People: The King, The Warlord, and the Prophet

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People: The King, The Warlord, and the Prophet

Post by Rackenhammer »

David Bree
(Formerly David Castillo)

Title: King of Maze
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Race: Mouse
Height: 5' 3"
Weight: 135 lb.
Eye Color: brown
Fur Color: White coat, light brown hood

Appearance:

Mice have a reputation for being smaller than the other rodent races, let alone the other foreign races, and for tending towards light, slender bodies with less muscle mass. Some might call them weak. These are stereotypes David Bree breaks to some small extent. He is an average height for a feilan and relatively tall for a mouse. While he is rather slender, he has a lanky quality to him, and he doesn't quite look like the mice around him. He's just a little wider on average, just a little thicker, just a little more muscular. Taken individually these would be minor variations on the theme. Taken together, they make David stand out in ways he rather wouldn't. His eyes are normal enough, though, being deep brown. His fur pattern is also normal to mice, being white all over save for the hood of light brown fur covering his head, face, neck, and the tops of his shoulders.

Apparel:

The King of Maze appears in public beneath layers of extravagant clothing he would just as soon do without. Deep royal velvet purples and reds and fine white seal fur and a gaudy golden crown and various other bits of jewelry and silver and gold paint the picture of a Monarch at the height of his power and importance. Of course, these things are piled onto him by wealthy landowners and dignitaries and owners of property and people and power- the same furs who plucked him from his happy life to preside over the accelerating collapse, the grinding of the one and only true Kingdom of Maze into fine powder. They do it to reassure themselves that all is normal and all will be well, because a King is on the throne.

Beyond the high court and the public outings and official functions and duties of kingliness, Bree is more modest. He is no stranger to fine fabrics and proper grooming, but he keeps the layers under three and maintains a more trim and athletic look of affluence about him. His usual attire are fine pantaloons and sleeved shirts in royal purple or deep red. He forgoes a crown, but does concede to wearing a royal pendant inlaid in gold around his neck.

History:

The history of Maze's illustrious King, unchallenged ruler of an ever shrinking slice of the kingdom along the southern coast, begins much earlier with his mother, Princess Anabel, daughter of King Adrian Bree and Queen Esmeralda. Few people recognize the name. Most people scoff at the claimed royal heritage. It is true that she was a daughter of the royal family, but it is also true that she was excessively unruly and defiant. Family will put up with only so much. Royalty will put up with even less. In the end it was a single night, a single moment of bad judgement, and a single carnal act with an uncouth commoner which condemned her. She was spirited away from Bree Palace, not cut off from support, but effectively disowned. Her name was stricken from records. Her likeness was removed from paintings, hidden behind fruit or furniture or beautifully rendered backdrop elements. For all intents and purposes, she ceased to exist.

Anabel was devastated. She fled Durango to escape the shame, and she changed her name to Anabel Castillo to cast off the remnants of her old life and the pain residing in the memories. As far as court historians are concerned, she'd dropped off the face of the world. As such, the only record of her travails comes from her word alone, a story doubted by some.

According to the princess, she spent many years drifting from town to town, city to city. She took on small jobs to earn her way, cleaning homes or working market stalls, weaving fabric, serving as midwife- generally industrious, and scrupulous about staying unseen as much as possible. Unfortunately beauty such as hers is not so easy to conceal. A young mouse in Quito, a fisherman, caught her eye. She tried repelling him, but he was persistent in his affection, and he soon grew on her. She was tired of living alone. They were soon married, and later she bore him a son: David.

The details in this part of the tale have proven impossible to verify. Oddly enough there are no records of a birth in Quito, nor even any evidence, solid or circumstantial, that Anabel was actually living there.

As the story goes, David was hardly two years old when a storm took the life of his father. Anabel wanted a better life for her son than a mere fisherman's widow could provide, so she brought him back to Durango and reconnected with her handlers. She did not attempt to meet her own parents or siblings. Her life had taken her places a princess would never find herself. Her old life was dead and forgotten. Instead she used the generous allowance bestowed on her all those years ago to buy a vineyard in a small village a few dozen miles from the city.

