Myron the Mortician

[Myron Fernsby]

Player Name: Kat
Name: Myron Barnaby Fernsby
Age: 31
Race: Shifter
Height: 5'9" (and full of awkward)
Weight: Slender-ish, with those extra special deposits of fat that say "I sit on my ass pretty often and don't starve!" He has arm jiggle. Whatcha gonna do about it.

Description:

With an adam's apple that could cut stone, Myron has been known to acquire monikers that were not his idea. Sure, make fun of him for his gangly legs or his respectable Pretana nose (that's a family heirloom, you nitwit!). Make some clever comment about the ink stains on his hands, or how he has minstrel's fingers. Ascribe to him your fancies about how his deep brown eyes have a bard's dreaminess to them, or titter over how his curly, slightly auburn hair is without class.

Make his day.

He's heard all the jokes, and thinks you're a nincompoop for even thinking them. Sure, his family wasn't here at the dawn of time like all the other high falooting members of the aristocratic (if that word can even be applied to a minor backwater like Marn!) circles, but that doesn't mean that his Pretana roots are to be dismissed!

Myron is a gentleman of the highest quality, and he dresses like one in slightly-out-of-date fashions. He is a noted (by fusty academics whose arguments and works typically never see public consumption) scholar on the subject of human and elven biology, and he maintains that his work in the field of anatomy is worth more to the Fernsby family than any stupid store outlet in a dead-in-the-water shitty little town on a dying trade route. However, no one listens to him. He's gotten used to this.

Possessions:

A small estate in the Residential District that has been in his family for several generations. (according to his mother, at least)

His nursemaid. Yes, you read that right. She's getting on in years, but Myron's mother can be the sentimental type (read: she likes having spies set on her children), and once he got old enough to no longer need a nursemaid, she decided to keep old Molle around as a chaperone. Or something. No one really knows what she does all day, or how the hell she's still alive, for that matter. She's pushing seventy, and everyone knows that's a step and a day from death.

His butler. Grigori isn't nearly as old as Molle, but he sure makes up for it with all of his perverted old man talk! He's a lecher, and proud of it, and not so old that he's unwilling to chase young hooligans off the gate or surrounding wall of the rather humble estate.

A horse, or two. They have a small place to stable the horses.

That boy. He's named Hob or some other trite peasant name. He's a stablehand, or something, and tends to take the horses out for daily exercise. Presumably he also feeds, waters, grooms and mucks out their stalls, but Myron doesn't really know or care because he's allergic to horses.

Those servants. Yeah, Myron doesn't know their names. Sometimes he likes to guess. He doesn't often like to heed their corrections; they're his mother's people, after all. They keep him fed and clothed and keep the home in order. The end.

The funeral home. Grave Endings. It's Myron's personal investment. He bought it from its owners, and keeps it staffed with people who seem to know what they're doing. Whatever. The only reason he wanted it was so he could work as a practicing mortician, and study what cadavers are entrusted to him.

The family shop. Fernsby Footwear and Fittings. Whether it be within Eastern Eyropa or central Tian Xia, those with the means (though, mostly gentry) typically are at least peripherally aware of the Fernsby name. They don't just make shoes. They make footwear. Yes, there is a difference. The Fernsby's swear by the quality of their shoes. Whether it be oxhide, sheepskin or anything in between, they go to the utmost lengths to only use the very best materials. The shop in Marn, however, is something of a failing venture. Which would be why Myron, sixth son, got saddled with it. You can do it, Myron! (okay, not really). If it wasn't for his success with Grave Endings, it's possible the store would have already folded. It's running a four year deficit. It's staffed with a bunch of lackwits who are tremendously lazy and who have been with the family "for years, oh Myron, you can't just fire them and put them out on the streets!" in the words of his mother who is very easily convinced to drop onto the floor in a faint or hysterics. Myron would like nothing more than to start with entirely fresh staff, but he feels obliged to at least pretend to listen to his mother. Bitch just won't die.

It should be noted that the workers at Fernsby Footwear and Fittings are mostly cousins who mostly don't listen to anything Myron says. Family. Ugh.

Strengths:

Quite familiar with the workings of the human body. Less familiar with the elven, but he has caused quite some stir in Dalouxiu with his thesis Common Ancestry: The Origins of Elven and Humankind; he pretty much laid out that the two are quite biologically similar, and believes they might share a common ancestor.

Fairly hard to offend.

Impeccable manners.

Has lots of awesome friends (read: people whose scolarly opinions tend to favor his own) in lots of different places. They even correspond pretty frequently! Neato! Otherwise he does have numerous contacts, most of them relate to his interests and past work regarding biology, but he does have others tied into the family business.

