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 Posted: Sat Jan 21, 2012 5:08 pm
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Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2012 6:01 pm
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Character Name: Reynard Esmund Irving
Age: 24
Region: Born in a city known as St. Cobb along the eastern coast of Imisus. Panymese by birth, in short.
Appearance: Reynard is quite tall at 6’1”, but decidedly rangy and raw-boned. He is a clerk. He doesn't usually exert himself physically. He’s unnaturally, unhealthily pale, and unfortunately, exposure to the sun will not give his skin a healthy tanned glow, but will instead manifest hordes of freckles all over exposed parts of his body. His fingers are long and bony, as well as quite deft. His face can be best described as pointy. His features are striking rather than attractive, with a peculiar angularity that brings a fox into mind. A spray of stubbornly permanent freckles can be seen across his upper cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His hair is reddish-gold with a strangely wiry texture, and his eyes are hazel. He usually keeps his hair shortish and brushed back against his skull. If left to its own devices, his hair will curl slightly, which is another trait he inherited from his mother. Reynard tries to keep it under control.
He has a prominent, pointed nose, atop which a pair of spectacles can always be seen. His expression is most commonly one of blankness or vague distaste, as if he has just swallowed something that has disagreed with him. He almost never, ever smiles. Such a sight is a true rarity. Most people expect such a lanky figure to have a thin voice, but Reynard’s is unexpectedly deep. He would make a pleasant, if unremarkable, singer if he ever put effort to it. Naturally, he dismisses singing as unnecessary.
Language(s) Spoken: Panymese, Cobbian Vossanian
Personality: In a word?
Efficient!
Reynard prefers to do things without any sort of fuss or hullabaloo, and dislikes frivolity and silliness wherever they occur. He is somewhat flat in the way he deals with people, and doesn’t seem to make emotional ties easily. He has an intense dislike of disorder, and will often attempt to impose sense upon things that were never made to make sense, like the weather, or the tax system. At his worst, he is unforgiving and harsh; at his best, he is loyal, if not especially warm. He does, in fact, value his friends and is capable of the entire spectrum of feeling that comprises the human experience. He's just not terribly adept at displaying or handling these feelings.
He is not easily moved to displays of intense emotion. He will, and often does, get irritated with people, but the feeling is shallow and he will gladly disregard past transgressions as long as they are not serious. It takes work to get Reynard to have a grudge against you, but once he does, he clings to the feeling. His ire, when roused, is intense and unforgiving. The same could be said for emotions of the opposite spectrum, but provoking powerful positive emotion in Reynard is even harder to do. Except in circumstances of dire consequence, Reynard is not prone to fear. If an irrational fear crops up, he will beat it down with logic. If he cannot handle the fear with logic, unfortunately, he will often overreact, as if he is compensating for his usual level-headedness in some bizarre fashion. Thus far, he has not developed any irrational phobias he couldn’t handle. If he is nervous, he prefers to have something to do with his hands. Small, methodical acts comfort him and give him the illusion of imposing order.
He has an intense dislike of physical contact, and always wears a pair of gloves. Light touches and everyday physical interactions are something he’s had to learn to deal with, and he will unconsciously lean away from other people if they start to reach out for him. The movements, by now, are so fluid and practiced that they can even go unnoticed by strangers. His reaction to being grabbed is much more violent; he will actively attempt to get away from whatever is grabbing him, and skin-to-skin contact just plain freaks him out. If you want to hear Reynard yell at you, touch his face and see what happens. The reason for this is not exactly known, and not something he discusses. Those around him think it might have something to do with the circumstances surrounding his father's death.
He has many personal idiosyncrasies. For instance, he is quite accustomed to drinking liquor, and has a tolerance one might not expect from such a frail-looking fellow. He also has an iron stomach. The cuisine of St. Cobb is varied and residents typically delight in finding new and exciting things to gobble down. He is not easily put off a meal, and not squeamish about what that meal might be. He'll eat anything from exotic runny cheese to crawfish to snails.
He suffers occasional migraines. He doesn't know why, and neither, to date, do any doctors who have examined him. Luckily, these are quite rare, with perhaps one every two years or so. He is otherwise healthy, with no known allergies.
He also possesses a multitude of small personal habits that are too numerous to name here, stemming from a constant bubble of fussiness. They will crop up in-RP.
The residents if St. Cobb have a charming way of speaking, a lazy drawl dotted with phrases and colloquialisms in both Panymese and Cobbian Vossanian. It is also not uncommon for them to weave back and forth between the two languages with ease. Reynard has worked very hard as he has grown older to eradicate every trace of the easy rolling Cobbian accent from his vocal cadence. Largely, he has failed. Even though he tends to speak in flat, clipped tones, there is a drawling undercurrent to his words that is unmistakable. If he is under extreme emotional duress, either positive or negative, his accent thickens.
He does occasionally lapse into Cobbian Vossanian, but with much less frequency than his fellow townsfolk.
Cons:
-Reynard is aloof, a little abrasive in his mannerisms, and harsh against anything he deems unnecessarily frivolous. On the outside, he is not terribly attractive, and on the inside, he's also not particularly pleasant. He can come across as cold and rude to other people without really trying. All in all he's... er, through-and-through kind of irritating.
-He is quite naïve to the workings of the world outside of his office, and is constantly trying to force the outside world to fit into his mental paradigm of the way things should be, rather than accept them for the way they are.
-Physically, he is not imposing, and really doesn’t know much about defending himself. He's not much use in a fight!
-He’s fastidious and meticulous to the point where it can be a bit annoying, and will often organize other people’s things for them if he has access to them and he feels they are not doing a good enough job. He will also see no reason why they get upset with him when he does this.
Pros:
-He is fair. He is not likely to be turned against a person because they look a certain way, or because of their social station. For so long, people, to him, were just numbers on a page, and he tends to see them all with a sort of flat equality and let their actions elevate their status in his mind.
