Movash ... Maeverhim & Black Butterfly Rover ... Orphan

Name: Movash

Gender: Male

Age: 13

Age by Appearance and Knowledge: 10

Race: Feyfolk

Tribe: Maeverhim & Black Butterfly Rover

Occupation: Surviving

Title: Untold Story

Overview

He never speaks. And the longer you are with him, the more you notice that he doesn’t actually make any noise at all: not when he walks, not when he eats, not when he looks at you with eyes widened by fear. Yet the silence around him is not complete. There is, after all, the monster that follows him around. Its body has the shape and size of a lanky wolf’s, but a wolf it is not. It is furless and mottled green and black, and has peculiarly triangular ears that never seem to cease twitching. Its mouth looks like a beak as much as like a canine’s snout.

But what makes you really feel uneasy is this: Ever so often, when the monster mumbles or grunts or howls, you think that you make out words among the beastly sounds. Some you understand, but others seem to belong to languages you have never heard before. In any case, it seems that, in contrast to the boy, the monster speaks.

At dusk and at dawn, it even sings, humming outlandish, wordless melodies that tell of salty winds and of high fruit trees and of the beginnings of long journeys. At those times, the boy sits and listens, while unspoken memories flit through his face like shadows haunting a mirror. In his eyes there is a sadness so deep that you fear he might drown in it. Something horrible must have happened to him.

Appearance

Height: 1 ped, 1 fore, 1 handspan
Weight: 7 hebs
Hair Colour: Blonde
Eye Colour: Blue

Physical Appearance: He has these long, pointy elven ears – only that they are not quite as long and not quite as pointy as most elves’ are, for he is feyboy, a half-elf. There is no adolescent awkwardness yet; his body is that of a child. Skinny and ethereal, it is unusually bendable. He can stick both of his legs behind his head at the same time without much effort, can bend over backwards to touch his heels with fingers, and can overextend his elbow to an angle that makes you think it must be broken.

The boy very rarely makes a sound: doesn’t open his mouth to speak, never sighs, never smacks his lips or slurps his drinks, never belches, never even coughs or sneezes. Almost all of his movements are gracefully deliberate – controlled and slow, yet easy and efficient – and at the same time, sad. And always, always silent. Some people easily forget that he is in the room; others find him disconcerting, maddening, frightening, as if his silence was screaming at them.

His hair reaches down to almost his shoulders. It is shaggy, too, and you may wonder whether it’s only long because nobody has thought to cut it in a very long time. Although naturally rather thin and straight, it is sometimes so felted with dirt that it covers and conceals his half-elven ears. He doesn’t appear to mind.

And before we forget: a little black butterfly is tattoed on his chest, beneath his right collarbone. Usually, he takes care to keep it covered with his clothes, so you might never get to see it. But there it is.

Clothing: His clothes are too big for him. The green linen trousers are of good quality, but he has had to roll them up at the bottom, and they are still much too wide. Same with the tawny flaxen shirt: rolled-up sleeves, and space inside for two boys of his size. The black hooded cloak falls down to his ankles, and he virtually disappears in it. Only the shoes of supple brown leather fit perfectly, allowing him comfort and ease of movement.

Personality

Movash was bubbly and boisterous once, an inquisitive boy, who loved climbing trees, standing on his head, and singing. One thing was particularly remarkable. People used to say: “That boy, when he listens to you, it’s like when your mother listens, or a wise old man.” It’s not that Movash was particularly clever, or had anything profound to say. It was just that when a person talked to him, that person felt Movash’s deep attention and sympathy. Thus it was that grown-up Butterfly Rovers would come to Movash and complain about a girl that rejected their advances, reveal their big plan of leaving the Rovers and going to sea, or confess their secret envy of a fellow Rover who was the better acrobat. Movash would sit and listen, the adult would talk, and through talking would relieve her soul, and sometimes discover things she hadn’t known about herself. Once Movash happened to pass by when two young lovers were engaged in an impetuous quarrel, fought with the whole gamut of vile insults known to Rovers. He sat down beside them, and the man and the woman both began to justify to him why the other was completely impossible to be with. Talking to Movash, and looking into his astonished, attentive eyes, they both found that all the reasons they’d had for hating one another, which had seemed as big as the Tandala Highlands, now began to look as small as anthills. They ended up in each others arms, spluttering tear-soaked apologies, and a confused Movash received more hugs and gratefully moist kisses than he cared for. The couple were married the same summer, and as far as we know, are still enjoying each other’s company.

