Scars sustained while trapped in the Imperial City Made them up on the spot tbh, and only the arrow scars are in-game. Kinda wanted to also give him a broken nose but I had already drawn everything by the time I thought about it so nah lol. Maybe it'll be retconned in like Eolan's face scars that I dithered on for years.

Casual clothes and alternate hairstyles. He's been with the buzz cut for years now and might be time for a change but idk

I mentioned on Fjotreid's bio that Lucius' concept was around from when I started the game but I didn't implement him until before the Summerset arc even though he uses a base game class. Felt that was the "best" time to have him join the group given The Lore behind his appearance.

Speaking of

===

They took it quite well, all things considered. I'm sure the fact that I honored their calls for transparency helped soften the blow.

It may be selfish of me to say so, but the biggest relief is that I no longer have this hanging over my head. I didn't choose to be born from his Azure Plasm and the smallest fragment of ______'s soul, but I couldn't help feeling responsible for...taking his place.

Some would say it was his own fault for antagonizing _____ (like _____ himself). That his bullheadedness undermined efforts to save his--our world. But I don't believe anyone deserves that.

I want to believe that this is all over now. The mystery of the unfamiliar name etched on the urn given to me by the Prophet, finally solved. But I know he has many more challenges ahead of him.

_____ believes I was misguided in working so hard to restore him. I know I'll prove him wrong in the end. Until then, I wish Lucius the best. We both arrived in this world bereft of a past, both having our origin obfuscated for our own good.

Do’Matthri stopped and looked up at Malcius, locking eyes with him. “And do’Matthri supposes,” she began slowly, “that the stones at the bottom were shaped like fists, and wielded swords.”

Malcius looked away. “But I won.”

“It is never about simply winning,” sighed do’Matthri, “if your ambitions are misaligned.” She grabbed Malcius by the chin and forced him to look at her. “Are your goals pure?” 

Resolutely, Malcius instantly said, “Yes.”

“Hm,” do’Matthri said, looking down at her half-finished suturing. “Do’Matthri hopes you are right. She cannot stop your foolishness.” She returned to her stitching, more gently this time. Malcius watched her finish closing the wound, his face expressionless.

After she tied the thread and cut the excess with a pair of scissors, she set them down and sighed. “Malcius…” She gently tilted his head up with her sheathed claws to meet his gaze again. “Do not get yourself killed. For my sake. You are…” 

Do’Matthri hesitated, her voice drifting into a sad purr. But Malcius understood. 

“Just don’t,” she finally finished.

Malcius smiled. He was nearly forty-one now, but he had a youthful face, his cheeks round and red. The only sign of his age was the beginning of crows’ feet around his eyes, and hearty laugh-lines around his mouth. “I won’t, Abbess,” he said, taking her hand, fur thin and grey with age. “I can protect myself, and others. I learned from the best.”

Do’Matthri flashed a small smile and nodded, but her eyes fluttered away from Malcius’. She pulled down his sleeve over the closed wound and patted him on the knee. “Get some rest, Brother Malcius. Prayer starts at sunrise.”

“Yes, Abbess,” said Malcius, standing and scurrying away. But he doubted he’d get much sleep tonight. 

- - -

Masser and Secunda shone bright over Kvatch, watching the night as God’s eyes. But there was another Watcher.

A young Breton woman was winding her way through the streets, drunk and despondent – an easy target. The Watcher had been following her from the rooftops over the past few hours. She had gone to Pinder’s dressed up for a date, but was evidently stood up. The Watcher couldn’t see into the tavern, but she left after a couple of hours, her makeup smeared under her eyes, corkless bottle of Surilie in hand. The Watcher didn’t know where she lived, but she didn’t act like she did, either. She made strange circles of the streets of Kvatch, singing sad songs, seemingly disinterested in arriving anywhere. The Watcher pitied her; lost love is indeed hard to swallow. Wine, less so.

She cut off her song as she realized she’d stumbled into yet another dead-end alley. She stomped her foot petulantly and took another swig from the bottle. She turned to see she was not alone, but she was too intoxicated to scream in fright.

“Not right to…hic…sneak up on a girl at night, y’know,” she slurred at the three cloaked gentlemen at the mouth of the alley. 

“Yeah,” said the man in the middle, “it sure ain’t.”

His tone straightened the woman’s back and widened her eyes. She dropped the nearly empty bottle of wine, which shattered on the brickwork under her feet. 

The three men snickered and approached. The man in the center – clearly the leader – said, “Look. We don’t want to hurt you. We just want that pretty necklace you got,” he said, pointing a suddenly-materialized club at her throat. He looked at her shaking hands and smiled, the moonlight illuminating his face with a sinister glow. “Maybe those rings, too. And any coin you got.”

“No,” said the woman, scared sober. “You won’t. I’ll scream.”

The man on the left, larger than the other two, laughed. “Oh no, fellas. She’ll scream. What’ll we do?” He pulled out his own club, and with the leader rushed the woman, grabbing her by each arm. She tried to scream, but the leader clubbed her in the belly, cutting off the sound.

The third man, a bit shorter than the leader, stepped up casually. He reached for the silver necklace around the woman’s throat and admired it. “Ah. Pretty amethyst here. Where’d you get the piece? Hundar’s on Aquilarios?” The woman nodded slowly. “Good. We’ll pass that on to the fence. Now be a good girl and hush while we rob you.”

