Craugh

Craugh

Male Positai

Player: CraughSPL

General Information
Full Name:	Man: Craugh, Beard: Phil
Nicknames:	Old Geezer, Codger, Finger-Waggler, Boss, Bag of Bones
Age:	92
Deity:	*points at self*
Alignment:	LG LN LE NG TN NE CG CN CE
Occupation:	Arcanist
Faction/Rank:	Godsmen - Initiate
Place of Birth:	Tradegate
Physical Attributes
Height:	6'0 while hunched
Weight:	119 lb
Eyes:	Glowing Opalescent. Right one missing.
Hair:	Pure white
Complexion:	Wrinkled Prune
Physical Build:	Beanstalk
Physical Features:	Eyebrows mostly burned off. Intertwined Szuldar lines looping over his left eye socket, down his cheek and neck to terminate at the pelvis. Faintly phosphorescent skin.
Skills
Translator, Arcane Engineer, Surgeon
Equipment and Items
A plethora of wands, rods and spell ingredients hung on his waist or poking from pockets. A 6'0 walking stick as bent and gnarled as its owner. A dusty, clawed, burned and utterly ragged gray suit and cloak.

A reedy voice wafts over the crowd in the market ward, accompanied by the regular tapping of a staff on cobblestone.

The owner of this voice quickly comes within sight: a heavily hunched and stick-thin figure moving with a hobbling gait through the bodies gathered at the square, his stick grasped tightly with both hands. He nods to many with a bright smile on his face and cheerful tone, greeting each with a piping "Mister" or "Miss." Dust, dirt, blood of several colors and a myriad of other unidentified, faded streaks stain his worn gray suit, a patched and shredded cloaking flapping behind him. His single eye flashes from one person to another as if constantly seeking something, completely independent of who he is talking to from moment to moment.

The piping voice and roving eye finally still after a short while. The frail elder settles back comfortably against a pillar with a soft sigh, and a more comfortable smile spreads across his face as he catches your glance, making his matted facial hair twitch in the process. Now that his hands are free, his head sinks into them, the fingers ruffling his frizzled beard as if of their own accord.

A Passerby's Comments

Eh? Can't see fer yerself? Just a heavily hunched old fellow standing at six foot with grizzled face, bright eyes and--wait. His eyes are actually glowing. The hells? Just enough to be visible under his hood, like a pair of opals catching the light, ye see 'em? The matted, frizzled beard extending almost to his waist is a distraction, o' course... I can only see the vague outline of his mouth, but what little skin that's visible is rather odd too. A phosphorescent off-white. His hands are mostly wrapped up in rag strips, but even his knuckles glow faintly in that shadow.

Did you see his face when the hood was down? The old codger has glowing white lines looping above his left eyebrow and trailing all the way down the side of his neck!

Come to think of it, the only normal thing about him is that gnarled walking stick he always leans on. The ragged gray suit he's wearing has so much dirt on it from traveling, you could whip up a dust-storm just by patting his shoulder. There's over a dozen pockets stitched in all over the place. Speaking of stitching, his cloak looks like its been clawed to pieces and resewn a dozen...strange. Those tattered edges look exactly like they were made by claws. Big ones.

Hmph. Ye spot th' grimoire on his hip? The one hanging by half a dozen chains from his belt, and padlocked too? *snorts* He's just asking fer that thing t'be bobbed when he looks t'other way. ... 'course, ye jus' know there's something nasty on it ter keep light fingers off. Ehh, what're--oh. Yeh. See those runes on th'edge? *sourly* They explode. Touch th'binding and ye'll lose 'alf yer hand.

Are those burns from on his left side from acid or fire, d'ye think? He probly got them at th'same time he lost his eyebrows. Looks like they're only just starting to grow back.

His right eyeball is missing. Not the eyelid, or the muscles 'round it. Just the peeper.

Attitude

Insatiably curious with an impulsiveness to match, Craugh can be guaranteed to poke his nose into whatever interests him. His attention as a result is almost manic, flitting between objects, people, ideas...the turnings of his mind never ends, and it shows. An active mind may make for a powerful mage, but it also distracts that same mind from other matters, such as keeping life and limb from getting torn apart.

That means if you're a stranger, you can be certain of a visual inspection from head to toe. No exceptions. Your face is the last place he's going to look, once he's done processing everything the rest of your appearance can tell him.

Distrusting of strangers and loyal to the death for dear friends, that's your godsdamned classic berk. Craugh? HAH!! Turn that on its head, and you might start to understand what goes on in that creaky old brainbox.

Cheerful to a fault, Craugh will ordinarily smile at practically anything--especially if he's never seen it before. Anger and other emotions comes just as quickly, but far more rarely. Don't believe me, berk? Trying telling him that he's a bad father, if you want to be polymorphed into a squirrel and flung down the sewers for gibberlings to gnaw on.

The Chant

Background

Not much to tell 'ere. Where 'e came from is plain 'nough--Tradegate, or so 'e says. You go sniffing around there, and a couple things will turn up. Firs', he was another urchin, or so th' cutters policin' th' streets'll tell ye. Human dregs the kind you see scurrying 'round any proper city. How a street rat figgered out ter use magic is anyone's guess.

An addle-cove from the start, if ye talk ter th' traders. Always wanderin' th' streets an' hills, sayin' it could all vanish. I mean, some of it did, it's the Outlands, ya know? But this barmy little bugger thought it would happen to everything, so 'e decided to see it all afore it 'appened. Took to playin' a guide fer travelers after seein' so much 'imself. *taps nose* You know he was barmy even then b'cause all 'e asked fer pay was knowledge. Jus' curious as you wouldn't believe, cutter! 'ventually I s'pose he started gettin' 'is hands on th' stuff dazzlers use ter cast spells, an' away 'e went.

