Character(s) Pilgrims

[Pellegrino]

Modern Worlds

Simon Francois Léglise​

Known as: The Sleuth, Sly, Franco
Profession: Private Investigator, Writer
Notables: A thin crescent-shaped scar beneath his left eye. American accent breaks under stress.
Affiliates: ​

• Armand Léglise, 34M, Detective with the Portland Police Bureau
• Dianna Scott, 35W, Independent Private Investigator
• Jessica Chapman, 31W, Founder and Kickboxing Instructor with Chap Chops Dojo
• Past Clients, Around 300 happy customers and twice that much if you count the moderately satisfied ones as well.

Birth date: October of 1990 (32)
Birthplace: Portland, Oregon
Racial identity: Afro-French American
Body type: Average height and build, wide at the waist for a stocky frame, strong arms and legs.
Basic appearance: Black, curly hair hangs down to the shoulder. A short, scraggly beard that get patchy along the cheeks. Hazel colored eyes look out over the world. Dark tan skin hides beneath a black long sleeved shirt, dark brown overcoat, black jeans, and a threadbare scarf.
Everyday carry: A satchel holding a notebook, a pen, a palm-sized camera, and assorted "legal documents". A retractable baton hung from his belt, small enough to go unnoticed beneath his coat. A 9mm pistol strapped above his left boot.

Personality: People say that Simon is a good listener. In truth, he finds others' stories more interesting than sharing his own. It's not that his life hasn't been interesting, but he was there. No need to recount it all with a stranger. He engages with his issues head on. Anything that lingers or needs more time to process, he sets aside for when he can find a comfortable chair and a hand roll a joint. Simon can talk with someone for hours and share little of substance about himself. Those that do manage to get through his walls find him idealistic but skeptical, strong but self-conscious, intelligent but slow to act.

History:
"There isn't much to say," Simon began, tapping the ash off his joint. "I was a child and then I wasn't. It was me, my parents, and my brother. Our place was a humble little spot with a rooftop garden my mother used as her own personal sanctuary. She would spend hours painting there. My father was the green thumb, he always said he learned from the vineyard back in France."

Dianna tapped her fingers against the table. "What about you and your brother?"

"I got up to all kinds of things. Typical teen, you know. Mother wanted me to embrace my writing, but father pushed for something more reliable. Mostly I ended up exploring forgotten places in the city and wrote about my adventures. It made me feel alive. I still know Portland better than anyone. Now my brother was a different breed. Pragmatic. Focused. Older, too. Not sure I mentioned that. I wasn't surprised when he enlisted. Even less when he became a cop later," Simon said.

"And he inspired you to become a detective?"

"Not quite," Simon corrected. He took a drag, then let out the smoke slowly. "I got a degree in journalism. Found out along the way that staying neutral isn't so easy for me. It paid the bills until I learned about investigation work. I've been doing this for about seven years now."

"You make it all sound so normal," she said, watching him over the rim of her glass. "Last question, then it's your turn. Have you ever thought of another line of work?"

Simon cocked an eyebrow. "Who hasn't?"

"That's not what I meant. Have you had one of those jobs."

"I know what you meant," he sighed. "And I have. It was meant to be simple. Challenging a fraud claim. Pretty straightforward. The claimant was absolutely lying about the accident, but not for the money. He must've had a mental breakdown. I was tracking him, you know, looking for a cough or something. Instead I ended up following the guy as he bought a rifle, a shit ton of ammo... you get it."

"Not your job," Dianna said coldly.

"That meant more before I met the survivors."

Simon took one last pull on the joint then held it a little while after his lungs began to scratch and burn. He met the woman's gaze. Icy blue and shifting almost mechanically. He understood that she was studying him. He did the same thing with competitors all the time. A sort of sizing up the other players in the field. It might have earned his respect it wasn't all so exhausting.

"Best of luck out there," Simon groaned, rising from his seat.

He was a few steps away when she replied, "You aren't going to ask me anything?"

"Don't have any just now."

