Name: Mr. Mallone-Devond / Age: 260 / He/him / Half-elf
Mr. Mallone-Devond is a solicitor and records keeper. He has an uncanny ability to track down and find anything and anyone - a skill that he regularly hires out to others.
Appearance:
Mr. Mallone-Devond is 6'1'' and incredibly lanky, his arms and legs seem almost too long for him, and he is somewhat gaunt. He has bright ginger hair and scruffy beard which only contrasts with his sickly almost grey skin. His brown eyes are so dark you can't really see his pupils. His overall appearance and demeanor is rather unsettling but in a way many can't put their finger on.
Background:
Mr. Mallone-Devond was orphaned at a young age after his mother died in childbirth and his father died in The Red Marsh Uprising. He grew up as a pickpocket, eventually making his way as a young teen to the streets of Garavant. There, he caught the eye of two local solicitors, a Mr. Mallone and a Mr Devond, from whom he gets his name. After their untimely death, he took over their business as well as starting some less scrupulous side hustles of his own. His ability to track down anyone and anything was something that he has honed over his life, though over time Mr. Mallone-Devond has gained a less than favourable reputation due to rumours that this ability comes from demonic heratige. In recent years, Mr. Mallone-Devond has been part of Celestia's personal roster of 'useful people' for exactly those abilities.
Personality:
Despite his tragic background, Mr. Mallone-Devond keeps his head held high and always maintains an air of self-reckognised superiority. His has a keen analytical ability and keeps himself cold and distant from those around him. Perhaps due to all the loss he has endured, Mr. Mallone-Devond almost refuses to see others a things he can use or just means to an end. He is a very skilled solicitor and is very knowlegable on a wide variety of things. He makes it his business to keep his ear to the ground and have his fingers in as many pots as possible. He is generally a very hard person to read but it is clear he is someone who only really does things to suit his own favour.
Likes:
Mr. Mallone-Devond likes nothing more that keeping very organised. He revels in plannig out things exactly and executing those plans with efficiency. He very much likes being left to his own devices to get things done. Other than that, Mr. Mallone-Devond doesn't devote much energy to enjoying this for the sake of enjoyment. He simply does what must be done.
Dislikes:
Mr. Mallone-Devond dislikes most other things and people - or he would if he cared to put any energy into actively disliking anything. The one things that does truly displeasure him is that he now finds himself under the command of Celestia's orders.
The Diary of a Professional Kidnapper - The Pickpocket
My first memory is that of my father's death. It came when I was six, with two soldiers, to my aunt's doorstep. I recognised one from when my father would sneak me into game nights with the lads from his regiment. The other was fresh-faced; he had just come from his first battle down in the Dracarnian country. There wasn't meant to be a battle then: it should have been quite the opposite actually. A new King had ascended, and peace terms were being rewritten with the blueskins. But it wasn't long until somebody went rogue and made an attempt on the High Lady's life and all talk of peace was forgotten. My father, the then Commander of his regiment, was one of the first to be killed. The battle was over by the time the soldiers appeared at my aunt's door, and he had been dead for two weeks.
I talk about this now, because my latest request triggered the memories.
I was at the Jenire Café, a tearoom near Garavant's central plaza, sipping a very specific coffee and purveying over the lives of people in the square. It was a busy day, with the clamour of a market crowding the cobblestones. Amongst the hoards of shoppers, to-ing and fro-ing between stalls showcasing a delightful array of goods there was a young boy who piqued my interest. I took long sips of my speciality coffee while I watched with nostalgia as the boy darted between the legs of unsuspecting market-goers. He had a brown pouch in one hand, bulging with the goods he had already acquired and a small pocket knife in the others. I beheld his masterful dance of sliding under stalls and twisting his knife in the chosen purses. I saw his eyes glisten as speckles of gold and silver poured into his already plentiful sack.
The thing that intrigued me most about the little pickpocket was his attire. He had all the features of your regular street child; grubby feet, hardened by a life skipping across cobblestones; wiry hair, moulded but dirt and grime; shins bruised into Dalmatians by his Master and the twitchy reactions of one who has always has to keep an eye over his shoulder. However, he was dressed in the decadent colours of the wealthy.