Movash didn’t realize that his listening was anything special. It was natural for him to be interested in other people’s thoughts and feelings, and when he listened to them, he knew what they felt. Movash has, in fact, a blossoming talent for mindsmoothing. Yet at the moment, this aspect of his personality is latent. For Movash’s bountiful inner world was turned into a desert when he saw his parents slaughtered by a mob of scared and deluded villagers.

That event has changed Movash’s personality beyond recognition. He blames himself for his parents’ deaths, as he erroneously believes that his voice betrayed them to their killers. As a result, he feels, more by anxious compulsion than by conscious decision, that he is not allowed to make any noise at all. He will therefore not speak, and will try to make as little noise as he can. He will suppress coughs, will take each step deliberately and silently, and will not scretch the plate with his spoon when he eats. In short, he will behave much like someone who is hiding and is trying to avoid giving themselves away by making a noise.

Movash is a boy in mourning, and sadness clings to his every thought and every movement. Cheer, adventurousness, and zest for life are, for the moment, beyond his reach. He can still hardly bring himself to eat. If it wasn’t for Humbaba, his companion and friend, he would likely not have survived. Movash’s once innocent belief in the beauty of life is gone forever. Whether he will be able to overcome the paralysis of his soul and find a way to live with himself and his memories – that question can only be answered in the stories he will be part of in the future.

Strengths

Helpless Child. Movash is an orphan, a mute, helpless, bedraggled child. The pain of his soul is written in his eyes, his movements, his muteness. He may well arouse people’s sympathy, and it is this, in fact, that has so far saved his life, almost despite his own will.

Humbaba. Humbaba is Movash’s underwhelp, a large, greenish, furless, wolflike creature that appears to know human language and whose mouth, although devoid of teeth, features serrated jawbones that very much look like they serve the purpose of teeth rather well, as indeed they do. Some who might otherwise be tempted to take advantage of a lone child will find themselves somewhat deterred by the presence of this fearsome beast, which they may well suspect of being magical.

Agility. Movash’s body is nimble and supple. The boy has a good sense of balance and physical self-awareness, and indeed has had some training in acrobatics during his time as a Rover. He can climb a tree quicker than you can say “underwhelp”, and would have a good chance of success if he attempted a jump to the branches of its neighbour; he can squeeze himself through openings that look too small for a ferret; and when wading through a wet riverbed on slippery stones, you can bet that he’ll get across without stumbling.

Reading (but very little writing). He had learned to recognize and pronounce Styrash and Tharian script; although not a fluent reader, he can decipher simple sentences in both languages if you give him some time. His writing is less developed, but he is able to write his own as well as his underwhelp’s name, and might manage to spell a few short words if he needs to.

Languages. He understands (although he does not currently speak) both Styrash and Tharian. In addition, he has picked up and understands a few words and phrases in some of the languages spoken among residents of those Southern Sarvonian regions through which he has travelled with his parents in happier times. He can tell a friendly gnomish greeting from a sarcastic curse, understand when an Eyelian asks him what kind of dog he’s got there, and can tell a Daran from an upper-class Avennorian by their dialect.

Mindsmoothing Talent. Movash doesn’t know it, and certainly not by this name, but he has got the talent to become a mindsmoother. Already now, as a preadolescent child, he has the gift of empathy, being able to sense and understand other people’s emotions just by looking at them, or rather, by being with them. There is no need to tell him how you feel. He already knows. There is, indeed, a chance that he knew it before you did. When someone is sad, or helplessly angry, or troubled, Movash will feel an urge to help that person, whether he knows them or not. His mindful presence alone has sometimes helped to assuage down a person’s rage, to ease the pain in someone’s soul, or to calm a frightened animal. However, Movash’s talent is not fully developed and therefore highly fallible. He has never spoken about it (even in those times when he still spoke), and is not aware that it is special in any way.

Weaknesses

Helpless Child. Movash is a preadolescent child, and as such physically weaker, less robust, less experienced, less knowledgeable and less resourceful than the average adult. He is also more naïve, and in any case his dire situation as a lone orphan means that he might not have much choice about whom to trust.

Humbaba. As comforting as the presence of a fearsome speaking monster at your side might seem, it is rather likely to put people off wanting to become your friend. Underwhelps are all but unknown in Sarvonia, and in any case not pretty to behold, and Humbaba is likely to evoke fear or suspicion – or, indeed, the undesirable interest of those who reckon they could get a good price for this beast, if they could but catch it.