-He is extremely intelligent. He is also very neat, and possesses both excellent penmanship and rather a knack for sketching objects from life. He has never had to apply his mind to more than his job, but when faced with new intellectual challenges, he would devour them eagerly.
-He’s adaptable! His quick-thinking and cunning offset his naiveté a bit.
-Once someone does find themselves into Reynard’s good graces, they will be defended zealously. He is intensely loyal to those who manage to earn such affection, and will not hesitate to face down any adversary to ensure their safety.
Thank you Roo for the wonderful artwork! |
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Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2012 6:06 pm
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 Click for hi-res!
This magpie is a sprightly creature, full of vigor and curiosity. It has but a single eye with which to view the world around it, and has seemed to take it upon itself to make up for the blank spot in its field of vision with sheer enthusiasm instead. It has quite an eye for anything shiny and shamelessly mooches food off anyone possessing it.
What sort of plague will this bird evolve into? Only time will tell...
History: This bird started out its live in a very ordinary way. An injury nearly took its life, but it was reborn after feasting on the corpse of a plague victim. It happened upon Reynard Irving on an unusual day, and followed him partially out of curiosity and partially out of a force it was subject to that it did not understand. A more detailed version of the history may be read below!
Personality: In a word?
Silly.
Hanover is absolutely full of energy, all of which she directs into exploring the world around her. She is highly curious, and unfortunately for Reynard, this is not the "Let me ruminate on what I have learned today" sort of curiosity, but rather the "Hey what's that I'm going to go stick my face in it" sort. Needless to say, this makes it easy for her to get into trouble, but she is not readily daunted. The entire world is one big novelty to her. Her enthusiasm and sense of wonder often lead people to think she's stupid, which is not the case. She retains information fairly well, but has something of a short attention span, preferring to investigate many new things in favor of investigating one thing thoroughly.
She is quite friendly and prefers company to being alone. She is not stingy with her affection, either. As long as an individual does not upset her, she is glad to consider them a friend, and worthy of her attention and help. A true sign of whether or not Hanover trusts you is not how cheerful and pleasant she is around you, but whether or not she lets you see her being noticeably afraid or sad. Despite her seemingly happy-go-lucky air, she is very hesitant to share any sort of weakness with anyone.
In a situation involving many people, she will often attempt to take charge, not out of a desire to assert her authority, but out of a subconscious need to be doing something. If she's called out for being bossy, she will often relent, and has no problem following the direction of someone who is better suited to the task of leading than she is. When she is acting as leader for any group, she noticeably mellows out. She is less inclined to do something daringly stupid when she has other people to consider. Overall, she is capable of taking charge, but she is not bossy.
She is not so much brave as she is simply enthusiastic--there is no room in her for fear. Hanover is not easily cowed, and she fears things happening to other people more than them happening to her.
In many ways, she is the exact opposite of Reynard, but in others, they are quite similar. She, like Reynard, is slow to truly anger and not inclined to hold grudges over inconsequential offenses. However, once someone does manage to tick her off, he or she can count on a long, difficult road back to forgiveness. In general, she is good-natured and inclined to give strangers the benefit of the doubt, but harsh and cruelly vindictive with those that betray her trust.
In her darker moments, Hanover's main objective is to get whatever she doesn't like away from her. She is more concerned with chasing something off than actively pursuing it. When she is displeased with someone, she will rather bluntly let them know that she doesn't like them, and that they should go away. If they fail to leave, she will attempt to force their departure in any way necessary. Obviously this won't be very easy for her in her smaller forms, but as she grows, she will likely attempt to bodily remove offenders from her presence. This behavior is somewhat analogous to how magpies deal with foes, particularly ones that poke around their nests during certain times of the year.
Hanover is not inclined to deadly violence. She is more about noise and bluster than she is about debilitating her foes, and once again, this has origins in her roots. Still, the noise and bluster can be very convincing, especially when she is frogmarching someone to the nearest doorway.
The quickest way to tick Hanover off is to mess with Reynard, or anyone else she considers to be her "flock," i.e. her friends. This takes a bit of explaining! Magpies, as self-aware communal creatures, associate with other magpies and recognize other magpies. As an Excito, Hanover is likely to seek out other Excitos, filling a psychological need to associate with others of her kind. As an Anhelo, she will continue to do this (she will still carry over the association of magpies and Excitos as "her kind" in this form, as well). Once you've been accepted into the flock, then you are basically family. She is rather self-assured and convinced of her own invincibility, but anything she perceives as harm to her flock will be met with ire. Small grievances are easily forgiven, but repeated or severe offenses will deem the offender a troublemaker.
Verbal abuse doesn't really matter to her. She will tell someone if they are being rude, and note that such a thing isn't called for, but noise is noise; it isn't dangerous. She is a bit more sensitive about rudeness directed towards Reynard, who is, after all, a big clumsy human who can't always be expected to take care of himself (in her eyes, anyway) and who doesn't need any more reminding of the fact.
Her vindictive nature kicks in when someone has done something serious. This state is usually reserved for those whose actions have immediately physically harmed her or a member of her flock, or an action that has caused psychological damage to her or a member of her flock. In these cases, she will strike back by whatever means she deems most effective. If physical violence will do the most damage, she will hurt the offender. If there is some means of harming a valuable reputation, she will find it. Time is not a concern. She is often very cold and calculating when she reaches this state, but it takes a lot to push her into such a wrathful mood. The only person who can stop her from being such a stubborn a** when she reaches such a point is Reynard.
Hanover also has a multitude of small behaviors that help make her her. She runs into things. Reynard is never sure if this is because her depth perception has been thrown off by her single eye, or if she simply can't be bothered to stop. He suspects the latter, but either way it doesn't seem to bother her. As a magpie, she will often seek out shiny things, scoop them up in her beak, and carry them around with her until she either needs to use her beak or loses interest. This tendency will follow her as she grows, only, of course, she will be using her hands. She will eat just about anything, and insists on eating even in her Excitos stage. As an Anhelo, she really won't care about what she eats, and will simply have a go at whatever looks interesting, which can be potentially embarrassing if she and Reynard get invited to any fancy dinners.