It was this that gave him away. I slipped into the café and ordered a second coffee to go, all the time keeping an eye on him. I strutted out into the square, swinging a jar by my side in my freehand. Everyone in the city knew who I was and what I meant and they all gave me the respect I deserve and kept themselves occupied by the market. Blind eyes cannot be held witness. I followed the boy out of the crowds and down the damn alleys. He knew I was his shadow and tried to take routes that would catch me off guard, except I knew the streets better than he ever would. I had not crawled the streets like this for years but I remember treading on each stone, the paths spreading before me like a map. I eventually chased him down a dead end with a wall so high, he couldn't possibly hope to climb it. All it would have taken was for me to remove the lid on my jar. I ended up giving him my coffee.
The problem was that he reminded me too much of my younger self.
"After the soldiers left, my aunty packed my bag. Before, I was her brother's son but now I was an orphan that was of no interest to her. I was thrown, along with my bags, to the streets. From then, I wandered about for a week or two until I found the place where other lost causes found themselves: the Orphanage. This was the last time I held my family name.
"When I entered I was assessed and then my possessions shared out. I never had many of my own things, even living with my aunty so I didn't mind sharing what little joys I did have. There was one thing I was allowed to keep all to myself - my journal. The very same that I write in today, it comes from the elven country and is charmed to never run out of pages. A gift from my father.
"I was also given a gift at the orphanage. A new certificate and a new name. For the next four years, I was Monty, an urchin who roamed the streets with a band of misfits, searching for spare food or spare change.
"I lived like this until two men came to buy me.
"One Mr. Mallone and one Mr. Devond, two men of business around the city. They approached the Orphanage with a pouch of glittering coins, more than I had scavenged in my life as an orphan. They had been keeping an eye one me, or more specifically, my pickpocketing. Apparently, they thought I would be a valuable asset to their debtor's business.
"I was indeed a very clever investment.
I was trained as a cutpurse and I was nothing short of brilliant. When they had particularly stubborn clients over, I would sneak in, like a fog and expertly slit their wallets and purses open. The client would then leave, unknowing that they had repaid the debt they had been so defiant to return.
I grew up in Mr Mallone and Mr Devond's care. They molded the world into what I see today. They gave me the best start I could wish for, yet I still blame them for my loneliness now.
I was 20 when they died, on the very cusp of adulthood. Mr Devond was first to go, stabbed in the street and left to die. The news reached home. The last time I saw Mr Mallone, I saw him as if stricken with leprosy. He was whitewashed and moved feebly. He hobbled away through the corridor to the bathroom. I sat at the desk, listening to the bath slowly filling with water, a meloncholic timer ticking away to that final gunshot.
I was once again orphaned and all I had was my journal and the furniture that was too heavy to move.
I gave myself a new name. Mr. Mallone-Devond. Appropriate homage, I thought, to my late parents, for I considered them as such.
So I had a large house and my own life. I could finally be my own man, have my own stuff, act on my own whimsy. I had a business, left to me in the will of my successors and that meant money. But while, in documents I was rich, in possessions I was a pauper. So, I took my inheritance and began collecting."
The pickpocket stared at me in wonder while I told him my story. He sat on a crate, sipping my coffee and watching me with as much intent as I had watched him with that morning.
"There's someone out there who still cares for you, you know," I said, dangling his jar in front of us. "Otherwise I wouldn't need this."
"What are you going to do with me?" His voice had the confident twang of a street child.
"Dear boy, I'm going to keep you safe in this jar and hang you from the ceiling until your owner arrives." The look of horror that marked his face almost made me chuckle. "Don't worry, I look after the collateral with upmost care."
"When do we go?"
"Now. But first, dear boy, let me buy you some proper clothes."
Today I stole somebody. Well, I guess stole is the wrong word. Stole suggests that there was no payment given for it, when in fact there was.
About a fortnight ago, the wife a supposedly wealthy patron of the Land found herself on my doorstep, asking for a way to see if her husband was the slime ball she thought he was. She was in what she thought would be considered peasant's clothes but she was Middle Class at best. It was an unusual request, but I agreed anyway. Only desperate people show up at my doorstep, and I could tell by the deep crease in her brow that she was indeed at the end of her tether.
