Sylvester

A ravishing and handsome, nearly to point of fainting the weak of heart, bi-pedal rabbit person. Light brown and tan fur, orange eyes, standing at 5 foot 9 inches, weighing approximately 180 lbs. Overall a lean presenting, long-ear Harengon a narrow face and while clearly of the humanoid variety, a distinctly animal-like face with a muzzle, whiskers, and sharp eyes. A broad, knowing grin plastered to his face, regardless of the encounter he finds himself in. He wears an indigo hood that encloses his head and rises around the base of his ears with the cloth having laced stitching for ease of removal. A leather cap lies directly below with a set of aviators-esc goggles. Sun-faded purples and blues layer over a quilted gambeson, reinforced with leather straps, metal buckles, and a battered metal pauldron on his left shoulder. Much of the materials of his outfit have seen their fair share of use, being frayed, scuffed, patchworked, and repaired. Where his left arm should be is a metal clockwork prosthetic, also having seen it's fair share of exposure. His other arm is mostly covered with a gloved hand to help protect him from the cold of the land he now lives in.

I’ve walked miles and further to get here, over cuts of waves and through the jagged existence these plains have to offer. A path I trode not in isolation, in fact I was brought here along with an unenviable crowd of ne'er-do-wells and miscreants. We played a simple song along the way, out of beat and bereft of rhythm nearly the whole damn journey. As iron chains do not harmonize well, it was enough rattling and clanking for one man’s entire life. A damn near half-year journey from Ijari’s Grove, all the while I resent the pace, the food, and the overall treatment at that, our captors tried to keep us from kicking the bucket but nonetheless more than a few of us dropped for the last time along the way.

In shambles we arrived at this frozen rock bereft of acceptable welcome. Hail and sleet I was told was the frozen kiss we had in store, just as we landed our feet in the summer snow of this accursed clime. I must’ve begged our harsh protectors a dozen-dozen times for my tools of joy, my implements of muse. Denied each time and more, we were to suffer more of this journey in groaning and moaning, percussion by the thump of horse hooves and a steady chop of wagon wheels, while our chains and fraying boots ensemble the howl of the wind as we marched and marched and marched north.

If you couldn’t tell by my pretty language and flowery disposition, I am a worldly hare of charm and vigor. Pinned to the walking chop-block of a crime I did not commit . . . well I guess that ain’t particularly true. I was involved . . . and I guess it was my idea but I was not the reason I was caught. That blame goes to my rotten ex-partners in crime, the Cornwallis brothers. A pair of dense Turtlefolk I should’ve left dead in the rolling hills some years back. You see, I tend to trust my gut on things and rarely does it lead me wrong, this had just happened to be one of those rare occasions. I thought those two could be trusted after saving them, but those yellow belly, red back, sons of a bitch kicked my world out from underneath me. A mark against me I won’t soon forgive or forget, I will have my revenge on those oathbreakers.

But for now my charm and vigor afforded me little luxury on this long damnedable walk, nearly sixty days of walking alone on this journey. Half a year's time with 8 hour days of trekking and backtrekking for what seemed to be for the sadistic joy of our jailors. What ended up being 2 months of my fur caked in ice and the sort of bone deep chill that turns your ears to glass. We were driven worse than cattle out of the verdant glade into a world cold and unforgiving, forced marches up jagged mountain passes where the air grew thin and the wind bit so hard a starving wolf would feel jealous. My legs, once who’d only known the blissful seasons of spring and bound for the glades, grew heavy as lead under the lash of our handlers. I watched men far sturdier than I succumbed to the frost, but spite is a powerful thing so I kept my nose twitching and eyes on the horizons. I hadn’t survived the briars of Ijari and worse to end up a frozen statue in a nameless pass. Freedom, though, is a dish served best at the table of chaos and often with a side of desperate luck.

Just three days shy of our destination, some godsforsaken labor camp at the edge of the world, the mountain decided it had seen enough of us. A minor rockslide, panicked horses, and a moment of blind confusion was all this hare needed. Slipping my bonds with sweat and grease, disappearing into the white before the first crossbow bolt could find its mark. Running until my lungs burned and my throat bled, doubling back through crags and following the frozen arteries of the lowlands until the smog and stench of the capital eventually rose to greet me.

Now I find myself as a Viscount of rats in the capital’s underbelly. A far cry from the velvet curtains of my youth, but a wily mind with a fey-touched soul never stays hungry for long. I’ve been spending my days squatting near the markets, spinning glamour to turn silver into gold or making goods seem worthless whenever I find something I want, just long enough to make the trade stick and for me to dip. If a mark gets too wise or the watch comes poking and sniffing, all’s it takes is a dash of silvery mist and a skulk into the shadows and I’m gone. I’ve kept good company since I won back my freedom, my Sprite, Locke, helps as a lookout some days. On others she’s my eyes, ears, mouth, arms, legs, and wings a veritable rack of hats for sure but our relationship more than works. She loves to pull tricks and those tricks regularly keep me afloat in this frigid waste. It’s a hustler’s life again, it's almost like I never left Ijari.

But just because I’m getting cozy here doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten that knife in my back. Those Cornwallis’s best keep their eyes wide open, they may think me dead, buried, or worse but this rabbit is still very much in the race.

Sylvester is someone who tends to think not that he is the smartest in the room or the most worldly but often he can be found assuming he is the most clever. Someone who's last expectation is to get caught doing what he shouldn't be, and if he is caught in the act, never one to think he'd face the consequences of his own actions. That way of thinking has bitten him hard in the ass at least twice, but the chances of him changing his way of thinking from that alone are slim to none. He treats strangers like they're a sentence or two away from being scammed or stolen from and has talked his way out of consequences shallow and dire more times than he can count.