That was enough. The Watcher descended in a series of quick bounds down the nearby buildings before landing in a clumsy roll behind the robbers. The sound of his heft bouncing against the cobbles turned them around. 

“And who in Oblivion are you, falling from the sky?” asked the man closest to the woman, his spin having torn the amulet from the woman’s throat.

The first man shivered visibly. “Boss, that’s…”

“The Watcher,” finished the burly man with the club. He pounded his palm with his club.

“So?” hissed the true leader, the man with the necklace. “Take care of him!”

The burly man marched towards the Watcher, raising his club overhead with one meaty arm – 

The Watcher dodged to the right and snuck in a jab to the side. Missed the kidney; not enough to take him down yet, not a big man like him. The thug made a blind swing. The Watcher ducked under it, then lunged forward past him, chopping hard behind his knee on his way, buckling it. The thug came down hard on one side, barely supporting himself with his other bent leg. The Watcher wrapped around, grabbing him tight by the neck, and pinning the thug’s club-bearing wrist down with his foot. The thug clawed helplessly at the Watcher’s arm.

Footsteps behind. The Watcher let go of the thug and swept to the side. 

The center man’s club came down hard on the back of his friend’s head. The burly thug fell over with a gasp, knocked out. 

The Watcher spun to take care of the new thug. Smaller, but no less dangerous; in some ways, moreso. 

The Watcher ducked a swipe at his head before hopping backwards for some space. He tried to remember what his master had taught him, about how to analyze patterns and weaknesses in his opponent. 

The thug seemed to favor his left foot, stepping forward only lightly on his right when he went for a strike. It reduced his power and reach, so it must be a compensation. 

As good an exploit as any. The Watcher leapt forward at just the right time during the thug’s next attack to catch his elbow and slam his heel into his toes. The thug yelped, but didn’t let go of the club like the Watcher had hoped. Desperately the Watcher held his lock on the thug’s arm, weathering the punches from his offhand. 

With all his strength, the Watcher leveraged their locked arms to throw the thug’s back against the wall of the alley. This was enough; the club clattered to the stones below. The Watcher slammed his knee into the thug’s gut, then slammed his head back again with his palm as he began to double over. The thug slumped down, unconscious. 

“Bastard!” 

The Watcher heard the word and the sound of a rattling sheathe at the same time. He whirled around to see the last thug bolting towards him, short sword in hand. He barely had time to throw up his arms before the thug made an overhead cut. 

The Watcher thanked Mara for the steel-studded leather bracers that deflected the blow. He jumped back a step to keep some distance. Maybe his legs were longer than the blade’s reach? If he was wrong, he’d risk a cut achilles or hamstring, which would quickly get him killed. But he had little choice; not only his, but that woman’s life, too, was on the line. 

The Watcher baited another overhead slice by feigning getting too close again, then went in for a high kick, aiming for the thug’s chin.

But the thug ducked, the Watcher’s foot connecting with thin air. The thug transferred his overhead momentum into a swipe at the Watcher’s stabilizing shin. It was a deep gash, cutting nearly to bone, the sudden pain bringing the Watcher down facefirst. 

It was all he could do to roll over to avoid the blade stabbing down into him, clattering off the cobbles instead. He tried kicking at the thug’s feet and ankles to no avail. The thug lunged and mounted the Watcher, trying again to plunge the sword into his chest. The Watcher desperately grabbed the blade close to the hilt, thankful for his gloves to keep them from being sliced up. But he was bleeding, and his strength was fading. The tip of the steel edged closer and closer to his throat. 

Then the thug gasped, a violent sucking of air through his gnashed teeth. They parted to allow a bloody cough to spray onto the Watcher’s face. His grip failed, and the Watcher was able to wrench the blade from him and toss it aside. The thug collapsed on top of him, dead.

The Watcher, with great difficulty, pushed the thug’s corpse off of himself. Behind the thug he saw the woman, bloody bottle-shard in hand.

“No,” said the Watcher. He rolled the thug over to inspect the wound. “No, no, no.” He rose to his feet, then collapsed to his knees, forgetting his injury. He spun a quick prayer to Mara, and the wound started to close. “Girl, what have you done?”

The woman dropped the broken bottle, her face a wound in and of itself, a grimace of horror and shock. “I killed him. You were – He was going to kill you!”

“No!” screamed the Watcher. “I could’ve…I would have…You…dammit!”

The Watcher ripped off his mask and threw it to the ground, clutching his face with the other hand. But the woman saw.

“Brother Malcius?”

“Aye…No concealing it now. It’s over.”

“What do you mean?” the woman asked. “It’s…Mara, it’s over for me. I just killed a man.”

Malcius sighed. “No. I did.”

“That’s not –”

“The Watcher, Malcius Maralius, finally got carried away tonight, and killed a man. You weren’t even here.”

The woman ran to Malcius, wiping blood from his face. “Brother Malcius, no. Don’t do this. I’ll…it’s my fault. I shouldn’t’ve –”

“Run, dammit!” he roared, pushing her away as he stood. “Go home. It’s over.”

The woman sobbed. “I’m…I’m so sorry.”

“Mara forgives all,” Malcius muttered. “Go. Don’t run. Just walk. Like you were never here.”

She did. But once she figured she was out of earshot – she wasn’t – she started running anyway.