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Jul. 10th, 2015 10:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
witbastardOUT of CHARACTER
Name: Ayu
Other characters: N/A
IN CHARACTER
Name: FitzChivalry Farseer
Alias: Fitz, Tom Badgerlock
Fandom: Realm of the Elderlings
Canon point : Taking him from towards the end of Assassin’s Quest, on the Skill-road through the Mountains
Journal:witbastard
PB: N/A
Age: 17
History: General overview
Presentation: Fitz has led a hard life, particularly of late, and it shows in his face and attitude. He’s leanly muscled, with barely a scrap of fat on him, and carries himself warily, like a wolf. His nose was badly broken and poorly reset a couple of years ago, there’s a seam up his cheek, and a scar under his hairline where his scalp was split means his hair grows in with a white streak. He has plenty of other scars besides (notably the knotted scar on his shoulder, by his neck, where someone bit a chunk off him), and a poisoning attempt followed by a beating left him with periodic seizures.
The ways in which Fitz has been hurt and used through his life have hurt him most emotionaly, though, and left him prickly and closed-off. Since he came to Buckkeep, when he first remembers, he has been being shaped as a tool – an assassin, a soldier, a pawn, a figurehead, a monster. And through that he has lost everything dear to him. He has been raised to hold his feelings inside and his secrets close to his chest, and now in his manhood he is all but incapable of opening up and being honest. Though he still has his moments of boyish excitement, for the most part the impression he gives off is someone it’s better not to approach.
His trauma and his closed-off attitude do him no favours. He swings abruptly between resentful sulking and violent, berserk rage, and isolates himself pathologically. Even among people he loves, too often he is sullen and aggressive, and always secretive. More and more often as he grows, he relies on stimulants and alcohol to keep going through his depression, which make him unpredictable and often leave him in even worse depressions. His weakness embarrasses him - the seizures he suffers since being poisoned and beaten in the Mountains, the scars and trauma symptoms he developed over weeks of torture in Regal’s dungeons – and so he behaves in ever more isolating ways to hide them.
For all that, he is a good man, albeit rather clumsily so. He isn’t very good at emotions, and he tends to ride roughshod over people in his attempts to protect them, but he does want to protect them. He fights for people, cares for people, but his rather poor sense of tact tends to trip him up, and in many ways he’s startlingly naïve – it never occurs to him that people might like him, or have an interest in him as a person instead of as Chivalry’s Bastard. But he wants very badly to do the right thing, and to protect the people who matter to him. Raised as a King’s Man, he has learnt to prioritise his duty to the throne and the people of the Six Duchies above all else (which has already lost him his wife, his child, and any chance of a normal, peaceful life), but nevertheless he is unwilling to shed unnecessary blood, and he often throws aside his plans (and everyone else’s) to put himself in the line of fire protecting others.
His flaw has always been his recklessness – he tends to act on emotion, lashing out or reaching out without thinking through the consequences. This serves to make him an impressive brawler, but somewhat less impressive at intrigue. Thanks to his assassin’s training, he is a fantastic liar, and can be charming and bluff his way through many situations, but he is often drawn up short by his passionate explosions. Similarly, he has an excellent eye for detail and a fantastic memory, trained from youth to report in detail, but he does a good line in totally missing the bigger picture.
The general impression one takes away from Fitz is of a man wrapped in guilt and rage, barely holding together. In battle he’s formidable, in hunting or herding he’s capable, he is broadly skilled and intelligent, but in terms of intimacy and emotional communication, trying to open him up or have a sensible conversation has a lot in common with bashing one’s head off a brick wall. He’s still essentially a teenager, but he’s had to go through more than anyone should have to, and it’s messed him up to a degree even he doesn’t really recognise.
Motivations: Primarily, what Fitz wants is his freedom. He has always hated that the circumstances of his birth left him unable to call his life his own; always known as Chivalry’s Bastard, and sworn to serve his king from childhood, he has been dragged down a bloody and violent path, the pressures of which he is simply not cut out for. All he wants is a simple life. He wants to live in a little cottage, work as a scribe or a farmer, sit at the fire at night with Molly and their daughter and not worry about politics or war or death. But even if he hadn’t lost Molly, even if he wasn’t presumed dead and being constantly hunted, even if he hadn’t been spirited away to Panem, he has been damaged beyond the point where he can ever really expect that, and that is an endless source of pain to him.
Another driving force in his life, though, is his duty to the throne. He has truly made himself into a King’s Man, to the point he lost Molly to it because she knew and he knew he would always serve king and country before her or himself. He throws himself into struggles he can’t handle because he follows his king heart and soul.