In addition, underwhelps eat rather a lot, and in situations where Humbaba is unable to hunt for himself, he is an expensive pet to maintain – thus potentially detracting well-meaning but less-than-rich would-be benefactors of the orphan boy and his beast.

Mourning. Movash has recently lost his parents in the most brutal of ways, and the wounds his young soul has sustained will probably never fully heal. As we join him, his thoughts during the days and his dreams at night are occupied by memories of his parents and the way they were murdered. Movash doesn’t often sleep well, and during the day he is often mentally detached from the world around him, as he remains submerged in the mire of his grief.

Mute. This grief has an even more severe consequence. Since he witnessed his parents’ death, he has not spoken a single word, not even to Humbaba – and has tried hard not to make any sound at all. He is physically capable of speaking, and until a few moons ago, was an outspoken and boisterous child. But that is the past. With the power of desperation, Movash’s soul has taken the reigns, and the only way it can conceive of keeping its shattered parts together is by commanding his body to maintain a near-complete silence.

History

Once upon a time there was an elfess of the Maeverhim, who live in the canopy of the Sharadon Forest, and who never touch the ground. Out of love for a Black Butterfly Rover, she left the trees and joined the Rover’s trek of wagons, even though this meant that she was ostracized as “earth-burned” by her tribe. This elfess’s name was Maya, and her sweetheart’s name was Marlin. After a year and a moon, they had a son, whom they called Mód’avásh’cáo: child of earth and wind. But since nobody except his mother could remember that, his name was soon shortened to Movash.

The boy grew up among a band of travelling Rovers: acrobats and dancers; jugglers and fire-eaters; singers and soothsayers; prostitutes and pickpockets. His father Marlin was a tightrope walker. Maya, his mother, knew a little wind magic, and worked as a healer – thereby not only contributing to the band’s income, but also gaining the good will of many a customer initially sceptic of the Rovers.

Movash did not learn any magic from his mother, but he did enjoy acrobatics, dancing, and tightrope walking, and his father enjoyed teaching the talented boy. Owing to his friendly boisterousness, but even more due to his capability to listen and empathize with people, Movash was well-liked among the Rovers, and his childhood was a happy one.

The band of Rovers travelled widely in the Santharian provinces of Sanguia, Manthria, and Enthronia. So it came that Movash, at his tender age, has some as far north as Carmalad, has seen the Ancythrian Sea, has memories of making plans of climbing up into the highest peaks of the Rimmerins Ring (as Movash was six years old at the time, his father advised him to wait a few summers), and has seen both the Adanian and the Aetryam coasts of Manthria. He has met and spoken to humans, gnomes, hobbits and elves from all walks of life, and has acquired a fair bit of wordly wisdom as a result.

The furthest south Movash has come is the port of Lorehaven. It was there that a merchant, who had just received cargo from Nybelmar, offered the astonished Rovers an oddly-shaped, furless, green-skinned pup for sale. He called the creature an “underwhelp”. It looked at Movash with its large, purple eyes, and said: “Humbaba” – or that’s what Movash understood, in any case. The merchant claimed that this was a word in a Nybelmarian language, and that these underwhelps are in fact speaking dogs whom you could train to speak like psittas. The family bought the underwhelp at considerable expense, hoping that a speaking dog might be a profitable addition to their circus performances. This hope was not fulfilled, as “Humbaba” (as Movash decided to call the pup) never learned to speak more than a few words. On the other hand, the underwhelp proved to be a good guard dog. She did eat about as much as four wolves and a medium-sized dragon put together, as Marlin was fond of saying – but Movash and Humbaba become such good friends that the Rovers never had the heart to complain much about the underwhelp’s voracity.

There was something else that his travels taught Movash. Even at his young age, it did not escape his observation that many Santharians viewed Butterfly Rovers with a mixture of fascination and suspicion. Mothers would drag their sons and daughters away from him, forbidding them to play with a “filthy Rover”. Men would sometimes shout at them from afar, warning them to stay away from their village. Then again, when the Rovers had made their camp three strals outside the village boundaries, the same men or their wives would sometimes come and inquire whether there wasn’t a potion available that could cure warts? Or a charm that might ward off sickness from a baneg? And how much would the lady fortune teller charge for a little piece of advice about that lad that’s been throwing fanciful glances at our young daughter recently? We’ve got a lock of his hair right here – would he make a good match, in the lady fortune teller’s reckoning? The wary behaviour of such villagers often seemed quaint and even funny to Movash. But the day came when he found out that, unfortunately, prejudice has a more dangerous side, a crueler one.