You see, I run a debt collection agency, given to me by two brilliant men. Over the last 6 or so years, I've expanded into performing different services, helping people with no other options than to crawl the gutter that leads them to my house. I've had some cases that have had me running around the Plains just to find a thief and retrieve a single item. This was the thing. I had a reputation of being exceedingly good at getting what I want.
I get a variety of things as payment for my services. For the debt collecting side of business, it's usually money or precious jewels, something of universal value. The more obscure cases however tend to produce more exotic rewards. The rarer and the more unique, the quicker I would be inclined to get a job done. I accept everything from original manuscripts of plays to the secrets of several kings to even nearly extinct creatures and impossible to get plants. More valuable than anything found in these lands, are treasures retrieved from Urf. These had a special worth, as travel between the Realms was becoming more and more restricted. However, most of the pieces I collect are purely of interest for there is one thing I wish to own more than any other; the name my parents bestowed on me.
The payment offered in return for my spying on Lord Slime ball was a tour of their manor. From that, I was permitted to take what I fancied. I liked deals like that. While I might not know what I was getting in return, it was a secure deal on both sides. And security is precious.
I invited the woman in, apologising for the smell of death that comes with living between a butchers and a funeral directors. I sat her down with a cup of Gumlon and perched myself on the chair opposite.
"So, dear, what makes you suspect he's cuckolding?" I asked.
"I don’t suspect anything. I know he is a filthy lowlife." She scorned between sips of her tea. "I just can't get him to admit it. He says I imagine it all, that I'm jealous. The ladies think that I should ignore it. I almost did, until I heard one of their shrill giggles echo through my halls."
I found it odd she didn't look at me once during the slaying of her husband and friends. She just glared out of the window at any passer-by's as if she suspected them of the same crime.
"I need you to follow him for me, at night."
"Why come to me? Why not do it yourself?"
She was taken aback by my comment. "Because, Mr Mallone-Devond, I am a respectable women and would much rather take responsibility for my husband's bastard sons than crawl the streets at night. At least the former would save me some dignity. Besides, I heard you're very good at finding things and taking them without anyone even knowing you were there. That is an asset I just do not have, especially when it comes to the nitty gritty."
"And what am I to do when I catch him?"
"Exactly that. Catch him, capture him, and make an example of him. I do not care how, just make sure I can see it when it happens."
With that, the lady swiftly left with a flourish of her skirts, leaving behind a ghost of perfume in her place.
I spent the next few nights observing my target. I tracked him from his manor house on the outskirts of the city to the brothel he wasted away the nights in. I'd never actually stepped inside a brothel before this, places like that repulse me. Once I had confirmed his almost nightly routine, I set my mind to the eventual humiliation. I never even thought at this point I'd be displaying him in one of my jars.
The idea came to me three days ago; a merchant transporting Urfen goods was parading Templeforth Street, showcasing his wares to the peasants and Lords alike. Until an Urfen beast broke free from its harness - I believe it's called a Camel in Urfentung, and I don't know if you've ever seen a camel run but I can assure you, it was one of the strangest things the people of Garavant have ever witnessed. So strange in fact, that my services were deemed necessary by several of the townsfolk.
I had used my jars before, for storing all my treasures in. When you're in my line of business, clutter adds up pretty quickly, and it's not just the payments. All the bookkeeping that is required takes up a whole room by itself. They're like any other jar, with a wide base, slimming towards the top before widening out again for the opening. The difference is that they're all charmed. I only have to pull out the cork and point it at what I want to trap inside. Then *shwoop*, it gets sucked in, now a much more manageable size.
This was how I intended to capture the camel. I was successful, as if for a moment I doubted I would be. It was this success that lead me to formulate the plan that lead to Lord Slime Ball's capture.
It was just a few short hours ago. I crept out of my abode just as the gates of the city were closing. I followed the Lord down his usual route to the brothel and this time, I continued to follow inside. It was far worse than anything I could have conjured. Women with spider-like limbs were straddled over the bulging stomachs of the clients. They had such a sadness in their eyes, I almost wanted to scoop them all up in my jars and set them free from their misfortunes. But I only had one jar and it was not for the sad eyed women. It was for my own client.
