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Catsmeat's Character Compendium

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The Druid




"Mens sensus prudentia intellectus cogitatio."


Name: John Roman

Title: The Druid

Race: Human*

Age: 42*

Sex: Male

Height: 6'1"

Weight: 166lbs

Hair: Brown, sleek

Eyes: Brown, keen



Roman stands tall, and is handsome if gaunt, with slicked-back brown hair framing somewhat hawkish features.  His keen brown eyes may evince the intense scrutiny that his prodigious intellect is capable of, but besides this his features are often studiously blank.  He wears bespoke outfits for nearly every occasion, often favoring a grey wool herringbone three-piece suit and matching flat cap, with either walking stick or umbrella at hand.


Known in some circles as a reserved, though eminently-polite, high-society gentleman, John Roman spends as little time as socially possible at the various parties and gentleman's clubs that his peers expect, preferring, it seems, to spend his time either in his expansive library or touring the world for weeks at a time.  In much smaller circles it is known that Roman's library is full of occult tomes and items of which he is impressively knowledgeable, and that his frequent world tours are spent either procuring more, or alternately attending and hosting lectures on their origin and meaning.  Known only to a very exclusive few, Roman is the current iteration of the druid - a magical being of unrivaled discipline and ability who uses both his innate skills and impressive collection of magical items in his battle to keep this world in balance with the other realms, both higher and lower.


As the druid, Roman is gifted with a millennium of occult knowledge and power, passes down to him from every prior iteration, and as such is one of the more versatile and skillful mages on earth.  Along with the collective knowledge of his forbears, the druid's mantle diminishes for Roman many human failings such as hunger, exhaustion, disease and aging, at the cost of human triumphs such as fraternity, compassion, love and progeneration.


Seen In:

The Kirpan Dagger



The rain had started just minutes before the two set out -- a poor omen for the night's task.  The taller of the two, handsome if gaunt, wore a gray tweed overcoat, the collar upturned so that it overlapped the flat cap pulled low across his brow.  In one gloved hand he carried a flashlight; in the other, a shovel.  Beside him walked a shorter, wide-shouldered man wearing no coat, his white dress shirt sticking translucent to his skin with the rainfall.  He handled a pick-axe and a satchel.  The two walked in silence, their breath rising as heavy fog.  The tall man's flashlight beam bounced up and down the gravel road ahead of them, then scaled up a locked gate as the two approached it.  The gate was as wide as the road, after that it became a stone wall in each direction, sturdy enough to stop an automobile, and high enough to dissuade climbers.

"You care about noise?" the wide-shouldered man asked, regarding the chain locked about the gate's bars.  "I suppose not," the taller man replied.  "The dead don't wake that easily."

The coatless man nodded, dropping the empty satchel.  He brought the pick-axe down with a powerful, two-handed overhead swing, striking the lock cleanly, popping the shackle from the body.  Each man grabbed a wing and pushed, letting the chain slink along the bars before dropping to the gravel.  The graveyard was small but not well-kept, as though the proprietors wished to forget their estate.  No gravestone was free from ancient, clinging vines, and the two men had to cut each stone free to examine the name.  Realizing the onerosity of their task, the taller man handed his flashlight to the other, advising that they split up.

"Guess you can see in the dark too, uh?" the wide-shouldered man grumbled, rain falling freely from his bald head, down his dour features.  His voice rumbled with the chesty congestion of a deep-set cold.  The taller man shrugged, and went his own way.  Nearly half of an hour passed, bringing the time around 2:30am, when the wide-shouldered man called out -- "John
!" -- in a harsh, carrying whisper.  "Roman!  Found him!"

The druid appeared beside the grave suddenly, silently, and the other man jerked involuntarily, surprised.  Roman 
crouched easily, and peered at the gravestone's markings.  "Well done, Henry.  'Mr. Bruce Archdeacon -- 1856-1892. Precious Lord take my hand.'  A fine epitaph."

"Settle for it on my own," Charles Henry
 agreed.  The two men set to work, Henry's pick-axe breaking loose the soil, Roman's shovel taking deep bites from it.

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