Winston Graves (Last name given due to occupation)

Personality: Caretaker of the Rathma Graveyard. Utterly serene in the face of disaster.

Bond: Caretaking of any graves or dead.

Ideal: Knowing one's self and the purpose of self.

Flaws: An unhealthy and open fixation of the dead.

Dependent on his investigation or perception of the recent or long dead ... Winston will prop the dead into positions of the activities that the dead regularly did and use Thaumaturgy to have them act out 6 seconds of their activity.

Left at the church as a baby/toddler.  No knowledge of his family.

Southern sounding / passive disposition.

 Dusk fell. “Winston, stay here for a moment.”, said the blur of a memory of a face to the over 4 year old boy. “Okay.”, Winston said with a uncertain trusting smile. “It’s getting cold and I am shivering”, Winston thought. He sat in the mist of a passing night rain on the steps to the door of the church of Rathma. “Where are they?”, said in a weary state. He stayed there until another man he knows to this day with a colder touch came out after opening the door. “Come in boy, we have food for you. You will have to earn anything else. Winston enters and the doors shut behind.

   Winston was an unwanted addition to the order. They used him. They scorned him. Winston was sent as an errand boy until he was about 9 years of age. He was given duties burying the dead that came for their forever rest at the graveyard.  Day after day, hole after hole. The work was exhausting, but he had a home. Winston knew nothing of his family and survived.

   It was when he was 12 to his knowledge, he started his path to who he is today. A long day of nameless bodies and markers for forgotten people. He made his way to the simple empty unused tomb the church gave him for shelter.  The tomb was in disrepair, not worth fixing.  “Let the wretch stay there”, Winston remembers hearing on more than one occasion. His eyes heavy Winston drifted off. “You’re an interesting little one…”, a voice came to Winston’s ear. Winston bucks up and looks around. Scared, he does not sleep. “Did I actually hear that?”, Winston thinks to himself and checks to see if it windy for any explanation.

   It was an occasional lost of sleep for the next 5 years and when he was 17 that things become frequent.  The voice is regular.  He hears in the grave holes when he is deep in them. “Keep going little one…”, the voice says in a haunting fashion, “give the dead their home until they are needed again.”.  While Winston was strong willed, the voice challenged his mental well being.  No one to talk to. No one he would truly call a friend. Winston was alone, rarely leaving the graveyard. Again, in a grave.  “This ground is harder than most.”, said the sweating digger. *CLINK*. “What the hell is this?”, he digs with his hands and uncovers half of a face? Or is a mask? Half a mask. Cupping the nose and eye openings. Nothing else. “Take it little one, you deserve it more than they do.” An alabaster half mask. Wiping the dirt from it he puts in among his satchel. Another grave and another night. “They aren’t truly done yet little one. You know this one.”, the voice again. “You know they farmed, let them farm again.”. Winston positions the body kneeling as if it was tending to the ground.  Climbing out of the grave he hears it… “Go on little one, I want you to do this one.”. Winston feels the tingle in his finger tips.  The body moves slowly for a few moments.  Skin and bone cracking as the body motions as if it was planting. Winston quietly becomes enthralled and fixated with his puppet. As it moves so slowly, he buries it. “That was very good little one.”, the voice in a praising fashion. 

   Before his 18th year, he spots some of the acolytes leaving late at night.  “Follow them.”, the voice wills.  Winston follows them in the pitch night.  Tripping, but not being seen. The figures unearth bodies from some of the other grave yards and bring them back to the graveyard of Rathma. “These are not of my flock little one. Those bodies belong to other gods, they are useless to me.  This is not my will. Let them continue, but do not partake.  They are useless to me.”, sternly the voice imposes in Winston’s head. “I will reprimand them in my own way.”, the voice says with a skewed tone, “Use the gifts I have given you and more will come.”.

  Shortly after turning 19 and nothing has changed. The haunting fatherly voice time to time churning in his head. “Come into the temple”, an acolyte beckons Winston with. “What now, I have my work to do.”, Winston says while clenching his shovel. “Go little one, see what they have for you.”.  Winston drops what he is doing and climbs out of the grave. He enters the main hall. A group of people he doesn’t recognize. “What?”, Winston barks.

Voice Notes: Winston has a southern accent (much like his mother) and is always very stoic. Very rarely do you hear any emotion behind his voice. He becomes particularly giddy when speaking to his deity, and only shows stronger emotions when confronted with the history of his family. He is very much a loner, and was reluctant to join the party in the first place.