Thomas of Nowhere, the Knave of Air and Darkness

[AnemoneEnemy]

"Now ye maun gang wi' me," she said,
"True Thomas, ye maun gang wi' me;
And ye maun serve me sivven year,
Thro' weal or woe, as chance may be."
...
He has gotten a coat o'the even cloth,
and a pair o' shoon o'the velvet green;
And till sivven years were gane and past,
True Thomas on earth was never seen.

--"Thomas the Rhymer", Anonymous, 17th Century

THEME SONG: Thomas the Rhymer - Ewan McColl


Thomas the Crimer
"The Hands That Can't Not Rob a Guy"
Once in Service To the Queen of Air and Darkness
Released Into the Mortal Realm On His Own Recognizance




"I cut my hair, I changed my name: fair Eleanor to Thomas, then
Went to court to serve my Queen as the famous flower of serving-men."

 

 

 

 

 

Basic Stats

Name: Thomas of Nowhere

Class: Summoner (Fey)

Background: Hounded Thief

Link to Character Sheet: Pathbuilder sheet

Appearance

He changes his appearance often, but most of the time he is a pretty-faced young man of unremarkable height and build, with high cheekbones, bright green eyes, dark hair and long fingers--a harper's hands, or a thief's. He wears green and brown, black and midnight blue, the colors of the forest and the night; his smile is sweet and merry when it needs to be, and sly when it doesn't, and full of a bitter wistfulness when he thinks no one can see him.

 

 

Personality & History

Once, Thomas was called Eleanor, a handsome girl-child (those around him thought) o' the highland, gifted with charm and grace, much given to exploring and clambering and roaming o'er hill and moor, stick-fighting the boys and charming treats out of the neighbors. As he grew, Eleanor fit him less and less well, and he wandered farther and farther, as if to get away from her.
One day, he rested 'neath a hawthorn tree, and the fairest lady he had ever seen came riding by, and he spoke to her, and kissed her upon the lips, and rode away with her.

And that is how Eleanor of Ercildoune went with the Queen of Air and Darkness to the First World, where he cut his hair and changed his name many times, and in the end True Thomas became as indeed he always had been.
He learned the ways of the fey court, and he learned the ways of wood and wild, and he learned to wear masks so well they became a second skin; he stopped being an object of mockery or disgust for the lords and ladies of the Sidhe, and taught them to respect him. He became an ambassador to things strange and distant, and made her laugh in her bower, and saw many strange and beauteous things.

Alas, no mortal can remain in the First World forever, and the time came when Thomas was released into the mortal realm with the gifts he had earned, owing no fealty and bowing to no lord save the Queen of his heart.

He has entered vaults and towers and the bedchambers of unhappily-married men and women as if there were no locks or doors, and he has left them unseen and unheard. He goes where he wills, and he rights what wrongs he wishes and leaves the ones he does not wish to right be, and he charms away or takes what his heart desires. No bonds can hold Thomas of Nowhere for long, and no oaths doth he make.
For all the things he takes and leaves behind, the only true treasure he seeks in the world is a way back into the court and favor of the Queen of Air and Darkness.

Despite his maudlin mood, he has come to Brevoy: taming the Stolen Lands--and, perhaps, stealing some of them for himself--will surely get the Queen's attention.

Won't it?

 

 

True Thomas Lay on Huntlie Bank...

Eleanor is eight, and the name feels wrong already, but a belly full of oat porridge and berries and a stick just the right heft for swinging around as a pretend sword make up for a lot of ills, and the day is pleasantly warm; the highland chill that comes even in summer, most days, hasn't set in yet. The tree branch Eleanor has sprawled out on is thick and covered in leaves and clusters of green acorns. Mother hasn't tried to insist on skirts in a week now, and in trousers, it turned out the old oak was climbable. The branch overhangs the Low Road, and Eleanor can see a good ways in each direction; can pretend to be a dashing highwayman, ready to leap down onto some Reeve who's been exploiting his people and take his gold at sword's point, then give it back to the people as they laugh him out of town.

There's a small cloud of dust to the east: someone's coming. A lot of someones, judging by the size.

Just three someones, it turns out: three men on horses, two tough-looking sorts and one in a dark-blue cloak. They don't stop at Ercildoune, not even for ale and a meal in Uncle Bannon's little public house, just ride on by. So serious, Eleanor thinks, and laughs, and scoots forward on the branch to be right over the road. It's precarious, but it holds.

"Yeaaaaagh!"
It's as blood-curdling a scream as any eight-year-old can manage, right as the three men are about to ride under the great oak. The cloaked one lets out a choked sound, and his horse startles off the road. The other two pull weapons, following, keeping themselves between him and the road.

When he sees a child laughing at him, the figure's face twists into a scowl. He gestures with one hand--Eleanor pays attention, a new rude gesture is always worth learning--and then the branch creaks and snaps, as if cut cleanly in two.