He knows how to make fan-fucking-tastic shoes. Yeah baby.

Born to a wealthy family. Maybe not 100% silver spoon, but you better believe that shit was shiny.

Business minded. Good at schmoozing.

He's a shifter, which might be good, except if anyone finds out that might totally get him kicked out of his family.

He's a fair hand at embroidery and mending clothing. Which, perhaps, is a mixed blessing.


Weaknesses:

Mrs. Fernsby. His mother. The Bitch From Hell. The Undying Witch. She of Machiavellian Leanings. That Woman Too Old to Know What She's Doing, and Too Stubborn to Let Her Children Take Over. You know. Pretty much she makes the good parts of Myron's life hell, and the bad parts worse still. Also hysterics. What the fuck.

He's allergic to horses. Impossible things. Most likely just flat out allergic to dander, but he's not around enough animals to find out. Just those damn horses.

Myron isn't welcome in Darleone. He was threatened by a Darleone scholar by the name of Litherion (who, previously, he'd never spoken to before), that if he ever steps foot on Darleone soil Lytherion will personally see to it he gets lynched. Myron isn't quite sure why, though other elven contemporaries have hinted it is due in part to his rather controversial thesis.

Not good at fighting. He has a, uh, bad foot. Or something. (sweating is gross. People who sweat lots are also gross) For that matter, most physical activities he's not good at. That probably includes sex, if he's ever had any. OH!

His family is traditionally Puradyne. Which can be really good, in some parts of the world, but since he got assaulted and tainted with shifter blood, things have gotten. . .complicated.

Fernsby Footwear and Fittings is pretty much the thorn in his side. You want to insult him? Yeah, needle him about how poorly the outlet in Marn is doing. Or about his mother's hold on him. Just don't insult him about his academic work, because all that'll do is encourage him to lecture on the matter in question, and no one should be subjected to that.

Two sides to the wealthy family coin: Myron is not allowed to fall in love. Even if he did, you bet your ass his mother would sniff it out and off the bitch if she wasn't from a decent family. Nope, Myron's purpose in life at this point is 1) Marry to Fernsby advantage. 2) Keep Fernsby Footwear and Fittings (Marn branch) afloat. 3) Make his mother look good. Oh, and the rest of the family, too.

Fear of deep water. He can't swim. He won't swim. Fuck you for suggesting it.

Family:

Immediate Family

For the record, Glyndwr married into the Fernsby name, because Jocosa is a bitch and refused to marry into any other family and lose the Fernsby name, and her father refused to let her turn into an old maid (yes, even at age 14 it was a concern. And yes, at age 14 her rages were potent enough to have earned her a reputation as probably unmarrigeable). The matter was settled by choosing a smaller, less influential family to swallow up whole. No, really. The Edevane family used to have an independent tannery. Now it has become part of the Fernsby Footwear machine.

Sadly, this has not been the first time strategic marriage has been utilized to secure Fernsby interests. Nor will it be the last.

(if you're interested in catty inter-family politics, please pm Saruna to come to an arrangement)

Mother: Jocosa Fernsby (married at 14, had first child at 15 +29) 60
Father: Glyndwr Edevane (happily deceased, was chained to Jocosa at age 20 +35)

Siblings:
1. Royse (f +14) (deceased at 40)
2. Dicun (m +13) 44
3. (m deceased +10) (died at age 11, accidental death)
4. Tenney (m +9) (deceased at 22, infighting)
5. Wymond (m +8) (deceased at 28, infighting)
6. Jankin (m +6) (deceased at 26, infighting)
7. (f deceased, +4 ) (died at age 2, sickness)
8. (f deceased, miscarriage, +3)
9. (m, +1) 32
10. (That's Myron!)
11. (f, -2) 29

Nieces & Nephews

Relatives

Mother's Side:

Grandfather: Aaron
Grandmother:

Mother's Siblings:

1. Edric (m, +2) 62
2. (m deceased at 53 +1)
3. (That's Jocosa! ) 60
4. (f, -2)
5. (deceased at 42) -3
6. (deceased at 46) -5
7. (deceased at 23) -6
8. -7
9. (deceased at 6) -10
10. -11
11. (deceased at 13) -13
12. (deceased at 4) -15
13. -15

cousins:

By Edric:



Father's Side:

Grandfather:
Grandmother:

Father's Siblings

Cousins:

History:

Myron's first really solid memory was when he was almost drowned at age four. He was considered to be small and weak for his age by his mother, and his grandmother, and several aunts, and so Jankin did what any child faced with such terrible knowledge would do: he tried to drown the runt. One of their uncles was into breeding dogs on the side (for hunting, because hunting is a manly sport), which was how he knew that the sole purpose of runts was to be drowned.

