em' what fer' an yanno wha' they reply with?"
The awkward pause in the story is palpable as Pedwyn stares at the elderly gent with a long suffering expression before drawing in a breath to say something only to be yet again interrupted. The younger man gritting his teeth in annoyance.
" Mimics. tha's what they ses'. Nevah' expected some brainles' brick ta' kill onea' meh tables fully expectin' ah'd understand. Crazy enough set up an' 'ah laughed, they laughed. Table next to em' laughed. Short ta say they killed tha' table." The ma ends with a gap toothed grin, not dimming in the slightest at Pedwyn's lack of response to his "comedy gold"
"Course I suspect ya' know all ahbou' tha' sorta mooncalf madness 'venturer's get inta'. Looks like yer' fixin' ta become on yerself. Meh advice would be tah write a will before ya go down there an' make sure yer' business is in order."

" Yes elder, I know the dangers. Regardless I must go. As to the rest few will miss me lest now." Pedwyn dismissed as the elder nods

"ah, ya soun' like meh' son. Or perhaps it'was meh gran'son. Regardless I'm off ta' visit them mehself. Wish ya luck Pedwyn an' as thanks I've a few things in this here ol' pack yah migh' fin of use plumbin' tha' well. Fin' allies worth mor'n tha' gold ya migh' seek or yer trip down tha' well is gonna' be even short'r an bloody than normal. Tha' bes' ya can hope fer is death down there make yer trip short lest it devour you whole lik' tha' resa' meh kin." the elder who Pedwyn realized he had never gotten the name of replied as he plunked a pack next to the younger man and grinned as the boat came into port. The elder sliding into the press of travelers with a wave over his shoulder to his talking companion.

In the back alleys of the oppressive city, nestled between rows of buildings of similar size and disrepair is a narrow two story structure. With a tavern on the first floor and rooms on the second story. Above the door hangs a sign depicting a man being hanged with his legs kicking and a large empty mug on the ground below him, At the top of the sign in faded yellow lettering it reads, The Dancing Drunk. On the bottom of the sign is the more recently added, No Dancing Allowed!
From the outside the tavern looks nasty, cheerless and uninviting. Soft wooden planks and oak details make up most of the building's outer structure. It's difficult to see through the dusty windows, but the gloominess from within can be felt outside. In the corner of the window closest to the door is another sign which can hardly be seen beneath the dust which reads,
Discreet Investigations.
No job to big or small.
Inquire within.
A heavy wooden door is the only entrance to the tavern and groans when it opens. Upon entering the tavern it appears as dire inside as it is on the outside. Dark squared, wooden beams support the upper floor with rows of small, molten candles dangling from the beams. The common room is long and narrow the walls are bare with the plaster peeling off in places. The bar is on the left and runs the length of the room with several small tables running along the right wall along with a stone fireplace. Along the far wall are two doors, one leads to the kitchen the other to the basement. The overall layout gives the room a cramped feel.

The tavern is almost completely abandoned the few who are here are dredges of society and lost souls but whoever they are, they give you an uncomfortable feeling of dread. Behind the bar is a large overweight bartender who is coughing into a dirty napkin and makes no effort to acknowledge your presence.

You did hear rumors about this tavern, supposedly it's infamous for something, but for the life of you can't remember what for. Though judging from the smell coming from the kitchen it must be the food that people come for.

Herk lays on his bed in the room he has above the tavern he runs with his brother. No matter how much he tries sleep alludes the man. A storm is raging outside his cramped little room, thunder peals in the distance and rain steadily beats down on the roof as the wind howls trying to find its way through the window. He lays there and wonders, is tonight the night they come for me?
It was a night like this when they came for him and his brother. He doesn’t remember much about that night other than the infernal weather. <Stop lying to yourself. You remember, you’ll never forget,> the other worldly voice inside his head states matter of factly.
He’s right I still remember most of it, Herk concedes. Herk’s earliest memories are of the night he and his brother were kidnapped. It was quick and brutal, one moment they were taking a short cut down a deserted alley the next moment he had a sack thrust over his head and was being carried away by rough hands. He and his brother were soon separated and Herk was put in a small stone room with another boy. The room was bare except for a small barred window about six feet off the ground and a bucket filled with excrement. He could tell by looking out the window that he was in a basement and window led to an alley. As the door closes Hirk could hear one of the men say, “We’ve got a few hours before we deliver this lot. Got a good bunch here we sho…..” the man’s voice is lost as the door closes behind him. In spite of everything that happened Hirk found himself exhausted and soon collapsed into a deep sleep on the stone floor of his cell.
He awoke on a stone floor cold and whimpering, rain down pours outside the window to his cell and lighting flashes light up his cell every so often. He continued to lay there feeling hopeless when the door to his cell is opened. One of his jailors enters the room and grabs the other boy. The jailor says with an evil grin on his face, “Time for me to have a little fun.” You’re next chubby,” his jailor sneers at him as he drags the screaming boy from the room.

