Paznic NPCs

Matriarch

Matriarch is an elderly Loxodon. No one is quite sure how old she is, but she is sufficiently elderly that no one has been quite bold enough to ask. She speaks slowly and sagaciously, and prefers to answer questions with questions. Once upon a time she led her herd as they wandered the continent trading goods and stories with all they met. Eventually the herd happened upon one of the Wayfinders of Paznic's Rest and led the herd here. Matriarch instantly fell in love with the energy of the area and decided to stay. She sometimes speaks of her daughters, Pathfinder and Bullfighter, of whom she is immensely proud. Pathfinder is, naturally, a guide for the loxodon herd, and acts as her mother's replacement as herd leader. Bullfighter is a vicious combatant who defends them against all threats foreign and domestic.   No one is quite sure what Matriarch is, in class terms. The rumor is that she has some druidic magic, but no one has ever seen her cast. She simply connects with the people and animals around her in a profound way.    

Gimbledas Corynberyn

Gimbledas is an arrogant little man, gifted in the discipline of mathematics. It is he who calculates and oversees all the production and trade within the village and the outside world, and over time he has adjusted the culture so as to give him a higher station than a glorified accountant deserves. He trades in favors and compliments. He is a braggart and a blowhard, but these traits hide a keen observer and a paranoid man. He has forged and sundered many relationships over the years in order to elevate himself, and he has usually gotten away with it. He considers himself the highest authority in the town and frequently presses the boundaries of his power on the off chance that someone might give him a foothold.   A protuberant belly is encircled by an ornately tailored waistcoat that is just barely wide enough to meet at the center. The shirt beneath is silken, white, and impractically ruffled at the throat. His gray eyes shine like polished agates and his white hair is done up in a wildly overdone style that’s half flock of seagulls and half pompadour and comes off looking like an unfortunate engineering experiment that’s gone wrong.  

Osier Blackthorne

Osier is a quiet, severe man, a man whose brow is always furrowed and whose eyes are always scanning. In his interactions with people he often seems distant and dismissive. This isn't an intentional sleight, merely a reflection of his thoughts on the art of conversation. A man of staggeringly keen perception, he states things as they are and waits for people to explain them to his satisfaction. This attitude, honed by years of Wayfinding, is the same attitude he takes with his family.   Osier Blackthorne is a dappled grayish brown, ideal for vanishing into the underbrush. His amber eyes are encircled by a small white ring, and his ears are short for someone of his height. He goes without shoes, as is the fashion among the harengon, and he wears practical deerskin breeches and a loosely fitting tunic, both worn to a kind of no-color. He has the unnerving habit of ceasing movement entirely for long stretches of time. He is never seen without his worn leather handbag slung over his shoulder and buckled neatly at his waist.  

Heather Blackthorne

Heather is the wife of Osier, and is as enthusiastic and bubbly as he is distant and cold. She delights in keeping her household, being a woman who can multitask effortlessly and direct her small army of kits. Her current brood, Hyacinth, Hawthorne, Hibiscus, Hickory, Holly, Hydrangea, Heath and Hyssop, are all occupied in aiding their mother with her tincture and oil production. She has a splendid and expansive garden full of rare roots and herbs, all of which she utilizes in making soaps, distillates, tinctures, essential oils, incense, even the occasional poultice. She is the unofficial leader of The Warren.   Heather is short and stout and impossibly fluffy, with brilliant white fur dappled brown over her nose and ears. She favors simple floral print house dresses and aprons with dozens of little pockets sewn in. At any given moment she might reach into a pocket and pull out something useful, and her prescience is staggering. Tissues, balm, thread, string, pins of all sorts, buttons, tea bags, sugar packets, there seems to be nothing that is not in one of the many, many pockets.