Teofil Wintrish's page

They left Theofil in the charge of his uncle, a hard-bitten Iomedaen crusader with ties to the Inquisition. Neither had any other relatives in Mendev to turn to. They promised that they would return in no more than a few weeks, but weeks soon turned into months and then years.

Theofil's uncle had never approved of his parents' interest in magic. When he saw Theofil's birthmark, he became convinced that they had done something to the boy. He must have been somehow tainted, corrupted by their unmanly, unholy prying at the fabric of reality. But he would raise the child to be a proper crusader, strong in body and, hopefully, simple of mind. Then he would never be tempted by his parents' ungodly fascinations.

But Theofil grew into a slight boy, bright and easy to like. Even as he failed to prove his mettle he showed disturbing interest in the arcane arts. Worse still, he made many friends. His uncle could see the evil growing in Theofil, even if no one else could. Thus he took strong steps to correct the boy. He was forbidden to read anything save Iomedaen tracts. His uncle personally drilled him for hours every day. Theofil sulked. He tried to sneak away. He hid books under his pillow. And he got caught.

Even the most righteous men have their limits. Theofil had to learn, one way or the other. If he did not, then he would damn more than himself with his honeyed words and strange charm. His uncle seized Theofil and beat him soundly with the flat of a blunt practice sword. Theofil cried out in pain and then spoke words not of this world. Blasphemies spouted from his lips in an unceasing torrent. A green fire kindled on his hand, the sign of Deskari himself!

Crusader and youth split apart, both utterly terrified. Until that point, Theofil had resented his uncle. He never quite believed that his parents sold themselves to the Abyss. But now the proof came from his own lips and flickered in the palm of his hand. He was an unclean thing, rightly hated by Iomedae and all other worthy gods.

They burned Theofil's books together. He swore to from then on follow his uncle in all things and undertook penances both public and private. For more than a year, Theofil tried to make himself into a crusader. When he began to think of anything save the war against evil, he filled his mind with the Acts of Iomedae. He drilled himself in celestial grammars. He worked himself to exhaustion. But his mind would not quiet itself. He never truly came to feel at peace in the temple.

When an elder priest suggested to Theofil that he should go and study in the libraries of the Riftwardens, the rationalizations came to mind at once. Theofil would go only to study the traps for the unrighteous. He must obey the word of a priest. He would be a better crusader for both, perhaps even worthy to lay his unclean hands upon a sword. It would be a surprise for his uncle.

Theofil did his best to remain properly righteous, but his good intentions came to nothing. By chance he met a Riftwarden who knew his parents and had kept in trust some of their belongings. Those things thus escaped the fires. Theofil convinced himself that he would not be seduced. He would read those books and see the other things only to know their evils. His resolution lasted minutes. Within a month, he was buried deeply in esoteric theory and well on his way to mastering his first spells.

The hours of study did not go unnoticed by Theofil’s uncle, who cursed him as an oathbreaker and dealt out more and more extreme punishments. But Theofil was older now. He fought back, however ineffectively. Instinctive magic rose up in him and he cast a spell that warded him from his uncle’s touch. What’s more, Theofil was absolutely certain at that moment that he had done nothing wrong. For the first time in ages, it felt like he’d done right.

That marked the end of Theofil’s life with his uncle. He slept in the street that night and made arrangements, helped by his parents’ friend among the Riftwardens, to make a living scribing letters for illiterate crusaders and otherwise supporting himself on his intellect while he furthered his studies. His life seemed at last on the right track.

But Theofil still has his doubts. When he goes to the temple, he feels hostile eyes upon him. When he sees crusaders in the street, they remind him of all the things he is not. He prays to Iomedae every day and feels nothing but emptiness. He believes his new path right, but can’t quite shake the feeling that something has twisted and perverted him into thinking so. Every time the priests speak of lawful obedience and discipline, he bristles inside. He sees his uncle beating him. His mind invents reasons that each praise of law is simplistic, or an empty hypocrisy. Even as he bows his head in reverence, he feels scorn instead. The more earnestly he worships, the stronger the feelings become.

Theofil accepts the clear proof that he carries abyssal taint within himself. His soul may be forever damned. He fights against it, but has no way to know if he’s winning. On good days, when he makes gains in his research, the fears ebb away. On bad days they come back all the stronger.

"I will be clean of body and mind, pure in my devotion to the Lady of Valor. My outward state testifies to her glory and gives an example to the wayward. I swear my soul's fealty to Her perfect rule. It is no longer my own but forever Hers'," he said quietly as he finished, bowing his head. With a practiced motion, he took up his dagger and pricked his right thumb until a small bead of blood rose up. Theofil knelt and bowed his head as he touched the blood to the tiny wooden sword that hung above his heart and imagined the goddess' blade resting upon his neck. With the slightest breath, She could slay him. Theofil made himself imagine the blade opening his skin and fought against the sudden rush of anger in his breast.