Herk stands there frozen not sure what is going on but even his young mind is certain it is something twisted and evil. That is when he heard the voice <stop your sniveling and do something you fool.> Herk looked around but saw no one else in the damp cell. Herk didn’t know what to do but he was positive that he wanted to leave this room before his jailor came back. So he decided to take the voice’s advice and do something.

A bit of inspiration came to him and he moved quickly afraid that his captor would return soon. Without hesitation he removed his cloths, balled them up and threw them out the window to his cell into the alley. Next, he overturned the bucket of excrement and moved it over to the window so he could stand on it. It took every bit of self-control to do what he did next as he bent over and smeared the waste from the bucket on his shoulders, chest, and hips. For lubrication, he thought. Using the bucket he was able to reach the bars on the window and pull himself up. Thanks to the lubrication he was able to painfully squeeze his way through the bars. <You’re a smart one,> the other voice comments.

I am smart, Herk thinks as he picks up his drenched cloths. < I died in this alley,> an otherworldly vice resounds in his head. “Who are you,” the boy asks in a whispered voice as he makes his way out of the mist filled alley into the down poor.

Herk eventually made his way to his uncle’s house who ran an underground pub complete with music and dancing, some of the cities forbidden pleasures. In this environment Herk grew up quickly his uncle saw to it that he was trained him in the art of brewing and mixing of chemicals. In this free thinking enviroment he learned to read and debate philosophy, history, and religion. This is where he grew up and where he spent the rest of his youth looking over his shoulder. That is until they came and took his uncle, closing the pub and forcing Herk to find his own way on the streets of Nisroch.
It was some years after this and Herk was failing at running a tavern in the slums of Nisroch when a broken, scarred, and crippled man approached him saying he was his brother. Unbelievable, Herk thought at first but over time he became convinced that this creature was actually his brother. His brother had a knack for cooking and began working in the kitchen of the tavern.

Tap, tap, tap the crow beats on Herk’s head with its beak while his bloated body lays on the ground in a refuse covered alley. Herk tries to scream but no words come out as his mouth is sewn shut. The crow begins again tap, tap, TAP.
Herk's eyes pop open, his head still pounding, but he sighs with relief as he realizes he is in his bed, safe in his cramped little apartment. He concludes, it’s just that dream again. He lays in his bed breathing erratically with sweat pouring off his body, the sour odor of his unwashed body mixes with the smell of alcohol and his breath creating something noxious. Herk shakes his head as he begins to work his jaw, making sure his mouth isn’t sewn shut. No I’m still alive, he decides as the pounding in his head grows louder. The other voice in his head reminds him as the pounding continues, <true but you're closer to the grave today then you were yesterday.>

It takes him a second to realize that it isn’t just his skull that is pounding but someone is also knocking at the door to his apartment. A voice that is not his own echoes in his mind and warns,<Careful, it could be trouble!>

You always think it’s trouble, Herk rebuts before he realizes what he is doing. I have to stop encouraging him, he admonishes himself. But admits, probably is trouble.

Slowly Herk throws his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. He runs his fingers through his thinning hair as he reaches with his other hand for the mostly empty bottle next to his bed. Greedily he brings the bottle to his lips and finishes off the contents. He tosses the bottle aside and carefully gets up, the bed groans in relief as his considerable bulk is lifted. Sluggishly he makes his way over to the water basin which is sitting on the dresser against the wall. As he splashes water on his face he looks up and catches his reflection in the small dust covered mirror that sits above the dresser.

He scowls at his likeness, it was a look that would make a mother hide her children, a banker clutch his coin purse a little tighter, or a weak man to tremble. He mused that while he was not yet 30 years old the reflection looking back at him seemed older.

<Weary looking,> the other voice inside his head remarks.

He’s right I do look weary, but it’s more than that, he surmises.

As Herk continues looking at his reflection he noticed his eyes, They are same color of the sky right before a storm. <When they’re not blood shot,> the voice in his head adds with a laugh. But it is more than their color that draws Herk’s attention, his gaze appears knowing and penetrating. His eyes are deeply set in a large square head and a puffy pale colored face which is framed by receding dark brown hair. He has long sideburns that connect to his long bushy mustache which hangs below his jaw. His face is highlighted by a prominent chin and a large crooked nose that has been broken one to many times.