Neither of them are holding their breath, proverbial or otherwise, on that, though.
Pros: Hanover is cheerful, open, and energetic. She is quite curious about anything and everything. She is willing and eager to make new friends, especially ones that are shaped like her. It is not terribly difficult to make her an ally, and once she is on your side, she is a very loyal and stalwart companion. She is a reasonably intelligent creature and overall very easy to get along with. She is also not very easily intimidated.
Cons: She is inclined to be a bit gullible and trusting. She is a very straightforward individual, and unused to manipulative behavior, so it would not be very difficult to trick her. She can be painfully blunt and come across as rude without meaning to. In addition, when someone seriously upsets her, she will not rest until she has vengeance.
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Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2012 6:31 pm
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 Being a story told in four parts about how our hero and heroine met one another.
Reynard Irving was born in 1387, the child of a laborer (his father) and an Vossanian sailor (his mother). Reynard only has fleeting memories of his mother, as she was away for most of his childhood, but he remembers her as a warm, if weary, presence, elevated to mythical levels of perfection by his father’s countless tales of her adventures. Bedtime stories were a tradition in his home, and rather than tales of ancient heroes (which he regarded as doubtful in their veracity) and sweeping prophecies (which he deemed too silly to warrant attention), Reynard wanted tales of his mother’s very real exploits, never once imagining the amount of embellishments his father heaped on them.
His father was a man bubbling with endless energy, cheerful, hopelessly romantic, and inclined to over-excitement. Reynard was solemn, even as a young child, and often found himself exasperated with his father’s antics. His neighbors at the time would regularly find amusement in the sight of a seven-year-old Reynard sternly telling his father off for wasting what little money they had on frivolities and knickknacks. Father and son barely understood one another, were almost constantly at odds, and loved each other with a fierce, unwavering devotion.
When Reynard turned ten, word reached the town that his mother’s ship, the Prospera, had been lost at sea. The loss of his mother was a difficult time for him, but the blow hit his father especially hard, and Reynard found himself comforting and encouraging his father more than mourning. It wasn’t until years later that his loss finally hit him, and that he finally grieved for the mother he had barely known, but loved, all the same. The ship was never found.
From thereon in, it was the two Irvings against the world. His father didn’t have any manner of stable job, but would rather jump from place to place, working where he was needed. He was a strong fellow, broad of shoulder and decidedly tall, with sun-tanned skin and a mop of unruly brown hair that he often simply forgot to cut. His family had lived in St. Cobb for generations. Reynard took more after his mother than his father. He was slender as a youth, with his mother’s red-gold hair and light-colored eyes. Neighbors often joked that the two of them scarcely looked related. There was really only one time Reynard ever resembled his father, and that was when he smiled. It was an extremely rare occurrence, but when he did, the expression was all-encompassing and wealthy with mirth and joy. He looked his age when he smiled.
One fall night, in 1399, Reynard’s father came home early from work. He’d been spending most of his days (and a few nights) in another quarter of the city, a place he’d found good construction work. Greeted by a look of mute concern on his son’s face, he gave his customary bright grin and said he had a bit of a stomachache. There was pain in his eyes, though, and in the shortness of his breath. Reynard could see he was in much more pain than he let on.
Within hours his father was vomiting and, worse, violently evacuating his bowels. He spent the night in their bath tub while cholera ravaged his body from the inside out, and within eight hours, his father died, trembling and delirious in his own filth. Reynard was twelve at the time.
This was when the pattern of his life first established itself. Reynard was to be struck at least one more time by terrible luck, followed by a stroke of good fortune. He didn’t sleep that night, and stayed by his father’s body until dawn, where, standing, he drained the tub, washed his father as best as he was able, and then left, returning with a sheet with which to cover him. Then he went to contact the landlady of the tenement they were renting, and in his quiet, flat voice, told her that his father was dead. At first she had not understood--surely he did not mean his father was dead she had just seen Mr. Irving earlier that day--but when she reached for the young boy and he did not flinch away, allowing her fingertips to come into contact with his cheek, clammy with shock, she knew something was terribly wrong.
The unlucky part, of course, was the death of his parent. The prospect for an orphan in an industrialized city was poor, and Reynard, under different circumstances, might have ended up in a factory somewhere, to die an early, violent death, much like many Panymese children. However, he and his father had made an impression on the tenants of the building in which they lived, and the landlady, accompanied by her patrons, decided to more or less communally adopt him.
The tenants were typical Cobbian fare: a variety of people, all of them uniquely diverse but essentially Cobbian by their very otherness. He was shuffled from room to room. One week he’d be staying with the eccentric lady who owned a variety of exotic birds she bred for a living, and the next he was living with a mute priest who ascribed to some religion Reynard could not place, but who played a variety of musical instruments and made the most beautiful music the boy had ever heard. He lived with a kindly old lady who worked as a professional exterminator. He stayed with a wild game hunter who guided travelers through the swamps surrounding St. Cobb. One would think that such exposure to so many eccentric viewpoints would have broadened his horizons as a child, but not so with Reynard. Instead he simply developed an awareness of other cultures. He realized that, in the wide, wild world, people were often just as foolish as they were in his hometown, and if there was any uniting factor to the people around them, it was their propensity for frivolity.
His caretakers never saw him cry for his father. The boy seemed to have been stunned into shock, a state of numbness that only deepened into a sort of brutal practicality as he grew into his teenage years, followed by a sternness as he reached adulthood. He had, over the years, developed an intense dislike for silliness of any kind, preferring to find shelter in a world that made sense. The tenants were able to cobble together enough resources to give him a surprisingly decent education, a pursuit into which Reynard threw himself with gusto. He developed into an intensely intelligent, but highly unimaginative young man, and at the age of seventeen, he landed a bookkeeping position at a local bank.