There was a big hullabaloo, and the women in the family came away from the event sure that Myron needed coddling and protection. The men came away from the event sure that the women were going to ruin Myron for life, but Jocosa was a freaking terror and no one was about to argue with her. She'd already lost a son to rough sport and childhood injury before Myron was much more than a year old. She'd lost a daughter to illness before Myron was born. The miscarriage before her pregnancy with him had hardened her, and hurt her somewhere down deep, where no one could see behind her rages and hysterics. She was not about to lose another of her scions. So Myron was coddled.

He was raised in transit, as Jocosa and Glyndwr were set to the task of overseeing the Fernsby Footware suppliers along the western edge of Eyropa. They'd stay in a city for a month or more, and then move to the next, always traveling between the same three. Myron didn't really care. While his brothers were off learning how to fight and climbing trees or stealing fruits from some hapless farmer's land, Myron was learning how to act like a gentleman. Shielded from the sun. Told that he was going to be important as a sixth son for doing something like paperwork or recording finances or something else fusty and boring. No one ever really knew what for sure, but he was assured that Jocosa wasn't going to have no lilly-livered useless son hanging about being sick and worthless. So, Myron was schooled with his sisters, and pretty much suffered every prank and trick a younger brother can. His brothers took the remonstration from their overemotional mother as a form of mild encouragement, and not even whippings by their rather resigned father did much to stop them.

Myron was closest to his younger sister. Understandable, since she didn't try to do things to him or make him cry (so worth the punishment, according to his brothers), and included him in her play. His older sister he didn't much know; Royse was whisked away in marriage for some trade arrangement long before Myron could form an attachment to her. So he clung to his younger sister. Perhaps this made him just a teensy bit effeminate, but he was gently steered away from tea parties once his voice started changing and Dicun realized that having a male member of the family engaging in girly childhood pastimes wasn't the most effective use of his upbringing. It should be noted that Jocosa thought the whole mess was sweet, and cute in the way of children. It should also be noted that by that point Jocosa was about fucking done with having kids, and raising them, and pretty much left everything up to Molle, who in turn was so overwhelmed by the middle boys that tea parties were the last worry on her mind.

Myron was twelve when Dicun, heir to Jocosa's slice of the Fernsby business and secured with marriage and children, decided that the only way to salvage the pale, serious little boy who had a penchant for reading and embroidery and only had a bare grasp of what the family was even about would be to send him off to receive schooling with his cousins in Disarbri, a city in Hasele. At that time, however, it was winter. Getting to Disarbri in winter was a pain and a half, so while they waited for the weather to become more reasonable, Dicun saw to it that Myron learned how to make shoes. By hand. Without any women around. Glyndwr offered what support he could, but since Jocosa had all but castrated him at that point, his support was mostly quietly and subtly done. No one blamed him.

Jocosa whined about how Dicun was turning her sweet little boy rough and uncouth, to which Dicun responded by hiring a tutor of most strict reputation. Myron, he reasoned, would never be able to (or would need to) handle overseeing trade routes, merchant politics, or anything else that required a keen mind and a ruthless demeanor. So, he became determined to see Myron trained as an able secondary, able to perform as a shoemaker, clerk, or aide. They were children of a sibling to the heir, after all, and their status as members of the Fernsby family was determined by this.

So how does a large family whose success depends on a business function? The Fernsby family is patriarchal in nature, theoretically. Myron's grandfather, Aaron, was the previous family head (having been the first son of his generation). That changed when he got too old (he's dead now). The family leadership dropped to his first son, Edric, who in turn made sure his children were set to take control of the majority of family interests (mostly physical assets and their operation, choice of workers, oversight of merchandise and direction of business), as Aaron had done before him. The second son, Puck, handled trade management and various alliances with separate merchant families who helped with dissemination of their wares. Jocosa wrestled for herself control over supply, and used her in-laws to support her claim, as she became knowledgeable about such things. And, as she displaced her cousins before her, Edric's children started displacing her own. She ensured they did not lose full control of the stakes she'd won for them, though as she retired they found themselves with new overlords: their cousins.

The one thing to Jocosa's children's benefit was that Edric had never been particularly fertile with his wife, and as a result there was room for children of the second, third, or fourth children to the family head to grab power. This was just beginning to turn deadly as Myron was sent to school with his cousins. By that time Dicun had nearly brainwashed Myron into thinking he'd be loved and useful if he worked to support his brothers and cousins, and learned how to be a proper peon. So for the first few months, he was a model student and a benefit to the family name.