He has been hauling himself through horrendous struggles with the thought that some day he could return to Molly, and the thought that he could save his king, and to have that taken from him is a blow he’ll struggle to recover from, but he is a survivor. He doesn’t always want to be, but somehow he can never manage to let go of his life entirely. And so he is driven by hope and by revenge. It’s happened before, and it will happen here too; he will push himself through and survive, so he can destroy the people standing between him and what he’s missing in life.
He is a bitter person, and a very angry one, and most of all he is riven with guilt and pain dating back through his whole life. He sees himself as the architect of the suffering of most of the people he loves, and when he looks at himself he sees nothing good. He is proud to a fault, but only because he can’t bear himself. He hates killing, and hates himself for being a person who does it easily. He hates the mire of bad decisions he’s constantly drowning in, and he hates himself for only ever making things worse. When he approaches other people, it is with a mixed sense of wariness and admiration. He really, truly believes, despite all that he’s seen and experienced, that most people are worth protecting. But there are people he will kill without a qualm, and people who he will kill because it is necessary.
Setting: Quite frankly as far as Fitz is concerned this is more of the same bullshit that has dogged his life since childhood. He has been kept going through his recent pain by the thought that he’s getting closer and closer to the peaceful, normal life he dreams of, and being thrown back into being used as a weapon is NOT GOING TO MAKE HIM HAPPY. Expect a lot of rage and despair.
SAMPLES
First Person Thread:
[Coming to with a shout, Fitz flings himself forwards as if to lunge at an attacker, but only meets thin air. Disorientated, he feels blindly around his neck and head for the wound that killed him, staring stupidly at his bloodless hands, and looks around, half-expecting to find himself once more curled with his wolf and the Fool in that cold tent on the Skill road]
[It wouldn’t be the first time he’d died in a Skill-dream. In fact, he thinks with a humourless smile, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d died. But he isn’t in the yurt, and this room is cold and empty. Loneliness wells up in him, and he probes at the loss like a missing tooth, almost glad for its familiarity in this alien world.]
[Echoing his thoughts, the voice speaks, seemingly out of thin air. He tries to disguise the start he makes when it breaks the silence.]
[Jaw clenched, knuckles white, he listens to the sharp chirping of the recording device. He feels sick, dizzy, and he recognises the onrush preceding a seizure. Everything feels distant. Everything except his pain and his rage. He clings to them like a drowning man, pushes back the seizure, desperately unwilling to succumb to it in one more humiliation.]
[The chirping continues. He takes a deep breath through his teeth, hisses it out, and stands up, every muscle taut.]
How do I feel?
[Exhausted. Scared. Hurt. Trapped. Beaten to death once again, and again they won’t let me just slip quietly into the dark but they drag me back to face this again and again. Don’t think about it. The blackness giving way to white pain. The way they smile to see you moan and piss yourself when you hurt too much to know your own body. Push it away. They watch to see you crumble or lash out. They want to see you hurt.]
[He reaches out instinctively for his wolf to fortify him, or to take him away, but as before Nighteyes is not even a distant flicker. Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps this is his eternity now, cold and brutal and inhuman]
[He closes his eyes for a moment, hearing his blood roar in his ears, and takes another deep breath. They can’t see him as weak, or as a credible threat. He must be entertaining, be bold, survive. It chafes him to do so, but he reminds himself that those watching would love to see him broken, beaten. He visualises them smirking about it across the city.]
[Gritting his teeth, he gives the recording device a wolfish smile, drawing himself up]
If you threw me in that place again, I’d do the same. And if I die, I die. If I live, I live. Are we done for today?
Prose:
Fitz doesn’t really understand why this is happening. He has heard what was said to him, somewhat, but what he knows is that he was battling the call of the Skill road, and that he had been close, so close, to finding his uncle, his king, and now he is here, still reeling from the road’s effects. Now they say he has to fight to the death, not for his kingdom, not for his people, not for anything but because they so. Deep in his mind, a part of him bares his teeth and snarls at the thought. Too much of his life has been killing on another’s command. He had determined months ago that he was done being a pawn in other people’s games, and yet they dragged him back in, again and again. But to be told to kill by someone who was not his king, who was not his master or his friend, to kill without reason and without faith – his hackles rise at the thought. He will not. He cannot. He won’t show himself the monster that people want him to be. He is better than that. He is better than this.
