Inquisitor hungry for Fae power.Seeming:
Manikin | abstracted body made of porcelain in varying statesCourt:
Intelligence 3, Wits 3, Resolve 1
Strength 1, Dexterity 3, Stamina 2
Presence 3, Manipulation 3, Composure 2 Skills:
Crafts 2, Investigation 3, Occult 2 (Oneiromancy)
Firearms 1, Athletics 1, Stealth 1, Survival 1 (Navigation)
Empathy (Detect Lies) 3, Persuasion 3, Streetwise 2, Subterfuge 3Merits:
Mantle (Autumn) 1, Danger Sense 2, Fast Reflexes 1, Resources 1, Meditative Mind 1Contracts:
Fleeting Autumn 2, Spellbound Autumn 2, Dream 1Wyrd:
Harvey always wanted freedom. Freedom from expectations, authority, and responsibilities. The kind of freedom that he believed only came with power and wealth, two things that were lacking in the rural town he grew up in. In himself, he lacked the drive to do the legwork and dirt digging it took to achieve that power though superficially appropriate means. He had no interest in politics, finance, or business. His interests were in secrets. Secrets of men, the mind, nature, and realms beyond.
As a boy, he spent much of his time hunting ghosts and monsters in the forests and abandoned buildings around his home. He would bring along his BB gun and shoot the beer cans and whiskey bottles left by drifters and teenagers. He’d climb and swing from trees. He would sprint home just before dark, tempting real danger but never quite finding it. It was all training deemed necessary by an imaginative boy, but something he eventually grew out of. By age 19, it was time to exercise the mind.
He flew the nest and wound up in San Francisco for art school. The golden era of hippies had faded by the time he reached the city in 1975, but new age ideas and ancient mysticism lingered. Paths of enlightenment were open for exploration. He worked a part time sales job at a clothing store, discovering his knack for manipulation and persuasion. At school, he cultivated inspiration through folklore, dream theory, and ancient artwork. His far-out ideas on the meaning of life and death attracted all manner of lost souls: street kids, burnouts, college students, and wanderers. With a little more charisma and insanity, he could have started a cult.
After graduation, his sculptures and paintings weren’t selling and he had few practical skills for the workforce. He became a carpenter, and eked out a living while struggling to afford food, rent, books, and art supplies. While at a construction site in the hills of Marin County, he discovered a small cave in the bedrock. Something inside was glowing green; no one else noticed. Finally, a worthy mystery had found him. He threw his shovel aside and crawled through with a grin.
What felt like eons later, he returned. His flesh had turned to porcelain. When he moved, his joints ground together like a mortar to a pestle. The ephemeral memories were few but horrific. Dragged through thorns, the agony of the transformation, the inability to move from the giant shelf where he was put out on display, and the grinning being that held him prisoner were all faint but searing flashes in his mind.
He remembered the escape. Left outside, the rain softened him up. He crawled, then walked, then ran as far as he could. The forest around him started out totally alien, until he found the Hedge. The memory of the thorns inspired him to maneuver through. He emerged, bloody and torn, on the other side. He recognized this forest; his childhood home was only a mile away.
Harvey checked his reflection in the irrigation water. He looked like some post-modern nightmare
. Deeper in the water, he saw his mask: still him, still human, but middle aged
. Had he been gone that long? Mom and Dad would be able to recognize him, right?
After debating whether to find out or not, Harvey skulked up to the house. He rapped at the door and his mother answered. “It’s me, Ma…Harvey. I made it back!” he cried out, a cold tear welling in his eye. Of course, the Harvey she knew was 29 years old and lived in San Diego with his expectant wife. The man in front of her looked like a hobo and if he didn’t leave, her husband would shoot him. The Changeling previously known as Harvey complied, left with a sunken feeling in his gut. He fell to his knees and slammed his fist on the driveway pavement. Little black cracks webbed through the smooth glazeware that now composed his hand and wrist. It was 1985. He had only been gone five years, and someone had claimed his life without skipping a beat.
In the time since his escape, Harvey works as a con-artist and small-time drug dealer. It pays better than the type of menial jobs an older gentleman can get without any significant experience or proof of existence. He still knows what makes people tic, but polite conversation has been difficult. He often feels more kinship with vases and toilets than he does with humans. There is little place for him in the mundane world. The affairs of Changelings and the Fae are his new interest, his new salvation, and possibly his destruction. He joined the Autumn Court a few months ago to learn all he could. His talents, hunger for knowledge, and disregard for personal safety shined. He was given a task to prove his worth: investigate the murders in Europe.