Economic politics, then positively embryonic, began to slowly develop over the course of Reynard’s career. By and large he ignored it. He was happy to exist in his own world, where careful penmanship provided the key to ultimate happiness, and everything was carefully categorized and alphabetized. Numbers made sense. The crazy world outside did not, so he disdained it.
His work ethic saw him garner a major promotion at the age of twenty-one as head clerk. Three more years later, months before the present time, he became the personal assistant to the head of the office, an older, rich man known to his employees as Mr. Linchuk. He was keen-minded and congenial, definitely getting on in his years, but still healthily energetic. His son, Marcus Linchuk, was set to take over his position when he died.
Reynard was so focused on his clerical duties, so focused on ignoring the world around him, that he didn’t notice the looks Marcus was beginning to give him. He didn’t notice the seed of enmity growing in the young man’s breast, the suspicion. Reynard was never an actual threat to Marcus’s position, but he was a perceived one, and that was enough for Marcus to take action.
Elucidation of this will bring us to his present circumstances…
…but not to hers.
She began her life as all magpies do, cramped in an egg. Of the six eggs laid by her mother, four hatched, and three nestlings made it to adulthood, which actually isn’t that bad for a magpie family. They were part of a colony situated along a stream that wound through the rolling, somewhat wind-blasted hills surrounding St. Cobb’s swamplands. There was little to fear as a young bird. She went from a wobbly pink lump of flesh to an energetic and ungainly fledgling over the period of a month or so, and remained in her family’s territory, learning the ropes from both her parents as well as her siblings. At about the age of three months, it was time to strike out, and she did, exploring the surrounding countryside, as young magpies are wont to do.
For the most part her story was typical. She was an excellent scavenger and opportunist, even scoring a few scraps from traveling caravans who were charmed by her dapper appearance and bold behavior. She was as adventurous and curious as a bird could be, and easily distracted by anything glittery she came across. Eventually her travels brought her to the edge of the swamp. If she had decided to fly away, to return to her family’s breeding ground, or perhaps to veer north towards the hills, things might have turned out differently. Instead, she stuck around, exploring the fringes and making a healthy living off the fat snails found in the muck.
When a traveling caravan stopped by, she thought it was business as usual. Once they’d made camp, she deigned to join them, hopping into the ring of firelight with an expectant air, as if she were saying, I’m here now. Where’s the food? Before she even had time to study the humans, a flash of grey bowled her over. She didn’t know what a cat was, or why one was lurking around this caravan. All she knew was that this great striped thing had pounced at her and was hurting her, and the only response to that was to screech and flap wildly. Her violent struggle saved her life, as the cat only got a few swipes in, unable to bite down, before the magpie was off rocketing through the night. Its claws had torn out some of her glossy black-and-white feathers and cost her her left eye. The magpie retreated into the swamp, huddling in the confusing tangle of a tall bush, making soft, distressed sounds to herself, until dawn.
The blow had done more than just damage her body. She became timid, loathe to venture out of the thick undergrowth, and only snatched at what food she could safely reach. She grew weak and unhealthy. Every now and again she took a snail, or perhaps pecked dejectedly at a dead fish, but for the most part she just sat, her remaining eye closed, sheltering from the world around her. Her feathers lost their sheen, and some began to fall out. She was a ragged, sad little creature, all youthful vitality and razor-edged curiosity gone.
When the hunger became too much, she finally left her shelter. She stuck to the open areas where she could keep an eye on danger, and as she fluttered shakily from tree to tree, along a swamp path, she spotted an unusual sight. There was a roofed cart, a small one, standing in the road. It had lost its mule, and one of its wheels had been removed. Timidity bade she stay away, but a spark of curiosity, perhaps her body’s last-ditch effort to save itself, propelled her forward. She alighted on the cart, observing the bright glint of what was left of the mule’s rigging with her eye. Nice! She hopped gingerly around the stirred mud, searching for scraps of food. Nothing. Huh. As she made her way to the back of the caravan, the familiar stench of decay hit her. She fluttered up to the cart’s roof and peered inside.
There was a dead human inside. There was something wrong with the color of its skin, and its flesh had already been worried by small scavengers--probably rats--but other than that it looked as if it had just been sleeping. It positively reeked, and though to a human such a smell would have been absolutely repellent, to a born carrion-eater it was like the aroma of a perfectly-seasoned steak. She hopped inside. There was food here, a lot of food, and no sign of unpleasant grey things. It would be a good place to scavenge for a few days.
She remained there nearly a week, feeding and growing stronger. The moment she partook of the tainted flesh, strength returned to her little body. As the days passed, the feathers grew thick and healthy, regaining their oily sheen. Her empty eye socket healed properly. The rate at which she recovered was unnatural, but by the end of the week, so was she. She felt herself filled with a new electric vitality, a budding something that began to seep into her brain. The little bird had been close to death, but instead of succumbing, had experienced a curious rebirth.
Eventually the body was too far gone for even her to eat, and, a healthy young magpie once more, she set off down the path, which turned out to be worth further scavenging. Eventually it led her to the city of St. Cobb, which was a confusing sight at first, but as soon as she discovered the heaps of trash piled in the back alleys, she took to the city. The first time she encountered a cat, it was lounging in the sun, and she cheerfully dive-bombed it from above. Since then, cat-bombing has been one of her favorite pastimes.
Well-fed, healthy, and presented with a wealth of new curiosities, she reached one year of age. The city was a good place for a bird like her.
One day, she landed on a street sign at the corner of Hanover and Central Avenue. It was a brisk morning, and she was young and full of strange new life, eager to find fresh things to puzzle over. She tilted her head, turning her eye down to the street, and there, she spotted a human leaving a house. The sunlight glinted from his spectacles. Interesting.
Riik-rik-rik-rik.
The morning of the second-worst day of Reynard Irving’s live began like any other. He walked down the steps to the dining-room of the tenement house, greeted each of the tenants in turn, and partook of the communal breakfast prepared by the landlady. He thanked her afterward, as he always did, and she insisted that no thanks were necessary, as she always did. Then he bid a polite good-bye and made his way to work.