Savage hate flashes in his deepset eyes as he glares up at the Gamemakers, his lip twitching as he holds back the urge to snarl. He cuts a threatening figure; not bulky, no, months of privation and illness have seen to that, but wiry and tough with his scarred face and ropy muscles, and exuding an aura of such black hatred that a lesser man would quail. The Gamemakers sit unmoved.
Looking at them, in their ridiculously fussy clothes, with their hair and faces so primped and preened, Fitz knows suddenly that he will no more be able to hurt them than a dog in a cage can hurt its owner. If they were not confident in their safety, they would not sit so calmly, smirking down at him. If he is to escape, to destroy them, to return to his friends and to his king, and then to Molly at last, he must bide his time, and remember the lessons hard-taught by past failure. They do not know him. If they knew him, or knew the tales Regal spread of him, then he would know it. And since they do not know him, they will readily underestimate him.
He does not try to hide his anger, but scowls up at his audience, trying to gauge how much they know of him. He can’t play his hand too soon, but nor can he seem a weakling or a fool. If they know who he is, they know his reputation for savagery. The split in his cheek, the scar in his brow, his crooked nose and scarred body, all mark him as a brawler even without that. Better to tell small lies, in how he moves and how he bears himself, and have them take him for a strong fighter, but a stupid one. That way, he will not mark himself a liar if he has to defend his life hand-to-hand, and they will not suspect him of duplicity. That way, showing himself as simple and savage, it will be so much the easier to slip a little powder unnoticed into a drink, or rub a resin into the cuffs of a shirt. They will watch for the berserk rage of a warrior, not the quiet killing of an assassin. He steps back from those thoughts. Like his Wit, his Skill is curiously dead, but just because he can’t reach them doesn’t mean they can’t reach him.
All at once, he grabs a sword from the rack beside him (never his strongest weapon; no harm in letting them underestimate him in this too) and lunges at the Gamemakers, swinging wildly, throwing all his rage into the attack. Unsurprisingly, he is thrown painfully back, and the snarl in his throat as he picks himself up off the floor owes nothing to masquerade.
“You want me to fight? You want to see what I can do? Come to me like men, you curs, and I’ll show you what I can do! If you want to see a fight, then I’ll give you a fight. Step forwards, I’ll show you a fight!”
There is a slight snickering. Nobody moves forward. It isn’t as though he expected them to. With a shout of frustration, he attacks the dummy in front of him, tearing it apart as much with the brute force of his rage as with the sharpness of the sword. He pulls the sword out of its chest bodily, kicking it away as he swings to attack another dummy. He lets his swordwork speak to his character – the sloppiness born of passion that Hod the weaponsmaster always despised in him, the brutal, animalistic rage that fuels his sword. No assassin’s swordwork this, no princely finery – he attacks the dummies with brutal violence, his guard wide open and his face twisted in anger. When he’s done, he drops the sword disdainfully and spits at the watching Gamemakers.
“I’m no peasant lad. No craven boy. I fought in the Red Ship Wars, and stood against the Raiders. I’m sure I can give you sport enough when you come for my life.”
There is acid in his tone, and fire. He turns away, fists clenched, confident he’s come across as churlish, tactless, and utterly transparent. And so, some time soon, he will get to them without them seeing him coming, and he will kill them. All of them. After that, somehow, he will find his way back to the Mountains. To Verity. To his quest. Somehow.
What is your character scored: Since he’s an experienced and trained fighter, I’d expect Fitz to score around 10 – he’s been killing people both in hand-to-hand fights and with poison and traps since he was in his early teens, and equally he’s spent most of the last couple of years enduring serious privation and living off the land, so he’s tough and very used to surviving in the wilderness. He’s got a good working knowledge of herbs and basic healing, he handles animals well, can hunt bare-handed with the skills he learnt from his wolf, and is generally good at keeping up his guard 24/7. He’s not very likeable all the time but he is very practised at holding up a façade and playing to people’s expectations.
If his powers aren’t damped, he has some ability with Skill magic, which enables him to sense the minds of others and communicate with people with similar powers, and he almost constantly uses his Wit magic, which allows him to feel other minds and lives and communicate somewhat with animals (for animals he isn’t bonded to, the communication is limited to simple emotions – he can calm animals, for example, but only hold a conversation with them if they deliberately engage with him). The Wit also lets him repel people, which is an almost physical flinging back.
Token: A dangling silver earring with a blue gem. It was given to him by his father's widow, Patience, and before that belonged to Burrich, the man who raised him. It is a freedom earring, bought by freed slaves to release them from legal obligation to their masters.
