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Total Skill Points:
0
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Total Weight:
0
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Psionics
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Level
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Currency
812g 245s
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Description
From a distance, the lanky figure draped in a white, poorly worn smock belonging to Defarge would not look out of place in a studio or bustling gallery. His habitual smoking and fey composure peg him as an unceasingly occupied artist. The artist's dark, trim turtleneck outlines a spindled figure and mutes his threadbare smock; its hoary patches smothering what unspoiled fabric remains. Up close, Avery is disconcertingly disheveled, with greasy white hair matted over restless, bloodshot eyes. The sculptor's mincing gaze sweeps contemptuously over interlopers and the overly invasive. Defarge's bony fingers rap nervously against his hip. They're dusted in chalky grit and ash and instinctively coil into his sleeve. Furthered scrutiny catches glimpse of a spindled web of stitches, sutures and scars curtained beneath his clothing.
Personality
Avery's attitude is optimistically described as avant-garde. Or was, until his budding eccentricities outweighed his value to his patrons. Despite not being in steady employment Defarge maintains his colossal ego and neurotic habits. Most unerring of which is his tendency to count down all the objects in a room to zero perfectly. Defarge is obsessively precise over numerical measurements, especially of time and space. The sculptor has a keen eye for architecture and angles. Avery seems obfuscatingly preoccupied by his surroundings. The tenebrous thoughts which hound Avery's subconscious brim in his observations and mutterings, but are just as furtively rescinded.
Character Traits
Skinny Specialist (sculptor)
Character Flaws
Noncombatant
Contacts / Friends
Enemies
Statistic Block
Condition and Effects
Additional Information
-1 hp, +2 PP, +1 Knowledge (planes)
