Gender: 1
Race: Human
Height: 5'9"
Age: 37
Family: Mother dead, Father missing
Animals: none
Weapons: A wooden staff and two daggars.

Personality: He has survived on his own since he was a young boy of only 9. He knows how to obtain what he needs and to keep what he has. He is hard and silent. In battle, he prefers not to match strength with strength, or speed with speed but is calculating and cunning. He uses a staff instead of a sword, partly because it was his fathers, and partly because it makes one less of a target than swords and arrows. He is quick and accurate, and relies less on strength and more on his calculations. He is not invulnerable to the sting of arrow or the slice of a sword, but has learned how to prevent such inconveniences. He’s not a healer, but has learned a few tricks, partly from a kindly old lady who would take him in when he was sick or hurt, and partly from experience and having to survive, with or without an injury.

Appearance: Krisk is a man of 37 years from the land of Bree. He has striking facial features and a toned, but not bulky, body built on a 5 foot 9 inch frame. He has brown hair, with a hint of red, which reaches barely past his shoulders. His eyes are a blue that can be icy and cold, or warm and comforting. His face is clean-shaven every once in a while, but usually goes a few days without seeing a razor. His cloths are those of a man who takes what he needs and keeps what he likes. A dark green, smooth stone is set into a broad silver band that encircles his middle finger on his right hand. His leather trousers are a dark brown, and his shirt is aged white cotton with plain buttons. This is all but hid by a cloak that reaches for the ground, but stops at his ankles. He carries a wooden staff that was carried by his father to keep animals from the groves and to aid him on his journeys to and from the market.

History:

Bill Pickthorn grieved heavily when his dear wife of less than 2 years was taken from him. It was his own son who took her life, taking her breath as his own. In spite of his grief, he had a new son to care for, who he named Christian, and he worked hard to provide all he would need. Bill hired a nurse to care for the baby while he was harvesting hawthorns and brambles. The years went by and young Christian grew into a nice young boy. The nurse stopped coming when he was four and he started helping his father with the pies, jams and such. He proved to be a quick-minded boy and was making some of the more difficult pies when he had nine years. It was then that fate would deal him a shocking blow. Leaving his staff with his son to ward off animals that would eat at the grove, Bill left the house for the market to take his pies to Harriet Whitethorne, who sold them for him. Bill never made it to Harriet’s table, nor back to his son. Christian waited for his father to return until the sun went down, continuing to harvest to surprise his father when he returned home. He woke up to an empty house. Thinking that Ms. Whitethorne had invited his father to stay for the night, Christian rose early, ate breakfast, and began working even harder, trying to finish the south side of the grove before his father returned home. A week passed and his father was still not home. Christian could not make any more jams, pies, or anything else until he could get rid of the ones he had. On the 8th day since his father’s absence, Christian borrowed the neighbor’s wagon, grabbed his father’s staff and took his stock to Ms. Whitethorne. He was anxious to find out why his father stayed for such a long time. Reaching her house at a little after sunset, Christian knocked on the door of Harriet’s house. “Where’s Father? Can I see him? I made all of this stock myself, he’s going to be so proud!”

Harriet’s eyes grew curious. “Child, why would your father be here at such an hour?”

“He brought your shipment last week, Ma’am, I thought he stayed here with you,” the boy replied.

“He never brought last week’s shipment, and my customers have not been too happy about it. The Butterburs has a party last week and needed some of those pies!”

“He brought them! But he didn’t come back home.” The last words came with a quiver and ended in a sob.

“Oh my!” was all the old lady could let escape from her lips. At this, the boy ran, leaving his wagon and tripping over his father’s staff. He spent that night searching for his father, following the road he had traveled with his father many-a-time after the nurse no longer watched him. As dawn approached, he was able to see his home in the glow from the eastern horizon. He almost expected to see his father’s wagon half-filled with harvested hawthorns and brambles and his father starting on the east-side of the grove. His spirits sank as he came closer to home, where father was, where his life was. Now it seemed empty and cold. The warmth of the sun rising over the horizon was chilled as a gray cloud passed over the orange disc. He walked into the empty house, and into the lifeless kitchen. He looked in his fathers bed, hoping he had come home in the night. The bed still waited for Bill Pickthorn with its master’s indentation taunting the young boy, begging the boy to find his father. Christian collapsed beneath the weight of his sorrow and slept there on the floor beside his father’s bed.

He slept through that day and through that night and awoke the next morning. Knowing he could see better during the day, he followed the path to Ms. Harriet’s house again. This time, he strayed the path a little, fearful of what he might find. What he found was worse than any other image he could have seen: He found nothing. Reaching the old woman’s house again, he found his father’s staff that he had dropped and tripped over two nights ago. Seeing that he had enough daylight, he returned to the path and searched again. He continued this: sleeping by his father’s bed at night, and walking that path during the day. Every few days, he would have to harvest and prepare the pies, jams and preserves in order to survive. Eventually, he began to live off of his fathers trade only working two days a week. As the years went by, he slowly began to sleep further and further from his father’s bed. The path he searched grew larger, and his craft became less domestic. He began making many different foods from many different plants and animals that he would hunt and gather, all while searching for his father. He searched all of Bree-land by the time he was 20. The years continued to go by, and his search became less about finding his father. He was living the only way he knew how. He still owned his father’s land, but rarely visited it. He roamed Bree-land until he had seen it all. He had many adventures, but he had no one to tell stories with.

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