Anabel's son wanted for little. He was able to wander the fields at his leisure. He played games with the local boys. As he grew, so did his curiosity about the world. He watched the seasons pass and the grapes grow. He observed the lives of local animals and discerned the patterns to their behaviors. He read of great thoughts by great minds wiser than his own, and determined that someday he would add fundamentally to the knowledge in the world, of the world, as these great men had. The young mouse read ancient texts about performing experiments to tease hidden secrets from the world, and he began to perform his own. His future was one of natural philosophy.

That he'd had uncles or aunts or grandparents or any family at all other then his mother and deceased father never entered his mind. Anabel herself devoted considerable resources to shielding him from royal meddling. The murder of nearly the entire royal family came and went, but those were people David didn't know. He was David Castillo. The men bringing money to his mother were merely merchants and business furs with which she did business, nothing more. David continued his studies and experiments and continued to marvel in the majesty of the natural world around him.

As the last known vestige of the Bree family was engulfed and destroyed in the fiery collapse of Bree Palace, so to was David's chosen future. With Durango in chaos and the kingdom falling to ruin, the layers of security keeping Anabel and David isolated collapsed. Handlers and guards talked. The nobles and furs of high status- the ones who had the most to lose- listened. They tracked them down, plucked them from their idealistic life on the vineyard, and placed a crown on David's head- David, who was so poorly trained in matters political- David, who'd learned what little he knew from the stories of his mother casting the world of high society in the harshest light.

He was not without guidance. The furs of power who'd placed him on the thrown were forthcoming with suggestions; suggestions he was expected to follow. They wanted an ordered world where they could continue to enjoy their extravagant lives. They wanted to believe it had never left. They needed David to validate their own delusions. They needed a king on the throne.

David and his mother were moved back to Durango, where David has spent the past year watching the social fabric unravel beneath him, them, and all furs of power in the kingdom. He considered himself enlightened, a reformist, but the royal treasury was empty, and he was forced again and again by the nobles who bankrolled the kingdom into making reforms of the worst sort. He sought to bring Justice back to the kingdom, but it has always been out of reach, and as nobles take loans from one another and the kingdom takes loans from them, and then they all take bigger loans from each other to pay back those loans, the prospects of progress are receding from him more quickly than he can chase and the kingdom is descending into darkness.

Personality:

David Castillo Bree considers himself first and foremost to be a man of reason, logic, and philosophy, and as such he firmly believes that all the world's problems can be solved with sufficient study and thoughtful discourse, purposeful action, and analyses of outcomes. Unfortunately he has found himself in an environment which had previously been merely hostile to new ideas and was now down-right violent in the face of them. The new King is endlessly disheartened by the downfall the Kingdom faces, and constantly frustrated by the refusal of the nobility who are supposed to be under his command to carry out the reforms he proposes.

He prefers not to think of the Kingdom as His kingdom. Beneath the layers of clothing and cosmetics, he feels an impostor. He is plagued by doubts and does not think himself truly equal to the task placed before him, but he is equally determined to make some kind of difference for the better. It may not be His kingdom, but it is his home, and he does not want to see it totally destroyed.

The new King is frightened by Celia Galavez and her vast, endlessly growing armies, and equally frightened by Prophet Vargas and the near-constant stream of violent racist propaganda coming from the Iglesia del Santo Ratas. David is not a military man, he does not have a particularly strong strategic and tactical sense, but he knows that his advisers are not giving him an accurate picture of the state of the war. They claim always to be holding ground, or valiantly pushing the enemy back. Yet, every day thousands of mice and lesser rodents show up in the southern cities under the Kingdom's control, downtrodden and rank, carrying only what they managed to grab at the last seconds before fleeing their homes. The refugee camps swell without end. They have become a fixture beyond the walls of nearly every city.