Somethin' 'appened along th'way ter make 'im glow like that, o' course. Yer guess is good as mine.

Associations and Commonly Visited Bergs

If you 'ave a bit o' luck or brains ter dig up th' dark on Craugh 'round Sigil, cutter...

• He works at the Archives around the clock, always in and out with odds and ends. Some of which squirm.
• Known among bashers on the street as a fast way to coin, if you're willing to risk jumping Planes like a manic frog!
• Seen mingling indiscriminately among Smileys and Biters alike. He's just as likely to know the cony as the cony-catcher.
• Speaking of bad bloods? This 'un is willing to cross-trade just as much as the berk in black on the corner, and more likely to have what yer seeking.
• Has a contract with a Planetar, calls herself Antonia of Hjordis.
• Has a contract with a Pit Fiend who doesn't deign to talk to the soul-bags much...but Craugh calls him Kobal.

The Dark of It

Eh...not much ye want t'say 'ere wi'out lookin' o'er yer shoulder. Did I mention the ol' codger's barmy? Talk is, 'e killed is own son, right in th' middle o' th' Market Ward! 'ad one o' them acid shields and somehow 'is own boy jumped on 'im. And how d'you know it wasn't the blood 'imself who twisted 'is son's head ter do that!?

An' it didn't end there. The geezer dragged 'is boy outta th' ward, t'Darkwater Cove...who knows fer what. 'e 'ad Harmonium on 'is tail th' whole way. I an' th' rest o' th' lads 'aven't seen his son agin. Bit th' iron, some say. 'is own father finally killed th' lad fer bein' a disgraced drunkard. Others whisper o' worse...

Ye think jus' killing yer own son is the worst? Hah...hahahah. Stitch yer lips afore I decide yer better off branding "Clueless" on yer forehead. Spellslingers are tricksy, understand! Craugh may smile at ye, but 'e can be jus' as much a bad blood as a fiend if ye rub him th' wrong way. Otherwise? Well, 'e can be yer personal guide to th' Planes, every copper bit o' yer jink back if a hair on yer head is touched along the way!

Bashers say he keeps a sharp eye on his employees too. After all, what use're they to him in the deadbook? 'less they sold their bone-bags to 'im in the bargain fer re-animatin'. Heheh.

In th' end, ye can judge by this: the less dark ye can find on a blood, the less ye want

Philosophy

Unless you want him to flap his bonebox at you for a few weeks solid, don't ask.

Talk of the Street

Harmonium Officer #1

The old fool always babbling about some expedition or another? Good man. Takes the crazies with him to die out there.

Harmonium Officer #2

HIM? You, you and you, you're coming with me! If that berk even thinks about abducting anyone else again, he's going straight to the clink!

Harmonium Guard #1

A cooperative mage. That's a first. Polite, too. Spellslinging bastards like that Morgan Rayne usually think they're above the law. Huh. Come to think of it, there has to be a reason the doddering old fool is so polite. No one is that polite to a Hardhead if they can help it. What's his game? *walks off muttering under his breath*

Harmonium Guard #2

Word of advice, cutter--don't ask him anything. I made the mistake of questioning him only once, and ended up on the verge of committing assault to make him shut up! What kind of reputation would that make for the Harmonium, eh?

Fated #1

That hunched-over bag of bones?? Where is he?! He seems to have no taxable estate, oh yes...hah! He's a spellslinger, no fool that one! He practically throws platinum at the berks he picks up off the street as employees, and I WANT TO KNOW WHERE HE GETS IT! *pantpant*

Fated #2

Craugh? You have to respect the blood, I'll give him that much. The old man looks innocent and cheerful, but who in the Cage with that many years as a Planeswalker can still be that much of a Clueless? He'll walk up to anything from Slaadi to Modron with a grin on his face and a question on his lips. It can't possibly be nothing more than an act to get what he wants, otherwise he would have been a deader long ago.

Bleaker

The kind old man? Absentminded, certainly, but always happy to assist when I request it of him. If he is an especial hurry for some reason, he usually just provides a sizable donation. What? Well of course I don't press him! It is his business, after all. The help he has provided is more than enough recompense for a little privacy.

Market-Ward Tout

Th-that one? He turned a man into a spider, cutter. Face as calm as if he were saying 'ello, not turning you into a bug. I wouldn't say a word to him for a hundred mert!

Mercykiller #1

Hmph. Takes orders from authority. He won't be dealt anything more than a fine at that rate. Not worth a second glance.

Mercykiller #2

Hmph. A mage who does what he's told? He's hiding something. Only a matter of time until we get the dark on him.

Dustman

Arch-magus Craugh? Why, yes. He is an impeccable customer, only choosing the strongest of deceased warriors' remains for re-animation. Are you also interested in purchasing one? I have all the paperwork and witnessed signatures you could ask for right here.

Archives Clerk

Oh Powers, whatever it is, NO. I am NOT helping him lug another goddsdamned "specimen" down to the laboratory! You see this burn? And these bite marks, here, and here? This splotch of grey skin on my collarbone? First it was an acid-spitting cobra, then a yowler, and then a fucking wraith! Forget it. He can kill himself playing zoo-keeper for all I care! Or surgeon, whichever. *shivers*

Clerk Ward Tout

The geezer's back with his skin intact? Hah! * turns and yells* You hear that, ya sods?! You all owe me fifty jink!