He stepped outside and inhaled deeply. It was a fine morning. Brisk! Though the air carried the promise of later rain, he figured he should be home well before it arrived.
Riik-rik-rik-rik.
He looked up. There was a bird sitting on the street sign for Hanover and Central. There were many superstitions associated with magpies, and even a nursery rhyme to go along with them:
One for sorrow, two for mirth
Three for a funeral, four for a birth
Five for silver, six for gold
Seven for a secret never to be told
Eight for Heaven, nine for Hell,
Ten for the devil, his own self.
A lone magpie was supposed to be powerfully unlucky. Naturally, Reynard thought such a notion was very silly, and disregarded it. He returned his attention to the path in front of him and walked on, utterly unconcerned. The magpie watched him go.
Marcus Linchuk woke up, readied himself for his work day, and after arriving at the bank, immediately became frustrated. He’d intended to arrive at the bank early to get some daily preparations done before his father arrived, but had realized that he’d left his coat at a friend’s house the night before, and inside of it, his keys. It was not a normal thing for him to do, but he didn’t want it to reflect badly on his character. He’d been trying more and more these days to display his usefulness as far as matters concerning the bank went.
He had, from an early age, determined that he would not be an incompetent heir, and instead would closely observe his father and adhere to his studies in preparation for the day he would take over management of the bank. It was not only the prosperity of the bank that hinged upon his skills as a proprietor, but his own. If something happened to the bank, aside from being out of a job, he would have to deal with King Fang’s displeasure. He doubted the King would look kindly upon such mishandling of his money, as the bank also dealt with the taxes of St. Cobb’s citizens.
There was a heavy weight on the boy’s shoulders, and it was understandable that the thought of some stranger waltzing in and potentially making a mess of everything only made it worse. That clerk. Irving. He was certain his father had taken a shine to him. Marcus and Reynard were actually close to the same age, with Marcus being a few years his senior, but the two had never gotten along. Very simply put, Reynard had no reason to socialize with anyone. He preferred to be left alone and take care of his job. When all one had was his clerical duties, he performed them especially well. His cold, matter-of-fact nature combined with his work ethic made it seem--to Marcus, at last--as if he had disliked Marcus from the start, and aimed to show the proprietor’s son up.
Marcus had been relating this to his friend, one Floyd Scott, the night before, and he was still grateful of Floyd’s willingness to let him vent. Floyd was a man considered his equal in station, and likeable in a rakish sort of way. Marcus had been standing before the doors for approximately two minutes, rubbing the bridge of his nose and waiting for his father to arrive, when he heard a familiar voice pipe up, “There you are. Thought you’d be needin’ this.”
Upon turning, he beheld the familiar face of his friend, grinning and offering his coat. “Floyd,” Marcus sighed, “you are absolutely invaluable. Thank you.”
“Pas de probléme. I figured after that speech last night, the last thing you needed was to forget your keys.”
Marcus nodded, and, after a brief exchange of pleasantries, the two men parted company. Marcus was a bit stressed out, so he failed to notice the positively mischievous smirk on his friend’s face as the man turned and trotted off into the streets.
Reynard arrived on schedule, falling easily into his morning rhythm. He removed his coat and made his way to his office. There were already three forms for him to fill out, so, un-slinging his satchel and unpacking his writing materials, he got to work. The first thirty minutes held no surprises for him. He fell into the usual comforting, monotonous cadence, feeling the minutes drain away into the careful sweep of his quill’s tip.
At the half-hour mark, though, there was a knock on his door. Reynard raised his eyes and removed his pen from the paper, but otherwise did not move. “Come in.”
“Irving? It’s me.” Another of the clerks ducked in, scuttling up to his desk. She blinked myopically and offered a brief smile, “I’m sorry to ask, but something seems to have happened to all of my quills. Do you have one I can borrow?”
Reynard nodded and she drew up by his desk, close enough to be congenial, but not close enough to violate his personal space, which he appreciated. He opened his drawer to pull out one of the quills he kept there, carefully wrapped in rice paper to keep it from splitting and there was a small dark vial rolling around in his desk.
Reynard blinked.
The female clerk gasped sharply, but said nothing.
Reynard hesitated a moment longer, his eyes pinned to the little vial rolling back and forth, before he reached out, gathered a quill, and handed it to her, still-wrapped. Never once did he take his eyes from the bottle.
“Th-thank you, Irving. I, ah, I’ll just… thanks.” She hurried out of the room, and slowly, with an air of disbelief, Reynard plucked the tiny vial from his desk, holding it between his gloved fingers. A blackened potion. In his desk? How had it gotten here? The sudden and violent interruption of his blissfully predictable morning upset him so much that he hadn’t even considered the consequences of owning such an item. The Emperor had decreed that anyone found in possession of such a thing would be immediately put to death. When they finally did arise in his consciousness, he felt a coldness sweep through him. Oh no.
Oh no.
It was in his desk. It was in his desk. Once again he had to ask himself how had it gotten there. Surely there was some manner of reasonable explanation for this. Nobody could get into his office who didn't have the keys to the bank. He was certain neither the head of the bank, nor his son would do something of the sort. He was needed here. He had responsibilities. He tried to think of a time when he had left his desk unattended, but there were so many possibilities, so many variables. Anxiety began to buzz on the edges of his subconscious. Someone had come into his office. Someone here wanted to hurt him. Maybe even someone he knew. The mundane confines of the room around him seemed to deny him even as he stood. You know this place, Reynard. This place is familiar. It is safe. He felt himself calming slightly at the notion.
Then he looked down to the tiny vial and the anxiety rose again, stronger than before.