I pursued him down a creaky corridor, keeping my steps in time with the flickering lamp. I looked at each door on my way, counting how many cases of immeasurable sin could be happening. I happened across an open door and I regretted it the instant I didn't look away.
There was a slender man, with suave brown hair and his glasses in the teeth of one of the five women draped across him. His shirt had been torn open and buttons lay scattered across the floor amongst various items of skimpy underwear. One woman was feeding grapes into his mouth and one was wrapped around him, feeding their fingers through his oily hair. From what I could see, he seemed to be enjoying himself, laughing heartily at the sight of paid woman clamouring over him. One of those so-called ladies, with hair like a retriever, seemed to initiate the 'nitty gritty' as it were. I must have let out a noise because the man cocked his head towards me. "Oh, did you want to join us?"
A nauseous feeling followed me down the hall with the faked giggles of those women.
Lord Slime Ball’s room was in a nook around the corner, to offer more privacy I suppose. I slipped in through the jarred door barely breathing as I did so. The Lord must have heard the slight creak that announced my arrival for he slammed the door shut. I grimaced as he shimmied towards the spider sprawled across the four-poster bed, trying to be seductive as he eased himself of his clothing.
I stood for a while, in the shadowed corner of the room where candle light seemed to avoid. I hung there like a tsantsa, watching with closed eyes, the proceedings in the room. I would have closed my ears too, to save me from the pained squeals of the sad woman barely breathing under the weight of the wealthy Lord.
Then I heard a single cry. Stop.
I decided we had all had enough.
"Sir, I think that’ll do...”
A groan escaped him and he cranked his meaty neck to face me in surprise.
Without another word or a drop of remorse, I unplugged my jar. For a moment, I thought the bulbous gut of the Lord would struggle to fit within the glass confinement. I swung the jar in front of my face so that I could stare the Lord in his piggish eyes. My nose curled at the sight before me. In my haste, I had neglected to allow the lord to clothe himself first.
I was then reminded, by a long draw of breathe, that there was another in the room. She lay paralysed to the bed. She was buried so deep in the sheets that it was difficult to tell if she was still whole. Though, I could see by the frightened deer of her eyes, that this poor creature was completely broken.
She shivered as I approached. The way her skin flinched as I held out a hand told me all I needed to know. It pained me to gaze upon her insipid flesh. I found myself offering my jacket to her: whether it was out of pity or disgust, I do not know.
I exited the brothel as discreetly as I could. Of course people noticed me. It’s fairly hard to ignore a man in a well-tailored burgundy suit, swinging a jar with a man trapped inside. The fact that I am cursed with a flaming mane of ginger hair doesn’t lend to keeping a low profile either. In these parts, ginger hair is seen as a curse or a bad omen. I guess it’s quite fitting actually. Bad luck clings to me like a shadow.
When I crept back into my makeshift abode, mere moments ago, I slumped to the floor. For a while I laughed at the bizarre night I had just experienced. I kneaded my forehead, trying to make sense of what I had just done. If this had happened to anyone else, I would had sent them to the Witch Doctor, declaring their insanity as I shooed them down the street. I then collected myself and went about my business as if there was nothing uncommon about it.
I found a dark corner of my jar room and hung the lord there. I pushed the jar and sent him like a pendulum, much to my amusement and less to his.
I don’t exactly know why I decided to scrawl all this down in my journal. It just glimmered at me from the corner of my desk. I stroked its emerald spine tenderly. I had to fight back the tears of nostalgia as I slowly creaked open the cover. It had never been used, save the inscription penned on the second page. I read it for the thousandth time and a smile crept across my lips.
A few heavy moments of deliberation passed before I finally picked the old fountain pen that had been left behind with the journal.
Though looking back now, at the state of my rooms, I probably should have reordered my priorities. A lady will be at my door shortly after dawn and my house is in no state for such a guest.
Today I stole somebody. Well, I guess stole is the wrong word. Stole suggests that there was no payment given for it, when in fact there was.