The enemies are cause for concern, but even greater is the fear of what the Kingdom of Maze is becoming, for camps of a new kind are being constructed by the government under his nominal control. Rodents guilty of nothing more than being Rats are finding themselves confined into shrinking ghettos. The foul, overcrowded enclaves have begun to appear all throughout Durango. But, the rats make up a significant percentage of the population even in the south, and they constitute much of the work force. The cities have begun constructing camps in which they can be worked without fear of revolt or rebellion or sabotage.

There is some precedence in the old teachings for… some level of segregation and striation of society on racial grounds, but David Castillo Bree discounted all of these long ago. He played with rats as a child. Many of the other boys on the vineyard were rats. They were as much his peers as the local mice. In his teenage years his passions were not guided by the species of the girls around him. Now, loyal servants of the Kingdom- no matter the length of their service or the strength of their morality- were being rounded up like animals to be worked like slaves, without pay, without rest, and without mercy. It is a stain on his conscience growing ever darker.

He must find a way to wrest control from the nobles and put an end to this madness, if not for their souls' sake, than for his.

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Re: People: The King, The Warlord, and the Prophet

Post by Rackenhammer »

Celia Galavez

Title: Warlord
Age: 42
Gender: Female
Race: Armored Rat
Height: 7' 3"
Weight: 265 lb.
Eye Color: hazel
Fur Color: Reddish brown on flanks, head, back, arms and legs. Yellow-white on belly and thighs and underarms. Darker reddish-brown spines.

Appearance:

The Armored Rat as a race is an anomaly among the rodent races. They are large, powerful, formidable creatures standing at an average height of over 6 feet, and their spines only serve to increase their apparent size. Celia is not like her people. Armored rats are born large and grow large. Celia was born large and grew enormous. This armored rat stands at 7' 3" before factoring in her backswept spines which easily add another seven vertical inches. The slightly hunched, plantigrade posture of her kind does little to lessen the impact of her presence. She is 265 pounds of muscle and sinew and chitinous spines. Feminine curves are in short supply, but they are there for the fur with a keen enough eye to see them. Most feilans go some time before realizing that the person beneath the armor is a woman, with her voice usually being the first giveaway: rough- almost gravely- and measured, but feminine beneath it all, and occasionally soft. Her fur matches her brethren, varying subtly between reddish brown and rust colored along much of her body, with whitish yellow along her front and along her underarms and thighs. Her spines are sharp reddish-brown spikes between a foot and a foot-and-a-half in length and an inch or two thick at the base, jutting back from the top of her head and continuing down much of her back. She has a long naked tail like those of the lesser rats. Like much of her body, her face is a study in scarring. The history of battles and accumulation of prowess are displayed less as a matter of pride than as a form of intimidation. Her hazel eyes are sharp and deep and hard with a glint of thoughtful intelligence- and predatory cunning- usually present, but her stare can occasionally become a softer gaze.

Apparel:

Celia is a fortress of a rodent sheathed in heavy plate armor open along the back and spanned by specially crafted chain mail so that her spines, which serve just as well to protect her flanks and rear, may protrude through. The armor is unadorned save for countless scratches and marred surfaces. A bastard sword hangs to one side. Another bastard sword hangs to the other. Battlefurs sometimes doubt her ability to wield such weapons. They soon learn that she wields both. At once. Galavez is not so hindered by all this as a normal fur would be. She remains relatively mobile due to her great strength, but still relies on trusted flankers to keep enemies where she can get at them.

Off the battlefield she wears- the same thing. "Off the battlefield," doesn't exist. She and hers are at war, and war is everywhere, occupying everything, drawing in all aspects of life. She does make the concession of wearing a red silk cape off the back of her breastplate so that she might be more readily seen and recognized as the unchallenged ruler of her ever-expanding domain. She presumably wears less-cumbersome clothing in private, but few people see her in a private setting.

