[hider=Character Sheet for Ethelsten of Wisserbury] [center][img]https://www.paintingstar.com/static/gallery/2007/02/19/52cba5f790ea2.jpg?The+Apothecary+Artwork+by+Gabriel+Metsu[/img][/center] [b]Name:[/b] [i]Ethelsten of Wisserbury[/i] [b]Title:[/b] [i]Apothecary of Her Majesty Parrel the Queen’s Monastery Hospital of Wisserbury[/i] [b]Age:[/b] [i]Early middle-age, approaching his late thirties.[/i] [b]Appearance:[/b] [i]In terms of physical brawn, Ethelsten has little of note - being a most stereotypical scholar, he is scrawny and weak, albeit not short of stamina. Thus, while he may not have any considerable bulk, his body has some resemblance of tonation. He stands a little shorter than the average man, though he has the straight, proud posture of a human raised under the wings of nobles. Ethelsten’s head and face are characterised by a weak, overbitten jaw and puffy lips, which he hides underneath a thick, full and well-kept beard of whitening chestnut hair. His nose, in contrast, is straight and proper, its delicately-shaped bridge running up to separate into two bushy eyebrows darkening a pair of racoon-ringed, verdant eyes, and bordering a forehead wrinkled by years of intrigue. His hair runs long and full down to the top of his neck, covering both his small ears unless tied in a tail. The clothing worn by Ethelsten normally consists of a white linen shirt for the inner layer, covered then with brown leather tunic followed by a long, beige robe for outdoor travel. Knee-long pantaloons of linen cover his nethers, completed by woolen long socks and a pair of good boots that reach about as high. Usually, the apothecary wears a tall, pointy, white hat that pulls the hair away from his forehead and leaves him looking bald. [/i] [hr] [b]Background Information:[/b] Ethelsten grew up in Illistair as an adopted son of a childless section of House Filsroix-Dunberg, a once-small union between two merchant families that had grown into a powerful clan to rival some of the greater politicians in prosperity, wealth and position. While he did not grow up under the wing of the main family, his parents’ connections to the other relatives gave Ethelsten valuable friends and allies throughout his youth, granting him access to various tutors and collections of literature. In his early teens, he especially fell in love with the studies of biology and medicine, particularly Parrellian medicine and the works of the Queen’s Apothecariate. As he read on and on, he began to experiment on his own - he would eagerly run around the gardens of his parents’ townhouse in search of wounded birds and animals and bring along his concoctions and bandages. Some, he saved - others, well… Progress requires sacrifice. Then one day, as Ethelsten was making his way home from the library, he heard a pained squeal. Like the surrounding civilians, he rushed to the source of the cry only to find a man surrounded by two peers, bethieved of one leg thanks to clumsy axe strike by a third pale and motionless peer, whose shock still kept him from dropping the blood-dripping axe. All who saw knew the man were long for this world. All but Ethelsten. The lad did not hesitate. He shoved and pushed aside the people in his way, all the while stabbing his hands into his satchel that he kept with him at all times these days. From it he extracted his tourniquet, a leather strap with an iron buckle where the leather was tied to a handle, and as many linen bandages and handkerchiefs as he could find. He knelt down next to the man, much to the surprise of the onlookers. Although they discouraged him from helping, reasoning that even if a child like him could somehow stop the massive bleeding, the man would likely die of infections in a month at most. Even the man’s peers looked skeptically at Ethelsten preparing a flask of barley wine after the tourniquet had been set. As the now-fainted man’s leg was drenched in nose-stingingly strong barley wine, a flock of guards broke through the wall of onlookers. There, they marveled momentarily at the deft, young hands wrapping the bloody leg in white strips and sheets, and one of them in particular made note of the young physician’s face. This guardsman was in truth not a guardsman at all, as his dress much indicated. As fate would have it, this man had been escorted around the quarter by these very guards, and the man’s beige robes, sigiled leather satchel and white, linen hat perfectly described his profession: An apothecary. After Ethelsten had finished, the apothecary knelt down beside him and ran his ageing eyes over the handiwork, noting everything from the zig-zagging pattern of the bandages to the brown stains