Personality

Brutus’ work often takes him from the capitol, and it’d be easy to say this was intentional. He’s direct to the point of rudeness, choosing to cut through niceties to get to the core of the matter. While occasionally a respected trait, he often gets no thanks from the villages he’s sent to aid. Despite this, he’s generous, happy to share his campfire and rations with whoever comes his way. Brutus enjoys company, though his blunt words might drive them away. Parties call to him and he will gravitate to the center of any celebration, happy to imbibe and make merry. Despite his brusque nature he’s often patient and can take a deal of annoyance before the slow simmer of rage boils over and he erupts.

WC: 126

History

Brutus was born in a small village in the countryside of Nymene. His father, a former soldier, had fallen for his mother on a campaign, and upon victory had returned to her village to wed. The state offered a modest pension and they set up on their own holding, a few acres and farmland for her to tend while he was off abroad. So Brutus had scarcely known his father, only the pretty trinkets he returned with and the rigid discipline his father brought with him.

Most of his youth was tending to the farm, too much of a responsibility to allow for too much childhood in between. In the scarce moments he found for play he’d travel to the foot of the mountain that bordered the village, seeing how far he could scale before he grew too tired and was forced to descend. One time he pushed farther than he had before and spent the cold night in the mountain, cowering under a log… and at daybreak he sprinted down the mountain and to his mother, who yelled and then hugged him in relief. Since then, he’d had an uneasy relationship with the dark.

Just at the breaking of his adolescence he finds something new within himself. A great rumbling within his chest, and a certain awareness - sense of self in place. The earth, so solid before, seemed malleable. With brow furrowed he could focus, disturb the ground beneath his feet. Create little fissures. Work on the farm grew easier - when there were no prying eyes he tilled the dirt with mind alone, churning the loam as he planted. One day his mother sees this, pulls him aside, and whispers fervently - ‘never do that again.’

Brutus knew the fear. Those quick glances villagers would give each other, fearful of hidden talents. As superstitious as Nymene was, this village believed it more violently than the next, and had run off other villagers in the past - or worse, beaten them from life. But promises have a way of eroding and Brutus found himself up to his old tricks, shifting the earth becoming second nature.

But this time his father saw. And he grabbed Brutus, horrified, and dragged him to the ground and stomped Brutus until he was bruised and bloody. His mother tore his father away and threw him in the house, distracting him with drink, and giving Brutus a meager stipend and a poultice and begged him to run for his life.

So he did. What could he do? Tending his injuries, slowly limping to the next actual city he begged for work in the streets. Eventually a restaurant owner took pity on the scraggly thing and hired him as a dishwasher. It was humble work and it came with a small room, allowing him some small amount of freedom. He worked in peace for a few years, ego still bruised and memory following him. He’d seen the true fear the Nymenians felt for mages and kept quiet, glad the cobblestone streets muffled the call from below.

Except the past has a way of following you. Out one day, back from a trip to the market, he hears his name in a familiar voice - and when he turns around, dread creeping in his heart, he sees one of the villagers. They’re staring at him - and then they cry out, calling him a witch, growing violent. They rush him and memory slams Brutus to the past - his father, kicking, nearly killing him - and he whites out and the great earth screams through him.

A great fissure, splitting down the street pulls in all walking, buildings sliding along the edge and down into the abyss. Brutus snaps back to himself, head screaming, light blinding - and realizes what he’s done.

For the second time in his life, he runs. With no money to his name he’s forced to scrape along, begging, stealing what he can. Along the great coast of mirror bay. He was stuck with this curse and he knew only in the halls of Namarast could he protect the others around him. Finally, he fell on their doorstep and begged sanctuary.

A timid thing in school, Brutus feared his own power. He believed himself a murderer and saw the faces of those he killed every night. But memories can fade, and as he spent more years there he grew comfortable. Never one for book learning, he excelled in practical training. Quickly he tamed his emotions, smoothing them over and only letting the earth quake when he chose. He found compatriots as well, sampling the nightlife of the city.

In his twenties, he was sent to the neighboring woods to find raw materials. Along the way he heard cries of distress, and upon following them he found a fellow forager trapped under a slick bank of mud that had fallen from atop a great hill. Focusing, he channeled that mud, pulling it apart until the poor forager could crawl their way out. And there, Brutus found his calling.

Brutus’ assignments took him on the road. He was sent to save villages from natural disaster, earthquake and landslide. Or for public work projects, to smooth roads and part dirt to ditches. This became his calling within the order, spending barely a few days in the city until he was sent out again. It became a penance, to pay back the lives he had taken in the past. One soul at a time, to tip the scales back in favor.

WC: 925

Earthspeak