Then his brother Tenney died to the family conniving. Myron was 13, and still coddled to some extent. What he heard, rather than bland and boring fact, was the ghastly rumors that followed ill-explained deaths. It terrified him, especially given his cousins' fascination with the morbid. He began to have nightmares of his own death, by increasingly violent and depraved means, and he found himself confessing his fears and his dreams to one of his teachers who was, as it so happened, his cousin twice removed on his mother's side, a man named Avery.

Avery was unsure of what to do at first, but after discussion with his colleagues he discovered Myron had been interested in anatomy. He decided that one way to ease Myron from his fears was to educate him out of it. Myron was eager to distract himself, and took up the study of biology as a hobby, an outside interest beyond the endless drill of mathematics and handwriting and the proper ways to phrase things and hold himself depending on the region and local politics. Not to mention the endless drill of how to make shoes, and what went into making them. Myron learned so much about trade routes and alliances he thought his head would explode. There were so many names in his head he couldn't help but jumble them together, occasionally.

He got used to having his knuckles rapped by his strict instructors. He learned to minimize his mistakes, though he was never the most clever of students. What he had was diligence, and a propensity for studying and memorization. It paid off, eventually.

The one friend he had was Avery, whom he went to in order to study the body and its functions. At that time, anatomy and physiology were still on the cutting edge of modern science, questioned for its use and usefulness, especially by those cities that embraced the wonders of magical ability. But even in the heart of magic, there were Puradynes determined to wear it away, and Disarbri was such a city. Avery was himself Puradyne, and though Myron had grown up with the teachings, it was Avery who gave him a love for the religion, and a purpose through it that was to prove that medical science was better without the intervention of magic.

Myron understood it was an uphill battle, what with advancements in magic seemingly taking over the whole world, but he appreciated the simplicity and dignity with which Avery treated his subject matter, even when that included dissection. His nightmares went away. He was happy for a time, with research and corpses and Avery and the various professors and scholars who Avery introduced him to.

Glyndwr died at age 52, near Myron's 17th birthday. He was called home for the funeral, which was not so much his home as Glyndwr's home in Pretana. Myron found it to be a strange place, compared to the orderly nature of Eyropa, especially the quiet Puradyne school he attended, and the scholarly university he had hopes and dreams of studying at with Avery's guidance.

Dicun had his hands full with Jocosa's needling about the power she hoped for her family to hold, even through the funeral. Myron didn't see much of her or any of his surviving older brothers. He had never been close to his father, hadn't thought of him in a way that would allow him to mourn. Avery and Dicun were the male role-models who ruled his life, while Glyndwr was just the shadow Jocosa had used to do her bidding. Myron spent most of the funeral as an observer, curious about the heated discussions held behind closed doors, and pining for the quiet classrooms in Hasele.

But he did find time for himself, and he had work that Avery had given him. He began his first paper discussing skeletal structure in humans during the time spent in Pretana, for there was little else for him to do with most of the adults preoccupied and uninterested in spending time with him. Eventually and without much fanfare he was sent back to Disarbri, and completed his studies to everyone's satisfaction.

He completed that first paper and had started another when the news came of the deaths of his brothers Wymond and Jankin. He was not so politically versed as the rest of his family, only more so than his younger sister who was herself married and a mother. Myron was a late bloomer, a child trained to be the last among sons and relegated to a role befitting that status. Had Jocosa not been lured by power, she would have ensured his thorough training towards the ventures of the family business, but she'd never paid much attention to him, content with her elder children. Now, however, he was suddenly third son rather than sixth, and Jocosa needed him.

It was only the pleading of Avery and some of the other professors that bought Myron more time. They encouraged Jocosa to allow Myron year to become more accomplished a student of business before he was required to enter the family politics. She acquiesced only when Dicun, having met with Myron, agreed that as it stood Myron wouldn't be much of an asset.

Myron had his year. Which might have been fine on its own, a sort of bittersweet last chance at scholarly freedoms. The papers he'd written had been received with a sort of lukewarm neutrality that had thrilled Myron -- after all, he'd expected (and been warned by Avery) that they might be dismissed out of hand. However, not all was fine. Myron had been unwed as was not typical for a young man of his age and family, and well, he had things to do! Outside of the school! With. . .people! And boobs!