History:

Galavez was born to a farming family in the moderately-sized farming and fishing town of Seville, on the southwestern coast of Maze. She was the third born- the first daughter- and was followed by four more siblings in later years. She was a large infant compared to the rats and mice of Seville, but not unduly large for the others in the very small Armored Rat minority. She grew more rapidly than her two older brothers, and soon outpaced them. When they topped out at 6' 3" and 6' 7" respectively, she had already grown past 7'.

Much of her childhood was spent helping with the work on the farm- tending to the animals, mending clothing, and doing chores appropriate to daughters. Soon she grew bored with these and insisted on helping with the proper farm labor- plowing, planting, and bringing in the harvest. Her parents could hardly say "no," for they had doubts she would ever live the normal, expected life of a woman. Her size and strength dissuaded suitors, and her intelligence drove her in different directions. She worked the fields with her brothers and parents for a few years before longing for a greater challenge than pushing seeds into the ground for hours on end. At seventeen she tried apprenticing as a hunter, but she was too large and moved too noisily through the woods. She would never track game effectively.

For the next three years Galavez farmed and performed odd jobs for other rats in the community. As she did so, she began taking note of the tremendous social inequities afflicting them.

Sometime during her 21st year she was called on to serve as midwife and help to deliver a child, because an experienced midwife from the wealthy districts could not be found. The child did not orient correctly in the womb. A summoned healer never showed. The mother died horribly, and the child was expelled as a corpse. Though it was no fault of hers, Celia felt terrible guilt, and she proceeded to drown her sorrows at a local tavern. She cried not only for the child- it was only the latest trauma- but at the hopelessness of it all, of her life, her future. She felt doomed to the life of a farmer and a spinster all at once. Nothing in this world was satisfying.

A male patron took pity on her, or so she thought. She sought comfort, but he sought something else entirely. He tried forcing himself on her. She struggled. He was horrified to realize that she was far, far stronger than he, and when she got ahold of his sword she gutted him like an animal. He'd tried to flee at first, of course, but she'd learned something that night. Deer and elk are graceful and agile and beautiful animals she would never succeed in hunting, but men- and all feilans in general… they were slow, they were clumsy, and killing them filled her empty soul with satisfaction.

Unfortunately the townsfolk did not share in the exhilaration of her discovery. She was no longer welcome in the community, and she was no longer welcome in her home. Her parents had to make a living in this place and having a feared, even reviled offspring was not conducive to that. Celia understood this completely, and she did not blame them for the necessary sacrifice. The parting was tearful, but she had found something satisfying to her, and she finally felt she had some kind of future.

That future, from the age of 21 to 25, was hiring herself out to mercenary groups. Always the interviews went the same way. "You are a woman." "I could crush you like an insect between my thumb and forefinger." "You are hired." False bravado true enough, but it got the job done. For four years she served her purpose well. She solved irritating problems for furs with money and power, usually by bullying or dispatching other furs with money and power. Over time, however, her soul began to feel empty again. The exhilaration faded, because the deaths had no real purpose.

At some point two years hence Galavez found herself at the fortress-city of Duero at the edge of Kahunian territory. The city was in need of additional fighters to counter the rising number of lizard incursions across the border, to protect the Mazan heartlands from the reptilian plunderers and murderers. In this Celia found a purpose with real meaning, and she put her skills to good use. She spent much of the intervening years before the civil war here, fighting lizards, honing her skills, and earning new scars.

Many years passed.

Five years before the outbreak of civil strife she found herself in dire straights, having become separated from a skirmish line ahead of Duero and presently surrounded by lizard raiders. One other defender was there with her; a gerbil named Rolando. They fought their way back to the main line together, he using his speed and agility to maneuver lizards in front of her, she destroying them with her great strength. The tactic worked well, they escaped, and he soon became a love interest of hers.

Over the next three years they tried new tactics and taught them to any other soldiers who would listen. High statured nobles- mostly mice and other smaller rodents- would not. The various rats and the equally destitute gerbils would. Galavez became not just a proficient fighter, but a tactician and nascent strategist as well, using complicated maneuvers and feigns in conjunction with crushing frontal strikes to carve up, draw in, and defeat opposing lizard armies. The lizards had a crude, primitive, some might call "uncivilized" sense of honor. She occasionally met with their battlechiefs and warlords after battles, one warrior looking the other in the eye, acknowledging each-others' power and prowess. It was a simple system of honor from older times. She felt a great deal of respect for her opponents.