Name: Ayu
Other characters: N/A
IN CHARACTER
Name: FitzChivalry Farseer
Alias: Fitz, Tom Badgerlock
Fandom: Realm of the Elderlings
Canon point : Taking him from towards the end of Assassin’s Quest, on the Skill-road through the Mountains
Journal:
witbastardPB: N/A
Age: 17
History: General overview
Presentation: Fitz has led a hard life, particularly of late, and it shows in his face and attitude. He’s leanly muscled, with barely a scrap of fat on him, and carries himself warily, like a wolf. His nose was badly broken and poorly reset a couple of years ago, there’s a seam up his cheek, and a scar under his hairline where his scalp was split means his hair grows in with a white streak. He has plenty of other scars besides (notably the knotted scar on his shoulder, by his neck, where someone bit a chunk off him), and a poisoning attempt followed by a beating left him with periodic seizures.
The ways in which Fitz has been hurt and used through his life have hurt him most emotionaly, though, and left him prickly and closed-off. Since he came to Buckkeep, when he first remembers, he has been being shaped as a tool – an assassin, a soldier, a pawn, a figurehead, a monster. And through that he has lost everything dear to him. He has been raised to hold his feelings inside and his secrets close to his chest, and now in his manhood he is all but incapable of opening up and being honest. Though he still has his moments of boyish excitement, for the most part the impression he gives off is someone it’s better not to approach.
His trauma and his closed-off attitude do him no favours. He swings abruptly between resentful sulking and violent, berserk rage, and isolates himself pathologically. Even among people he loves, too often he is sullen and aggressive, and always secretive. More and more often as he grows, he relies on stimulants and alcohol to keep going through his depression, which make him unpredictable and often leave him in even worse depressions. His weakness embarrasses him - the seizures he suffers since being poisoned and beaten in the Mountains, the scars and trauma symptoms he developed over weeks of torture in Regal’s dungeons – and so he behaves in ever more isolating ways to hide them.
For all that, he is a good man, albeit rather clumsily so. He isn’t very good at emotions, and he tends to ride roughshod over people in his attempts to protect them, but he does want to protect them. He fights for people, cares for people, but his rather poor sense of tact tends to trip him up, and in many ways he’s startlingly naïve – it never occurs to him that people might like him, or have an interest in him as a person instead of as Chivalry’s Bastard. But he wants very badly to do the right thing, and to protect the people who matter to him. Raised as a King’s Man, he has learnt to prioritise his duty to the throne and the people of the Six Duchies above all else (which has already lost him his wife, his child, and any chance of a normal, peaceful life), but nevertheless he is unwilling to shed unnecessary blood, and he often throws aside his plans (and everyone else’s) to put himself in the line of fire protecting others.
His flaw has always been his recklessness – he tends to act on emotion, lashing out or reaching out without thinking through the consequences. This serves to make him an impressive brawler, but somewhat less impressive at intrigue. Thanks to his assassin’s training, he is a fantastic liar, and can be charming and bluff his way through many situations, but he is often drawn up short by his passionate explosions. Similarly, he has an excellent eye for detail and a fantastic memory, trained from youth to report in detail, but he does a good line in totally missing the bigger picture.
The general impression one takes away from Fitz is of a man wrapped in guilt and rage, barely holding together. In battle he’s formidable, in hunting or herding he’s capable, he is broadly skilled and intelligent, but in terms of intimacy and emotional communication, trying to open him up or have a sensible conversation has a lot in common with bashing one’s head off a brick wall. He’s still essentially a teenager, but he’s had to go through more than anyone should have to, and it’s messed him up to a degree even he doesn’t really recognise.
Motivations: Primarily, what Fitz wants is his freedom. He has always hated that the circumstances of his birth left him unable to call his life his own; always known as Chivalry’s Bastard, and sworn to serve his king from childhood, he has been dragged down a bloody and violent path, the pressures of which he is simply not cut out for. All he wants is a simple life. He wants to live in a little cottage, work as a scribe or a farmer, sit at the fire at night with Molly and their daughter and not worry about politics or war or death. But even if he hadn’t lost Molly, even if he wasn’t presumed dead and being constantly hunted, even if he hadn’t been spirited away to Panem, he has been damaged beyond the point where he can ever really expect that, and that is an endless source of pain to him.
Another driving force in his life, though, is his duty to the throne. He has truly made himself into a King’s Man, to the point he lost Molly to it because she knew and he knew he would always serve king and country before her or himself. He throws himself into struggles he can’t handle because he follows his king heart and soul.
