Magnus Wight
From Edge of Darkness Wiki
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Appearance
Mask
Magnus appears to be a weathered man in his mid fifties, or perhaps a youthful early sixties. He stand 5'2", 5'4" if he doesn't slouch, and likely weighs 130 lbs soaking wet. His skin is rough and leathery, the sort of skin those who spend their lives outside and working often get. His salt-and-pepper hair is short but unkempt, and he constantly has a day or two worth of growth on his chin and cheeks. His eyes are the only untarnished and youthful aspect to him. They are crystal blue, so pale as to be almost grey. When he thinks no one is looking they seem to shine, though whether with mirth or tears of sorrow it is hard to say.
Magnus typically wears practical clothing that can stand up to hard work. More often than not he can be found wearing a pair of sturdy blue jeans - usually sun faded - and a button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In the Winter the shirt is always flannel, and in the summer it's a toss up between flannel and something lighter. He wears a pair of thick suspenders most days, and if it gets cold enough (less than about 75F) he will add a brown leather coat. He wears boots where ever he goes, whether out on a hike or just down to the local grocery store.
Mien
At first glance, for those who can see such things, Magnus' mien is much the same as his mask. However, there are subtle hints that he isn't just the old man he appears to be. The first and most obvious are his hands. They are stained a deep burgundy red at his fingers, the color of a rich and dark wine, lightening to a pale but vibrantly bright strawberry red near his elbows. Sometimes when seen peripherally his hands seem to actually be covered in some dark liquid, like a thick port dripping off of his fingers, but when seen directly his hands prove to be dry.
Other oddities only become noticeable after time. His facial hair seems to grow visibly over the course of the day. Every morning he wake with just a touch of scruff, something a bit past a 5 o'clock shadow. As the day wears on his beard slowly fills in until it is a short, scraggly beard in the late afternoon, moving into a full beard that any Russian or Santa would be proud of by late evening. Strands of barley is interspersed into his beard and grows with the beard from sprouts in the morning to full harvest by the end of the day. Even more subtly his apparent age seems to shift through the year, and this is subtle enough that it sometimes shows through the mask. In the early spring he appears the most youthful - perhaps a weathered 45. He seems to age decades over the seasons and by Christmas time he looks to be starting his 80s. Oddly, during the depths of winter, between the Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox, he appears to age backwards so by the time Spring begins again he is once again only beginning middle age.
Mantle
Magnus' Winter Mantle appears as most - that is with no obvious sign to the season. Instead, he appears to be stark and somehow more clear as if he were a high-definition photograph of himself. Additionally, the air seems just a bit cooler around him at all times.
History
Innocence
The boy had a charmed childhood, the type most only dream about. Growing up on a farm and vineyard, he had acres upon acres where he could have adventures. And as he played and ran he grew strong and learned much about what the world had to offer. He did his chores daily, learning the value of hard work from loving parents. He was surrounded by life constantly – the chickens in their coupes, the goats and the cow in the barn, and the vines. The vines which were so painstakingly tended and lovingly cared for, they were the life's blood of his family and their small little farm.
The seasons turned. In Spring they would prune and straighten the vines, checking each scion and shoot and deciding what should stay and what should be removed for the good of the entire plant. They would plant the small vegetable garden and clean out the barn. The animals were vibrant, with new chicks and baby goats that needed attention. In Summer there was even more work to be done. The vines would require constant attention: making sure they got enough water, but not too much; that they got enough sun to harden and ripen the fruit, but not so much as to scorch them. The garden needed weeding, the animals needed tending, and always something needed to be repaired. Yet somehow the boy always found time to sneak off and find adventure. The Autumn was harvest, and with that came pressing and crushing, blending, and barreling. Most of the harvest was sold, of course, the farm was a vineyard first, and not a true winery. But the family always kept back some of the best and made their own wines. And, of course, the boy had to go to school. The Winter came and the work wasn't so bad. Snows would come, but they wouldn't stay. The green vines turned brown, but the brown earth turned green as the mustard started to grow, and then yellow as it bloomed in February.
The years came and went, and the boy grew up. He went off to school – the first of his family to do so – where he learned how to manage a business and the science behind agriculture and fermentation. His family never had much money outside of the farm, but they insisted he take a year and travel Europe. He saw the vineyards of France, of Spain, and of Italy. He traveled the countryside of Germany and learned to love beer and spirits. He went to England and then to Ireland and fell in love with the ciders and ales – and with a young woman with red hair and emerald eyes. He promised to show her his home across the sea, and to see her home in turn.
He brought her home as promised. His parents were shocked, but delighted. They spent seven years together, happy. She loved the farm as he did, though she did not enjoy the work as much. He took what he had learned in school and he converted the old barn into a winery. Within a year the construction was done and they held back more of the harvest. By the next they released the first labels: Sauvingon Blanc and Chardonnay. It wasn't the best, but it wasn't bad. Within five years they added a Pinot Noir, a Merlot, and the coveted Cabernet Sauvignon. They didn't make much off of the labels, but they made enough, and the wine was getting better.
Then came the year they made enough that they wouldn't have to sell next year's harvest. It was a milestone, it meant they would truly succeed, if only they could repeat their success on a larger scale. Seven years hard work had finally paid off. They celebrated that New Years alone together, the man and his wife. They opened a bottle of sparkling white, one they had made together. She proposed a toast to promises kept and as they kissed the clock struck midnight and it began to snow.
Arcadia
He had shown her his home, and now she showed him hers. Her home was nothing like his, and yet everything like his. There was a house and a garden, a barn and fields for planting. A blanket of snow covered everything but Spring promised life and green. She asked him to create, as he had done before. At first he tried because he loved her. He did not love this land as she did, but he loved her so he worked. But as time went on nothing seemed to be enough. He produced every type of drink he could imagine from every possible fruit and grain and substance he could find or she could provide. Yet despite all of his efforts nothing pleased her. It was always too sweet or to tart or not....enough.