Approximately one year before the beginning of the civil war her lover Rolando was badly wounded in a raid. She carried him back to Duero and summoned for a sufficiently skilled healer to aid him. The healer never arrived. The mouse had been needed elsewhere, to tend to other furs of wealth and nobility. Rolando perished in her arms. It was as it had been years ago, when she'd held the dead infant in her hands, eyes full of tears for the child and it's dead mother, wondering why the healer never came. The healer never came because the mother had been undesirable and poor, just as Rolando was undesirable and poor, and just as Celia Galavez was undesirable and poor.

All around her she saw the rats and greater rodents living in squalor and filth, eking out a living on the outskirts and under the heel of high society. She saw mothers weeping, contending with an abysmal infant mortality rate for lack of decent doctors. She saw hundreds starving in their pitiful hovels. She saw a kingdom of nobles, a privileged few, living on the backs and blood and tears of countless hundreds of thousands beneath them. She saw a broken system, a system in need of change. She saw a new purpose higher still than her minor role in Duero.

Celia Galavez would protect Maze not just from the lizards, but from the "noble" pestilence within, and the foreign meddling without. She would protect Maze by bringing the Kingdom to ruin and replacing it with something Just. All she needed was an opening- an opportunity to set the plan in motion.

That opportunity was not long in the waiting. A terrible famine soon crippled the Kingdom. The glue binding society boiled away in conflict and the cities revolted. She rose to prominence, the Warlord from Duero whom even the lizards feared, a lowly class of rodent just as destitute and reviled as the peasantry, a formidable fighter, a brilliant tactician, a woman with a plan for a better future. The opportunity came, and she did not waste it. The endless underprivileged thousands flocked to fight for her. Provinces fell to her feet. Cities bowed to her or cowed to her or burned. The royal family burned to ashes in the fires of Bree Palace in a horrific attack still unclaimed by any party. But the house of Bree did not capitulate. It yet resists her armies.

Celia Galavez now divides her time between the new capital Salamanca and various battlefields to the south and west.

Personality:

When feilans describe Celia as "a frightening convergence of brutish strength and keen intelligence," they often put too much stress on strength and too little on intelligence. She is physically powerful, true, but this power is just another tool in her arsenal. Her strength grabs the attention of furs, but her mind has earned her the loyalty and following she enjoys, and her smarts go beyond simple cunning and battlefield tactics.

Celia is literate. She and Rolando taught one another to read and write during their time together. She is also fluent in the language of Kahun and has a passing command of Edwinish and Gawainian. The armored rat is not a verbose women, but she speaks and writes with authority and is able to get her point across sufficiently well that orders are followed properly. Furthermore she has made a point of having her most loyal troops and commanders learn to read and write Mazan passably. She isn't just capable of reading, but she enjoys it. She reads the great epic poems of the past. She reads treatises on natural philosophy from Maze's few great thinkers, trying to tease meaning out of the strange jargon. She has formed an uneasy truce with the Iglesia del Santo Ratas on the condition that they turn over to her any written material plundered from the holdings of the Trinidian Church. She occasionally partakes in other intellectual pursuits, dabbling in architecture most recently. Her life is war, but the war will eventually end, and the future of Maze- and Feila- will be built on knowledge.

Celia's few close friends and occasional consorts describe her as capable of great kindness and compassion towards those she trusts, and she is neither arrogant nor sadistic.

The Warlord is an unusual commander for her country in that she listens to advice and takes it to heart, she never turns suggestions away out-of-hand, and when she feels her mind is inadequate she seeks the aid of smarter furs than herself. Hers is the final authority in all matters, but it is an authority which insists on being well informed. For this she is well liked by the commanders and conscripts beneath her.