He has been hauling himself through horrendous struggles with the thought that some day he could return to Molly, and the thought that he could save his king, and to have that taken from him is a blow he’ll struggle to recover from, but he is a survivor. He doesn’t always want to be, but somehow he can never manage to let go of his life entirely. And so he is driven by hope and by revenge. It’s happened before, and it will happen here too; he will push himself through and survive, so he can destroy the people standing between him and what he’s missing in life.
He is a bitter person, and a very angry one, and most of all he is riven with guilt and pain dating back through his whole life. He sees himself as the architect of the suffering of most of the people he loves, and when he looks at himself he sees nothing good. He is proud to a fault, but only because he can’t bear himself. He hates killing, and hates himself for being a person who does it easily. He hates the mire of bad decisions he’s constantly drowning in, and he hates himself for only ever making things worse. When he approaches other people, it is with a mixed sense of wariness and admiration. He really, truly believes, despite all that he’s seen and experienced, that most people are worth protecting. But there are people he will kill without a qualm, and people who he will kill because it is necessary.
Setting: Quite frankly as far as Fitz is concerned this is more of the same bullshit that has dogged his life since childhood. He has been kept going through his recent pain by the thought that he’s getting closer and closer to the peaceful, normal life he dreams of, and being thrown back into being used as a weapon is NOT GOING TO MAKE HIM HAPPY. Expect a lot of rage and despair.
SAMPLES
First Person Thread:
[Coming to with a shout, Fitz flings himself forwards as if to lunge at an attacker, but only meets thin air. Disorientated, he feels blindly around his neck and head for the wound that killed him, staring stupidly at his bloodless hands, and looks around, half-expecting to find himself once more curled with his wolf and the Fool in that cold tent on the Skill road]
[It wouldn’t be the first time he’d died in a Skill-dream. In fact, he thinks with a humourless smile, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d died. But he isn’t in the yurt, and this room is cold and empty. Loneliness wells up in him, and he probes at the loss like a missing tooth, almost glad for its familiarity in this alien world.]
[Echoing his thoughts, the voice speaks, seemingly out of thin air. He tries to disguise the start he makes when it breaks the silence.]
[Jaw clenched, knuckles white, he listens to the sharp chirping of the recording device. He feels sick, dizzy, and he recognises the onrush preceding a seizure. Everything feels distant. Everything except his pain and his rage. He clings to them like a drowning man, pushes back the seizure, desperately unwilling to succumb to it in one more humiliation.]
[The chirping continues. He takes a deep breath through his teeth, hisses it out, and stands up, every muscle taut.]
How do I feel?
[Exhausted. Scared. Hurt. Trapped. Beaten to death once again, and again they won’t let me just slip quietly into the dark but they drag me back to face this again and again. Don’t think about it. The blackness giving way to white pain. The way they smile to see you moan and piss yourself when you hurt too much to know your own body. Push it away. They watch to see you crumble or lash out. They want to see you hurt.]
[He reaches out instinctively for his wolf to fortify him, or to take him away, but as before Nighteyes is not even a distant flicker. Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps this is his eternity now, cold and brutal and inhuman]
[He closes his eyes for a moment, hearing his blood roar in his ears, and takes another deep breath. They can’t see him as weak, or as a credible threat. He must be entertaining, be bold, survive. It chafes him to do so, but he reminds himself that those watching would love to see him broken, beaten. He visualises them smirking about it across the city.]
[Gritting his teeth, he gives the recording device a wolfish smile, drawing himself up]
If you threw me in that place again, I’d do the same. And if I die, I die. If I live, I live. Are we done for today?
Prose:
Fitz doesn’t really understand why this is happening. He has heard what was said to him, somewhat, but what he knows is that he was battling the call of the Skill road, and that he had been close, so close, to finding his uncle, his king, and now he is here, still reeling from the road’s effects. Now they say he has to fight to the death, not for his kingdom, not for his people, not for anything but because they so. Deep in his mind, a part of him bares his teeth and snarls at the thought. Too much of his life has been killing on another’s command. He had determined months ago that he was done being a pawn in other people’s games, and yet they dragged him back in, again and again. But to be told to kill by someone who was not his king, who was not his master or his friend, to kill without reason and without faith – his hackles rise at the thought. He will not. He cannot. He won’t show himself the monster that people want him to be. He is better than that. He is better than this.
