Nikolai Garrick
In a run down, insignificant little section of the metropolis. . .
On an out of the way, forgotten street corner there stands a ramshackle little shop. Inside it is filled with all manner of curios and antiques. The store is owned and run by one Mistress Emelda, a human lady of indeterminate age. There is a small room over the store that she rents out in order to increase her small profit margins. It is to that room that our journey shall take us. . .
Round behind the building, crammed in the alley way between the antique shop and a house of ill repute, there is a rickety stair case. Up these stairs and behind a rather solid looking door, equipped with some heavy duty locks, lives Nikolai Garrick. We can find him hunched over a small desk littered with grungy flasks, bottles and other containers filled with long abandonded experiments. . . or long forgotten meals. There is a small dresser, a poorly made bed and a large collection of bookshelves. Mismatched, old, battered and often patched together with whatever was handy, the shelves have obviously been scrounged from whatever was available. Still they contain a large collection of books, journals, notes and scraps of paper covered with an illegible scrawl.
Nikolai himself is a withered old gnome, short to begin with and then hunched over even further. He is wrinkly and wiry without an ounce of excess anywhere on his body. A shock of white hair surrounds his head in a disorganized fringe. Bleary eyes stare out from behind a thick pair of spectacles. His clothes are ill washed, ill fitting and ill used. Splotches of ink speckle his fingers and hands, and even occasionally his face when he has been chewing on his pen nib, forgoting that it was still covered with ink. For all appearances he seems to be a doddering old man, barely capable of taking care of himself. But should you become the object of his attention, you may notice that he isn't as weak as he might seem, that he sits a little staighter, and that the eyes that were lidded and weary now reveal a sharp intellect.
Of course Nikolai wasn't born an old man, although he will never admit it. Once he was quite young and sprightly. He lived a happy childhood in one of the better parts of the city. His parents worked as servants for one of the richest families in the area. The work was steady and paid well. . . and so the Garricks were able to afford a tutor for their young son. Nikolai proved to be a quick learner with a real thirst for knowledge. He read everything that he was able to get his hands on. He grew up staight and tall. . . for a gnome anyways. Upon reaching his majority he soon found a position with another family, working in a private library cataloguing books. He met a pretty young gnomish lass working as a waitress at a nearby restaurant and they soon hit it off.
Things happen as they will. . . marriage and then children. Nikolai had two children with his wife Fanna. His firstborn was a son, Nikolai the younger, and then later a daughter, Marta. He doted on his children and strove to raise them as well as he had been and to provide for them as best he could. However, neither of his children shared his passion for learning, and as much as he loved them, there was always a touch of dissapointment. Nikolai and Fanna entered their middle years happy and secure, watching their children grow up. Nikolai the Younger began working down at the canals, loading cargo and Marta married and moved away to a distant area of the metropolis.
One particularly warm summer the fevers came through their part of the city. So many people crowded into such a small space, and diseases spread quickly. Nikolai was left unscathed, but he was forced to watch his beloved wife and she wasted away to the sickness. He withdrew into himself after she passed and rarely spoke to anyone. He was surly and ill-mannered in his dealings with others. His son called him on his behavior, but instead of improving the situation it caused a huge arguement between them. Their shouts and incriminations could be heard down the street. The next day Nikolai the Younger boarded one of the boats at the dockside, and was never seen by his father again. Following this Nikolai became even more withdrawn and bitter. He had harsh words for everyone he dealt with, and eventually angered the wrong person. It does not do to snap at one's employer, and so Nikolai found himself alone and unemployed.
He sold off his home and everything in it that reminded him of his family. He carted off his books and rented a small room above a little antique shop in a lower end district of town. He lived off the proceeds of his sales for a while, but as his money supply dwindled he began taking odd jobs. People were by and large idiots, he found, and often needed someone to do their thinking for them. He wasn't much of a salesman, and never lost his short temper and bitter outlook, but he was cheap enough that those in need managed to put up with his excentricities. He managed to make enough money to keep himself in food and to feed his few hobbies. The occasional old book, some alchemy supplies and tinkering with the odd trinket here and there. Things to keep his mind occupied.
He was never rich, especially since whenever he had a little extra cash he would go to a local tavern, buy ale, get drunk and regale whoever would listen with stories of his faded youth, some real and some imagined. However, even his small cash flow was enough to attract some attention in this part of town. It was after one such night at the tavern that he was followed home by one of the city's more desperate types.
It was dark in the alleyway, Nikolai was drunk and was never the steadiest of gnomes to begin with. He stumbled around a bit, and was feeling around for the stairs when he saw the glint of the knife. The rogue's first stab missed by sheer chance and Nikolai found himself face to face with a man ready to kill him for a few copper coins. Nikolai was petrified, he'd lived a comfortable secure life. . . nothing had ever threatened his life before. Something broke inside his mind, he saw a flash of light and then passed into oblivion. . .
When he awoke he was lying hunched over his desk, staring out the open window at a raven on the sill. That's odd, he thought. I don't remember opening the window. . . come to think of it, I don't remember making it upstairs. Slowly the memories of the previous night come floating back as he lies watching this raven on his window sill. He was just about coming to grips with his memories when the raven cocked it's head at him and spoke. Clearly, distinctly and in perfectly accented Lytic, an ancient dialect so obscure that Nikolai had believed he was the only one who knew it. "Geez, you look like crap."
When he recovered from the fall from his stool, Nikolai stood unsteadily on the floor of his apartment and looked at the black bird still perched on his sill. "What?"
Shaking his head to clear it, Nikolai stepped out his door to retrace his steps from the previous night. Sure enough, there in the alley lay the body of his would be assailant. Dead. More memories came floating back to him, a few words, a gesture and a cold blue bolt from his fingertip hitting the rogue squarely in the chest. Magic. The word seemed to roll through his mind. It was a topic often covered in his books, but he'd never had much dealing with it. . . now it seemed he would have to.
However, much to his dissapointment, magic did not come as easily to Nikolai as did other learning. Instead it came in fits and starts, with strange results. And along with his questionable talent came this damnable bird that wouldn't leave him alone. However, in the end Nikolai settled into his routine once again. His magic he kept to himself, but still studied. Perhaps there was a use for it. . . and even the bird wasn't so bad, at least there was one person who wouldn't abandon him like all the others had.
