Avarice

Avarice is on the taller side of five feet, just shy of ten inches, and she possesses the willowy frame to match - her legs are long, her strides prowling, and her slender fingers are usually tracing the brim of a glass of brandy or twirling one of her ash-grey curls absentmindedly. Her features are delicate, with down-slanted ears, a plush upper lip, and a small, sharply pointed chin. From sclera to iris her eyes are a deep, rich red, and lined with sleepless nights.

In better days, she liked to wear sleek gowns of scarlet or burgundy gauze shirts and ruby lips to match, often complemented by golden finery (less than legally acquired) and more jewels than her ears could support without drooping. These days, the only red item she wears is a spider silk bathrobe, loosely tied and falling off one shoulder or the other, under which she wears a nightgown for decency’s sake - on her left thumb and index finger are two plain bands of gold that never leave her person. She smells of the lavender soap she uses on her hair, the bergamot tea she drinks in the morning, the herbs she works with throughout the day, and the wine that puts her to sleep at night.

Every word that parts those inviting lips is as flat and listless as the one that came before; Ava is soft spoken. She’s also monotone. She comes across as distant and disinterested in her surroundings, often reading through unnecessary small talk during trades with clients or staring blankly into space. The only thing worse than her lack of vested interest is the presence of it. When Avarice focuses on you, her expression remains coldly detached, but her eyes become calculating - the same look she fixes on mushroom caps she’s dissecting. She’s not just distant - she’s guarded, distrusting. But she’s also not in the habit of sparing her time on things that don’t pertain to her, so ‘distant’ is still Avarice, in a single word.

Some things do pertain to her, however. She genuinely loves her craft, and can lecture for hours on the various applications of different compounds - how the leaf of the same berry that cures consumption can target the body’s lymphatic system and cause a slow death that mimics the symptoms of consumption (“Ironic, no?”). She’s fond of bawdry music, trashy literature, and tacky porcelain animals, all passions she shares with her son, for whom she’s toned down her alcoholism.

On that matter, she cares deeply about her family and those she lets close to her heart - it’s that intense loyalty that’s made her so guarded, after being burned by it so many times. Despite a mean streak a mile long, she’s surprisingly good-humored; Avarice maintains an illusion of vapidity while keeping mental notes on the faults and vices of the people she surrounds herself with - for safety’s sake, you understand - but she’s forgiving and understanding of those faults, aware of how time and circumstance can turn one down paths they weren’t prepared for. Despite her name, she’s incredibly generous when the mood strikes, trading desperately needed cures for labor or favors, or simply goodwill when she’s financially able to do so.

Before she changed her name, Grethel belonged to a wealthy family of apothecaries - to be specific, apothecaries who dealt in poisons and recreational drugs rather than cures - who built their small empire in the black markets of Darkveil City. Unlike her studious older sister, who wilted away in the dark, musty gloom of their laboratories, or her ambitious younger brother, who spent decades spinning a web of far-reaching contacts and career-destroying blackmail, Grethel’s only contribution was a set of experiments on her own immune system, methodically consuming every psychoactive ingredient in their inventory and documenting the effects.

Grethel knew everyone on the block, and forged an invitation to every public gathering she hadn’t been expressly invited to. Grethel enjoyed a good joke, in bad taste, at others’ expense, and in the wrong company. Grethel had been in knife fights, even though she was a half-decent mage. Grethel fancied herself glamorous and exciting. She was still adept at worrying her parents well into her sixties, but darker clouds were on the horizon.

Her brother had threatened the wrong person, and overnight the family lost everything - farms burned, stores vandalized, matriarch assassinated on the west balcony of their estate. The family scattered to the wind, and she hasn’t heard from any of them in decades. She and her children might be the last leg of the Avaris clan, for all she knows.

She changed her name and traveled South, then East, changing hats as needed. She’s been a bandit and a smuggler as many times as she’s been a mercenary and healer, but she spent most of her time collecting ingredients and working under village cunningfolk in exchange for food and hearth. By the time she made it to the Moonglade, Avarice put away enough money and favors in different corners of the globe to live as hedonistically as she had before (as long as she continued to live in inns). It was enough for her for some time.

Almost two decades ago, she met a cattish little wood elf who was very vain about his hair. Now, he’s gone from her life, but she bore a child who didn’t adapt to her itinerant lifestyle as well as she’d hoped. She’s pulled her funds and invested in a small shop in Eclipse City - she knows she’ll never provide as stable a home for Lloni as her parents had for her, but then, he’s of a much gentler disposition. With luck, that will balance things out.