Why should I bow to her? My life is my own! The words burned across Theofil's mind. In his mind’s eye, he spoke the Abyssal syllables as he rose up and cast blasphemous spells that tore through Kenabres. The magic left him alone in the blasted ruin of Kenabres, of the whole world, with his screaming, desperate uncle. Theofil looked at the hands that cast the magic and saw them with scales and claws, six fingers each and glorious. Something sang within him and he plunged the claws into his uncle’s warm, pulsing flesh.

Theofil’s eyes popped open and he found himself back in his room, sweating and panting. He ran through the Acts of Iomedae thirty times, ten for each dream this month, but did not calm again until he opened his spellbook. Then all thought but the magic vanished. It took an act of will to drag Theofil’s eyes to the window and note the angle of the sun.

If he didn’t leave at once, he would be late! In a rush, Theofil gathered up his writing kit and hurried out of the inn, giving Mistress Thwaite a harried smile as he went by. He hated going without saying something kind to her, but he really had no time at all. He had the arrangements made, but the captain would not wait for his letters and five of the crusaders had demanded receipts to prove they’d been sent. Even the one that wanted that filthy song written down in Celestial! Some things were downright indecent, but the woman paid enough to keep Theofil in ink and paper for a week for the extra trouble.

Theofil made his way as quickly as he could, slipping past crusaders, priests, children, and one man he thought might very well be a hellknight with all the spikes on that armor. He didn’t dare push and couldn’t cut anybody off lest he breathe an apology or a cross word in Abyssal. He came gasping to the docks just as sailors threw the first lines off the ship. Theofil made himself stop, caught his breath, and waited just a moment to be sure he understood the mortal tongue of the curses before he spoke.

“I’m sorry! The streets are very busy! I have the mails for Nerosyan!”

Two sailors gave him a disgusted look, but the paused in their work all the same. It helped to say “the mails”. People thought it was official business. The captain had very explicit and anatomically improbable things to say about Theofil, and especially his receipts, but when Theofil offered up the one he’d written out in advance it mollified the man.

Receipt in hand, Theofil left the docks at a more measured pace. He stopped now and then to give a pleasant word to someone he recognized, before helping an old woman he recognized from services wrestle a barrel of flour into her kitchen. That led to a promise to help her grandson with his letters and, she gave him a sly nudge, “teaching him some of them angel words too.”

Theofil tactfully did not mention the “angel words” that most boys wanted to know. He spent a few hours back at the inn, taking down a few more letters and patiently explaining the difference between what he wrote for notes and a proper letter to a pair of extremely drunk dwarves. They cursed him for unmanly even after Theofil showed them a proper copy he had on hand, but they paid all the same. Drink did odd things to people.

Then Theofil ate a few stale ends of bread that Mrs. Thwaite left out for him and made his way down to the temple. He’d promised to help wash the steps, which kept him on his knees with the goddess staring down his neck and listening to his every inner complaint for a large part of the afternoon. He politely declined the invitation to come and share a meal, telling them that he made a promise to be elsewhere. The boy would be ready to learn his letters soon and Theofil had promised...but he would have found some other reason to leave all the same.

All that done, he at last had time for his proper studies, which kept him up late into the night as usual.

Aside that, the plan is that eventually he’ll be blasting and doing battlefield control with spells like holy smite. He’ll have some archetype benefits that might make save-or-suck spells viable vs. demons down the road as well. Barring some unanticipated developments, I expect him to be straight arcanist/oracle all the way up.

His mythic path would be Archmage. Unsure on secondary.

Personality-wise he’s a very nice, rather dorky, boy that means well and tries to be kind to everyone. He’s usually easy to get along with, though he was much less so when he was trying to beat the evil out of himself. I see him as a person who wants to be lawful good and sees himself as a failure for not managing it, but he’s actually wandered farther and farther away from his goal. He could end up there all the same, but I think he’s more likely to grow up into neutral good once he figures out that he’s probably not under an actual mind-altering curse and accepts that impious or rebellious thoughts are a normal part of himself.

Theofil would like to wield a sword someday. To him it’s a very big deal. Swords are holy to Iomedae and his holding one with a clear conscience would be a tremendous thing. When he gets a little extra money he thinks about buying one constantly, but can never quite get himself to go through with it. That would be strictly a role-playing thing, though. He’s quite aware that he’s not going to do much good wading into a proper battle to cut up demons.