About a fortnight ago, the wife a supposedly wealthy patron of the Land found herself on my doorstep, asking for a way to see if her husband was the slime ball she thought he was. She was in what she thought would be considered peasant's clothes but she was Middle Class at best. It was an unusual request, but I agreed anyway. Only desperate people show up at my doorstep, and I could tell by the deep crease in her brow that she was indeed at the end of her tether.
You see, I run a debt collection agency, given to me by two brilliant men. Over the last 6 or so years, I've expanded into performing different services, helping people with no other options than to crawl the gutter that leads them to my house. I've had some cases that have had me running around the Plains just to find a thief and retrieve a single item. This was the thing. I had a reputation of being exceedingly good at getting what I want.
I get a variety of things as payment for my services. For the debt collecting side of business, it's usually money or precious jewels, something of universal value. The more obscure cases however tend to produce more exotic rewards. The rarer and the more unique, the quicker I would be inclined to get a job done. I accept everything from original manuscripts of plays to the secrets of several kings to even nearly extinct creatures and impossible to get plants. More valuable than anything found in these lands, are treasures retrieved from Urf. These had a special worth, as travel between the Realms was becoming more and more restricted. However, most of the pieces I collect are purely of interest for there is one thing I wish to own more than any other; the name my parents bestowed on me.
The payment offered in return for my spying on Lord Slime ball was a tour of their manor. From that, I was permitted to take what I fancied. I liked deals like that. While I might not know what I was getting in return, it was a secure deal on both sides. And security is precious.
I invited the woman in, apologising for the smell of death that comes with living between a butchers and a funeral directors. I sat her down with a cup of Gumlon and perched myself on the chair opposite.
"So, dear, what makes you suspect he's cuckolding?" I asked.
"I don’t suspect anything. I know he is a filthy lowlife." She scorned between sips of her tea. "I just can't get him to admit it. He says I imagine it all, that I'm jealous. The ladies think that I should ignore it. I almost did, until I heard one of their shrill giggles echo through my halls."
I found it odd she didn't look at me once during the slaying of her husband and friends. She just glared out of the window at any passer-by's as if she suspected them of the same crime.
"I need you to follow him for me, at night."
"Why come to me? Why not do it yourself?"
She was taken aback by my comment. "Because, Mr Mallone-Devond, I am a respectable women and would much rather take responsibility for my husband's bastard sons than crawl the streets at night. At least the former would save me some dignity. Besides, I heard you're very good at finding things and taking them without anyone even knowing you were there. That is an asset I just do not have, especially when it comes to the nitty gritty."
"And what am I to do when I catch him?"
"Exactly that. Catch him, capture him, and make an example of him. I do not care how, just make sure I can see it when it happens."
With that, the lady swiftly left with a flourish of her skirts, leaving behind a ghost of perfume in her place.
I spent the next few nights observing my target. I tracked him from his manor house on the outskirts of the city to the brothel he wasted away the nights in. I'd never actually stepped inside a brothel before this, places like that repulse me. Once I had confirmed his almost nightly routine, I set my mind to the eventual humiliation. I never even thought at this point I'd be displaying him in one of my jars.
The idea came to me three days ago; a merchant transporting Urfen goods was parading Templeforth Street, showcasing his wares to the peasants and Lords alike. Until an Urfen beast broke free from its harness - I believe it's called a Camel in Urfentung, and I don't know if you've ever seen a camel run but I can assure you, it was one of the strangest things the people of Garavant have ever witnessed. So strange in fact, that my services were deemed necessary by several of the townsfolk.
I had used my jars before, for storing all my treasures in. When you're in my line of business, clutter adds up pretty quickly, and it's not just the payments. All the bookkeeping that is required takes up a whole room by itself. They're like any other jar, with a wide base, slimming towards the top before widening out again for the opening. The difference is that they're all charmed. I only have to pull out the cork and point it at what I want to trap inside. Then *shwoop*, it gets sucked in, now a much more manageable size.
This was how I intended to capture the camel. I was successful, as if for a moment I doubted I would be. It was this success that lead me to formulate the plan that lead to Lord Slime Ball's capture.
