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Name: Paul Blair
Age: 29 [Born winter, 1767]
Occupation: 'Writer'; Viscount - Lord Blair

Appearance
Tall and very slim, his hair is dark and fashionably cut, curling just faintly down over one green eye. Natural good looks, a strong nose and a full mouth, coupled with the intense care Paul takes in choosing and fitting clothing, make him striking in most settings. They also tend to make people dismiss him [perhaps not unduly] as more looks than man, especially accompanied with his usual too-wide flash of smile.

Personality
Those who tell you Paul doesn't have a thought in his head are entirely wrong. Somewhere in there, he must think -- it's just that they get pushed to the back by more important things like the latest fashions, like who is having a party when, by card games and, of course, his writing.

Paul has never had to work a real day in his life, and takes this entirely for granted. He is prone to sleeping in when he can [and he pretty much always can], to staying out far too late, to investing more time and money in his clothing and his social life than he does in house and home and learning.

It's not that he's unintelligent, as his childhood tutors certainly gave him a proper education with many a battered knuckle along the way. He still reads, keeps up on gossip and modern philosophy alike, though current events and accounting seem to fall to the wayside. In conversation, he focuses on sounding clever rather than smart, wit instead of wisdom, elegance instead of practicality.

At the age of 29, Paul is still a bachelor, and as attractive as he is, this is an oddity that likely makes some people uncomfortable. Certainly he could find a woman if he so desired, get on with the important business of producing an heir for his estate. It's irresponsible and more than a bit suspicious that he turns down all advances.

Skills
A social butterfly, Paul is often a boon at a party, engaging people in conversation or games, unafraid to approach strangers and introduce himself. He is an ice breaker, even if people begin to tire of him before the end of the night.

His writing, in all honesty, isn't much good. He has ideas piled on ideas, half-outlined stories that aren't half bad, except that the images never come together when he puts them on paper. He has creativity without skill, and lacks the focus and patience to sit down and work until he develops it. If he could finish something, perhaps it would be enjoyable. He just can't finish anything.

Paul enjoys gambling, and is good enough at reading people that he never loses his shirt, but is poor enough at odds and impulsive enough to bet on the wrong hand. He usually comes out of a game with less money than he started, and counts this as the cost of having fun.

When it comes to clothing, his taste is impeccable.

History
His father owned a considerable enough bit of land in the countryside that Paul himself has no need to work. Something of a layabout, he went starry-eyed to Palisade at the age of seventeen and never returned to the family's country house, instead taking up permanent residence in their city townhouse and settling in to write.

After his father's death, however, the estate has started to fall apart. Paul cannot manage the business the way Edric did, so instead he puts it in the hands of his bankers and his accountants, who are regularly gouging money away into their own accounts. The country house has been long closed down except for a few servants who keep it from crumbling into the earth, and as Paul accrues debts in the city, bits and pieces of his childhood home are sold away to pay them off. Paul can't bring himself to care. He was an only child, and finds it unlikely that he'll ever have an heir to pass the estate on to anyway. He'd rather his writing were his legacy.

The Choosing
His coat is emerald today: plush velvet that brushes up gently against the heels of his hands, light lace tumbling past it to pool around elegant, ink stained fingers. Standing now under heavily-burdened branches, the leaves distorting light to cast a mottled pattern of green-on-green across his arms and chest, Paul can't help but wonder if his choice all on its own was some kind of sign. His morning ritual not merely the machinations of a fashion-forward modern male but instead a premonition of what was to come.

Clutched between two fingers is a piece of fine vellum, finer than the average man can afford, paper that feels smooth and heavy against skin nearly the same color. As often happens, Paul was seized by inspiration in the heart of the night, came scrambling awake breathless, his eyes lit by the faint memory of some dream. Usually, this world fades away as dawn's light filters through this curtains, as the house begins to wake around him and the smell of city and breakfast jars him into reality. This morning -- or perhaps one should say 'night', the dark had still been heavy -- words had stuck, and he found himself fumbling out of bed in his nightshirt to hunch over his desk and pour them out onto paper.

He holds a poem. The first word is 'sacrifice'.

Paul is not a religious nor a superstitious man. While many of his servants are inclined toward the Old Ways, leaving gifts around the house for the spirits to take, he has never bothered much with any ritual except for the slow brewing of tea, the careful selection of words, the importance of saying just the right thing in the heart of high society. As a child, he'd played the same games as everyone else, had poured small libations at the edge of the Wardwood without any real heart in it, but the wonder had faded with age.

As such, this morning was the first time he had been drawn, and powerfully, to actually deliver something to the old spirits, the first time he had felt their presence buzzing around him, had been certain that they not only exist, but know he exists as well. The pull was impossible to fight, drawing him out of his townhouse, out of his city, out of civilization, and into the words.

It brought him here. A tree heavily-burdened with totems, each like an apple for hungry hands to grab, but only one that caught his eye. One that spoke to him.

'Sacrifice'.

For the last time, he unfolds the paper, reads the short poem scrawled across its surface, his eyes flitting between the words and the green-swirled totem above him. Then, with shaking fingers, he folds it again, crouching down. He digs out flint and stone, catches a small spark.

His offering burns, and Paul steps forward to pluck his spirit from the tree.

The Family

Groundskeeper
2 maids
Cook
Valet