Finally, a quarter of the way through!
The Historian hasn't had his visual design completed, but he is a highly specialized magician. He reads bodies like he reads books, and re-opens the old wounds of his victims. Formerly a Heilmdoran professor, learning magic he wasn't born with drove his mind to a very sadistic edge. He works under Sorian, but is probably fated to die. He's one of my better magician concepts. I try to come up with things that aren't particularly standard (as in, "oh, ho! I control the elements!"). I'm happy to take peoples' ideas if they have them.
Also, I realize there are other characters out there with the same name. I might change it if I can think of something better.
Rivek wiped his good hand in the snow, trying to clean off the clotted blood from holding his wounded shoulder. As little respect he held for them, it wouldn't be proper to leave a stain on church doors.
"Hello?" he knocked, leaving a mark despite his previous efforts.
No answer.
He tried again. "My name is Ari Faulkner, and I am in service of her majesty. I need a place for the night - and clean bandages if you have them."
It was true, though, that the church had never looked well upon soldiers. Well, a half-truth couldn't hurt.
"My regiment is dead, and I am the sole survivor."
He didn't bother to mention his regiment consisted entirely of himself.
A church, he winced, really? Hell, a brothel would have been better - less judgmental, if anything - but he had no money left. Were it not for the gash on his arm, he would certainly be sleeping in the much less expensive outdoors.
The door frame creaked open, covering him in the thick stench of prayer incense. It smelled like a skunk took a piss on a bag of tea leaves. As his pupils adjusted to the candlelight - much weaker than palace mage-light - he noticed a lone, hooded figure at the altar, perusing a heavy, ragged book.
"I need a place to stay," he muttered.
"Rather forward, aren't we?" The hooded figure clicked his tongue. He stood and picked up a lantern, holding it to Rivek's face and revealing his scar. "Courteous strangers give their names."
"Ari. Faulkner."
"Well, Ari," he chuckled. "If that is what you wish to be called, so be it. I am the Historian."
He shut his tome and laid it on the table, making no gesture to welcome his new charge inside.
"People are much like books, in a way. I can tell under your composed, hard cover, you have a number of pages, filled with rather interesting stories. Many of which are painful. Many of which are lies. Isn't that right, Rivek?"
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