#cubiskel

THE CHANGE ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. 225+ SPECIES. Cubi FACTION. N/A OCCUPATION. Alchemist

It had all started with a prayer. If you lost the crop then you’d have lost everything, taxes didn’t care if the winter was harsh and if a plague was rampant. They were what they were and if you didn’t provide then you needed a backup plan. You had Freyr in all his wisdom, god of wealth and harvest, you made an altar to him and left your offering. Nothing caught the attention of the divine quite like pain and sacrifice, so you bled some of what little you had left upon the cairns you’d stacked and you begged your patron for good favor. He listened. That year your fields yielded a crop that were without equal, but when Freyr came to you in a dream he asked for more, he wanted his altar satiated once more. This time the blood of your first born, a daughter couldn’t inherit Iskaran lands, you had an heir still, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Cubi. Cursed by Freyr to live without aging, you watched your children grow and had to leave them behind before you aroused suspicion from the neighbors. Suspicion that would have brought the Witchers upon you. Someday your soul would be bound for the Abyss but there were whispers of magic in the new sciences, so you studied, you were raised without an education but you had years ahead of you now. Your calloused hands began to stink with the rot of alchemy, but you did not care, you would do whatever it took to rid yourself of Freyr’s curse, to escape the Abyss, and to uncover a remedy of the soul. Two centuries later and you were close too, then Aetheron attacked. In Lysara you could rebuild for a time until you could return to Iskaldrik, return to your lab, and finish what you’d started so long ago.

CONNECTS

THE LIE: Keeps hidden/protected in exchange for services.

NOTES

TQH: Troupe 1 - Refugee

THE FALLEN ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. 30+ SPECIES. Cubi FACTION. Astorian Royalty OCCUPATION. UTP

Before the One God in Astoria existed, there were the gods that the Vanguard would call pagan. Your father was a King, and his greatest mistake was failing to publicly dismiss the worship of anything but the One. Heretic. Devil Worshipper. You were still young when you heard what the devout had begun to say. The advisors told the King that these things happened from time to time, that the fad would pass and all he needed to do was find ways to distract the masses. Public executions, great games like the Lysarans, and their gladiatorial competitions. If the people were entertained and busy, they wouldn’t have the mind to revolt. You saw how things didn’t pan out that way, saw the coup and your father’s bloated corpse as blade after blade was jammed into him. They’d come for you next, but you were lucky; you were spirited away, and in the dead of night, you prayed to any God that would listen. You prayed that your father would come back, you prayed that he would walk again; you made your offerings, you’d do whatever you had to. In a miller’s farmhouse within Astorian plains there was a scratching at the door, you feared to answer it but still you did, cracking it open to see the loose skin hanging off of the man you’d called father. Back from the dead, a wright that could walk but do more than groan with hunger. A God of death had answered your call and set your own desire upon you to prove your devotion, you couldn’t kill him, but another did, and you were cursed for it. Incubus and prince of a nation that would kill you before they followed you.

CONNECTS

UTP

NOTES

ASTORIAN HEIR: Living under a false identity

THE WISTFUL ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. 25+ SPECIES. Cubi FACTION. Merchant's Guild & Nightingale OCCUPATION. Perfumer

Orphan child. Lysaran with ambition. You didn’t come from much of anything; you lived on the streets of Eterna and scraped together the meager existence that you called a living. Just a kid that could have died in the gutter where you were born, but by some miracle a knight of the realm looked down at you and lifted you up high enough so that you could say your name without any shame attached to it. Squire without a house, you’d never be a knight, but that didn’t stop you from admiring them, one in particular that you fell for without much thought. You were together, and you loved them, but they weren’t happy - they couldn’t be when you had come from so little and asked for so much. So, you did what any Gods-fearing individual in love would do, you prayed to Cupid that set things right. You prayed that the two of you would be happy together, and you left offerings at the feet of the God’s statue to be sure of this. Your God answered when your trist extended, happiness didn’t equate to love, and while they were happy with you they fell in love with another. Seemed a damn shame, so when Cupid placed an arrow at your bedside, it was apparent what He wanted you to do. But kill the Knight you loved? Even if they’d abandoned you, you couldn’t do it; you should have believed the stories of scorned Gods because your negligence earned you a curse. Cubi. Your adjacency to nobility to date had you rubbing elbows with them still, enough to scrape together the coins to build a life, enough to hear the gossip and pass it along to those who needed it. Merchant and nightingale, cursed and damned to the dark, what stories do you have left to tell?

CONNECTS

THE LOST: Gossip moved from prison to the ludi

NOTES

Perfumer: Owner of Knight's Nectar in Eterna