Other Notes
[
Show Printable Version
]
--Ceci n'est pas une caractère Avery Gwynplaine Defarge is the third and consummate child to a peasant family situated in the bayou backwaters of Frellon. The clan Defarge, a rude clan of stoneworks and masons, lives in a dust choked mining town where the muddy dikes and quarries fester in the shadow of the coast-hedging alps. A boy of little socialization born into a family of few means, Avery's childhood toys were a chisel and blocks of unfit slag. Self graduated from carving bricks and marbles, the youngest Defarge carved eerily approximate doubles of his neighbors and family. Avery persisted blithely in his diversion, dotting the mining town's boulder-filled foothills with slate sculptures and statuettes. The road strewn quarries became something of a pilgrim's curiosity. The morning fog echoed with the chirp of wedged metal against stone and haunted travelers with furtive glimpses of form and grace. Avery's mischievous production of stonework caught the attention of a traveling noble who, so impressed by the enigmatic carvings, offered his patronage to the budding artist. And so a teen-aged Avery was swept out of the countryside and into the halls of L'Académie de Forme. The base nature of Avery's breed was apparent compared to his new peers. A parvenu among preening courtiers and gentry, his yokel inflection and ignorance of high art became faults for their amusement. It was at this time that Defarge would acquire his nicotine habit. Rather than sleep in the unwelcoming common, Avery would retreat to the estate's crowded cellar and lie amongst his creations. Piter Durand, sculptor and factotum, stumbled upon this curious pupil in the dusty gloom of the basement quite literally. He regarded the young Defarge as he might an unworked stone; stunning and unbounded in his plain technique. Durand informed Avery of the mutable ectoplasmic materials and their seat in the psyche. Through avaunt experimentation of mental sculpting and long nights spent poring over psionic lore Avery came to realize his tutor's vision. Defarge graduated to the great delight