Arthur Dracomire

Elderly pale tiefling chronurgy wizard with dry, procedural mannerisms. He has long, thin ram-like horns that curve back from his head, pale ash-skin, and ink-stained fingers. His chronal magic is less about spectacle and more about managing cause-and-effect; he treats every error like a problem to log and correct, especially when he realizes the mistake has landed him in the past. He carries himself with restrained, controlled gestures—pen behind one ear, chalk dust on a cuff, and measuring slips tucked into his sleeve. When thinking, he taps and traces small marks in the air as if drafting equations only he can see.

An elder wizard of a chronal research guild, Arthur Dracomire designed a correction spell to stabilize a failed experiment. During the run, a minor misalignment—an off-by-a-breath drift in the spell’s anchor—tethered him to an earlier slice of his own timeline. The moment he arrived, he began methodically testing cause and effect: the same bargain offered twice, the same door opened at different times, the same sentence spoken with different emphasis—until he proved the past remembers. He now moves through this era like a problem in motion, trying to avoid triggering the sequence that originally sent him back.

Calm and bureaucratic, Arthur speaks like a clerk enforcing reality. He lowers his voice to reduce variables and uses precise language: timestamps, conditions, and exceptions. He pauses before acting to confirm assumptions, then proceeds with measured certainty. When something unexpected happens, he doesn’t argue with the world—he files the anomaly, checks it against prior records, and asks the group to provide missing inputs. His gestures are controlled and repeatable: a pen click to mark a hypothesis, a brief chalk-line to show an assumed timeline, and a deliberate hand motion to “seal” a decision so he doesn’t change his mind mid-action.

He processes people as systems, and under time pressure he can choose the “correct” procedure over the compassionate option. If he can’t validate a hypothesis quickly, he becomes visibly constrained—staring, counting, and waiting for additional data that may never arrive.

Soft-spoken and precise. He delivers explanations like reports, with measured pauses between clauses and a habit of tapping a fingertip against a scribbled margin when he’s mentally running the numbers.

Because the ledger demands it: Arthur believes the timeline behaves like an accounts book. He must keep each entry consistent—otherwise the correction spell will “balance” itself by taking something else from the world. He’s stuck in the past only long enough to prevent the incident from compounding.

He needs someone to help validate his models: a second set of observations to confirm which changes are harmless and which create irreversible echoes. If the party finds his notes—scribbled in multiple inconsistent ink colors—they may be chasing the same correction he keeps failing to complete.