Herk is startled from his reverie by the unrelenting knocking on the door. He admonishes himself, stop admiring yourself, there is business to attend to. He shakes his head thinking, probably trouble.

He begins to make his way across the room and the floor creaks in protest as Herk is large framed and stands a little over 6 feet tall. He is broad shouldered, barrel-chested and big bellied with thick legs and arms. He is overweight and a layer of fat covers the muscles beneath. He continues the journey across the small room and he carries himself with an air of confidence. The swagger of a veteran, he thinks.

Another snide comment from the voice, <swagger of a drunkard.>

“Go away,” Herk says halfheartedly not sure if he is talking to the voice in his head or whoever is knocking on the door.

Again his thoughts are interrupted by the other voice, <probably someone here to kill you.> Herk hesitates for a second then makes a fist as he places his other ham sized hand upon the knob as he thinks, you’re probably right.

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APPEARANCE
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Height: 6’ 2”
Weight: 300lbs
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Gray

Appearance:
Herk is a large overweight man standing over 6 feet tall and built like an ox. He is broad-shouldered, barrel chested, and big bellied with thick arms and legs. A layer of fat covers his body concealing the muscle beneath.

His skin is pale as if he hasn’t spent much time in the sun and is puffy under the eyes. His eyes are gray and deep-set with bushy eyebrows above. He has large pronounced chin, cheekbones and nose, the last appears to have been broken one to many times. His face is framed by receding brown hair with long sideburns that connect to his large bushy mustache. His strong chin is clean shaven and his mustache extends below his jaw.

You can tell by looking at him (and sniffing) that cleanliness is not one of his top priories often he smells of liquor, body odor, and bad breath. The remains of a half-eaten meal frequently stain his shirt.

He can often be seen mumbling or talking to himself and frequently laughs at his own jokes.

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PERSONALITY
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If there was one word to describe Herk it would be paranoid. He believes the world is out to get him (and at times he is right). He is clever and isn’t afraid to let people know it as well as possessing a cutting sense of humor. Both attributes don’t win him many friends. He has a secret passion for reading philosophy .

It starts with a desperate gasp, and a scream of agony. the world whiting out as he still marvels at the acoustics of his own voice after it having been gone so long. Yet another make to his failures.
"Penitent Pedwyn, Awaken, you are to be judged." The labeled man groans and looks through swelled eyelids to the guard looming in front of him. Attempting to wipe at his face with a limb no longer present. Even now the sigil of the shadow court visible in onyx polished to mirror luster on the mans lapel, eyes drifting slowly in stupor. His concussed nature is given no credence, rewarded with a swift kick to the ribs and forcing a exhalation of breath. Nothing more though, to scream was a blasphemy to the midnight lord.
"Up you wretch, The His Umbral Presence Lord Darrow waits on your cursed hide." The guard commands with a predatory smile on his lips. The pointed italics of the title obvious in the mans pronunciation "Perhaps he will be so kind as to let me expand my collection when your carcass is flayed" The unnamed warden mutters as he grabs the prisoner by the arm dragging him from the cell into the gloom of Pangolais.
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A faint creaking sounds through the room as Pedwyn seizes a bedpost, equal parts wood and bone as his still working hand grips white knuckled. His face clenches with a second staccato crack of noise both flesh and wood.
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A man stands at a pulpit dressed in robes dark enough to radiate a consuming depth to mundane cloth. A gift from the masters of this city to one who knew his proper place, the gavel bearing the midnight lords image slamming once. Its echoing timbre reverberating through the cavernous hall and against the closed door. It was unnecessary though, each and every one of the audience held respectful silence in the court. Wooden benches creaking with weight as all turned eyes on the stand each row packed with placid facades bearing judgmental and eager eyes. Chained, an animal on display, Pedwyn remains as stone faced as he can. A herculean trial with the twin bars running beneath his shins forcing all his weight onto them.
"The accused stands at judgment for a craven act on the integrity of our great city." The gavel bearer booms from his pulpit, limbs unmoving but the glee in his voice and stance making it obvious this was a well made appointment of office.
"Before you my fine citizens stands one who would besmirch the name of our sacred guardians, our shroud which guards us from the tyranny of the light in its merciless glare. The Penitent is accused of such fraudulence and daring to encroach upon the bastion of those shadowed warriors." With that the judge glides closer to Pedwyn's bowed form and gestures to the audience.
"Both these charges bear a heavy sentence but the Umbral Lords in their overflowing wisdom have instead decreed a fitting punishment. This crippled wretch, who could not even find the courage to properly enact the rite of silence all our shroud take will instead be granted a proving. One for each offense." There is a minor tensing, audible in the dead silence of the crowd. Blood spilled in a circle of wolves. "You, his superiors and overseers shall see to it this man receives his due punishment. If he happens to perish from the crucible then it was the midnight lords judgment. If he survives then in that same judgment our lord still has use for him. As always we, his instruments, will abide our dark grace's decision. You will each be given two strikes, choose well." The Judge commands as a gray clad ghost in a billowing shroud steps from the shadow delivering to Judge Darrow the weapon of choice. the same specter gripping Pedwyn by the collar bone and yanking rapidly, legs screaming to keep with the motion or earn a badly broken bone. The agony preventing him from resisting as his limbs are rapidly lashed into place and left entirely exposed.

