Name: Mister G. Harlowe. Don't forget the Mister, it's practically his first name. Don't call him Mister Harlowe, either. Everyone who knows him, even his friends, apparently call him "Mister G. Harlowe".
Role: THE MENTOR. In the loosest sense possible, he's a rather shit mentor.
Sex: Male.
Age: 67
Description of Physical Looks: G. Harlowe is a shriveled old bastard who stands at about 5'8" fully upright and tips the scales at around 185 pounds. His hands are comically large in proportion to his arms, his knuckles swollen and fingers twisted with arthritis. His hair is curly and of middling length and his beard is meticulously, almost religiously, trimmed and maintained. Although the majority of its color has seeped away to the dull grey-white of old age, there are a scant few reminders of the brown that it probably was several years ago scattered throughout. His eyes are tiny and beady, sunken deep into their sockets, and so frequently covered by sunglasses that no-one is entirely sure what color they are (common consensus points at them being brown or grey, though). He's very out of shape, as evinced by his paunch and his general lethargy--he never seems to be standing on his own; always casually leaning against something or sitting down or lounging, never in any sort of hurried motion. His style of dress is eccentric and dated, but in an oddly charming sort of way; he likes corduroy and velvet, turtlenecks and wide-lapeled sport coats, and he is almost never seen, even at night, without his sunglasses.
Description of Personality: A man who deeply values his privacy, almost to the point of hermitage, G. Harlowe can come off as standoffish, curmudgeonly, rude and socially unacceptable. For the most part, this is an accurate perception. That said, he is also exceedingly clever and, though he can be rather brusque about his expressing it, the people he care about will rarely hear a dishonest word from him (although this can sometimes be a negative quality). He is easily annoyed but slowly angered, and woe to those who do manage to anger him, for he can hold a grudge longer than most people live. He is neutral about his Scriber abilities, finding them a useful but sometimes rather inconvenient ability. He tends to be a rather logical man, and doesn't usually allow emotions to force their way into his decisions (a side effect of his being a Scriber). He tends to mostly eschew human company, with the exception of his maid Clotilde and his parakeet, James.
Reasons for Alignment: Scribers need to learn how to control their abilities before they harm themselves or someone else. Otherwise the world would dissolve.
Relations?:
- Clotilde: His live-in maid and the closest thing he has to family.
- James: A clever little bird who shares G.'s disinclination towards people and incredible lexicon of insults and curse words.
- Aspen: The young Scriber girl. She'll have to learn rather quickly, won't she?
Writing Sample (REQUIRED):
Summer. What a dreadful time of year, honestly. For many months of the year, Vermont was a lovely state, but when summer finally rolled in, it became absolutely dreadful. It wasn't the heat, no--G. Harlowe had known heat before and found himself tolerant of it, in the same way that he was tolerant of the cold when it came. It was the choking, stifling humidity that always killed him. During the summer months, G. Harlowe sometimes found himself struggling to draw breath, as though he were being held underwater. This was not a sensation that he particularly enjoyed, and as such tended to spend the majority of the season curled up in his drawing room with his air conditioning turned to its lowest setting and a dehumidifier rattling and humming away on the opposite side of the room.
Today was one such day, with G. Harlowe in his study, reading the daily news. He did this mostly out of habit, having little stake in public affairs beyond his occasional venture to a restaurant or store (Clotilde was usually dispatched to do the shopping), but today seemed to be an exceptional day. G. Harlowe got premonitions sometimes when he looked over the news, knowing that a day was going to be exceptional because of the first few headlines he had turned up. His premonitions were usually correct, and sometimes led to surprising encounters or adventures, which G. Harlowe derived a peculiar sort of amusement from. Today, once again, his thinking was spot on.
Calpin. String of murders. No apparent pattern, and no identity. Normally he would have cited police incompetence on such an article, but something about this felt... Familiar. It felt like the mark of another Scriber.
With unusual speed, G. Harlowe moved out of his room and into the dining room, where Clotilde was clearing the remains of his small lunch. "Clotilde," he said in rushed tones, "Pack my things and charter a flight to Calpin, double-quick please. There are matters there that require my attention."