He couldn't think here. He had to get some fresh air. He had to go somewhere and figure this out. He swallowed heavily and stood. His mind exploded in a confusion of thoughts, every mental thread racing in all directions as he tried to figure out what he should do next. Anxiety hummed ever stronger in his veins as he gathered his satchel. He snagged his coat from where it was hanging, and stepped out of his office, into the large room the rest of the clerks used. He noticed that the female clerk that had taken his quill was not at her desk. The anxiety deepened into an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. It was deep, visceral fear.
He walked through the office. A few clerks glanced up, but apparently the quill-taker had been discreet, because they went back to work, obviously assuming that Reynard wouldn’t be walking among them without a reason. He met no resistance as he moved to the front of the office, his feet carrying him forward in a thoughtless, dreamlike trance. Nobody gave him a second glance as he made his way out the front door.
When he stepped outside, it all came crashing down. He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know what to do. He was going to be arrested, and then they were going to kill him. The fear rose in his throat and choked him.
He turned and, with brisk, businesslike strides, made his way down Hanover street. He did not look back.
Later in that evening, after the news had rampaged through the office, after Reynard’s flight had been discovered, after the local law enforcement had been brought in, Marcus Linchuk went to his friend’s house, just as stunned by the turn of events as everyone else. “I don’t… I guess I never really knew him. I thought he was just some spiteful, quiet clerk. I never thought he was a criminal! To think he’d be involved in the black market! Bon sang!” Floyd was grinning. He kept on grinning, even as Marcus rambled his disbelief, until he blinked, slowed to a verbal halt, and stared at him. “What’s so funny?”
“You were right about your friend. He isn’t some criminal.” The grin widened. Floyd was clearly immensely pleased with himself. “When you left your coat here last night, I figured I’d do you a favor. I snuck in there and planted that in his desk. It ain’t real. The guards’ll figure that out soon enough, so it isn't as if he’s going to be killed or anything. But he’s going to be knocked clean out of the running for the bank, that’s for sure.”
Marcus stared at his friend in horror. “What? You did what?” He stood. “You--he’s on the run now! You ruined that man’s life! I didn’t--that’s not what I wanted!” He felt the color drain from his face, and he repeated numbly, the fire taken out of his voice, “That’s not what I wanted…”
Floyd just stared, taken aback by his friend’s reaction. “I was just trying to help! I didn’t think there’d be any harm in it, not for you, anyway!”
“This is a disaster!” Marcus cradled his face in his hands and gave an inarticulate groan of misery. “Bad. This is bad. We’ve got to tell the truth. We can’t let him take the blame for this…”
Floyd frowned. “Look, I’m sorry it got out of hand, but we can’t throw away everything we’ve got for some no-name clerk. You don’t even like the guy.”
“Shut up.” Marcus drew his hands away and glared at his friend. “I don’t know what makes you think that you can just play around with peoples’ lives, but…" He struggled for words, the right words, but all he came up with was, "Well, you can’t! I just… I can’t believe you… corbleu. He ran, you know. He ran away. That’s going to make it look worse! We’ve got to find him before something happens, and we have his blood on our hands!”
“Relax, he can’t have gotten far.” Floyd frowned. “I mean, after all, where would he go? The swamp?”
Reynard spent the first evening in the swamp.
His shock had carried him forward through the city. First he stopped on the edges of one of the city older graveyards, placing his gloved hands on the wrought-iron fence and trying to clear his mind. When a watchman walked by, his felt the anxiety returning, spearing through his thoughts and tearing their coherence asunder. He couldn't stay there. He had to keep walking.
The day passed, largely unnoticed by the man, who weaved his way through familiar back-streets and down thoroughfares he’d walked across all his life. Nobody gave him a second glance. After all, why should they? He was a reasonably well-dressed fellow, and very neatly groomed, with a bookish air that lent a sense of respectability to him.
Several times during the day he stopped himself, irritated with his own reaction, and tried to force himself to go back to the bank, but the memory of the blackened potion in his office, that safe place that he knew, that had been his sanctuary against a wild, cruel world... no, he couldn't. He couldn't face that. He just needed to think, that was all. He just needed to be out here, in the city, and to think.
He walked until he reached the edge of the city, when someone shouted. The loud sound startled him and he ran then, the coiling terror in his gut snapping loose and propelling him forward, satchel bouncing at his side.
The shouter had been trying to shoo a mongrel away from the trash heaped under her window, and had thus not noticed the odd reaction her voice had produced.
Reynard continued to run as fast as he could, sprinting through the dirt paths meandering through the swamp, occasionally blundering over an exposed root or splashing through an unexpected puddle of water. He didn’t stop until a particularly harsh stumble had nearly sent him sprawling, the jerk knocking his glasses from his face. His momentum carried him forward. Crunch.
Reynard stopped, panting, and looked down at his twisted spectacles. They were thick and sturdily built, but the left side of the frame was slightly crooked, and he’d splintered the lens. Great. Now he was lost, on the run, and half-blind. He placed his glasses back in place and, drawing a deep breath, struggled to get a hold of himself.
He looked down to see what he’d tripped on, and was quite shocked to discover it was the crumbled remains of a tombstone. He turned, and an unearthly panorama spread before him. It was an old graveyard, the headstones grandiose obelisks that had long since gone out of fashion. Moss clung hungrily to their contours, and most of the names had receded into their stone faces. The remains of a wrought-iron fence wove erratically through the underbrush beyond, and a squat mausoleum presided over the entire grim scene. Old, twisted trees half-blocked out the wan light of the late-evening sun, and wisps of hanging moss swayed like veils in the light breeze moving through the area.
He frowned and stepped forward. The marshy ground was quite uneven here, with notable sinkholes near some of the gravestones. He skirted those gingerly, making his way to the steps of the mausoleum. There he sheltered in the portico with the intention of gathering his thoughts. Instead, he fell asleep. He was awoken by a crack of thunder sometime deep in the night. The rainstorm he’d sensed that morning had let loose sometime while he was sleeping. Reynard huddled closer to the mausoleum door in an attempt to keep warm and dry and slept again. He had walked and run most of the day. He was unused to such exertion.
