Crawford Grimgott

Crawford is the epitome of someone who really doesn't have his life together. So much so that it shows even through his appearance, as he is a downright walking mess. The man looks just like a ravaged bird: one that crashed into a window and somehow still miraculously skitters around, settling in your home until nurtured back to health. He is a sight to see, be it not a very pleasant one. Nowadays he looks depleted, seemingly at the end of his emotional and physical rope. The overusage of his Magic did a great number on him over the years: his teeth are yellow of color, his skin is a sickly pale, dark circles are visible under his eyes, as if he couldn't sleep through the night or many nights before, which is true to a degree. His dark, unevenly chopped hair is always unkempt in coiffure 'lacked the coin at a barber's and was thrown out mid-treatment'. Puberty wasn't very generous to him, leaving him with rather soft features, such as the slightest sideburns and a youthful voice. To top it all off, he totters with an ungraceful limp since childhood, after some angry crook's mechanical fist crushed his ankle for something he didn't do. Only his eyes are bright and very much alive in that whole grim demeanor.He is a short man, and short men usually feel the need to compensate; Crawford loves everything posh and glamorous. He tries very hard to be sophisticated - something he is not, and never will be. He, too, knows this, and his way of coping with it is by overvalidating himself. Envy and hidden admiration for the rich seep through his attitude, visible in every puny detail, but especially his eyes. There burns an unquenchable fire to someday reach that very same prosperity he believes he was meant to have. He is mostly seen creeping in his current master's shadow, rarely leaving their side like the meek pet he is. On occasion, you can spot him skulking around with some muscle he manipulated into acting like his bodyguard, since he is physically weak. When he is without patron, the guy finds himself all over the place, probably involved in some kind of mishap.The dapper yet dirty clothing he slumps around in is obviously stolen, for his swallowtail coats are too big and not properly tailored for his body. The color scheme consists of blacks with a hint of a brighter color for his ascot ties, often blue or purple. Parts of his attire are hand-me-downs from previous masters to represent their household and look therefore more 'groomed'.

If there was a little bird telling secrets to then stand back and gleefully watch everything spiral out of control, that would be Crawford. Even from youth, his entire life was dotted out into customs of service, from personal messenger to servant. The elite barks the orders and Crawford hops here and there doing their bidding, so he might get a pat on the head. He loves to do a job well done and to get showered with appreciation: it can truly make him happy. Everything you were to gift him - be it worthless trinkets or pretty gems - he dearly cherishes and collects like pennies for keepsake. To him, these gestures are comparable to what treats are for a pet. One could state it's all he came to know as the closest thing to acceptance, since he hasn't known much of it. This may easily shroud him in naive innocence at first glance, mainly because he looks the part of somebody who needs to be protected. But that's a slip-up many tend to make.

While it's true that he's a bit oblivious regarding society and inner systems of the regions - a result of being sheltered away from the world for so long - he isn't stupid. In fact, the guy knows exactly how his strength lies in letting others underestimate him with the outline of a broken, sniveling, suck-up maggot. While he does so, he shrewdly makes mental notes of every concept and custom that is new to him. As both of his parents were eccentric and conniving individuals, they passed many of their negative qualities on to him. Crawford learned to be deceptive, to lie and to backstab for his betters, desperately doing more and more in his possession in hopes of gaining higher prestige - all with a child-like obsession for his keeper. He simply got in touch with the wrong people and could not turn back.

Despite his personal ambition to work his way up through Alderrath's rings however he sees fit, he can't help scurrying back to his betters. He can't stop hoping for those little sparks of friendship and recognition and warmth that are so warped in his mind, but are privileges he has yet to enjoy with anyone. To put it mildly: he is scared. Of being alone. Of unholy things out there waiting to get him. It's hard to pinpoint if there are any traces of his once very gentle, but unfortunately heavily indoctrinated nature left - or if they are simply the deceptive tools in his asset reserved for that day. Perhaps because he isn't quite sure himself anymore. At the end of the day, he is still a frustrated little shit throwing tantrums and despising the poor. Unquestionably hypocritical, but don't ever jog his memory how his low-class mother gave birth to him in a flea-ridden bed.