of wine. Ethelsten, meanwhile, was shocked to see the robes and sigils of the order he had read so much about throughout his life - he struggled to control the beats of his heart. The apothecary ordered the guards to fetch a stretcher and stood up, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. Ethelsten rocketed to his feet and looked down. For an uncomfortable pause, the apothecary said nothing. Ethelsten was certain that the master had uncovered a mistake - the bandage was too loose; the barley wine, too weak; the-- A warm hand squeezed his shoulder. Ethelsten looked up at the smiling, shaven face and then at the apothecary’s other hand, in which laid a sigil. “Take this to your parents, son. Tell them Estebahn of Wisserbury gave it to you.” Ethelsten knew that name. He had seen it on the covers of countless tomes - a legend in the world of medicine. Too awestruck to even formulate a response, he was left in the alley, surrounded by crowds that managed to absorb the gravity of the situation before him. Much faster than his sensations could return was Ethelsten tossed into the air as a hero. A warmth manifested in him - a joy and a dedication. He would devote his life to the practices of the Apothecariate, and he would aid every person he could. So he swore as he soared up and down above the crowd throughout the alley. The boy brought the sigil back to his family and told his parents what he had done. Both could hardly believe it, but the sigil was in his hand and Ethelsten had never been much of a pickpocket. Thus he was sent to Her Majesty Parrel the Queen’s Monastery Hospital of Wisserbury, a section of the academic quarter, and there, the boy quickly grew into a man under the guidance of his mentor Estebahn, and his skill only improved as time went on. However, as he aged and the praise built up, a blackness of vanity filled his once altruistic heart. His connections to his family had made life at the monastery quite comfortable for him and his friends, though his high spending and standard of living upset some of his older peers. As Ethelsten neared his thirties, he had become an integral part of the monastery’s daily affairs, having been elected to serve among the high apothecaries. It would be one black day in his thirty-sixth year that all of his work would be taken away from him. A shipment of wounded from outside the gate came to the monastery - nothing was out of the ordinary in that regard. Such events were weekly, or even daily at times. Ethelsten donned his robes and approached his patient, a young guardsman whose day at work had likely been his first. The apothecary was confident in his skill, however - today would not be his last. “... The crown…” Ethelsten looked up. The guardsman was looking at him with groggy eyes - or looking past him. It was unclear whether he was truly conscious, but nevertheless, Ethelsten had been certain the lad had said something. “... The crown…” the lad repeated. Now Ethelsten was certain. He wrapped the final strips of linen around the cut on the guard’s leg and approached his head. “What crown?” “... The crown…” The guard was evidently much too wary to answer his question. However, just as he was returning to work, Ethelsten noticed a gilded glimpt in the box of the patient’s belongings. He shot a sideways glance at the guard - the poppies were beginning to take effect. The only noise in the room were two breaths - one slow and dull; the other quick with anticipation. Ethelsten approached the box and duck around quietly. There, underneath a coin pouch and a sweaty shirt, was indeed a golden crown, more beautiful than any jewelry he had even laid his eyes on. He removed his hat and tried it on. It was a perfect fit, even for his sharp skull. Another sideways glance aimed at the patient left his eyes. He asked himself so: What would a simple guardsman do with such a beautiful artifact? Sell it, naturally, then gamble away the money. No - no, no, no. Ethelsten couldn’t allow that. It was far too valuable for such a fate. No - it was Ethelsten’s duty to take it, take it and… Huh, what would he personally do with it? Ethelsten looked back to the histories he had read as a child - some of them features crowns, and those adorned the heads of kings and queens. Once more, he planted the crown on his head, this time walking over to a wide, green glass flask on his shelf to mirror himself in it. Yes… He knew exactly what to do with it. There came a weak groan from the bed behind him and Ethelsten nearly threw the crown across the room as he pulled it off. He would have to be careful - already he had enemies at the top. Him stealing from patients would be a