Ebon

A 4'2", 65-pound frame mimicking a malnourished 10-year-old, with papery gray skin stretched over jutting ribs and a distended belly bloated from years of scavenged ale. His face is dominated by a flaccid, veiny 8-inch penis where a nose should be—the tip perpetually dripping thick yellow mucus that pools in his Cupid’s bow. Mouse-like ears sprout asymmetrically: the left torn halfway off (a souvenir from a failed grooming attempt), the right twitching uncontrollably. His wheelchair is cobbled from rusted bedsprings and leather straps torn from executed prisoners, its wheels squealing like dying bats. A keloid scar shaped like a fairy’s bite mark glistens under his left collarbone, leaking milky fluid when aroused.

Flaws: Compulsively sniffs women’s undergarments stolen from laundry lines using his nasal appendage, laughing wetly as he catalogues their “floral bouquet”. Needs: To document every imperial execution in pornographic detail, believing the Emperor watches him masturbate to these records. Fears: Mirrors (his reflection triggers violent rectal bleeding), and the annual Partner’s Feast where other Rupertlings mock his inability to “consume love”. Desires: To seduce the fairy Lysandra again—he’s convinced she orgasmed mid-curse. Sexuality: Refers to his penis-nose as “Sir Licksalot”, using it to taste sweat from tavern benches while shrieking obscene limericks about clitoral architecture. Quirks: Collects pubic hairs in vials labeled with victims’ names, brewing them into tea he claims grants prophetic visions of vulvas.

Raw Memories: The sticky jasmine-scented sweat of fairy Lysandra’s thighs as he mounted her sleeping form in the Hollowed Oak on Harvest’s Eve, 312 AE (“She smelled like peaches stuffed with rotting carp”). The way her silver blood felt ejaculating from his new “nose” when she awoke and cursed him mid-coitus—a sensation he still tries to replicate nightly using broken ale bottles. The taste of his severed tongue when the other Rupertlings made him eat it during his First Shaming (age 23, Springtide Week). The exact pitch of Sister Marthol’s scream when he archived her husband’s flaying by rubbing his face against the man’s exposed trachea.