Once known as Luckmonger
| Age 27 |
| Gender Male |
| Origin Southern Ilica |
| Occupation Laborer/Drifter |
“And I would kill them all again. Twice as many. Five times. Ten. I would kill them all. I would kill you”
His life has never been his own. From the moment he was old enough to understand, his path was set. Tilting the scales, pulling Luck from where it pooled too thick and nudging it toward where it was needed. Bad Luck for those that had it coming, fortune for those who deserve better.
Or that’s how it began.
But power corrupts. To a mercenary, life has little value. Until it does.
There was a time when people trembled at the mention of his name. Luckmonger. Whispered quietly as a warning and a curse. Because when he showed up, Luck changed. Horses stumbled. Men sickened. Supplies failed. Battles tipped before they happened.
He keeps moving. The world shifts, Luck settling where she must.
He’s lived on borrowed time and passing favors, never lingering long enough to belong. People don’t see him. Only what he leaves behind. A stroke of fortune, a turn of ruin. A blessing, a curse. Never a man. His own wants have never weighed enough to matter. It’s the work that defines him, whether he chose it or not.
Appearance
| Height 5'7'' |
| Build Bone thin |
| Hair Copper |
| Eyes Brown |
A short, ginger thing. Built lean by necessity rather than intent. Hardship sits familiar on his shoulders and the quiet way he carries himself. A mess of copper and auburn falls in uneven waves, halfshadowing a sharp face. High cheekbones and a narrow jaw. Sunmarked by the than of fields rather than one of leisure – the wear he carries isn’t from battle, but work. Calloused hands, frayed clothes, and strained shoulders.
His shirts remember being white, but they readily adopt the color of whatever road he’s on. Always too loose – always suggesting there had once been more meat to his frame. An old, worn satchel is still holding over his shoulder, but barely. Belt pulled together tight as it goes, it remains low. Cause there isn’t anything to grab onto.
Lean, bordering on gaunt, but not desperate. Someone who never expected much, and has learned to get by on even less.
His shirts remember being white, but they readily adopt the color of whatever road he’s on. Always too loose – always suggesting there had once been more meat to his frame. An old, worn satchel is still holding over his shoulder, but barely. Belt pulled together tight as it goes, it remains low. Cause there isn’t anything to grab onto.
Lean, bordering on gaunt, but not desperate. Someone who never expected much, and has learned to get by on even less.
Personality
Fate, or whatever her name, doesn’t give a damn about him. Still lingers closer than she should, leaning Luck his way. Never enough to be untouchable. But he does slip through cracks no one else sees. A ratfuck, forever elusive. Just another annoying pebble in everyone’s shoe.
But the coins still land as they must, and blades still miss as they should. Never calls it shroud, but feels it all around. Just another part of the mess.
Luck is not selfish. Not really. Fragile little thing. Bit of glass balanced on a knife’s edge, on the back of a cricket trying to hold onto melting ice. She likes the chaos – a thing every cricket learns with enough time. And as she pulls from one, she gives to another. With years, Trevor has learned how to nudge her this way or that. Inches of intention without wrecking the whole thing.
Isn’t really a thing anyone would notice. But he does. He always does. A blade sharper, a field more plentiful, a rock looser… it matters not. There is always another road to take just as he’s ready to give up. But there’s always an invisible cost somewhere. Even when he doesn’t see it, he knows – someone else will take the fall.
So he keeps his head down, does the work. Tends the animals and turns the soil. Time comes and crops grow. And if they don’t, well…
Land too can be tilted.
But the coins still land as they must, and blades still miss as they should. Never calls it shroud, but feels it all around. Just another part of the mess.
Luck is not selfish. Not really. Fragile little thing. Bit of glass balanced on a knife’s edge, on the back of a cricket trying to hold onto melting ice. She likes the chaos – a thing every cricket learns with enough time. And as she pulls from one, she gives to another. With years, Trevor has learned how to nudge her this way or that. Inches of intention without wrecking the whole thing.
Isn’t really a thing anyone would notice. But he does. He always does. A blade sharper, a field more plentiful, a rock looser… it matters not. There is always another road to take just as he’s ready to give up. But there’s always an invisible cost somewhere. Even when he doesn’t see it, he knows – someone else will take the fall.
So he keeps his head down, does the work. Tends the animals and turns the soil. Time comes and crops grow. And if they don’t, well…
Land too can be tilted.
Skills
Luck manipulation
Minor foresight
Minor foresight
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