most perfect pin to stick in his wheels. He stuffed the crown in his satchel and continued as usual. When the patient woke up from his poppy-induced coma, he asked groggy questions, most regarding a certain shiny crown he was certain he had brought with him. Ethelsten gave him a smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Son, hallucinations are common after blood loss.” “But, Master Ethelsten… I was certain I-...” The guardsman was sent on his merry way back on duty later that day, thoroughly convinced that it had all been a dream. Ethelsten locked the door to his room. For the first time in nearly a week, he dared open his satchel. The golden glitter within sent tremors through his bones and sparks through his veins. He reached inside and felt the cold, clean metal against his fingertips. Softly, he wrapped his hand around it and-- “Ethelsten?” came a voice followed by a series of knocks. Ethelsten sucked in a panicked breath and satcheled the crown once more, swinging the bag behind his back. He dusted himself off and opened the door. On the other side stood his old mentor Estebahn, over-ripened with the type of age that turned his currently grinning face into a nightmarish scowl. Of course, the two of them shared nothing like the friendship they once had had - their relationship had suffered greatly as Ethelsten had grown wiser, better, arrogant, and Estebahn, older, stricter, paranoid. The once-inseparable teacher and student relationship had been drowned in bitter acids of rivalry. Ethelsten knew why he was here and opened as they once had, inciting an even more malicious smirk from his former mentor. “Oh, we are merely here for a quick look-over. A sister informed us that a patient of yours had dropped something on the way out and we would like to help you find it.” Ethelsten had begun to sweat. No one had been with him throughout the whole procedure - the nurse who had undressed his patient was among his most trusted. Had she betrayed him? Had she perhaps been one of his informants all along? “What would that be?” Ethelsten had responded as calmly as he could. “Certainly, if he left something behind, I shall find it right away and have it sent to the barracks.” “Yes, you see - it may be faster if we look together.” “I really don’t think that’s--” “Look, I even brought some friends to aid us further.” Behind Estebahn had flanked guards. Ethelsten had felt a surge of panic in his belly, and the grinning elder could smell the terror reeking from him like a horrid perfume. The elder smacked his lips over greening teeth and paling gums as he stepped inside. “Where is it?” “Where is what?” “You know what I’m talking about, son.” The elder’s tone quickly lost the false affection he had forced earlier. Now the guards had surrounded Ethelsten and the apothecary blinked in every direction, desperate for an exit. In his panic, he thought of a single sentence. “What would you do with it?” The elder pursed his wrinkly lips and hummed. “... I haven’t given it much thought.” He shot Ethelsten a sharp sneer. “What would you?” It was at that point that one of Ethelsten’s closest allies and friends, Gadwick, arrived at the commotion and bellowed, “What is going on here?!” Despite the elder’s best efforts, neither him nor the guards could avoid a growing crowd now that they had been discovered. No matter the crime of the culprit, one did not kill someone inside a monastery to Parrel the Queen - not so all could see, anyway. Estebahn was forced to retreat, granting Ethelsten the opportunity he needed. He told Gadwick and his other friends as much as he could afford to and explained that his enemies had grown brave and impatient. He would have to flee the monastery - perhaps even the city. His friends agreed, and so they aided him first out of the monastery, then out into the wilderness aboard a peasant’s cart. There, armed with nothing but a hidden dagger and the knowledge in his head, the apothecary remained, letting the beast dragging the cart decide where he would go next. However, it wouldn’t truly decide. In his satchel of supplies laid, after all, his destiny. [b]Personality:[/b] While Ethelsten is very much a sociable and amiable character, he may be perceived as arrogant and patronising to some. He also has a tendency to favour a wealthy lifestyle and can be of the complaining sort if achieving such is impossible. He is ambitious and to a certain degree altruistic, though the childlike joy from helping people has been replaced by a more cynical care for the money and knowledge granted to him for his work. Summarised, Ethelsten can be described as kind, yet arrogant and corrupt. His favourite food is roast pheasant with bread and gravy. [hider=Stats and Skills] Points to spend: 15 [center][b][u]Physical[/u][/b][/center] [b]Might:[/b] [i]The output of the body, and how much strength it can deliver. [/i] A child among men (1) [b]Coordination:[/b] [i]The skill of the body, and how reflexive, accurate and precise it is. [/i] Reflexes of a tree (1) [b]Fortitude:[/b] [i]The input of the body, and how much stress it can withstand.