[center][h1][color=a187be][b]Mort ibn Hytham[/b][/color][/h1]

[img]https://i.imgur.com/JeQIc7J.png[/img][/center]
[color=a187be][b]Name:[/b][/color][indent]Mort ibn Hytham[/indent]
[color=a187be][b]Age:[/b][/color][indent]46[/indent]
[color=a187be][b]Race:[/b][/color][indent]Harpy - Chicken Aspect[/indent]
[color=a187be][b]HP:[/b][/color][indent]❇❇[/indent]
[color=a187be][b]SP:[/b][/color][indent]❇❇❇[/indent]
[color=a187be][b]Job:[/b][/color][indent]Al-Tahliq Regional Minerals Supply Chain Manager lvl2[/indent]
[color=a187be][b]Magical Affinity:[/b][/color][indent]Air lvl3[/indent]
[color=a187be][b]Curse:[/b][/color][indent]Curse of Gammaton and lvl3[/indent]

[color=a187be][b]Appearance[/b][/color][indent]The highest echelons of Harpy Society strike with Eagleine features. Mort does not have these features. He presents as a Chicken. An overweight, depressed, Chicken.[/indent]
[color=a187be][b]Personality[/b][/color][indent]Very quiet. Depressed. Has trouble maintaining eye contact, or maintains eye contact for way too long. Prefers reading books, though it is arguable whether or not he retains anything anymore. He is quick to violent, though never in a rage. It's all very pedestrian and procedural.[/indent]
[color=a187be][b]Background[/b][/color][indent]Mahboob "Mort" ibn Hytham is the son of Hytham ibn Bawma, all of the feared Makhlab clan in the southern desert peaks of Es Harpina. In these high, distant eyries, the Laws of Lasetha's Roost, under the 500-year peace, have brought order and prosperity to the pockets of violence once ruled by clans like the Makhlabs. In these good times, they no longer rule every aspect of citizen life. Rather, just some measure of money, blackmail, political leverage, and the occasional shattered ribs No big.

The Makhlab clan has long run Al-Tahliq Industries, which has its talons in everything from mining to refinement to luxury item manufacturing. After Hytham forcibly retired his father, Bawma the Slow as Clan Head, he quickly and violently consolidated power, and through his shrewd and cunning ways, elevated the clan's reputation and power considerably. 

Mahboob grew up in the sheltered libraries of his grandfather, Bawma. He was spoiled with books, fermented rat delicacies, and leisure time. For a while, Hytham allowed this to be, being one of those fathers who were prejudiced against those who presented more like chickens. However, with Bawma's deteriorating health and Mahboob's blossoming into a bird reaching adulthood, Hytham decided to toughen his son up the way Makhlab birds should, and gave him his first job: extracting information from a prisoner by extracting the prisoner's nails. Mahboob found to his own horror and fascination, that he was exceedingly good at this sort of thing, and quickly climbed the ranks to become Regional Minerals Supply Chain Manager, a job that mostly consisted of making numbers dance, greasing the right hands, and occasionally picking up the pliers. In a subconscious act of distancing his new identity from his old, he began to adopt the moniker "Mort", a name affectionately given to him by his thugs and minions for his way of seeing everyone as corpses, separated only by flimsy things like time.

Mort, however, was only efficient because he was deeply depressed. He sought solace in his books-- and the books gave no solace, just distraction. 

When the Behemoth came, whispers reached the Eyries. Hytham, like many other elders, assumed the whispers would stay just that, and thought nothing of the event. His brother Hadi noted that in times of madness and chaos, it was most important that knowledge was preserved. Books, libraries, that sort of thing. He told Mort of the great libraries in the City of Light, and how it would be an ideal place to compile and protect the world's stories and knowledge. They planned one day to visit, to make a pilgrimage to this great bastion of knowledge.

Soon, however, the whispers grew louder, especially in Mort's head. Reality became but a weak fluid that Mort had little association with. Growing panicked and terrified, he ran to his one friend-- his brother, Hadi-- and, in hugging him, impaled him with metal spikes, now protruding from his body.

Mort was distraught, and in a fit, mangled and mortally injured a dozen more of his father's birds as they attempted to quarantine him in a locked room. Here, Mort stayed, drifting in and out of reality. Had it been days? Months? Either way, the food had stopped coming, so he broke down the door and found that no one was left. Not in the house, the neighborhood, or the entire district. There were a few bodies well into decomposition, but nowhere close enough to account for the original population. 

Mort traveled to Lathesa's Roost, where his family had connections through his aunt. There, he found a world quickly going mad with chaos, fire, and pathfinder assault. His aunt, Lady Dajaja, had lost most of her holdings and wealth, with only a few servants left in her dilapidated estate. Still, the proud Harpies tried to hold on to their capital. Mort found it easier to go on living when he, once more, had a job to do. He rounded up traitors, informants, friends, enemies, and did what he did best. For a few years, he was able to restore a small nook of power and security for his Aunt. Those who had something to trade or power to share were assimilated into their growing sphere. Beggars and refugees were worthless. Mort swore to Lady Dajaja they would never be one of them.

Until they were. A renewed, surprise assault destroyed everything in one night. And in their flight towards the City of Light, the Madness took his Aunt, too. Without thinking, without feeling, he slashed her across the throat, and watched her body writhe until it writhed no more. Now completely and utterly ruined, he moves on, like a ghost in this world. After passing out on the roadside one night, Mort woke suddenly from a dream, a memory. Something about books, libraries, and the City of Light. He continued his journey, finding once more that the only way to live one day to the next was to have something to do. 

This was no time for librarians and guardians of knowledge, however, and Harpies that presented with Chicken features were seldom respected and trusted, within Es Harpina and elsewhere. Still, Mort stuck to his self-appointed mission, finding knowledge and books where he could, and purchasing them-- or not-- to stockpile in nooks and crannies around the city. He looted to eat, and he looted to find more books. It went well for a while-- or about as well as this sort of life could go-- before he was seized by the authorities and thrown into a dungeon. 
[/indent]

[color=a187be][b]Coping Mechanism[/b][/color][indent](Optional) When faced with bouts of madness, Mort sinks into a depressive stupor and becomes catatonic. Does this help? Why does that matter? Nothing matters. [/indent]