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aka: .many, many things including The Duchess of Montrone and Mattocks the coachman, Uncle Jack and Eloie the mouse, Marietta and her father, Doc Tolliver and his daughter, (real names: Tolliver Marchant & Sylas Benn)
Religious views: sceptical and mercenary.
Adventuring skills and specialities: deception, disguise, theft, innovative ways of escaping, the tarantella.
Family connections: Tollie’s father was a very important Death Priest.
Tollie and Sylas work as a pair. Tollie is the main ideas man, although Sylas is not without his own brains. Sylas is a master of disguise – his tiny frame and feminine face make him a natural at pretending to be a girl. They have worked their way across the continent making a buck or two in any way they could think of posing as everything from a travelling medicine man and his daughter to an Albion Duchess and her coachman. They joined the Adventurers Guild shortly after the collapse of the non-existent Guild of Thieves and Assassins and after the Summer of Fire, found a new interest in bringing down the Frisian Inquisition (if a buck can be made on the way then all well and good).
“Excuse me Brother, but why do you have two magical mice in your pocket.” His little shake of the head told Tollie that he couldn’t believe he had just said these words.
“Ah,” said Brother Tollie, looking abashed but grinning, “a little indulgence I’m afraid.” The guard gave him a highly suspicious look. “A left over from my dreadful heathen past. Allow me to introduce Eloie and Merkadi, my mice. That one is Eloie,” Tollie pointed at the disgruntled blonde one that narrowed its eyes at the sound of its name.
The homunculus was now trying to take a step away from him whilst remaining a menacing presence. Tollie knew he was on to a winner, and continued. “I was, in my bad old days, before I saw the light,” with his free hand Tollie theatrically waved his ankh at the guard, “I was in a travelling fair. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? Uncle Jack’s amazing magical mice?” He said it with such a convincing air of despairing hope that the guard felt obliged to shake his head and mumble ‘sorry no’ under his breath. “Ah well, it was a long time ago.” Tollie had the ability to sound like an old man even if he didn’t look like one and talking the talking was far hard than shuffling the shuffle of the old. It was something that Sylas admired in Tollie when he wasn’t a mouse waiting for an inevitable humiliation.
“What kind of amazing magical mice?” said the guard with a grudging curiosity and Tollie was ready for the question.
“They squeak the Paravelian National Anthem and dance the Tarantella. Although I’m afraid they’re a little out of practice.” – Dawn of Darkness
“Would you take that ridiculous wig off?” snapped Tollie.
“It’s no worse than your badger’s bum beard,” grumbled Sylas, stubbornly refusing to remove it.
“It’s going bald, and it’s got lice,” spat Tollie, leaning over to snatch it from his head.
“It’s realistic,” retorted Sylas ducking skilfully out of his grip.
“It’s revolting,” groaned Tollie making another grab for it.
“Would you two just shut up,” snapped Jason Devere irritably. He was leaning against a nearby tree just off the path trying to pretend that he wasn’t with them. Next to his feet, Pringle was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hammer across his knees, playing with the grass. It had been a very long walk from Neckard not because it was far away but because Tollie and Sylas hadn’t shut up the whole way. – Summer of Fire (coming soon)
So, those of you who have read any or all of the Aberddu Adventures series, a simple opening question (well two actually) . Who is your favourite adventurer and why?
(Maybe it’s the one you’d like to meet most, the one that makes you laugh, or cry or want to slap them…. it’s up to you what you mean by favourite but it’d be good if you would explain.)
aka: Viscount Gerratti Baranetti.
Age: Old enough to know better
Religious views: complex
Adventuring skills and specialities: wizarding, thinking, portals, reading maps, giving lectures, changing into birds.
Marital Status: Bachelor
Family connections: Related to half of Paravel…the rich half.
Gerratti Baranetti came to the Mage’s Guild of Aberddu shortly before the summer of Fire. He was apprenticed to Elor Nybass, a wizard who spent most of his time interfering in the Adventurers Guild. Curiousity and little better to do with his free time lead Gerratti to become a permanent fixture in the guild. He was renamed Gerard by a bunch of Greenskins who liked him but thought his name was stupid. He is treated with affectionate contempt by the majority of the Adventurers who like him, but don’t want him to get ideas. It’s taken him five years to discover the purpose of pantaloons.
Gerard was clearly no danger with a weapon, except perhaps to himself. Unfortunately, it did not stop him from trying. Keeping him on the right track was proving to be like trying to herd frogs with a teaspoon. The problem was that he was fixated by the fact that she was a woman. He had somehow got it embedded in his head that he would have to escort her; a thought that would have offended Iona had it not been so laughable. She took a deep breath and pressed on to the peak of the mountain. – The Freetown Bridge
“It’s not difficult you moron,” Derek could hear Cassandra saying up ahead. He couldn’t see her, as most of the party had crested a hill and were out of sight on the other side. It was just that the Jaegars’ voices tended to carry. “We’re following a main road, how complicated is that?”
Then he heard Gerard’s nasal retort and sighed. Someone had let Gerard get ahead of the scouts again. For an extremely intelligent man he was useless with both maps and directions. His haughty voice wafted in the afternoon air.