[/i] Skin of paper (1) [center][b][u]Psycho[/u][/b][/center] [b]Intellect:[/b] [i]The power of the mind, and how well it absorbs and recalls information. [/i] The scholar (5) [b]Wisdom:[/b][i]The skill of the mind, and how well it applies all forms of knowledge to a solution.[/i] Wise (4) [b]Willpower:[/b] [i]The truth of the mind, and how much stress it can withstand.[/i] Plenty of will (3) [b]Skills and Training:[/b] [i]Ethelsten is a gifted and trained physician and apothecary, as well as a seasoned alchemist, biologist and mathematician. He is familiar enough with the doctrines of Parrel the Queen to offer priest work, as well.[/i] [hr] His most impactful memory is the day he saved the peasant and got his position at the monastery hospital. [/hider] [/hider] [hider=The Apothecariate and Her Majesty Parrel the Queen’s Monastery Hospitals] As long as the peoples of Pertovia have worshipped the Queen, there have existed those that follow the path of the physician. They started out as a union of medicinemen and shamans who found comfort and purpose in her words and love, seeking to replicate it on Pertovia through the act of rescuing others from bitter death. This movement quickly organised itself in small camps known as Homes of Healing where the sick and wounded would be treated free of charge, and medicine could be studied and debated. Over time, the movement grew and the need for greater control and infrastructure grew, as well. As the number of patients quickly spiraled to an impossible number to treat, some began to demand fees of food and valuables to balance the stress of work. At first, the fees were quite low, and some medicinemen grew incredibly rich due to their deft skill and shrewd sense of business. These wealthy medicinemen began hiring the others in the order that they deemed fit to work for them, paying them in food rations. All who worked for them were obligated to charge a fee when treating their patients, a percentage of which would be given to their leader. Now, most of their weakest patients could no longer afford treatment, and were forced to look elsewhere. Some of the shamans saw this as a gross violation against the code of Parrel, and thus left the movement to travel to other parts of the country, starting similar movements over again. Those that did remain hired builders and crafters to turn the Homes of Healing into great stone castles, to honour Parrel, of course, but mostly to elevate themselves to what they felt they deserved to be: kings and queens. As their once humble camps grew into castles, guards and specialists needed to be hired - people congregated around these sources of health and wisdom, and as did the Filth. It is not known how many of these monasteries have fallen to the Filth, be it either through direct destruction or slow corruption from within, but around Pertovia, there are colossal ruins engraved with desperate final prayers to Parrel, signed with apologies for neglect. It was not until recent years that this movement which has risen and fallen all over the country for hundreds, if not thousands of years, found a haven of safety in Illistair. With such great walls and well-trained guards in employment of the mayor, the now-dubbed Apothecariate of Her Majesty Parrel the Queen could concentrate their funds elsewhere. Thus, the greatest monastery on the island was built: Her Majesty Parrel the Queen’s Monastery Hospital of Wisserbury, with extensive capacity for both patients and students. If one wishes to become an apothecary, this is the place to learn. Apart from within certain monasteries, the order has little to no communications with other factions, and can by no means be considered one great organised effort that spans Pertovia. They simply exist all over for a time until they either fade away, break apart or are destroyed by the Filth. In addition to Wisserbury, there are two other operational monastery hospitals on the island: Osterbury, a small church to Pertovia on the outskirts of Illistair - lately, they have suffered greatly at the hands of the Filth and are at the brink of collapse; and Nursenbury, a large monastery in Jornoston led by a cult of Parrel with a particularly disliked spin on the Queen’s canon. [/hider]