Unfortunately for Myron, the young woman he'd fallen head over heels in lust with wasn't quite all she appeared to be. The attempted coupling didn't turn out so well, because she was exactly as rough and base a person as she'd originally appeared -- the sort of woman as unlike the coiffed giggling horde as another could get. Unbeknownst to Myron, she was of the Descacido peoples, and had wandered north out of Corezo to take a taste of cultured man. Aaand, let's just say she couldn't quite keep her hands to herself when she got excited. Errr, maybe that should be claws.

It was a troubling experience for a young man attempting to rebel and sow his wild oats into the fertile soil of youth. What was more troubling, however, was that the blood and wounds he received from that very first attempt came with a greater price than being mentally scarred for life in regards to passions shared between a man and a woman (or a man and a man, but you get the idea): he turned.

For a Puradyne, it perhaps wasn't the very worst thing that could happen, but it was damn close. In a panic, he went to Avery, who responded with coolness and the very firm advice that no one could know. Ever. Myron was about as close to panic as he could get, and with Avery giving him the cold shoulder he found that the remnant of his last year at the school was spent in misery, confusion, and loneliness. And something of a hairy problem, but you know. Puberty. He'd gone through it once, and he had no choice but to go through something similar if rather more rare an experience a second time.

He left the school and Disarbri behind, and to this day has not returned. He did as he was bid in a haze of numbness and fear, ever the fear, and his only solace was his strained request to be allowed to continue his studies into anatomy and limited physiology. Being that his family was wealthy enough for it, he continued to receive the papers and periodicals of more esteemed scholars, and he developed a rapport with them. He did his family duties, learned what he needed to know, and was propped up to be the one who took over the merchant caravans who took their goods along the Northern Trade Route. It was something of a blow for Jocosa and Dicun, who fought tooth and nail with Jocosa's second elder brother's children for the Southern Trade Route, and had lost.

They almost didn't get the northern route, but for a happy death. And then, there was still a contest: the Footwear shop in Marn, the upstart trading post that had somehow bloomed into a wilting city, had begun a decline the year before. Myron was given a rather grim task: see that the shop survived and flourished within a five year span, or lose the control.

He was packed off to Marn with nary even a reacharound (metaphorically speaking, of course), with explicit orders from Jocosa and Dicun that he get his shit together and do as he was bid, or else there would be consequences. Dire ones. Unthinkable ones. At that point, having hidden his cat form for seven years, Myron couldn't help but almost collapse into hysterics of his own. But he held it together, mostly. He almost went into hysterics again when he reached Marn, and saw the family "estate" that had been established there.

Twenty eight and having been worked into something resembling a proper third son, Myron wasn't exactly unskilled with managing a business. Surely he wasn't the best ever, but he'd picked up skills and knowledge along the way, and he could hold his own. Which made it rather infuriating when Jocosa always managed to interfere any time he tried to utilize his skill set to turn Fernsby Footwear and Fittings around. Either a courier would arrive, or one of her little toadies would, leaving him with his hands tied every time he tried to do anything. He got to know that all of the servants had been bribed or scared into doing her bidding, and after two years of attempting to remedy the damage that had been done to the business by its former manager (who'd been young, and stupid, until a drug overdose had finally managed to kill him off), he finally gave up.

He turned to what he knew best: dead people. When it became apparent that directly asking for cadavers upon which he could conduct more study would not be taken so well by the upper crust (imagine that), he instead searched for a business that might suit him. It was with his personal money that he purchased a funeral parlor with a ridiculously stuffy name. He renamed it to Grave Endings, and began to work as a mortician, which wasn't quite what he really wanted to do, but it was enough.

Once he'd established himself there, and seen to it that some of his works were displayed within the parlor itself, he approached the Guard with a deal: he could perform autopsies for them on the off chance the details he might be able to discover would aide them in their investigations. He was refused, of course, being relatively new to the city and part of a family whose business was shoes of all things (though good shoes, yes, but horrifically overpriced).

So Myron stewed, and made nice with the richey-rich and the politically inclined. He wallowed for half a year in misery and expensive alcohol (though certainly possible to be a destructive substance in and of itself, he had no intentions of touching any drugs that might lead to a repeat embarrassing death -- the ripples of his predecessor's death and the rumors surrounding it were not helping his situation in the least, and he found he had to work against a reputation that had nothing to do with him). It is only recently that he has begun to try to use connections and make connections in order to swing things to his advantage. While he truly desires nothing more than to bury himself in anatomy and physiology, he also recognizes that he is on his third year in Marn, and he needs to show some progress. He needs to get his shrew of a mother out of his hair.

And all this while keeping his shifting a secret in a city where use of magic is detectable, and the citizens watchful, and his own self loathing growing a little darker every day no matter how often he visits the temple.

Yeah, perfect.

[Metarie]

Another gem.

Approved.