BERGAMOT
-
I miss the kiss of treachery
The shameless kiss before I feed
NAME
Simon Gillespie
AGE
Nearing his 30th birthday.
SPECIES
Undead
HEALTH
FunctioningALIAS
The Herbalist
TITLE(s)
None of any validity.
HEIGHT
5'8"
ALIGN.
EvilGENDER
Identified in the eye of the beholder.
Responds to he and it.
TEMPERAMENT
Choleric
ELEMENT
Earth
SCENT
Strongly herbaceous, primary notes include sage, basil, and lemon verbena.OCCUPATION
Traveling "doctor" and purveyor of remedywares.
LOCATION
Fluid; wanders.
ORIGIN
Everywhere, nowhere, he'll never tell.
VOICE
Lilted, midrange. Pleasantly accented.
APPEARANCE
The Herbalist wears a cloak. It is dark and plush and deeply scented with herbs, more akin to a large woolen blanket than anything. It is decorated on it's edges with stitching of mushrooms and brown leaves, bare branches and beetles. He is never without it, the hood always pulled up and nearly fully shadowing his face; it is a tool of concealment for him, and comfort. Adorning the hood is a woven crown of herbs decorated with two twig antlers. Under this cloak, if one has the misfortune to ever find out, he wears very simple, dark linen clothing and a pair of large, ancient boots with little green leather laces. He wears a thick belt on which he hangs his bag, a crooked dagger, and a few other small pouches with secret contents.
Not tall but not short; his stature is in no way intimidating. His body type is nearly indeterminable from looking at him but it can be assumed he is quite thin. His hair is brown and the length varies, sometimes bald, sometimes poorly shorn, sometimes long (if so, it is pulled back with a strip of cloth). Black eyes; black sclera, black iris, black pupil, like an insect. Long, thin nose. Twisty, crooked mouth that appears smaller than it is when it is closed. His teeth are a little bit crooked, but fairly healthy and unrotted, contrasting sharply with a black tongue.
Personality
Tricksy, tricksy, tricksy. His charisma is fake, that of a born conniver, sardonic, nearly sarcastic but he does it just right to be horribly, rancidly persuasive. His compliments are saccharine, he plays to what he thinks people want to hear about themselves, validating their egos to get them to do what he wants which is generally to pay him a handsome sum of gold for a cure. The cure for that thing that has been ailing them so long, plagueing them; he has it, for a price.
Beneath this cloying mask, he is rancid to some deep, deep part of himself that he does not allow to be seen by those he truly regards as nothing more fat fleshmonkeys that hurt each other. No one is the same as he, nor will they ever be; he is alone, in himself, for ever. The only pleasures he derives from life are plants, insects, figs, sharp cheeses, and watching his plans develop and reach their intended end without hiccup. He strongly, deeply dislikes human beings for their low-eye'd, sheeplike nature and their tendencies to be horribly selfish and cause nothing but intricate webs of problems for each other out of this selfishness. The hypocrisy here is lost upon him; telling him as much will achieve nothing because he does not regard himself as one of them. He is something separate, and better.
Very skilled at making the things he does and knows it and has full and utter trust and faith in his own intellect; it is not possible for him to make a mistake and if he does, it is for certain that it is because of someone else or some impossible-to-know, freak spontaneous act that did not result from himself.
The singular thing he feels tenderness in this world for is his beetle farm. He regards the little poisonous beetles as his children and refuses to use them as ingredients for his concoctions, instead keeping them as pets or, in his perception, small companions almost akin to a family.
I leave you with photographs, pictures of trickery
And stains on the carpet and stains on the memory