When he woke up the following morning to a vaguely misty, dripping swamp, he panicked.
Why had he done that? Why had he run? That decision had only made all of this worse! What had he been thinking? The answer was that he very simply hadn’t. He’d been afraid, and he’d let his fear get the better of him, even if he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Now that he had fled, if he was caught, he’d be lucky to escape whatever judgment awaited him with his life. Stupid, stupid, stupid! This was what happened when he let his emotions rule his actions, rather than logic and common sense.
Now he’d made a wreck of things, and he was unsure if he could fix it. He shifted his position on the steps, bringing his legs out on front of him so that he could rest his elbows on them, and sighed slowly through his nose. Frankly put, he had no idea what to do next.
There was a flutter and a flash of black-and-white. A magpie landed before him.
Technically the correct term was “crashed into the ground.” It either could not land properly because of its impaired vision, or simply didn’t care about trivial things like landing at a reasonable velocity. It rearranged its limbs and feathers and then began to strut before him with an air of great self-importance. Reynard stared at it. Magpies were not common in that region, and even if they had been, the one on the ground before him was unmistakably the same creature he’d seen sitting on the sign on Hanover street. It was missing an eye, for one thing, and there was an unusual blackness to its feathers; they seemed to suck in light rather than reflect it.
“You,” he said, and then instantly felt foolish for talking to a bird. He stood, and the bird fluttered to a nearby tree, watching him carefully from the branches. Right. No more mucking about. He had to figure this out, and he would do it the proper way. Should he go back and try to explain himself? St. Cobb was all he’d ever known. It was familiar to him. It was safe. Except… it wasn’t as safe as he’d thought it was, if someone was running around sticking blackened potions in other peoples’ drawers, was it?
And if he went back now, he would undoubtedly be taken into legal custody. He would be very suspicious in their eyes. He could be killed. An involuntary shudder ran through him. No. He couldn’t go back. He’d ruined whatever chance he had at redeeming himself when he ran like an idiot. Besides, someone in St. Cobb had in in for him. It was… unthinkable, ludicrous, but he simply couldn’t go back. So he had to go forward.
With only the previous day’s packed lunch as provisions.
Through a swamp treacherous for its terrain, down to a road treacherous for those who stalked it.
As a potentially-wanted criminal.
Might as well get started. Maybe once he’d found a safe place to bed down and collect his thoughts, he could make sense of all of this. With that thought in mind--the thought that he would simply return to civilization, work this out, and go back to his home and his familiar ways--he took a resolute step forward. A dry rustling prompted him to look up over his shoulder. The magpie was following him, hopping from tree to tree.
As he walked, the bird eventually apparently lost interest in him and flew on ahead, vanishing between the trees. Reynard continued to resolutely follow the path. It never struck him that sticking to the path could have been a sure-fire way to get himself caught. Nor did the fact that nobody was actively looking for him register as strange. He just kept walking, trying to remember what, if any, nearby townships rested in the plains beyond the swamp.
As the sun reached its zenith, he became aware of how desperately thirsty he was. He hadn’t had hardly anything to drink the day before. Still, there was nothing for it, so he journeyed on. As the thirst began to worsen, he started to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to return to the city after all. He might be held in custody, but at least he’d (likely) be fed and watered. And possibly dead, he reminded himself, so no.
Movement in the corner of his eye distracted him from his thoughts. He glanced towards it. Was it that ridiculous bird again? Something else flickered through the trees--a glimmer. The glimmer of water. He frowned, hesitated, and then carefully began to make his way through the underbrush towards it. Being in a swamp, there was no real shortage of water, of course, but clear, drinkable water was hard to find.
He came upon the edge of a clear brook. It seemed to originate between two irregularly-shaped hunks of limestone, and it dribbled down through a pebbled stream bed made of tiny chunks of the same rock before disappearing into the swamp. There was no way of knowing whether the water was safe to drink, but it looked clean. The magpie was drinking from it, dipping its head down and tossing it back in little gulps. When Reynard approached, it swung its eye towards him and flapped to the safety of a nearby tree.
Reynard paused. The water was apparently safe enough for the bird to drink. And it looked clean. And delicious. He really shouldn’t, but it was this water or no water, and it might be days before he reached a settlement. He carefully approached the boulder and cupped his hand under the stream, bringing it carefully to his lips. It was cold, crisp, and the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Before he could stop himself, he’d already downed four handfuls of the stuff, and once he’d slaked his thirst, he was surprised to find he was also ravenously hungry.
Reynard was not used to hardship. He didn’t live the life of an aristocrat, but he could count on the basics to be there: food, water, and a place to sleep. As he sat down, unwrapping the hunk of cheese and removing the soft potato roll from inside his satchel, it struck him how little food he had, and how long he was going to have to make it last. He nibbled at it, deciding to save the hunk of salted pork for later, reflecting at how often he’d taken the luxury of a full belly for granted.
Riiik. He jerked. The magpie had abandoned its arboreal post and was standing across the stream, watching him intently. The promise of food apparently did wonders for its bravery. He hesitated. That moment was perhaps the most important of Reynard Irving’s life. It wasn’t because it was the kindest thing he would ever do, or because it was the most heroic, or death-defying. It was because his actions at that moment would determine the course of the rest of his life, and the decision he made regarding them, though deceptively simple, would change him forever.
He shrugged, broke off a small piece of bread, and tossed it to the bird. He owed it that much for finding him water. The magpie eagerly snapped it up and without hesitation fluttered over, perching on the opposite bank near him and fixing him with a single eye. It seemed to say, I’m sticking with you.
Reynard shrugged. What could it hurt?
The magpie followed him the rest of the day. Reynard was once again forced to spend the night in the swamp. The second morning he went on with his journey just as resolutely, though with considerably less gusto than before. He really, really wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. Hopefully he’d find someplace civilized along this route soon.
