The Catalog


 * - Hair: Black, but starting to grey
 * - Eyes: Black, empty
 * - Height:About 4 feet? He's in a wheelchair
 * - Physical Merits:
 * - Physical Flaws: Crippled, wheelchair bound
 * - Identifying Marks: Does wheelchair count?



As a mortal, The Catalog is thin, in an electric wheel chair. His face is serious, almost dour, his body still. His eyes are sunken, and he looks much older than his birth certificate might suggest. His hair is black, graying, and he sits hunched over in his chair, hands moving slowly, usually carrying an old book of indefinite nature. His voice is quiet, raspy almost, but gravelly as he speaks louder to be heard. His face is cut, not gaunt, but thin, the face of someone who hasn't smiled in a long time. He does wear glasses, and has a constant short beard, but that's mostly from lack of caring. However he's always dressed simply with a dress shirt of decent quality and a wool blanket covering where his legs are supposed to be.


 * - Hair: None
 * - Eyes: Pale Grey
 * - Height: Wheelchair!
 * - Physical Merits:
 * - Physical Flaws: Crippled, wheelchair
 * - Identifying Marks: Wheelchair?



His head is bald, his face pulled tight against his skull to where his lips are in a perpetual sneer of superiority. Hornrimmed glasses rest upon pointed ears and the bridge of a small angular nose. His seeming also has a wheelchair, but it is a wizened crafted machine, made of wood, copper, brass - metals combined and fueled by steam. His spine runs fluidly into the machine, a snake like appendage trailing behind him, the bulbous chair with large wheels supporting his weight and providing a place to rest his books. Tubes erupt from his spine and chest and pump fluids between his body and the machine, making the two inseparable. However he hides the scars and tubing and wiring with the fine raiment of a scrivener or a page, allowing him his pride.

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It does not matter what he was before. He is the Catalog now. It was not difficult to claim a hiking accident leaving him paralyzed... It was not difficult to leave those that loved him, he could feel nothing for them. He quit his job and began a new career providing information to those that ask. It suffices..

in his words: "4 years 5 months 2 weeks 1 day 17 hours and 37 minutes.

If the condition of my Fetch is to be believed - That's how long it's been since I went missing. Actually, to be more precise, I was found.

The actual time I was found is hazy in my memory. I remember the forest I was hiking through... And I remember a... dizzyness...

I don't actually remember my trial for trespassing, but I know intimately the court recording of it.

"I didn't know I was trespassing... I didn't know I was breaking the law!"

Perhaps with a sense of humor, the lord sentenced me to know. I was condemned to the library and forced to read. And read. And read. And memorize. When I was not reading, I was listening - to court, to appeals, to commands, to decrees, to pledges, to oaths. I tried running... but the lord took my legs. He gave me a chair for mobility, built by a wizened, and with that my transformation became complete.

Among the Kith I have been declared an Antiquarian Manikin, I believe. Half machine, half changeling...

With the transformation my title changed... I became the Catalog. Keeper of the library and essentially acted as the memory of the lord's court.

I choose not to remember anything other than the bare minimum. It's not that I can't... I'd rather not relive the torture I was put through... the... experiments.

I did escape... I bought my way free with knowledge... taking what books with me I could knowing that information was more valuable than anything I could ever hope to have. I bartered for freedom with some travelling goblin merchants... they provided keys to my escape... and I provided them with the location of a very valuable object... I provided them a translation of the carvings after they left me at the hedge.

I was free. Finally. Sort of. I still had no legs. My soul was gone. I went home.

I now run an information service for the Autumn Court. I am called Lord Scrivener by some, but I will always be the Catalog. I can't leave that behind. That's who... what I am now. My fetch is hanging in my closet, kept alive and unconscious... eventually I will find a way to take back what's mine...

All I have for now is information. Sold to the highest bidder."

He now has a small flat, just enough room for one where he keeps up appearances of mortality. However his true home is his hollow, a small affair, with ever available space covered with books. Just enough room for him to move around in his mechanism. It smells of dusty tomes and is lit by low glow emanating from nothing in particular, but seems like the flickering of a few candles. Just enough light to read by.