Janus
| Age 26 |
| Gender Male |
| Origin Free States |
| Occupation Inventor, Quartermaster, Cazadore Trapper |
The light was peeking in from underneath the door again. Father had arrived home later than usual, and from the sound of it, he wasn't pleased. Without thinking, I held my breath, knowing I'd get the rod if he found me still awake at so late an hour.
It was useless, my insides began to burn almost immediately, the sting of a thousand needles in my throat causing me to choke and cough up a copper-tasting fluid. Groaning, I rolled onto my side, attempting to hide my head underneath the ratty blanket. I saw the light fill the room, heard the door creak open.
"Janus."
No rod... Not yet anyways. Cautiously, I turned. Did not speak.
I was never to speak.
"We have guests in the morning. The Viscount and his wife. You have to be up in about four hours to move your things to the cellar, you know that. You can't sleep in because you want to stay up all evening doing..."
That pause was more terrifying than any strike upon my flesh. I didn't need to see his face to feel the anger in his voice.
"What... is this, boy?"
Feigning ignorance, I peered up to follow his gaze. I knew what he meant, of course. With the light from the parlor leaking into my dark little closet, it was impossible to miss what I'd done to the walls. Pipes, fashioned from scrap metal stolen from brother's workshop, travelled from floor to ceiling behind me. Above, I'd dug holes in the ceiling with my fingers, tapping into the small line Father had routed from the town's well directly into our house, at great expense, and feeding it through the pipes.
It looked bad, but it wasn't finished yet! I opened my mouth, my voice hoarse and gravelly even a year after I was given a clean bill of health.
"I...I thought m-maybe... I get th-thirsty when I'm in the cellar and--"
Defending myself wasn't the right move. The pain of a boot against my ribcage reminded me of that. I whined, curled up around my now aching abdomen and tried to find my breath once more, coming only in strained wheezes.
"Hold your tongue, boy! I tolerate your habit enough as it is, I will not have you meddling with my home, do you understand me? I give you a bucket to take with you, do I not? I let you sleep on the mat, do I not? You repay my niceties by what, destroying my walls? Poking holes in my ceiling?"
Even if I wanted to answer, I couldn't. Words had left me once more, and the sharp dagger of agony sliding between my ribcage with every breath I struggled to take left me little more than a heap on the ground.
"This all needs to be gone by morning, Janus. I'm taking your tools away, as well, until you learn how to respect property."
A whimper left me, and I squeezed my eyes shut, his footsteps receding back toward the still open doorway.
Another pause, then he spoke again, now in a tone I hadn't heard in a very long time.
"I'm... I'm sorry, boy. I know it isn't much fair to you. Not your fault you're touched in the head. I hope someday you can understand why I can't have people knowing about you. Truth of the matter is, would have been a lot better for both of us if you'd died when you were supposed to."
"Whoa. What is that?"
"Oh, it's something the new guy made for me, pretty neat lookin' huh?"
"That Janus kid? What does it do?"
"Supposed to set things on fire with the press of a button, all I gotta do is point at what I want to burn. Only has about three charges in it though."
"You mean to tell me you brought a fire-shooter-thingy and you made me go in the damned nest first?!"
"Hey, to be fair, I have no idea if it works. I've been to scared to try it, and Janus wouldn't answer any of my questions about it"
"Yeah... guy is a little bit of an odd duck, ain't he? Ever since he showed up, just stays cooped up in that workshop, doing gods-know-what. Dunno what the denmaster sees in him, but apparently he's been doing alright so far."
"Well, he does really know how to sharpen a blade. Did my knife last week and I cut clean through a gnoll from front to back like it was butter."
"No kiddin'? Tell you what, this nest still needs torched. Let's see what this doo-dad can really do, yeah?"
"Oh, it's something the new guy made for me, pretty neat lookin' huh?"
"That Janus kid? What does it do?"
"Supposed to set things on fire with the press of a button, all I gotta do is point at what I want to burn. Only has about three charges in it though."
"You mean to tell me you brought a fire-shooter-thingy and you made me go in the damned nest first?!"
"Hey, to be fair, I have no idea if it works. I've been to scared to try it, and Janus wouldn't answer any of my questions about it"
"Yeah... guy is a little bit of an odd duck, ain't he? Ever since he showed up, just stays cooped up in that workshop, doing gods-know-what. Dunno what the denmaster sees in him, but apparently he's been doing alright so far."
"Well, he does really know how to sharpen a blade. Did my knife last week and I cut clean through a gnoll from front to back like it was butter."
"No kiddin'? Tell you what, this nest still needs torched. Let's see what this doo-dad can really do, yeah?"
Appearance
| Height 5'9 |
| Build Lean |
| Hair Blonde |
| Eyes Green |
Janus is a lean, fresh-faced young man, perhaps looking a few years younger than he actually is. With striking green eyes, smooth skin, the sort of disheveled blond hair that looked less “fashioned” and more like he’d run a grease-streaked hand through it, and a frailty to his thin frame that mirrors the delicate nature of the strange contraptions he creates. one would be forgiven for dismissing the idea that he could ever hold the title of a Cazadore; somebody willing and able to track and hunt monsters for coin.