“…and furthermore Madam, I’d be extremely grateful if you could step back out of my personal space.” Derek pushed forward passed the gaggle of Clerics in front of him. He needed to reach the front before Mr Adarius Jaegar decided, for a laugh, he was going to defend Mrs Cassandra Jaegar’s honour by punching Gerard on his somewhat ill-defined chin. Just as he overtook Dingelo the tiny bard, who was clanking like an out of tune one-man-band with every step, he heard the sound he was expecting and dreading. Adarius Jaegar’s distinctive baritone split the stillness.
“Don’t you speak to my wife like that, wizard-boy.” Derek broke into a trot and as he reached the top of the slope. He could see the knot of adventurers where they had collected at a fork in the road about fifty yards ahead. Adarius was squaring up to petulant looking Gerard, whose flabby chin was wobbling with self-righteous irritation. The two men were of roughly comparable and not inconsiderable size. – Dawn of Darkness
aka: Lady Iona, Duchess of Pringle; Iona; IP; That woman…
Age: you shouldn’t ask a lady her age
Religious views: prefer not to disclose
Adventuring skills and specialities: scouting, thievery, risk-taking, being outspoken and opinionated
Marital Status: Widow – of the late and great Dakarn Pringle, one time piss-artist now aspect of Trickster.
Family connections: One daughter – Rosemary Iona Pringle. She has no interest in her family roots.
Born in obscurity in the Elven Forest, Iona brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘parvenu’. She’s widely travelled, having ‘worked her passage’ across the continent with the Ambassadorial services of Paravel and Albion. The adventuring life suits her because it allows her to pursue several of her great passions: being right, making money and gaining power and most importantly – appearing to be doing all of this for the right reasons. In her spare time, she runs an Aberddu knocking shop (sorry… high class drinking establishment with bespoke personal entertainment) called The Duchess’ Pleasure.
In Iona’s defense, she’s a more genuine soul than people give her credit for – her best friends include an erstwhile pig-farmer turned adventurer called Derek and a colourful gypsy called Morwenna. She is fiercely loyal to those select few that she loves and will fight tooth and nail for them, and against the Frisian Inquisition. She just doesn’t suffer fools.
“When you said ‘you don’t know what’s down there in that fog,’” he gasped finally level with Iona again, “What you meant was that I didn’t know what was in that fog but you did, wasn’t it?”
A scornful smirk curled across Iona’s face as she turned to look at the flushed cheeks of the wheezing wizard.
“Glad you’ve finally worked that one out,” she retorted, “Now perhaps we can get to where we’re going without getting ourselves killed.”
“Absolutely, right you are. You lead on then, madam,” said Gerard, trying to sound cordial whilst still flushed and panting. Fire flashed in Iona’s eyes, as she turned on her heels, started back up the hill and growled
“And don’t call me Madam,” – The Freetown Bridge
“Miss’ ‘ona Prin’le.” he asked gently, and took Scylayla’s scowl as an affirmative.
Iona, probably still alive because of her paranoia, shot one hand down to her knife hilt. Why on earth did a gargantuan swineherd in Idldorf know her name? She knew farm folks liked their gossip but she hadn’t been in Paravel that long and Derek surely couldn’t know every pig farmer on the continent, could he? With little option but to own up to her name, she turned to the man and said,
“I’m Iona Pringle, how can I help you?”
The swineherd pulled himself up to his full, towering, height, removed his rag cap and bowed low.
“Obidiah Bowe Hingis, a’ your ser’ice, it’s an honour ma’am,” he said with the poorly contained excitement of a small child who’d been told he has to stand still for five minutes and then he can have his own magic cat. He proffered a hand like a side of steak and not knowing what else to do, Iona took it and shook. Her other hand was now firmly gripping her dagger, ready to draw. After a bone-crushing moment she retrieved her sweat-coated hand and wiped it on the seat of her hose. She was just about to take leave of her unexplained admirer when he bellowed across the hubbub of the thoroughfare.
“Oi, Oi, Abraham,” and a man that resembled a human stick insect looked up, a clay pipe clamped between him disgusting brown teeth. “gue’ ‘o thi’ im! I’ only Miss’ Prin’ fro’ tha stories,” – Dawn of Darkness
“What in the names of all the Gods were you think?” she cried as she burst through the door to find Clara and Pudding sitting forlornly on the bed side by side gazing at their feet. “What the hell did you break out for?” Looking up sullenly, Clara said,
“We had some fings to do, di’n’t we?”
“Yeah,” chimed in Pudding her eyes narrowed with resentment. “We can’t be sittin’ about here all night like a bunch of hookers ya know. We’ve got things to do, people to see and all that.”
“Like what?” demanded Iona, glaring at them incredulously. “What was so bloody important that you couldn’t follow a simple instruction?”
“Well,” started Clara her voice already wheedling after just one word, “I had some fings to collect didn’t I ? “
“Like what?” snapped Iona again, getting into her motherly stride. At this point Clara stood up to show Iona her coat.
“My best coat for instance,” she said turning to show Iona the full extent of the immense monstrous garment. Iona had been ready to retaliate to any one of a number of excuses but this one completely floored her. She just stood there, gaping. After floundering for a few seconds she finally managed to utter,
“That’s your best coat?”
“Yeah,” squealed Clara offended, “Wha’ wrong with it? It’s got plenty of wear in it.”
“Yeah, for someone twice your height and weight or possibly a family of midgets.”
“It fitted the guy who died in it,” mumbled Clara by way of explanation.
“Someone died in it?” cried Iona, her earlier fury subsiding in pity. – In Shadows, Waiting.