Florian Edelweiss
| Age 31 |
| Gender male |
| Occupation Denmaster |
He'd had a family, once: mother and father and two older siblings. His mother was a serious woman who ruined her eyes needling lace for rich ladies two towns over. His father fancied himself an undiscovered weaver, even though the man was just a pig farmer with a knack for predicting the weather. And Florian, a pig farmer's son.
This big thing came through and tore up all their pigs, one summer. It left grimy spots of blood in the hay, a cloven hoof here and there. Nothing else, nothing left for market. There were Cazadores passing through, but when Florian's father asked them for help, they laughed him out. Only copper to his name, and he couldn't even write a contract. Florian hated the Cazadores for that. But he hated his father more.
It was a long walk to the nearest den. The Wayfarer moon lapped him three times along the way. Kelpie's Crossing, it was called. No more than a shack in the middle of a marsh. When he recalls the memory, the smell still lingers in Florian's nose: three phoenixes strung up out back, already plucked. Burnt ozone and grief weeping from their wounds. The Skinner washing blood off feathers, and laying them out in the sun to dry.
He stayed with them for as long as it took. Odd jobs at first. Then they let him do the butchering. One cazadore, who they only called Dodge, felt sorry for him and lent him a sword. Shouldn't have done that. Florian never gave it back.
Years passed. Florian kept walking and got a little further than Kelpie's Crossing.
And the big beast that ran off with the pigs? Well, he never did find out what it was.
This big thing came through and tore up all their pigs, one summer. It left grimy spots of blood in the hay, a cloven hoof here and there. Nothing else, nothing left for market. There were Cazadores passing through, but when Florian's father asked them for help, they laughed him out. Only copper to his name, and he couldn't even write a contract. Florian hated the Cazadores for that. But he hated his father more.
It was a long walk to the nearest den. The Wayfarer moon lapped him three times along the way. Kelpie's Crossing, it was called. No more than a shack in the middle of a marsh. When he recalls the memory, the smell still lingers in Florian's nose: three phoenixes strung up out back, already plucked. Burnt ozone and grief weeping from their wounds. The Skinner washing blood off feathers, and laying them out in the sun to dry.
He stayed with them for as long as it took. Odd jobs at first. Then they let him do the butchering. One cazadore, who they only called Dodge, felt sorry for him and lent him a sword. Shouldn't have done that. Florian never gave it back.
Years passed. Florian kept walking and got a little further than Kelpie's Crossing.
And the big beast that ran off with the pigs? Well, he never did find out what it was.
Appearance
| Height 5'10 |
| Build Lean |
| Hair Red |
| Eyes Gold |
Yes, there's the burn scar across face and chest. Puckered ripples of skin grown back rough as lichen. Curly red hair is as kepmt as it ever gets, grown long enough to cover the scarring on his scalp.
Florian gets into his hunting gear when he needs to, but most of the time he's in something light and airy.
Florian gets into his hunting gear when he needs to, but most of the time he's in something light and airy.
Art Credit: meeee