And then there were the oddities. Things that he somehow, madly, didn't notice or worry about at first, but gradually realized. Every morning the sun would rise brightly over the spring-fresh fields, with green vines and stalks of unusual plants. The plants would flower in the mid morning, bringing a freshness to the air and he would go about the chores on the farm. By the mid afternoon the fines hung heavy with fruits of all colors and by the late afternoon he would harvest their daily bounty and take them to the shed for the evening's processing. By the time he finished with the day's brew he would come inside exhausted to present his efforts and inevitably disappoint his lovely wife's expectations. As he trudged wearily to bed snow would begin to fall.
As the days went by he began to notice changes in himself as well. His hands became leathery and calloused, and eventually wan and knobby. Every morning he woke up just a little more tired, just a little more sore. Eventually his joints began to creak and he didn't stand as straight as he once did. Without any mirrors he didn't notice how his face became drawn and haggard, or how his hair was slowly turning white. He grew older while she remained as young and vibrant as when he met her.
Then one day he was working diligently on a new drink for his lovely wife. He had a barrel of brandy 10 days old and a vintage of a dark, sweet wine that was 15 days old – the very same sweet wine he had made the brandy from. She had found both wanting, but perhaps if he blended the two and mulled it with some spices she had gotten for him it would please her.
He had the liquids simmering and began adding the spices, mostly whole. There was one, though, a strange pod of thick, fibrous texture. He had been told the husk was very bitter, but inside one would find a small amount of a viscous liquid that was ambrosia to the tongue. He found a knife and began trying to cut through the thick outer shell. He slipped, and a sharp pain shot through his thumb. He rushed over to find a cloth to clean his cut with and in his haste he did not realize how much blood there was. He felt the warm blood drip down his hand and he watched in horror as three drops of blood fell into his bubbling brew.
He knew he didn't have enough time to start over, so frantic he grabbed a ladle and tasted the liquid. It was sweet and thick and heady, but he could detect no hint of anything off. Sighing in relief he found a cloth and wrapped his thumb. Then he found an extra fruit and began eating it. He couldn't understand why he was suddenly so hungry, or why he couldn't remember the last time he had actually had a meal. When he checked the bandage before going inside to present his latest creation to his wife he was astounded to find the cut completely healed.
She loved the wassail, and insisted he bring her more. Instead of going to bed that night he kept running back and forth to the barn outside as the snow fell deeper and deeper. By the time he was sent to bring the last cup back to the house a thick sheet of ice had formed over the outside of the house. In the flickering light of his lantern he caught site of his reflection. He was shocked to find out that he was old. His face was weathered and wrinkled, his eyes sunken and drooping, his hair was white as snow, and his body was withered and twisted into a short, emaciated thing. Horrified he suddenly realized what had happened.
Thinking quickly and furiously he retrieved the last of the cider. He sliced open his thumb again and bled several more drops into the cup. He found another of the fruit that had healed him before and then brought the cup back to her. By this time she was well and truly drunk on his blood – on the life she had been slowly stealing to keep herself young. She drank down the draught with his blood in it so quickly that it was gone before she realized the addition. Her eyes flew wide for a moment before she passed out drunk.
He gathered up what materials and extra fruit he could before heading out into the snow. He wandered for some time, trying to find his way home. Several more nights passed as he wandered snow covered trails and passes. As the nights passed he began to feel more and more himself. His back straightened a touch, his joints loosened, and his legs and arms limbered. He knew she would be coming after him, but he somehow managed to keep ahead of her. The further he got from her little farm the more he remembered his parents farm and the more distant the details of his capture became. Eventually the paths became familiar and he found his way out of the Cascades back into his beloved valley.
Homecoming
When he got home, however, things were not as he remembered. Where there was once a farm and a field now there was naught but asphalt and pavement. Where once a family labored to produce the best wines they could, now stood a place where ragged drunks could come to purchase cheap beer with food stamps. Where once had been a home and family business there was now a massive store selling cheap goods of all kinds.
Heartbroken the man searched for answers, and eventually he found them. He found the divorce papers that he had supposedly filed, claiming infidelity and bearing only one signature. He found the article from 6 years ago bemoaning an upcoming winery's sudden fall into mediocrity. He found the second mortgage and the third and the fourth, taken out on the home six, five, and four years ago to keep a failing business afloat. He found the foreclosure dated three years ago. And he found the death certificates – his father the winter after they lost the farm from a heart attack, his mother 3 months after that from the same. The locals told the curious old man that the death certificates lied. The husband had died from shame and his wife from heartbreak. No one knew what had become of the son. They all agreed it had been that Irish witch he had brought back when he had returned from Europe. She had cursed them, the locals claimed. After all, everyone had known something was wrong with her. Everyone except the man and his lost family.
He went away after that. He found a new place to live in the city. He found an old tenement to rent for close to nothing where they don't look to closely at your credentials. He had figured out what he was by then and that he wasn't alone, but he kept to himself. He shut himself away, only coming out once every Friday to visit the market and pick up his groceries and maybe grab a drink to keep himself from going insane. That was three years ago. In truth he has spent the past three years developing an extensive hollow with a winery, brewery, and distillery. He has become somewhat adept at navigating the Hedge and finding things to brew and ferment. He hides from himself and from society, as well as keeping as far from the Others as he can, but he isn't willing to just roll over and die. The Leansídhe may have taken his life and his youth, but he was a crafter before she ever found him. And thus he pursues the only thing left to him that once made him happy, because he refuses to let her have everything.
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