The magpie kept steady pace with him, occasionally deigning to simply follow him on the ground, pecking at twigs, the back of his shoes, or anything else of suitable interest in range. In contrast to Reynard’s flagging strength, the bird was positively full of vim, and chattered noisily to itself as they traveled. It seemed to have an uncanny knack of finding sources of clear water, which it did regularly. Reynard assumed this was due to two factors: one, the glint of sunlight on water was shiny, and attractive to such a creature, and two, the last time it had done so, it was rewarded. Every time it found him a place to drink, he was sure to repeat the rewarding process, pleased with himself at having come upon such a lucky companion.
On the third day, disheveled, smelly, and more than a little weak from his journey, Reynard and the magpie came to the plains. For a moment the vastness of the sky, unbroken by trees or buildings, frightened Reynard. He felt like he was going to be sucked up into it, and he took a reflexive step back towards the welcoming dank familiarity of the swamp. Then he realized he was being stupid. “This is silly,” he declared to no-one in particular, or possibly to the magpie. It watched him from the ground. He looked down at it.
“This road has to lead somewhere.” He was aware of how foolish he was being, talking to the bird, but it helped him get his thoughts in order. That was useful enough to justify the practice. “So let’s hope it leads us to a town.” He stepped out of the shadows of the trees and made his way down the road, his once-fine clothing dirtied and disheveled, one spectacle-lens cracked in an unusual mimic of his avian friend’s missing eye, with an air of dignity that did not suit someone looking so ruffled.
The magpie took to the sky joyously. It felt good to be in the open air again.
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Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2012 6:34 pm
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Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2012 7:00 pm
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Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2012 7:53 pm
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 Magpies in Science
Magpies are birds of the corvid family. They are perching, or passerine birds, which, as adults, range from 17-18 inches in length that can live up to twenty years. There are many species of magpie, but here in the science section we will focus on the one on which Hanover is based, the European Magpie.
Magpies begin their lives in medium-sized clutches raised by two parent birds. At about three months of age, young magpies often strike out on their own. Sometimes groups of the birds form loose-knit colonies, and sometimes only a single pair will hold sway over a territory. They guard their territory fiercely, dive-bombing anything they perceive as threatening, from cats to foxes to human beings. Magpies mate for life, remaining with the same partner unless one of the pair dies.
Magpies, like most corvids, eat most anything they can get. Carrion, insects, baby songbirds--even sometimes adult songbirds--all are on the menu. They will also eat grains and some plant matter. Their tendency to rob nests has earned them something of an unfairly bad reputation. They are not typically shy of humans unless they have been treated badly, which they will remember. They can also learn to speak and imitate other noises.
Magpies exhibit a number of unusual behaviors, and all of these are tied to one thing: the bird’s uncommon intelligence. There are many intelligent birds. Most people associate bird intelligence with parrots. However, to date, the European Magpie is the only bird to exhibit behaviors indicative of self-awareness. The test is simple.
For those unable to watch the video, the test is as follows: A colored dot is placed on a part of the bird that it cannot see without the aid of a mirror. When the magpie looks into the mirror, is recognizes itself and sees the foreign object stuck to it, and attempts to remove it. As a control experiment, a dot is placed on the bird that matches the color of its plumage. Since the magpie cannot tell that the dot is there, it does not try to take it off. This proves that it isn’t just feeling the dot in place, rather than seeing it.
This seems like no big deal, but to date only nine species of animal have ever passed this test (eight if you don’t count humans), and one of them was the humble magpie. In addition, it has been noted that the ratio of a magpie’s neostratum to its brain (commonly used as an indicator of intelligence) is similar to that of a primate or cetacean’s, and only slightly lower than a human’s. A concept of “self” changes everything in animal behavior. If a magpie knows that it is a magpie, and knows what it is supposed to look like, then it must recognizes other magpies as separate individuals of its kind, as well.
Magpies also have been recorded behaving in a way that suggests grief. Magpies will often congregate around a corpse, sometimes quietly pecking once or twice in an attempt to rouse the dead before flying off, and sometimes gathering in great force, making raucous distress-calls.
On the lighter side, magpies are known thieves with an eye for anything bright and shiny. Their tendency to make off with glittering things has been referenced in works of classic literature multiple times. They also have a playful side: magpies of several species have been observed playing with objects or with other magpies, often rolling over onto their backs to kick out or manipulate objects with their feet.
Magpies are unusual creatures whose mysterious behaviors have not only made them curious scientifically, but have resulted in a colorful folklore following.
Magpies in Folklore
There is one constant in all folklore representations of magpies: they are used as fortune-tellers. In fact, a group of magpies is known a “tiding” of magpies for this very reason. In Western cultures there are several nursery rhymes used to predict one’s future based on the number of magpies one sees, with a single magpie being particularly unlucky. If one encounters a lone magpie, there are several things that can be done to reverse the bad fortune.
- Doff your hat politely and say, “Good Morning, Mr. Magpie; how is your wife?”
- Repeat the phrase, “I defy thee” seven times.
- Salute the bird.
It is also said that magpies have a drop of the devil’s blood under their tongue, which gives them their uncanny ability of speech. They are often viewed as symbols of witchcraft or impending death. Overall, it’s a bad lot for them in the West.
Their fortunes are reversed in Eastern cultures. Magpies are symbols of good luck in Korea and China. The call of a magpie is supposed to foretell the arrival of company in Korea, and magpies play a part in the highly romantic Night of Sevens festival in China.
What does this mean for the plagued item?
Three main things: One, Hanover will be intelligent and self-aware even as a putesco. When she later grows to the Excitos stage, she will have very vivid memories of her life as a bird, and still think of herself as a magpie, even if she has changed in shape; coming to terms with the fact that her life and her very being have been irredeemably altered is probably going to be distressing for her.
Two, Reynard will somewhat stick out when it's seen that a tame, lone magpie follows him around. Superstitious people are likely to give him a wide berth, even if they don’t realize that his magpie companion is Plagued.
Three, Hanover will nick everything shiny that she comes across.
Forever.
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Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2012 8:01 pm
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