Crawford's studies took a turn of 'maleficium': bringing creation like every other branch of Dark Magic, but designed to channel torment upon others. It ranges from little accidents to serious injury, if done right. In the practical sense it's just an odd way of Dark Alchemic usage, but in the eyes of someone superstitious its ill intentions are quick to be described as 'bad omens', 'curses' or even 'parasitic maledictions'. For example, with an imprint of someone's boots, the required energy source and a stolen children's shoe, he could fabricate a spell to exceedingly shrink the wearer's boots these footprints belongs to, until said person is left with a broken foot. In other cases, he could use the severed fingers of a druid capable of weather manipulation, any ordinary perfume bottle and - unbeknownst to the poor lady - infest her now humid home with a malicious mold that might endanger her health each time she applies the fragrance.

Crawford usually prepares his spells surrounded by candles, behind locked doors in a dark room, muttering prayers of protection and absolutely no wish to be disturbed - although at times it's necessary to bring his equipment out to an 'ingredient' itself, such as a heavy boulder or daytime. Spells are then executed in a manner that seems much like he is performing some foul ritual. Pentagrams and offerings are not uncommon; precautions that aren't exactly needed, but he deems important. On his chest he wears a reflective necklace in the shape of the evil eye. All of which he does to ward off Renestrae's judging gaze, or otherwise to beseech Her absolution for breaking the Holy Law by immediate blood offerings. His grimoire is bound in the cover of an old holy book of Renestrae, where he not only keeps his spells, but also snippets of prayers. Whenever he is out and about, he wears multiple rings with hidden compartments, in which he is able to store small amounts of ingredients.The downside to all of this, is that it's a dangerous, loose cannon. Using Magic causes great discomfort to Crawford, due to the drainage of his own source when he was just a boy. Almost every spell leaves him with nosebleeds and fatigue. Someone close to the victim who physically touched them shortly after could befall upon the spell instead. The risk to cause the effect of the spell upon himself is also present. Effects are only temporary and the more ingredients he needs, the more preparation time and experience is needed.

Somewhere in the Lower Ring of the Ashmoorian slums, where climbing beneath a roadside hedge to die was as common as the fleas, lived the family Grimgott. From dusk til dawn, Gilbert Grimgott worked away from home, and Agatha cut soggy vegetables on their front door step while gossiping with the midwives - each day, every day. They barely got by.

Gilbert was part of a group of illegal toshers; at sunrise they traveled to the border dividing the Lower from the Middle Ring, from which point they entered the underground sewage system and continued further towards the circles of higher societies. There, they trawled through the raw sewage in search of anything valuable that had been lost. Daily hauls resulted mostly in junk. But when luck was on their side, Gilbert returned home with jewelry or even bolts of advanced prostheses to sell. Agatha, on the other hand, was a miserable stay-at-home housewife. Originally a Mage hailing from Ravaryn, she and her wayfaring family resettled near Ashmoor dreaming of a better life. The image of a region glorifying progress and opportunities allured them. Progress they had found not, but Agatha did find her opportunity in Gilbert and decided to stay. Nevertheless, it soon came to her realization that life was as unpromising as it was back home.

With her heavily pregnant state and her husband absent to make ends meet, it must have been the loneliest time in her life. Agatha battled her woes privately, burned large amounts of sage. She was rarely seen outside anymore. The rumor in their gloomy village spread that she engaged herself in pendulum dowsing, despite not having any divination skills. In these questionable conditions, she bore a child: a son named Cheston. Unfortunately, the boy would not live past seven years. The space in their cottage decorated for the child collected dust and cobwebs before entirely being sealed off, too painful as it was for the mourning parents to look at. It wasn't too long after that Crawford was born. A kind boy. But a very gullible one.Crawford's childhood wasn't a very happy time in his life. Growing up, he had a mocking view of the tall towers and cathedrals of the thriving Upper Circle of Alderrath from his parents' cottage. Home to the Higher-Ups with their teeth so very clean and their smiles so very big, where, somewhere out there, a better life awaited them. He was a timid pushover, bullied by other children for his parents' backgrounds; 'born from a filthy sewer rat and a hophead foreigner'. Eventually he was made into the older kids' errand boy - which he happily agreed to, because at least it rewarded him with jingling pockets of pennies and it even gave him a chance to play with the big boys. With those worthless fake pennies, so the young boy blissfully believed, he could save up for that better life for sure.    