It was just a few short hours ago. I crept out of my abode just as the gates of the city were closing. I followed the Lord down his usual route to the brothel and this time, I continued to follow inside. It was far worse than anything I could have conjured. Women with spider-like limbs were straddled over the bulging stomachs of the clients. They had such a sadness in their eyes, I almost wanted to scoop them all up in my jars and set them free from their misfortunes. But I only had one jar and it was not for the sad eyed women. It was for my own client.
I pursued him down a creaky corridor, keeping my steps in time with the flickering lamp. I looked at each door on my way, counting how many cases of immeasurable sin could be happening. I happened across an open door and I regretted it the instant I didn't look away.
There was a slender man, with suave brown hair and his glasses in the teeth of one of the five women draped across him. His shirt had been torn open and buttons lay scattered across the floor amongst various items of skimpy underwear. One woman was feeding grapes into his mouth and one was wrapped around him, feeding their fingers through his oily hair. From what I could see, he seemed to be enjoying himself, laughing heartily at the sight of paid woman clamouring over him. One of those so-called ladies, with hair like a retriever, seemed to initiate the 'nitty gritty' as it were. I must have let out a noise because the man cocked his head towards me. "Oh, did you want to join us?"
A nauseous feeling followed me down the hall with the faked giggles of those women.
Lord Slime Ball’s room was in a nook around the corner, to offer more privacy I suppose. I slipped in through the jarred door barely breathing as I did so. The Lord must have heard the slight creak that announced my arrival for he slammed the door shut. I grimaced as he shimmied towards the spider sprawled across the four-poster bed, trying to be seductive as he eased himself of his clothing.
I stood for a while, in the shadowed corner of the room where candle light seemed to avoid. I hung there like a tsantsa, watching with closed eyes, the proceedings in the room. I would have closed my ears too, to save me from the pained squeals of the sad woman barely breathing under the weight of the wealthy Lord.
Then I heard a single cry. Stop.
I decided we had all had enough.
"Sir, I think that’ll do...”
A groan escaped him and he cranked his meaty neck to face me in surprise.
Without another word or a drop of remorse, I unplugged my jar. For a moment, I thought the bulbous gut of the Lord would struggle to fit within the glass confinement. I swung the jar in front of my face so that I could stare the Lord in his piggish eyes. My nose curled at the sight before me. In my haste, I had neglected to allow the lord to clothe himself first.
I was then reminded, by a long draw of breathe, that there was another in the room. She lay paralysed to the bed. She was buried so deep in the sheets that it was difficult to tell if she was still whole. Though, I could see by the frightened deer of her eyes, that this poor creature was completely broken.
She shivered as I approached. The way her skin flinched as I held out a hand told me all I needed to know. It pained me to gaze upon her insipid flesh. I found myself offering my jacket to her: whether it was out of pity or disgust, I do not know.
I exited the brothel as discreetly as I could. Of course people noticed me. It’s fairly hard to ignore a man in a well-tailored burgundy suit, swinging a jar with a man trapped inside. The fact that I am cursed with a flaming mane of ginger hair doesn’t lend to keeping a low profile either. In these parts, ginger hair is seen as a curse or a bad omen. I guess it’s quite fitting actually. Bad luck clings to me like a shadow.
When I crept back into my makeshift abode, mere moments ago, I slumped to the floor. For a while I laughed at the bizarre night I had just experienced. I kneaded my forehead, trying to make sense of what I had just done. If this had happened to anyone else, I would had sent them to the Witch Doctor, declaring their insanity as I shooed them down the street. I then collected myself and went about my business as if there was nothing uncommon about it.
I found a dark corner of my jar room and hung the lord there. I pushed the jar and sent him like a pendulum, much to my amusement and less to his.
I don’t exactly know why I decided to scrawl all this down in my journal. It just glimmered at me from the corner of my desk. I stroked its emerald spine tenderly. I had to fight back the tears of nostalgia as I slowly creaked open the cover. It had never been used, save the inscription penned on the second page. I read it for the thousandth time and a smile crept across my lips.
A few heavy moments of deliberation passed before I finally picked the old fountain pen that had been left behind with the journal.
Though looking back now, at the state of my rooms, I probably should have reordered my priorities. A lady will be at my door shortly after dawn and my house is in no state for such a guest.