Galavez is also capable of making the tough choices. If thousands of her kindred must die to create their brighter future, she will not hesitate. If hundreds of thousands of innocent civilian rats must die, again she will not hesitate. She is very aware that the war is destroying much of the land and killing thousands, and she is very aware that these are necessary sacrifices. The twin forges of victory and defeat have tempered her resolve into hard steel.

Celia Galavez often talks of Maze's bright future, but that future has little place for the Mice and other lesser rodents of once-noble stature, and even less for non-rodent Mazans and non-rodents abroad. For generations the Mice have mismanaged the land and economy, leading to drought, famine, expensive and pointless wars, and widespread destitution, and the foreign lands have exploited their weakness with lopsided treaties and trade negotiations. Foreign powers have sucked Maze dry while it's leaders have been the only ones to reap any benefit. She carries a great deal of resentment for the lesser rodents and the foreign kingdoms, and she keenly awaits a time when she can reclaim all that was stolen, one way or another. As before, an opportunity need only present itself.

Her prejudice towards non-rats does not dredge to the same deep depths of racism as those espoused by her nominal ally, the Iglesia del Santo Ratas. However, so long as they remain useful, she sees no reason to antagonize the potent religious dimension of the popular uprising by trying to restrict the Prophet's racial violence.

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Re: People: The King, The Warlord, and the Prophet

Post by Rackenhammer »

Eloy Vargas

Title: Prophet
Age: 47
Gender: Male
Race: Black Rat
Height: 5' 6"
Weight: 140 lb.
Eye Color: slate grey
Fur Color: White coat, dark brown "hood", dark brown blotches, smaller light brown spots

Appearance:

The Black Rat as a race is thinner and lighter than their more muscular Brown Rat cousins, and Eloy is no exception. At 5' 6" he stands somewhat taller than the average rat, and his upright posture works to make him appear taller still. Most of his fur is a brilliant, clean white. Much of his head and face and part of his neck are dark brown. The brown fur separates into large splotches reaching down to his chest and shoulders. Smaller, fairer brown spots with clean edges mark his fur here and there throughout. The exposed flesh of his feet, hands, and ears is fair but tanned by the sun. His slate-grey eyes are soft but empty and often appear to peer right through people.

Apparel:

The Prophet does not dress the way most people would expect a Prophet to dress. He forgoes robes- intricate and ornamental or plain and shepherdly- for the loose, pocketed pantaloons and leather vests of a market-stall operator. He does not wear a shirt beneath the vest, leaving his arms and a strip of fur down his chest exposed. He does not wear footwear of any kind, nor gloves. He exhibits no body piercings or other ornamentation. He has never been seen to show an interest in new clothing while his current clothes remain wearable. Adherents insist that this is not a conscious choice of his- refraining from exhibition and adherence to fashion- but that he is so pure that the thoughts of such things never enter his mind. He is a mirror, they say, and he only reflects onto you that which is within. The souls of furs do not carry ornamentation.

History:

A great deal about Vargas' past is not known to the average fur, the fervent adherent, or even the Inquisitors. Most records from Tampico were lost during the massacre and the town's subsequent decay, and the prophet himself has never been seen to talk about such personal matters to anyone. What little is known is what the Trinidian Church and the House of Bree have been able to assemble from scraps of evidence and painstakingly restored documents.

Eloy Vargas was born 47 years ago to a mercantile family of black rats in the town of Tampico, in the northwestern brush-lands of Maze. He was the first-born son and eldest brother to two sisters. His parents were prosperous if not particularly wealthy, and he enjoyed an uneventful, presumably pleasant childhood. He apprenticed with his father and dutifully learned the sell-sword's trade over his teenage years. Records recovered from the undercroft of a local church indicate he married at the age of 29 and went on to father a daughter and a son.