It happened in Manthria, in a village near Stormwarden Ridge, west of the Mithral Mountains. The Rovers had set up camp close to the village, and the next morning a small group, including Movash’s parents, had gone into the settlement to perform and offer their services. Movash, along with other children and adults, had stayed behind. It was not advisable to enter villages in large groups – it tended to frighten the locals.

The group returned from the village in good spirits. Movash’s mother had managed to calm an enraged bull to the extent that the thorn in his leg, which had caused his fury in the first place, could be extracted and the wound treated. The villagers had gazed in amazement and fear at the elfess and her magical abilities, but they had paid her well, and had even asked the Rovers to come back the next day and perform their circus tricks.

And that is what they did. Movash went with the group this time. First, he accompanied his mother, who wanted to check on the bull. The animal was calm, and the wound appeared to be healing well. Maya and Movash then rejoined the others, who had already started to perform. The whole village seemed to have come to watch them.

The performances seemed to go rather well, and the fortune teller was pleasingly busy. Movash didn’t do much other than throw a few balls to the juggler as part of her act, and startle a few children with tales of his speaking dog. He particularly noticed one girl, about his own age, who seemed more frightened by Humbaba than even some of the younger children.

When the Rovers returned to camp, it was almost dusk. Although the villagers had not been misers, they had given mostly vegetables and bread, and very little meat. The Rovers decided that therefore, Humbaba should hunt her own food tonight. “Just make sure she doesn’t go in the direction of the village and takes one of their pigs,” Marlin said. Movash accompanied Humbaba for some of her way toward a little wood, which didn’t seem to be owned by anybody, and then made his way back to the camp alone. When the Rovers went to bed, she had still not returned. This was not an unusual occurrence; hunts are unpredictable, and sometimes it can take a long time until a hungry underwhelp manages to catch a meal. But it had a serious consequence: Humbaba wasn’t there to warn the Rovers when the villagers attacked.

They came in the night, with torches and pitchforks. By the time the Rovers had jumped out of bed and realized what was going on, most of the wagons were burning. Maya and Marlin’s was one of the last to be attacked, and they managed to fend off their attackers and flee in a wild chase in the dark, leaving their companions behind.

It took them a long time to shake off their pursuers. The next morning found them on a country road, without their companions, anguished and furious. Maya and Marlin were debating whether they should risk looking for other survivors, or try and put as much distance between themselves and the village. Movash was worrying about Humbaba. He knew that the underwhelp would find him by smell, if she would find him at all. Nonetheless, he couldn’t resist calling for her. His parents told him to be quiet – they didn’t know whether any villagers were still about, and their son’s desperate voice made them nervous. Still, he called again.

And then they heard the horses. They were six, four men and two women. The family recognized them from the village. Three had pitchforks, two had clubs, and one even had a metal weapon, something like a cutlass. Maya and Marlin told Movash to run and hide. He didn’t want to. While they were drawing their weapons – a dagger and a staff each, nothing more – they had to kick their son into the ditch that ran alongside the road. From there, he scrambled up on the other side, hid in the thicket, and watched his parents being murdered.

He saw everything, yet it is the voices that he remembers most clearly. “Get the elfess,” shouted one. “The Listener, another. “She’s bewitched my Rubina, my girl,” a third.

If it was the elfess they were after, it didn’t prevent them from killing the human man, too. Two bloody corpses lay on the floor. A woman crouched down to the elfess, grabbed her head with the assuredness of a butcher, and cut both her ears off. “That’ll teach her to bewitch us with her evil ear.”

The villagers then proceeded to rummage through their victims’ clothes and cart for valuable possessions. Even if one has killed for a just cause, there is no reason to let any money or useful objects go to waste, is there? In the midst of their search, a man’s voice could be heard: “What about the boy? Didn’t she have an elven boy with her?”

Movash thrust himself into the undergrowth and ran and stumbled and crawled through the forest. He could hear – no, he could feel someone pursuing him. But it was probably a half-hearted attempt. The villagers had found and killed the object of their wrath.

In the evening, at dusk, Movash felt safe enough to return to the place of his parents’ murder. The corpses were still lying there – their limbs stiffened in unnatural positions, Maya’s face mutilated. The villagers had taken the cart, but they hadn’t buried their victims. That task, then, remained for Movash. It took him the whole night, and the next day, and the next night. He had, after all, only sticks with which to move the soil. On the evening of the second day after his parent’s death, Humbaba found him.