The punishment is a stately affair as each favored citizen moves forward, with varying imitations of liquid grace. Not only given a chance to mete out justice but to demonstrate to their peers how Zon-Kuthon drove their blows. How with but a fluid flick of the hand and minute exertion they could draw the most agonizing cries from their target. The whipping just one example of where they all fell on the ladder of Power and sense the weakness above or below them.
The subtle political aspect was lost on the recipient though, each blow driven with the full force of polished faith and social pressure. The event becoming a whirl of agony, the occasional crescendo whiting out his vision.
Eventually blessed release, Pedwyn dropped to the ground and drawing agonized breath. A whisper behind him is heralded with a crackling snap and the voice of his accuser returns, near silent in his ear. "Regardless your reasons, know that a crippled hound no matter its loyalty is worth as much to our lord as a dead one. The nature of your return is irrelevant you should have let yourself die when you had the option. Now-"

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The world erupts into stark relief again and tilts to the side with a crunch of wood as Penwyn groans on the ground. Lord Darrows last word still ringing in his ear after pain had fully driven him to the waking world.

Suffer.

The brand on his pectoral glowing with a faintly visible light as he looks to his right hand and assesses the damage dealt. Holding it to the ceiling One finger at an off angle and three knuckles split open rapidly dripping blood onto his dry sackcloth shirt.
"More laundry then. And another repair" The man mutters as he looks despondently at his hand and whispers dark words of power. The wounds slowly coagulating and the finger returning to its previous position, healing in stop motion with none of the agony stripped out.
Better than the pulsing rhythm of agony the brand produced.
My life was never my own, but it is funny how something like hurting myself seems attractive after the option is denied.
Penwyn reflects as he looks out the minuscule opening an optimistic man might call a window to see the streets still dark.
"I wonder if Hock is up yet." the man murmurs as he listens for the squeak of timbers in the bar. "It's still such a strange word. 'Brother'" the scarred one states as he moves into the kitchen and begins his day.

Pedwyn looks down and scowls as his apron releases itself from his shoddy knot work and grabs one strand with his teeth to tie it off to the side. The crooked bandana on his head sewn into an easier to tie off form that conveniently hides the left side of his face and the wide burn scars making their way from his cheekbone down to his hip. His whip thin body only exaggerating the damage he had taken to acquire such wounds. Combined with left arm missing at the mid forearm and foot gone to mid calf it might be more reasonable to call him a collection of scars with some leftover man in the middle.
Markings of my cursed rebirth
Never mind the whip scars or the cruel looking brand he bore.
Nothing like the fat man upstairs, that is what they'd always say.
The only thing that truly links us are the eyes. Herk wasn't willing to believe it but I knew at first glance. Pedwyn sighs and looks toward the risen dough calling his name.
Perhaps one day I'l learn why he believed me when I told him that."
work called once more, salty bar food didn't make itself.

Height: 6'
Weight: 160
Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Gray

Appearance: Pedwyn stands at six feet tall and athletically fit, His thin body hides his well maintained form and simply makes him look emaciated.
He bears a vast collection of scars over his body and lacks his left arm at the forearm and right foot. Shoddy prosthetics take their place but it is hard to tell if it helpful or harmful to the cripples function.

His skin that remains unscarred is of pale coloration, likely due to his past life as one in the shadows. He bears dark rings under his eyes and the right half of his face is heavily burned. The hair on that side growing back in sparse patches, this often is covered up with a bandanna or cap of some variety.
His sharp facial features combined with it all leads to many associations with birds. Owls, hunting hawks, falcons. Often birds but always dangerous regardless the animal mentioned.

Personality:
Pedwyn is attempting to claw his way out of a pit he was pushed into and forced to escape rather than take the easy way out. He would best be described as Desperate, and Discerning. He takes nothing at face value and only speaks up when a necessary question is needed to be asked. The man having long found that a silent stare can get him all he needs in terms of answers. Little of his education is applicable in his new life but occasionally he finds bits that fit. He does his best to maintain it but the world crumbles around him as bits and pieces of his Silent shroud training shake off and realizes how ignorant he truly is.