Jareth Calwen — The Renegade Mana-Scientist

Jareth Calwen liked to imagine himself a visionary — one of the great theoretical minds of his age, tragically overlooked, criminally underappreciated, and fated to be vindicated only after his death. In reality, Jareth’s brilliance was very real, but so too was his entitlement. He believed that doors should open for him simply because he knocked; that recognition should find him unbidden; that the Mana-Forge Consortia, the Academy of Enchantry, and the great laboratories of Leolin Bay should naturally have fought over the privilege of hosting his genius.

They did not.

The academic world saw him as an eccentric at best, a volatile liability at worst. His research, though often ingenious, had a habit of ending in explosions, mana-flares, or structural damage that required evacuation. His proposals were too risky, his experiments too destructive, and his professional conduct — or lack thereof — ensured no institution would tolerate him for long. Some dismissed him as harmlessly odd. Those who worked with him closely knew better.

Jareth Calwen was bipolar, his mind swinging between bleak, heavy depressions that left him mumbling into papers for days, and euphoric episodes of mania during which he would attempt experiments that should never have been attempted by someone wearing a protective apron, let alone someone wearing mismatched socks and no sense of personal danger. But even beyond his very real mental illness, Jareth was mad in the way only a certain type of genius can be — reckless, unpredictable, devouring knowledge with the hunger of a starving man, and always, always convinced that this next idea would change everything.

He knew just enough about Mana-Tech to perform miracles
and far too little to avoid catastrophe.

He scoured ruins, scavenged junkyards, raided abandoned workshops, and once tried to dismantle a broken ley-stabiliser while it was still resonating. When he joined the Briar, he did so almost by accident — he had been tinkering with a scavenged mana capacitor on the roadside when a small Briar Knot mistook him for a lost inventor and tried to rob him. Ten seconds later one of their coats was on fire, two were coughing through paralytic vapours, and the remaining bandit blurted out that he knew someone who might “find use” for a man like him.

That someone was Kial Mayers.

Kial approached Jareth with reverence and curiosity instead of fear or dismissal, and that alone made Jareth pause. The man listened — truly listened — as Jareth explained a half-dozen improbable theories in breathless succession. Kial asked questions. He agreed. He encouraged. He promised resources. He promised freedom. He promised a future where Jareth’s gifts would be recognised by all.

Most importantly, he promised parts.
Scrap. Tools. Raw materials.
And no oversight.

Jareth followed the Root that very night.

Among the Root, he exists in a strange orbit — aware of the others only in vague, abstract impressions. There is the young alchemist girl, the pale one with dark hair who makes the acids and powders he likes; she’s quick, clever, and understands his shorthand better than most students he’s had. There are the two identical, terrifying women — perhaps sisters, perhaps clones, he isn’t sure; one wears black, one wears red, and both look at him as though deciding whether he is amusing or in need of a punch. Then there is the foreign witch, from some jungle place he can never remember the name of; she keeps her distance, which suits him fine.

But the one who unsettles him most is the strange, shadowed figure he cannot quite categorise — tall, thin, intense, always watching him with an unreadable expression. Jareth cannot decide if they are male or female, young or old, kind or predatory. Something about them feels wrong, as though they vibrate out of sync with the world. Yet he cannot place why. He tries not to dwell on it. The thought itches in his skull.

He has no idea this is Xix, and it is perhaps the only thing keeping him alive.

Were he to learn its true nature — that it is a biomechanical demon — he would almost certainly attempt to dismantle it out of pure intellectual obsession. Not even self-preservation would stop him; the curiosity would burn too hot. And Xix would kill him in a heartbeat.

Instead, Jareth remains blissfully, dangerously ignorant.

His place within the Root is not ideological. He does not believe in the Briar’s cause, nor in Kial’s dream of marching on Leolin Bay with an army of the downtrodden. He cares only for the machines, the mana, the ideas, the experiments. Kial gives him what he craves: space, materials, subjects, and the freedom to create without restriction. In return, Jareth builds wonders that are equal parts brilliance and disaster.

Already he has built Kial a marvel — a superior imitation of an Aether-Matrix bracer, elegant and deadly, a device that lets the crippled arm move and channel mana like a true Conduit. Jareth is proud of it. It is perhaps the only creation of his he believes truly worthy of admiration.

Kial has promised him far more.
He speaks of seizing the Mana-Forge once Leolin Bay falls.
He speaks of giving Jareth free reign over every laboratory and prototype the Crown possesses.

Jareth believes him.

He imagines standing, arms crossed, in the grand laboratory halls of the Consortia, finally acknowledged by those who once denied him. He imagines proving the Academy wrong. Proving the Crown wrong. Proving everyone wrong. He imagines the future as a great machine, gears turning beneath his hands, humming to his tune.

In truth, he is a bright spark in a powder keg —
a brilliant, volatile mind balancing on the edge of catastrophe,
one breath away from making history
or ending himself in an explosion that lights up the sky.