 

[Pellegrino]

Fantastic Places

Juinarto​

Known as: Juin the Sneakthief, Champion in the North, The Bone Priest, The Old Hermit
Profession: Head of the Bone Cult
Notables: A white, spear-shaped beard of middling length. Elfin ears pierced all along the sides with assorted gold rings (youth) or white bone rings (older). Three slashes run from his cheek, upward onto his hooked nose.
Affiliates:

• Champions in the North, five survivors remain from the voyage into the Realm of Ice almost seventy years ago
• The Bone Cult, Dozens of warriors trained as heroes and corrupted by the Bone Priest
• Faruq, 26 year old human, Early student to the Bone Priest and first to abandon the cult; Student of Vaylin
• Vaylin, 310 year old wood elf, Retired officer in the Imperial Army, Member of a vampire hunting guild, and mentor to a young Juin

Age: 254 years old (roughly 50 for humans, but worsened from disease)
Birthplace: In a small village near the Nordic border
Racial identity: Dark elf; Vampire (twice bit)
Body type: Shorter than the average Nordic man with a slender frame. He is lean from years of surviving labor, combat, and perhaps also as a result of his illness.
Basic appearance: In his youth his hair is worn in dark braids, though it goes a pale like snow in his twilight years. His skin is dark as coal. He is most often seen in a black cloak worn overtop a simple grey tunic, leather belt, and boots. In times of combat, Juinarto adds splinted leather vambraces, pauldrons, and a cuirass beneath the cloak.
Gear:

• Bone Sword, Shortsword stolen from the Ice Prince; Later discovered to be cursed
• Steel Dagger, Simple and well used over the years
• Alchemist's Belt, Fashioned from a hearty leather with pouches along the sides and back for any found ingredients
  • Pouch of Vials, Each is mixed with blood and a small measure of an addictive, psychedelic sugar
• Bone Helmet, Mark of the Bone Priest; Crafted from bone and leather
• Leather Satchel, A small bag worn tight against the body

Personality: Decades of seclusion have rendered Juinarto cold. The mysterious charm and devilish confidence of his youth have hardened into him into a hermit seemingly too afraid to venture out into the world. In truth, the fear is warranted. He is ashamed of how much the hunger has corrupted him. He is suspicious that every interaction might be another one of his old mentor's spies. The only ones he can trust now are in the Bone Cult, but even they are scattered throughout the region. If only he had found a cure to his infernal hunger. Things might have gone differently.

History:
10 years ago...

"You're sure he isn't here?" Faruq asked, eyes fixed on the dark hall ahead.

A tall elvish man wrapped in a scarlet cloak stepped beside young Faruq. "Look here," he said. Lithe brown fingers emerged from the cloak with a metal trinket. "It's attuned to him. By way of his blood. Funny bit of magic, though. It gets confused by any progeny."

"Progeny," Faruq repeated back.

The elf frowned. "If it trembles, those he has turned are near. If it glows, then he himself is close by."

"How does it know, Master Vaylin?" The young man took the object in his hand, studying it for markings. He found one. A blazing sun etched into an otherwise smooth orb. "Magic, obviously. But what kind?"

"It's a blood seal of some kind. Or so I'm told. Focus on the topic at hand," Vaylin snapped. He drew a silver sword made in the short Imperial style. Pulsing red veins ran up through the blade, giving off a dull glow.

"I'd much rather a crossbow." Faruq cleared his throat while unsheathing a dagger of similar make.

Ignoring the comment, Vaylin hunched low and dashed down the hall. Leather boots gliding over the damp cobblestone floor, sword drawn back ready to stab into the dark, he pushed up through the darkness. Behind him the young Faruq followed. Footsteps clumsy, but still quiet for his age. The old wood elf shifted his focus on the charred door ahead. He teased the handle long enough to tell the handle was cool. The blackened iron hinges whined as the door drifted open, the high-pitched squeal unsettling his young companion.

Vaylin wanted to call out the tension visible on the boy. He wanted to paint a picture of how a little fear has the same weight as a finger on a crossbow's trigger. But the older soldier knew there were greater concerns than proving a point. The fire was recent. Juinarto had been here.

The wood elf charged in, sword raised high and ready to stab at the throat. He used his body to shield Faruq until it was clear nobody was waiting inside. His eyes jumped from one corner of the room to the other, scanning the space for threats, hiding spots, and traps. "Someone beat us here," Vaylin sighed, kneeling down beside a slackened thread in front of his boot. "Do you smell that?"

Faruq took one long sniff at the air, then grimaced. "It wreaks of burnt hair and... oil?"

"They stumbled through a tripwire." Vaylin aimed a finger at scorch marks around the doorframe and floor. "The bomb triggered. More flash than bite, considering there's no body. Only smells of burnt hair, not flesh." Finally, he sheathed his sword and looked at a tidy living space across the way. "And no signs of mischief."

"So somebody came to attack him before we got here?"

"Doubtful. Didn't take much to scare them off. I'd put coin on an unlucky thief. Probably saw a secluded place and thought it an easy mark. What we don't know is if Juinarto came back already," the elf explained, disappointed.

