Yeet

Aloysius "Yeet" Ytterbius   Ancestry – Elf   Heritage – Dhampir   Class – Alchemist   Background - Barber   Age – 412   Backstory     Aloysius “Yeet” Ytterbius is a middle aged at 412, and has worked as a barber-surgeon for over five decades, the longest of his careers which have included carpentry, gamekeeping, butlery, locksmithing, accounting, sailing, and many others that felt stale after a decade or two. The life or death nature of surgery, and the uniqueness of each operation is endlessly fascinating, and the small amounts of blood collected each time is an added bonus.   His interest in alchemy is more recent, driven by a curiosity at how the many substances in his craft interact with the blood, and how ubiquitous healing potions and elixirs have become due to their ability to accelerate the healing process. Using his ability to craft some basic medicines, Aloysius began experimenting with his own creations and testing them on patients who requiring surgery while keeping a stock of healing elixirs on hand to mitigate any unfortunate results.     This fascination started when Aloysius served as a surgeon in Idria during the latter years of the Bloodscale Pandemic. His ability to treat patients by non-magical means (wearing sufficient protection from skin contact), alongside barber-surgeons from across the Maelstrom Nations piqued his interest in non-magical healing substances. While his treatments were effective, Aloysius was among many skilled surgeons and was content to learn from them rather than pursue recognition for his efforts.     He is soft-spoken, well-meaning and polite, but finds it difficult to interact with people, having little understanding as to why they find his company uncomfortable. Some people would describe him simply as creepy, others are more charitable and see his desire to help people, but will admit to a slight discomfort in his presence. His strange smile, eyes that stare for too long, as though they are dissecting you, and unsettling enthusiasm for their personal anatomy can make even the friendliest individuals wish they were somewhere else.   Journal     31 Ptollans   Zounds and egads! Thwarted once more! After considerable toil to garner patronage from blinkered librarians who claim to champion scientific progress, I find myself compelled to cease my inquiries. The funds have inexplicably evaporated, and my correspondences lay unanswered, despite earlier promises of uninterrupted research provided I produce results. Yet, following a few unfortunate incidents, the so-called Storm Throne recoils in trepidation. Their support, initially generous, has waned; perhaps I erred in taking their lofty claims at face value. It seems their influence is little more than bold claims with no backbone.     32 Ptollans   Today's subject may have further complicated matters. Many a patient hesitates to embrace my novel cures but is usually persuaded by the sight of my well-stocked apothecary. Regrettably, an adverse reaction occurred: instead of mending, my elixirs made matters worse, and my usual healing tonic induced a rapid necrotic decay. Though I was unable to halt it, I sent a lad to fetch a cleric, whose intervention proved fortunate. I thought the crisis well-contained, lessons learned, yet rumours now spread of my supposedly sinister practices - utter nonsense, poppycock! This is precisely why I typically withhold the nature of my experimental concoctions from patients.     33 Ptollans   I am now convinced that my abode is under surveillance. This afternoon, emissaries of my patrons, under the pretence of inspecting my laboratory, appeared more intent on doubting my motives once they observed the extent of my blood reserves. Despite my explanations, which aligned with our agreed-upon research goals, my guests were visibly perturbed. In a moment of indiscretion, I mentioned my discovery of an elixir potentially beneficial to the undead—a revelation that did not sit well with them. Their questioning turned entirely toward the discovery, perhaps under the misapprehension that I had perfected the formula and had somehow decided to test its necrotic effects on living tissue, but I believe allayed their suspicions enough to leave. This does not bode well. Since those blasted poltroons left, I’ve noticed individuals passing by the house far more often than is usual.   34 Ptollans   Time is a luxury I no longer possess, with spies now dogging my steps and the vagabonds who call themselves the local constabulary asking questions. I resolved to depart forthwith, taking my research, some essential reagents, and scant funds. The nocturnal merchants, sensing my desperation, charged dearly for a specially modified crossbow, leaving me barely enough to provision my journey. If the whispers hold true, Wayford, now haunted by a different class of horrors, might offer a sanctuary conducive to my studies, despite the new dangers it presents. I can only hope my heritage offers succour in my time of need.   Current Activity   Since reaching New Wayford, Yeet has set up a free clinic to treat wounds/stitch flesh and perfect the Minor Elixir of Necrosis, while earning money from traditional barbering - even the undead can try to look presentable and Aloysius might be old fashioned but he has diligently kept up with the latest grooming styles from the big city.