Eleanor falls, as the men ride on. It takes three months for the broken leg to heal, but Eleanor considers it worth it.

 

 

Betide Me Weal, Betide Me Woe, That Weird Shall Never Daunton Me

He is twenty-one, and even the most stubborn have given up insisting on 'Eleanor'. He accepts 'El', having found nothing that suits him better. He binds his chest, and keeps his hair short, and fights with his father about marrying. There's a cloud of dust in the distance, small: a single rider. The old oak is along the way into the hills where the roaming is most pleasing, but something makes him pause. It won't be the same man he saw as a child of eight; of course it won't be. But he leans against the tree and waits anyway.

The horse is white, and the music of the bells braided into its mane is lovely, and the woman on it is clothed in green from head to toe, and surpassing fair. His eyebrows creep up until he feels like he might have to yank them back in place. He doffs his cap, and bows, and starts to say, "I am--"
Nothing actually feels right to finish the sentence.

"I know you," says the woman, "Thomas."
It rings like a bell, clear and true, and it is worth ten, twenty, a hundred times as many years of fights about skirts and embroidery and tree-climbing and names and husbands as he's had. "Ercildoune is no place for you."

"Lady," he says, fervently, his mouth dry, "I'd follow ye beyond the world itself."

She laughs, and offers him her hand, and her slender arm pulls him up onto the horse behind her with inhuman strength. "That is very amusing, and you will see why."

 

 

And Living Land was Left Behind

 

He wears her colors, and eats and drinks what she provides him, and wiles away his days in her garden and her bower. And yet, it does not seem dull or onerous. He joins her for feats and hunts, though his prey is the perfect cutting jest by which he might turn the trick of some lord or lady of her court about on them and make her laugh and laugh, silver as the bells in her horse's mane. Her domain suits him, and her delight and her pleasure suit him, and even his body suits him now.

He waits in her bower, and the day has grown very long by his reckoning--he has his own ways of keeping time, the sun in this place can not be relied on for it--and she has not come, or sent for him, or sent word.

The servant sent for him is not one he has seen before--a gaunt spriggan--but they wear her livery and make the sign of her service. They do not speak to him: many of the commoners of her court don't, out of fear or respect or contempt or practicality. They carry a silver tray a polished lid, and set it down on a low table in the bower.

They lift the lid. There is nothing at all on the tray.

When they beckon for him to come with them, he stands and--perhaps bored, perhaps a little jealous of the inhuman pleasure or deadly crisis that has kept his Queen from him--follows. They lead him through the garden, then back across the garden--sometimes, this is the shortest path to where one wishes to go.

In the bower's place, when they return, are two trees. The spriggan passes between them. Thomas follows, and the trees bow their crowns, brushing each other.
Forming an arch.

He breathes the air of the mortal world, heavy with the smell of autumn, and whirls around, his hands grasping at nothing.

Everything feels as it felt seven years ago, which is to say, everything outside of himself feels wrong.

He reaches out with every shred of magic, every trick and power he learned in her court, until he feels thin as air. He reaches out for anything, anyone, with a link to her, to the Unseen Court, who might hear him, might be able to bring him back there.

From a darkness beyond the world, someone answers.

 

 

Eidolon - Æthelflæd, Forgotten Majordomo of No Household

Long ago, Æthelflæd was the majordomo of the Queen of Air and Darkness' estate. They wronged their Lady grievously enough--did they not, as they protest? Why else would it be so?--to be consigned to the outer darkness of the First World, left with nothing to manage and no one to serve.

They find themselves torn out of nothingness and into the mortal world, tied to a mortal who wants nothing more than to regain the attention of the Queen they seek to avoid.

Thomas and Æthelflæd have made a bitter and separate peace with each other. Each is all the other has of the Unseen Court; the only one who understands what the other has lost.
Yet Thomas seeks only to return to the Court, to the Queen's attention and right hand; Æthelflæd would return to the void before attracting her attention again.

For this reason, they are friends and they are foes. They save each other from harm but exchange bitter words; Thomas is never happy unless on the trail of or dreaming of something that might bring him closer to the Court, which means Æthelflæd can not be happy unless Thomas is miserable.

And yet, they are bound to each other, and can not and will not be apart.

 

 

[AnemoneEnemy]

Thomas of Nowhere | AC: 16 | HP: 19/19 | Perception: +4 | Fort: +6 | Ref: +6 | Will: +6

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Spell Slots: L1 - 1/1 | Hero Points: 1/1 | Focus Points: 1/1 | Effects & Conditions: None

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Eidolon | AC: 18 | Fort: +6 | Ref: +7 | Will: +4 | Per: +4

 

Descriptive words.
Thoughtful words.
"Spoken words."