Movash and Humbaba didn’t move from that spot for the next ten days and nights – although Humbaba went out to hunt twice a day, and Movash nibbled on berries and roots he found in the forest. They would probably have stayed there until Movash would have starved, if it hadn’t been for Jorgun.

Jorgun was a sinkel who happened to come this way on his cart, and who saw the elven boy and his strange dog huddled together by the side of the road. When Jorgun had come into the area, he had heard rumours about a recent ”Evil Ear” persecution – which is why he’d decided to get away as quickly as he could. He didn’t believe in this superstition, which asserts that certain witches, called “Listeners”, can wreak malicious magic by distiling, out of their victims voice, her soul, weave illness into it, and maliciously insert this spoiled essence back into the person’s heart. In fact, Jorgun had been accused of “listening” himself more than once, but had been fortunate only to have been driven away, rather than hunted down to his death.

In any case, Jorgun took pity on the boy, of whose sad history he guessed quite a bit, and who, on top of all his ill fortune, also appeared to be mute. He took the boy along on his cart, and since Movash’s flight through the thicket had torn into shreds all his clothes except for his shoes, Jorgun gave him a set of clothes from his stock of wares. These are far too large for Movash – Jorgun didn’t have children’s clothes in stock – but they keep him warm.

And this is how this part of our story ends. Jorgun has set off with the mute Movash and the oddly vociferous monster on the back of his cart. Where they are bound, we do not know. What we can say is that when you meet Movash and Humbaba next, they will likely not be in Jorgun’s company anymore. Already the sinkel is starting to worry about the huge amounts of meat that the boy’s monster devours every day, and is getting wary whether he himself might one day end up as a meal.

Familiar

Name: Humbaba

Species: Underwhelp, or duscur.

Age: 5

Sex: Female

Appearance: Standing a ped and a fore at the shoulder, Humbaba is almost as tall as her master. Her body has the shape of a large lanky dog’s, although her legs are longer than most canine species’, while her paws are bigger. Nonetheless, she clearly is no dog. Except for black tufts at the tip of her tail and on her ears, Humbaba’s body is hairless. Her leathery skin is mottled – herne green and charcoal black – and its many folds and wrinkles would give her a puppy-like appearance, were it not for the ferocity suggested by her snout. This snout is not covered in skin, but looks like a bird’s round beak in the shape of a fox’s snout. Althought it doesn’t feature teeth, the serrated edges of the jaws suggest that Humbaba can bite as well as any wolf, as indeed she can.

Abilities / Behaviour

Voice mimicking: Humbaba cannot really speak, nor sing. Like all underwhelps, though, she has the ability to mimick human and animal voices (which, in wild underwhelps, has the function of attracting prey animals, including humans). She has a small repertoire of words, phrases, and exclamations – shoddily pronounced by humanoid standards – which she uses without understanding of their meaning for humans. She might pick up new sounds once in a while, but will never come close to be able to mimick a conversation.

Humbaba is particularly chatty at dusk and at dawn. These are the times when underwhelps prefer to hunt, and she still uses her mimicking ability for that purpose (see below). Yet as she has lived almost all her life among humans, Humbaba also uses her voice repertoire to communicate with humans – and particularly, of course, with Movash. Most precious to Movash is her ability to hum fragments of melodies that his parents used to sing to him.

Food and hunting: One disadvantage of having an underwhelp for a pet is that these creatures need to eat more than their lanky bodies would lead one to suspect. In towns and cities, Humbaba might find it difficult to sustain herself, as she wouldn’t hunt humans for food – however, sewer rats, stray dogs and even the pets of unwary citizens might be in peril when a hungry Humbaba is around. Outside of settlements, Humbaba will have the drive to hunt at dusk and dawn, unless she is fed well. When her stomach is empty, she might well leave her master for hours at a time, if that’s what it takes to get her meal.

Relationship to Movash: Humbaba has spent most of her life as Movash’s pet, playmate and guardian. She will usually stay by his side, and will fiercily defend him if she thinks he is being attacked. However, when Movash can’t provide her with sufficient amounts of food, she may go off on long hunting trips on her own. Once she has eaten, she will always want to return to Movash. She will easily find back to the place where she left him; if he is not there anymore, she will follow his scent.