Savage hate flashes in his deepset eyes as he glares up at the Gamemakers, his lip twitching as he holds back the urge to snarl. He cuts a threatening figure; not bulky, no, months of privation and illness have seen to that, but wiry and tough with his scarred face and ropy muscles, and exuding an aura of such black hatred that a lesser man would quail. The Gamemakers sit unmoved.
Looking at them, in their ridiculously fussy clothes, with their hair and faces so primped and preened, Fitz knows suddenly that he will no more be able to hurt them than a dog in a cage can hurt its owner. If they were not confident in their safety, they would not sit so calmly, smirking down at him. If he is to escape, to destroy them, to return to his friends and to his king, and then to Molly at last, he must bide his time, and remember the lessons hard-taught by past failure. They do not know him. If they knew him, or knew the tales Regal spread of him, then he would know it. And since they do not know him, they will readily underestimate him.
He does not try to hide his anger, but scowls up at his audience, trying to gauge how much they know of him. He can’t play his hand too soon, but nor can he seem a weakling or a fool. If they know who he is, they know his reputation for savagery. The split in his cheek, the scar in his brow, his crooked nose and scarred body, all mark him as a brawler even without that. Better to tell small lies, in how he moves and how he bears himself, and have them take him for a strong fighter, but a stupid one. That way, he will not mark himself a liar if he has to defend his life hand-to-hand, and they will not suspect him of duplicity. That way, showing himself as simple and savage, it will be so much the easier to slip a little powder unnoticed into a drink, or rub a resin into the cuffs of a shirt. They will watch for the berserk rage of a warrior, not the quiet killing of an assassin. He steps back from those thoughts. Like his Wit, his Skill is curiously dead, but just because he can’t reach them doesn’t mean they can’t reach him.
All at once, he grabs a sword from the rack beside him (never his strongest weapon; no harm in letting them underestimate him in this too) and lunges at the Gamemakers, swinging wildly, throwing all his rage into the attack. Unsurprisingly, he is thrown painfully back, and the snarl in his throat as he picks himself up off the floor owes nothing to masquerade.
“You want me to fight? You want to see what I can do? Come to me like men, you curs, and I’ll show you what I can do! If you want to see a fight, then I’ll give you a fight. Step forwards, I’ll show you a fight!”
There is a slight snickering. Nobody moves forward. It isn’t as though he expected them to. With a shout of frustration, he attacks the dummy in front of him, tearing it apart as much with the brute force of his rage as with the sharpness of the sword. He pulls the sword out of its chest bodily, kicking it away as he swings to attack another dummy. He lets his swordwork speak to his character – the sloppiness born of passion that Hod the weaponsmaster always despised in him, the brutal, animalistic rage that fuels his sword. No assassin’s swordwork this, no princely finery – he attacks the dummies with brutal violence, his guard wide open and his face twisted in anger. When he’s done, he drops the sword disdainfully and spits at the watching Gamemakers.
“I’m no peasant lad. No craven boy. I fought in the Red Ship Wars, and stood against the Raiders. I’m sure I can give you sport enough when you come for my life.”
There is acid in his tone, and fire. He turns away, fists clenched, confident he’s come across as churlish, tactless, and utterly transparent. And so, some time soon, he will get to them without them seeing him coming, and he will kill them. All of them. After that, somehow, he will find his way back to the Mountains. To Verity. To his quest. Somehow.
What is your character scored: Since he’s an experienced and trained fighter, I’d expect Fitz to score around 10 – he’s been killing people both in hand-to-hand fights and with poison and traps since he was in his early teens, and equally he’s spent most of the last couple of years enduring serious privation and living off the land, so he’s tough and very used to surviving in the wilderness. He’s got a good working knowledge of herbs and basic healing, he handles animals well, can hunt bare-handed with the skills he learnt from his wolf, and is generally good at keeping up his guard 24/7. He’s not very likeable all the time but he is very practised at holding up a façade and playing to people’s expectations.
If his powers aren’t damped, he has some ability with Skill magic, which enables him to sense the minds of others and communicate with people with similar powers, and he almost constantly uses his Wit magic, which allows him to feel other minds and lives and communicate somewhat with animals (for animals he isn’t bonded to, the communication is limited to simple emotions – he can calm animals, for example, but only hold a conversation with them if they deliberately engage with him). The Wit also lets him repel people, which is an almost physical flinging back.
Token: A dangling silver earring with a blue gem. It was given to him by his father's widow, Patience, and before that belonged to Burrich, the man who raised him. It is a freedom earring, bought by freed slaves to release them from legal obligation to their masters.
