Name: Thenysil Disraeli
Class: Puppet Master
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral (Leaning to Good)
AppearanceThenysil does not necessarily look gaunt, but he is not as muscular as most active men. His years of imprisonment, wrongly and only recently discovered to be as such, have left him with a sallow looking appearance and a notably pale coloration to his skin. His eyes seem to always bear the markings of haunted sleep, bag-filled and never looking appropriately open to give testament to even a full night’s rest. If one can be bothered to look it is possible to see the markings left behind by wrought iron shackles rubbing constantly against the skin, these marks are present on both his wrist and ankles, but getting close to the man and remaining as such is a good way to get him stressed and quickly enraged.
BackgroundThenysil was naught more than an ordinary man with his family of a daughter he was most proud and protective of and a wife he coveted just as much. However, tales of such peaceful beginnings and midway points are not those that keep the children tucked in their beds in the eve to keep them from skulking in the night. No, this is no such tale, but rather the beginning of the dark tinged taint of madness that can attack even the purest of individuals.
Thenysil was a man of little renowned prior to his incident, merely an artisan to his trade that taught those willing to part with coin to seek his advice. An honorable means of life if he were ever asked as what could one ever wish for than to perform daily duties of activities they truly loved? Such was the profession Thenysil enjoyed, crafting his mannequins both for educational purpose and entertainment to those too young to learn what he had to offer. Tragedy had struck on no better a day than his daughter’s birthday, a day he would have embedded into his mind like a taunting brand of some sinful god. So clearly he remembers the evening when he had returned home from a day’s journey, his face haggard and fatigued from pushing his limits to return home to a deserving family that had surely missed him and a community that needed him as much for his smile as his expertise with cures. However, no matter how many the curative tinctures and remedies he might have learned over the years even he was no less susceptible to the worst fear any practitioner of medicine could ever be haunted by; death.
To a bloody home he returned. His precious daughter’s present all but forgotten the moment he spied the corpse of his beloved wife, maimed dreadfully but not beyond recognition and missing what would have been his second child. This blow had been low enough for him, but not as much as spying what remained of his daughter. His words were gone from him, stuck somewhere between the dry tears sheltered within his eyes as he catered and babied the remains before him and sullied his hands in what had been a most wonderful gift to the world.
His case had been a short one, branded the murderer of the genocide of his kin and likely the same man to have been causing likewise troubles around the countryside. Adamant as he might have been with his truth lined words, his innocence in this bloody scheme, the evidence far outweighed any words he could reach those condemning him. He had been sentenced, sent away to a dank and cold cell in which no light was meant to warm the loneliness. Years, countless to him in those unchanging times of unbreakable darkness had passed, his mind only allowing him to rot from the inside, blaming himself without pause for the loss as the cuts… the precise methods those wounds had caused were not unlike his own. It was a craftsman’s prize to see his effort, his teaching put to work, but this treacherous act was far from the opposite.
Madness would settle and revenge would brew, but in the end the man named Thenysil would be no more.