Nine years ago a large contingent of 50 priests and priestesses in the Paladin order showed up to investigate rumors of a Romani army active in the town. These rumors and their source have never been substantiated. There was a small Romani presence, and market transcripts and day logs suggest the townsfolk were aware of them and did not consider them to be a threat. The Paladins and Romani met peacefully, however violence soon erupted, and over the course of the day what was thought to be the entire population of the town was massacred by those agents of the Church. This event became known as Bloody Friday.

There are no indications that the Prophet's parents, siblings, or children survived. They have never been seen with Vargas. It is also impossible to determine with certainty that they all perished.

All that is known is that he reemerged two years before the war as civil unrest and strife began to rot the Kingdom of Maze from within. Over time he turned up in many of the cities along Maze's trade routes; Alamos, Sequeros, Salamanca, Saragossa. He performed minor miracles, mended wounds, treated the quarantined sick when no others would, and tended to the elderly and poor. He spoke little, but his words carried great weight and impacted the impoverished communities composed largely of Brown Rats and Black Rats in these cities. He did not announce his travels and no records exist to indicate that he made use of way stations and inns along the roads. He seems to have spent long periods of time in the wilderness, moving from city to city, avoiding the trade routes which nevertheless appeared to be the focus of his activities. Captured adherents have insisted that, outside the cities, his presence is unknowable and he leaves no trails for trackers to follow. His followers developed communication networks to rapidly report on where and when he appeared so that they could join him and continue to learn his teachings and benefit from his skills.

These disparate networks organized into a coherent system as time passed. Those furs who had spent the most time with the Prophet were changed by him, and many would eventually take on the title of Inquisitor. A new church crystalized from the madness and violence of the pre-war months with the Prophet as the unquestioned head and the Inquisitors beneath him.

At present Eloy Vargas is seen most often in Salamanca, however intercepted communiques indicate he is planning to relocate to Alamos and build something there. The Paladins of the Trinidian Church believe he will oversee the construction of a cathedral situated at the geographical center of Maze where the southern and northern trade routes meet.

Personality:

All indicators point to Eloy Vargas having been a relatively normal person before the massacre of Bloody Friday, but that individual does not survive to the present day. The Prophet is unknowable. He does not make idle conversation. He does not attend social gatherings, and when his followers instigate social gatherings around his physical location he shows no interest in connecting with them on a personal level. He has shown no interest in women, no interest in men, no interest in drink, no interest in money.

The world abounds with cool, distant individuals. It has become clear to many outside the ranks of his followers that he is not like those individuals. Rather he is damaged in some way. Those slate-grey eyes are portals into something, but they are not gateways to a soul. Adherents describe him as pure and clean and uncorrupted by the world. He is a font of truth, a repository of teachings and knowledge. He heals the sick and cares for the poor not out of pity or passion, but because it is the only course of action, the only right way forward, the only proper state of being. He advocates the destruction of the Trinidian Church and the subjugation and brutalization of the smaller rodents- the mice in particular- for the same reasons, in the same hollow, dispassionate voice.

Eloy Vargas cannot be reasoned with. To do so is to assume that he could be incorrect. To do so is to assume that you could possibly know better than he. There is no arrogance in his voice. It is simply futile.

Abilities:

Vargas, like many furs, possesses some small magical potential. When magic abounds, the "miracle" becomes an ill-defined concept. The Prophet is exceptional not because he can mend wounded flesh and care for the sick without fear of infection. Instead it is his ability to sooth the mind and soul, to block pain by teaching one not to experience it, that is miraculous to so many.

There is something else at work beyond the realms of magic and ministration, something which terrifies his enemies far more than a minor miracle. His presence changes people over time. The power of his words stems from more than mere persuasion. The strong and large become stronger and grow larger, and many become Inquisitors. The faithful become adherents. Their strengths and loyalty grow, their weaknesses and doubts diminish. The Paladin order believe him to be touched by El Diablo, the fallen one. The House of Bree dismisses these claims and attributes the observations to persuasion and conditioning. Followers understand this to be a mark of true faith and use its absence among followers of the Trinidian Church as another indicator that the old church is a corruption of the true faith.
Be Humble in Yourself, but Adamant in the Truth.

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