Half listening, Faruq made his way to a simple wood desk. It was covered in a stack leather-bound books, rolls of parchment, and an inkwell. He ran a gloved finger along the rough wood, then along the spines of the books. One felt particularly wrinkled from use. The young man indulged his curiosity and pulled the book from the pile.

"Find something?" Vaylin asked.

Faruq studied the muddy red cover, confused. "It looks like a journal."

"Read some while I search these chests."

"Fine," the young man said, opening to a page near the middle. "There are drawings of caves and a map. Islands, I think. But this has mountains on the southern bit, which doesn't make sense."

Vaylin snorted. "You're looking at the Realm of Ice. Go further."

"Right, before he changed." Faruq fingered through a few more pages. "No drawings here. Just a brief passage. I revealed myself tonight. I thought if anyone could understand my affliction it would be the Paints with Blood. Lizardfolk earn plenty of grief for their resemblance to dragons, after all. And yet I was wrong. As quick as the words truth came out, so too did Paints's hatred. His eyes changed. The familiarity chilled to betrayal. I saw him reach for his dagger and... I nearly bit him. I'm ashamed. Horrified. I saw myself sinking my fangs into his scaly neck and either drinking him dry or tearing out his throat, depending on how fast he drew his weapon. The vision was so vivid that I still wonder if it actually happened. Despite the pain in my back from Paints unfooting me. He called it a warning and left me lying in the mud and rain." The young man glanced up at Vaylin, who had also paused from his work. He decided to continue reading, "I returned to camp later with the intention of collecting my things and leaving. It didn't go well. Remus caught me sneaking off. Had it been anyone else, I would've knocked him out then and there. But all I could see in his face was my old commander, his father. I tried to explain that the mission was over for me. Remus thought I was afraid. He thought he somehow spoiled morale. I told him it was beyond him. When words failed, Remus tackled me to the ground. He meant well. And yet all the good intentions in the world cannot deter this infernal hunger. He fell atop of me ready to grapple and entirely unprepared for my monstrous reaction. My head flung forward, teeth finding purchase in the front of his neck. I tasted blood and that was it. Not only is Remus now dead, but the other champions are no doubt hunting for me. At least they will be once their mission is complete. There is precious little time if I hope to escape."

"Skip a while," the old elf said flatly.

Faruq nodded. "Ten years wasted. There is no cure. Even if that mage is right, her solution is too much. That I am a beast is quite clear. But a monster? No. I won't pursue her horrible plan. I would sooner deny this hunger and pay the price than sacrifice so many lives so that my mortal nature might be restored."

"Skip."

"An earth-skinned merchant offered to share his camp with me. It has been three months since I last succumbed to my affliction and the toll is great. The sun's harmless irritation has grown more intense. Uncovered skin now breaks out into a rash when exposed. My reflection in water has gone sickly and ashen. The skin on my face is tighter, aging me, and making my fangs difficult to hide. I have taken to simply staying silent. This suited the merchant well enough. He spoke at great length about his wife, a merchant in a snowy city further west, and newborn son," the young man read smoothly, then choked. "He met my dad."

Vaylin looked up, registering it all in waves. "Give me the book, Faruq."

"No, I need to know more. What if he's the one who killed my father? What if he knew who I was when he found me passed out in the snow? It was all a game to him," Faruq mused aloud, anxious and spiraling.

"The book," barked the old soldier, suddenly in front of Faruq with a raised hand. "Listen closely, boy. Think on what you've read so far. These are not the rants of a madman. Juinarto is tormented. He is the mouse that strikes at the cat when cornered. Only this mouse has a thirst for blood, too. Consider him what you like. But if you allow yourself to reduce him to a mere monster, then you are woefully misguided. He is far more complex than that. And if you fail to understand that truth, then hunting him will be your doom."

"You don't sound like a vampire hunter," Faruq spat.

"It matters not," Vaylin snapped, grabbing the book from the young man's hands. "Either our predecessor spooked Juinarto off, or he has yet to find his den broken into. We need to leave here and find a place to watch the entrance."

Faruq took a deep breath and looked around. "You're right, master. I apologize for my tone. But please, when this is done, won't you tell me more about you two? It's clear that I'm missing something."

The old elf narrowed his eyes, mind running through disjointed memories with little Juin. Scenes from their Imperial patrol through the foggy marshes where the vampires ambushed them ran together with times long ago when Vaylin first rescued Juin from a vampire's den. It seemed some souls were destined for pain. It seemed Vaylin could do nothing to protect him. The elf sighed, "I will tell you everything."