Marked by guilt, his parents were never truly able to find closure for Cheston's death. Especially Agatha, who held a strong notion to the firstborn in a family. She was prepared to do anything to bring back her first son. Her search for guidance led her to the Faith of Renestrae. Detached from civilization, her nomad family didn't hold much value to religion. There was so much to learn about vindication and enlightenment - about 'alternative ways'. At first, Crawford was brought up to live a life as if it was entirely reserved for another: tucked in clothes of his brother, carrying his name. For years on end, they continued pushing their possessive, jealous and needy behaviour towards their son, who thought it all to be the normal way of childhood and loved his parents unconditionally. Still, Crawford was not Cheston.When Crawford turned his milk into a chunk of cheese, it became clear to Gilbert and Agatha he inherited his mother's Dark Magic. Like in most peasant homes kept in check by fear, Magic was barely spoken of in the Grimgott household. Perhaps only an exchanged whisper over their supper pottage. Yet to Agatha, Magic was an universal umbrella term unified into one concept. Uncultured and uneducated as she was, her head was filled with strange myths of the Ravaryn woods, of warlocks raising the dead and riding crow-like beasts. She knew of her aptitude for Dark Magic - her grandfather engulfed in the arts at such an extent he died a blind, tongueless man, but a powerful man nonetheless. This was a sign of the universe: the missing 'progress' she had hoped to find here. Surely Renestrae had blessed her with this insight. It was not her, not her husband - not even Cheston. Progress came in the form of this odd boy that was supposed to be her son. From their precious savings, the Grimgotts were able to pay an old acquaintance of Agatha's to tutor Crawford further in the ways of Magic. The boy was kept inside to study, hidden away from the village and his own development.While the ties between the other youngsters of his village blossomed into friendships and romance, Crawford gave his devotion to Renestrae like mother urged him to, blessed his grimoire in Her name, ere - finally - the realm of Odiria welcomed a new fledgling Mage. He learned to write and read, skills not even his parents possessed.

Now an erratic, pious believer of Renestrae's Faith, Agatha believed she had achieved mental rebirth. She swore Cheston's spirit to be lost in Limbo, for his life had never really begun. The one who was meant to bring him back to her was the sacrosanct tool she had birthed herself. Just so, Crawford was brought to his brother's grave every other day to perform his 'wonders', for it was his 'purpose' in life - for he could do what his mother could not, and if it meant bringing her happiness, he would. As Dark Magic is no Necromancy whatsoever, they were bound to fail time and again. There was nothing to channel his Magic too - nothing for his spells to grasp. In all that, Agatha failed to see how pushing his limits weakened Crawford after every execution, how he turned paler by the day or how his growth stunted. As taking the life source from other beings was a concept too soon to learn at his level, he had to use his own instead. Agatha's blurred sense was entirely fixated on how far they had already reached out. They were so close - she could just feel it. And then, her world collapsed once she learned of Renestrae's Holy Law.Terrified of sin, Agatha grew frightened of the Midwinter Deity. How she had unknowingly sinned all her time already for breaking the Law. She understood now. Losing her firstborn was a form of punishment carried out by Renestrae Herself for not only being a Mage, but also bearing a child who now actively practiced these horrible misdeeds daily. It had all led up to this point. How dare she turn to Renestrae, with her diabolic conjury and her tainted son? Gilbert attempted to heed his wife back to her senses, to no avail. Redemption and hush-hush was promised to Agatha in exchange of sleeping with the local priest and his deacons. She was already too far in her hysteria to decline.
Crawford doesn't know what fate his parents awaited, nor where they have gone. All things considered, he assumes someone in their village ratted them out. They possibly went into hiding, while he ended up on various slave markets. From there on, he eked out a living as a privy cleaner, crossing sweeper, a valet, moving from one rich pig to the next, all the way into adulthood - but through it all, his rags slowly exchanged for suits, Renestrae's footsteps became louder and his bitterness grew all the more.

Wrongly used Magic oftentimes comes with a price - and Crawford is the living example of exactly that. Warped by Renestrae's Holy Law, he adapted his mother's unshakable beliefs how he has already greatly sinned beyond redemption. It has taken to such extremes that it resulted in a carefully nurtured psychosis. To his idea, Renestrae's lesser underlings are creeping closer, hungrily lingering around him until the moment of his death, when he is ready to be taken to Limbo. In the same sense he thinks he perpetually walks in twilight: closer to purgatory than the world of the living. Nights are a true torment. Facets of his mind play tricks on him; he believes to see and hear eerie things, such as shadow people manifesting at his bed, hearing disembodied voices, or suddenly realizing the walls are bleeding. There's a heavy emphasis on 'believes', because it's truly all in his own head. Crawford rarely gets his full eight hours of sleep, if he gets any at all. He rather rests during the day, but he has lost his peace of mind a long time ago. As a result, he's extremely vulnerable to be tipped over into a deeper abyss - or he might already be making his fall as it is.