of his patron and with a keen understanding of metacreativity. Defarge's first years on the scene were well received. Enough galleries hosted Avery's work for him to move into his own studio. Brokers and collectors fawned over the intensely human quality of his sculptures and footed his patron's bills neatly for the next three years.[*][*] But on [date, in numbers, last year], between 10:46:12 and 10:46:18 p.m., an unforeseeable incident would mar his work. In the middle of sculpting his new collection Avery simply disappeared before the eyes of two assistants. Six seconds later he was back on the studio floor; naked, screaming, his hair shocked white, and bleeding profusely from his sides. The emergency healers would note that same night that Avery's psicrystal had melted into his lower rib cage. After his medical release Avery disappeared into his studio. Two months later he hosted an open house to his old patrons and the elite art crowd of the city.[*]IA IA AZATHOTH FHTAGN The event was graciously attended and an utter revelation of perverted faculty. The figures of his old collection were scribed over in indecipherable glyphs, cowered in abject terror, and missing eyes, limbs and sizable chunks of marble flesh. THEY SAY THEY DO NOT SEE HIS PLAN AND YET THEY LAUGH LIKE SONS OF MAN His latest sculptures were of tentacled monstrosities and aberrational beasts making toys of mutilated human bodies. MAN MAN MAN MAN MAN , , , ,T̸͍̫̲̄ͯ̽̚͘o̟̔͒͐̆́͜ ̢̺̺̺ͥͯí̸̸͚͖̭̓̀ͬ́̇n̒̆͋̉̚҉̨͎̦̮̤̘̖͉v̷̺̮̣̝̞̺ͯ̑ͪơ͙̰̼ͭͫͤ̆͝k̛̞̜̥͎̰̻͑ͤ̾̂̿̚ͅȩ͚̳̗͕̱̯̩ͬ̈ͣ̆̓̇̃̕͡ ̴͓̞̗̟̮̘̲̦ͯ͂͢͡t̸̶̮͎̣̻̓̚h͚͍̟̟ͣ͜͠e̢̨͇͖̝͙ͭ̇͒̈ͫͨ͊ ̻͉̄͒ͯ̒ͣ̍̋̒͜h̃ͦ̾̌͊̓͑̚͏̷̖̬͕i͗͏̦͎̪̕v̹̦̯̊̽͆͂̈̐̒e̅ͦͣ͏̳͓͇͕-̺̘̩͎͊̚m͕̃̒͒͜i̮̝̜̽ͥͣͅn̑̽̑҉̡͉̰̟̩ͅḑ̥̲̬̤ͨͥͧ͞͞ ͚̖͚̙̊̂͗̇̒͊̽̎͡ř͔̩͕͇̤͓͚̎͢͢͝ḛ̪̹̣̈́ͨp̸͕̻͐̾̄ͯ̓ͩr̻̜̯̟̗̬̮̜͆̎̕͜͞ͅe̶̻̲͂̑ͮͫͬs͍̹̹̺̯̺̮̭͚̎̐̄͗̊͆͗͑̄e̼͙̖̱̮͂͂̓͂̿ͦ̊̀̚̚͝n̶̫͚̣̫̹̙̞̜̝ͬ͌ṭ̵̛͈̰̣̪̝ͦ̌ͪ̓̌ͅi̢̯̥̮̪̻̮̓̆͒n̙̝͚͕͖̜͐̈́ͥ̒̾͑͆͆̕g̴͉̮̠̬̮̈ͤ̽̌ͭ̕ͅͅ ̵̖̭̺̟͍͑̑̅͆̈͛͜͠ͅc̺͉̠̺͖̼͋́h̵̵̟̱̘̭̘̅ͯ̃̑̕ȃ̬̪͚̑ͤ͡o̗͍̬͕̍ͬͥ̎͐̐ͨ̆s̵̴̱͔͇̦̽͗̈̓̓̏̚.