He dresses in the layered, practical garb of a tinkerer: a loose, open-collared shirt for ease of movement, a well-worn leather vest bristling with loops, buckles, and pouches, and trousers marked with the scuffs of workshop life. Metal clasps and tools dangle from his belt like charms, each one kept within quick reach. Leather gloves cling to his hands, the leather darkened at the fingertips from oil and soot.
He dresses in the layered, practical garb of a tinkerer: a loose, open-collared shirt for ease of movement, a well-worn leather vest bristling with loops, buckles, and pouches, and trousers marked with the scuffs of workshop life. Metal clasps and tools dangle from his belt like charms, each one kept within quick reach. Leather gloves cling to his hands, the leather darkened at the fingertips from oil and soot.
Personality
At a very young age, Janus contracted a debilitating disease of the lungs that left him bedridden for several of his formative years. He did not speak until he was nearly ten, and did not interact with other children until he was fourteen. Even when he eventually recovered from his ailment, an uncaring and abusive family often forbade him from speaking or leaving his room.
As such, Janus has always struggled to connect with others, the loss of that critical time of his childhood leaving him unable to recognizes social cues and norms.
As a result, Janus prefers to spend much of his time alone with his work, finding solace in familiarity and isolation. That isn't to say Janus is impolite or improper when forced into a social setting: He is extremely well-mannered and polite, though sometimes far too blunt for his own good. There is a small stammer to his speech, stemming both from the lasting damage done to his lungs as a child, and the ironic smoking habit he's picked up since joining up with the Malcazadores.
As such, Janus has always struggled to connect with others, the loss of that critical time of his childhood leaving him unable to recognizes social cues and norms.
As a result, Janus prefers to spend much of his time alone with his work, finding solace in familiarity and isolation. That isn't to say Janus is impolite or improper when forced into a social setting: He is extremely well-mannered and polite, though sometimes far too blunt for his own good. There is a small stammer to his speech, stemming both from the lasting damage done to his lungs as a child, and the ironic smoking habit he's picked up since joining up with the Malcazadores.
Skills
"If it’s broken, he’ll fix it. If it’s not broken, he’ll still take it apart just to make it better."
"You could hand him a box of rusted nails, a wine cork, and a busted spring, and somehow we’d have a working crossbow by sundown."
"Quiet one, that kid, but his eyes are always moving. I’ve seen him notice a fray in my bootlaces before I did — and I’ve been wearing those boots for six years."
"Don’t let the cough fool you. He’ll walk through hell with a toolkit strapped to his hip if it means you get out alive."
"Knows more about monsters than most of the loudmouths telling tales by the fire. Won’t tell you unless you ask, though."
Confined to his bed for much of his early life, with those boundaries only eventually expanding to his room, Janus spent his long hours of isolation tinkering and experimenting with the leftover scrap his elder brother, a blacksmith, often left strewn about the house. In time, he fostered a prodigious talent for craftsmanship and design, beginning when he devised a crude indoor-plumbing system for his bedroom.
Once he was finally free of his confinement by his family, Janus sought a way to use his talents to better the world. Through coincidence, his work caught the attention of a Cazadore; a hunter of all things beastly and evil. Through their direction, he came to join their ranks as a Trapper, with some Cazadores taking to his work so well that they deigned to consider him their own personal quartermaster.
His chronic illness kept him indoors for much of his youth, giving him time to study bestiaries, hunter journals, and maps. This gives him a library’s worth of monster-related knowledge, though he supplements theory with what the Malcazadores teach him in the field.
Because he’s reserved and used to being overlooked, Janus often notices small details others miss; a fray in a bowstring, a hunter’s gait signaling an injury, or unusual signs in the environment that suggest a monster’s presence.
"You could hand him a box of rusted nails, a wine cork, and a busted spring, and somehow we’d have a working crossbow by sundown."
"Quiet one, that kid, but his eyes are always moving. I’ve seen him notice a fray in my bootlaces before I did — and I’ve been wearing those boots for six years."
"Don’t let the cough fool you. He’ll walk through hell with a toolkit strapped to his hip if it means you get out alive."
"Knows more about monsters than most of the loudmouths telling tales by the fire. Won’t tell you unless you ask, though."
Confined to his bed for much of his early life, with those boundaries only eventually expanding to his room, Janus spent his long hours of isolation tinkering and experimenting with the leftover scrap his elder brother, a blacksmith, often left strewn about the house. In time, he fostered a prodigious talent for craftsmanship and design, beginning when he devised a crude indoor-plumbing system for his bedroom.
Once he was finally free of his confinement by his family, Janus sought a way to use his talents to better the world. Through coincidence, his work caught the attention of a Cazadore; a hunter of all things beastly and evil. Through their direction, he came to join their ranks as a Trapper, with some Cazadores taking to his work so well that they deigned to consider him their own personal quartermaster.
His chronic illness kept him indoors for much of his youth, giving him time to study bestiaries, hunter journals, and maps. This gives him a library’s worth of monster-related knowledge, though he supplements theory with what the Malcazadores teach him in the field.
Because he’s reserved and used to being overlooked, Janus often notices small details others miss; a fray in a bowstring, a hunter’s gait signaling an injury, or unusual signs in the environment that suggest a monster’s presence.
Art Credit: Gianmarco