̵̹̲͙̞͎̬͉̇̀ͩͭ̀͂ ̢͈̗̘ͣ̀ͧͪ̎̈́̈̿͋Į̷̗̳͆ͦ́n̮̮̗̋́͜v̵͕̲͙̫̹̤̑̅̏̏ͫ̀͊̎́͝ö̦̫̱́ͥ͛͡k̢͍̰̞̹̟̰͎̯͂͊̆̒ͬ̚͜i͌̑̈́̋͌̕͞͏̬ṉ̴̢̳̜̺͎̗̻͚ͥ̅ͨ͊ͯ̄̾g̨͈̲͙͋̄̀ͣ̇̈́̀́̚͞ ̰͕̣͑͛̉ͨ͗̉̉̍͟t̴͍̼̪̖ͬͮ̌ͣ́͋ͣh̳͕̙̠͒͒́̽̎̌͗̍͜e̸̖̲̜̫͖̓ͭ͒ͬ̐̀͘ ̡̰͈̮͕̤͙̀̔ͮ͐ͦ̉ͣ̚͘͜f̴͈̮ͬ̽̌̈́ͯͨ͗͠ͅͅê̷̘̗͆̍ͥ͆̓̅ȩ̟̯̱̟̿̒͐̀ĺ̵̹͍̾̑͗̓̂͛͂i̦͈͇ͦ̓̅ͣͬn̶̮̤̉̾̿̉̉̋̐g̷͈̤̥̬̓̈́͐́ ̿̈́̄ͣ̓̊̓͠͠҉͓͖̼̝̜̦o̩̟͈̺̦̮̘̩͐̅͌ͨͬͅf̧̨̱̣̩̼̳̫͓͑ͮ̔͌̀ ͚̽͒̑c̗̤̰̬̺̟̑̆̽h̢̛̟̳͖̥̦͍̟̾͆̎̀ą̱̯̘͚͚̫̱ͭͯͨ̇o̱͊̊̋͂̓̾̅͋̍s̝͔̟͈ͯͫ̚.̛̟͉͚̣͎̫̲̇̒ͫ́ ͍͇̞̍͆ͅW̴̰̣͑ͭͤ̈ͅi͚͔̪̦̼̒̒̉̔̇͑͊ͥ̀̕t̡̢͔̲̪̱̓̍́̐̾h͌̐ͩͦ҉̠͝ ̹̟ͮ͗̌̎̌ͦ͞ò͚̲͓̪̝͖̹͆̃́ũ͓̫̽̀̿̍̅̍͟t͎͇͚̣͔̟͍͎̳ͮ̅̍̍̀͠ ̷̛̠̺̲͖̲͇̓̐̐̿̐ͩ͌̌ö̤̠̣͓̬̎ͫ̋͟ř̶͈̜̺̪͈̞͇͈̟͋̈́̿̒ͥͪ́̓d̢̥̠̦͙̺̬ͭ͑͗ͯ͐̍̊͛͂͜ę̼͍̖͂ͩͨͥ̾̏̈́̈́̀r̷̗͇̤̣̩͚̻͓ͭ.̹͙̉̂͛͋͢ ͉̣ͯ́͛̊͜T̨̨̼̯̃̈̓̐͊h̯̜͓̲͇̱̐̽ͦͮ̀ę̶̰̙͙̺ͨ̔ͪ̑ͨͪ̈́ ̛̹̤͖̝̪̰͎̺ͤ͒̍̈́͂ͭ̌ͥ͟ͅN̘̋̄e͌͊͒̇͌̐҉̗͎̜̦̞z̨̓̎̒̀ͮ̐ͫ͑͏̜͚̼̝̩͇̙͖p̧̧̡͇̞̦̪̲̣̆̈́̔ͭe̦̝̳̠̤̔ͪ̅͐͛̚r̤̮̬̞̰̥̱ͪ̎̏ͨ̕͝ͅḑ͚̠̜̪̱̘̙̞ͯ̔i̼͎ͫ̊̀ā̴͓͉͉̀̃ͭͬ͊̄̉̈͢͝ņ̬̦̟̫̭̥͍͔͈̎ͥ̑ͯ̃̽͒̉͟ ̢̙̝̺̘̘͈̱͕̏̓͆ͩͧ̀h̷̖̘͈̝̥̭̳̠ͩ̈̀͒͑͑̈́͜i̡̪̼̝ͮ̆vͯͨ͡҉̩̖̪̤̲͈ͅę͇̲ͯ̾̾̓ͯ-̯̝̜͇͍͆ͬ̽̂ͥͯͤ̾̄m̓͛ͬ̂̅҉͏̳̗̳i̫̗͕̬͉͌͛̎̒̽͆̀͂͢ň̬̩̝̩̣͛̋͐̋͜ḏ̭͕̤̼͙̓͋͆͛ͫ̏͡ ̪̪͆ͮ͋͐̀̀ǫ̒̃̄ͩ͏͖̞͠f̧͇͎̟̯̒̑̍̊ ̹̊ͩ̀̊ͦ͒̈̇ͅc̝͚̳̊̆ͪ̏̿ͤ̎ḣ̟̥̙̰̪̫̟͇͇̂͑́ͦ̑̍͊̆̕͜a͈͛̍͛̉̕oͥͩ͞͏͓͎̪̰͍̣s̜ͦ͒ͅ.̷̗̻̮̼͗͐̊̈́̒̚͞ ̶̵̱̫͈̜̙ͬͣ͆͆͊̇̂̑Z͈̞͚͖̭̩̝̱̓̎̆̀̽ͨ̅͘a̠̤͓̩̐ͦl̖̞͚̬̙̪ͨ͝g̻͔͕̘͖̊ͬ̓͠ọ̷͕̗͕͊͛ͣ͆̀.̛ͭ́̇̎ͬ̃͋ͭ͌͞҉̝ ̶̥͇͂͆̑̇ ̟̼̩̺̙̪͉̈̾ͦ̽͛͟H̶͉͍͚̒ḙ̥̂̂̍ͨͥ̽͢͟ ̸̻̰̭͍ͦ͐̃̊ͩ͗͋́͞w̴̡̛̫̼̟̎͐̐ͪͯ̾ͯh̷̩̹̠̥̩̘̺̳̏̇́́o̲̹͗̈̈̉ͩ͋ ̲̘͕̦̽͌ͪ̚͜W̷͖̜̳̝͚̥̺͋̎̌ͯ̿͌ͨ̏̓́ā̧̧ͩ҉̪i̡̖̦͍͓̥̘͕͔̋̃͑̒̄ͮ̋̓ͯ͟t̼̳̰͛͑̈͊̏̃̄̂͟s̗͈͓̺̜̝̪͕̱̐̓ͪ̑͐ͧͭ͟͟ ̘̻̳̬̔̾̓ͪ̆ͬͣ͢B̸͕͓͙̞̭͕̩̍͊̑ͧ̀͝e͖͕̙̹͎̟͔͉̐͂h̸͕͙̳͗̋͌̌ī̀ͮ̃ͭ͗ͭ͗͏҉̨͙̩͕̭n̸͓͖̩̐̔ͣ́̓̀d̊̔͒̿ͨ͊͑̀҉͈͙͠ ̗͈̦̍ͤ̕͜T̷̾̇̿ͬͫ͏̫̤͙̬̱̺̼ͅh̶͍̠̙̓͗ͪ̅̇é̮͖͕̥̺̖͓̅̊͂͠͞ͅ ̵̘̜̱̱̜̖̗̩͊ͮ͗̔̚͘W͉̥̞̗̖̥̌͒ͫ̔͒ͥ̏̿͟a̖̟̜͍̣̔̚l͂͊̈́̓ͪ͏̻̱l̴̬̮̤͉͇̑̃͗̒͑̐ͧ.̵̢̢̮̼̥̼̱̲̣͔́͒̏̄ͮͩͬ̓͂ ̧̝̮̼͔̎̾̒͝Z̯̳͇͈͕̺͔̹̰̗̑͑̐ͭ̇ͦG̢̡̞̖̲̞͈̘̰̅̉̑O̡̺͉͓̱̅ͣ͟!̶̬̲͖̖̖̗͕̪̩͐͋͗̑ͦ̇̽͝ , , The centerpiece was a crystalline column [of tumorous flesh and unhallowed AND BEAUTIFUL DON'T YOU KNOW BEAUTY WHEN YOU SEE IT] dotted with lamprey mouths and in what looked to be a sick parody of childbirth. Avery had no stores of crystal. The walls of his studio were written over with numerical sequences each ending in twelve and the mantra "Have you seen the seventh sign?"... Mother, it hurts, mother. other other other out there ... at first in ink and ectoplasm, then excrement and blood. In one night Avery had driven away every prospective buyer in a 50 mile radius. THAT MAN In his expediently evacuated studio Defarge resolved to strike out and find new inspiration. Or, failing that, a patron to appreciate his creations.
