Ernar Fostrin

Fat, sexy spy


Race: Half-elf
Gender: Male
Class: Witch
Age: 22 years old
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral (sociopath)
Height: 6’6’’
Weight: over 300 lbs


Everyone’s heard what happened to the tiny nearby kingdom of Lys a few years ago. There was no war, no invasion or revolution, but – in what seemed like no time at all – the human kingdom became ruled by a cabal of elf nobles that had come from various other countries. Rumours suggest that this was the result of decades of planning, and that it required unprecedented amounts of blackmail, bribery, seduction and assassination, but this isn’t the sort of thing one can easily confirm. The only thing that is certain is that there isn’t a single human royal or noble left in Lys that isn’t either genuinely loyal to the new elf regime, or completely under its thumb. Those who resisted – either openly or otherwise – are either dead or in exile, the latter seeking refuge and sanctuary in other kingdoms with sympathetic human governments.

Count Ernar Fostrin is one such Lysian exile, but he doesn’t seem too broken up about it. The last survivor of a once influential family, Fostrin now spends all of his time and his seemingly endless wealth enjoying the most decadent things this kingdom has to offer. He not only attends every event on the cultural calendar and even the most elite aristocratic parties, but he also patronizes every eatery with a reputation for quality, from the classiest restaurant to the lowliest tavern. He’s also become notorious for hosting private parties in his own home: exclusive and mysterious affairs in the extreme, which former guests are always highly reluctant to discuss in any detail.

In the short time he’s been here, he’s already become quite recognizable. Part of that is his appearance; he stands 6’6’’ and weighs over 300 pounds (most of it fat), and is always seen wearing dark, simple but undeniably elegant clothes, his every outfit completed by the dazzlingly white fox pelt he wears about his shoulders at all times. However, the main thing that makes him so memorable is his presence; his gaze is intense, always lingering and probing with an unsettling amount of intimacy and familiarity, even in dealing with complete strangers far above or below his station. He’s undeniably likable, though, capable of downright infectious jolliness and blitheness, as well as great, endearing enthusiasm and startling intensity. But, seeing as he is so often in the public eye, not to mention popular and exotic, as well as magnetic and enigmatic, Fostrin has quickly become the subject of a substantial amount of gossip, not all of it founded in more than jealousy and paranoia, and not much of it flattering. Here are some examples:

  • There have been several (carefully and quietly repeated) rumours of Fostrin having lead local nobles (both male and female) into brief but potentially hazardous adulterous relationships, both with himself and with others, at various parties and events. No open accusations have been made to this effect, but certain lords and ladies have undeniably become considerably more sullen, nervous and/or giddy since his arrival in the city.
  • There are rumblings among workers and regular clients of the more exclusive bordellos in the city that Fostrin has occasionally hires elven and half-elven prostitutes and takes them back to his house. Oddly, each of these prostitutes has since disappeared, each one going missing shortly after their time with Fostrin. No one has uncovered any evidence to suggest foul play, though, and he still has no trouble acquiring whores of any lineage, whether at the bordello or at home.
  • His house is on the edge of an aristocratic district but rather small for someone of his astonishing wealth, and – according to many who have visited it – it’s even smaller inside than you would expect, designed in a strangely torturous way that makes it feel simultaneously cramped and easy to lose one’s way in. It is decorated with the utmost taste, though.
  • There are some who maintain that he never goes out during daylight hours, despite the fact that several people – many of which consider him their friend – claim that they frequently see him out and about during the day. “He just stays up too late living the good life,” they say, in his defence. “He doesn’t always look like he’s in great shape during the day, but he’s not some kind of fucking vampire.”
  • Fostrin is known for his enormous appetite, but there are people who claim that it has reached grotesque proportions and brought with it bizarre tastes. Some of his neighbours have claimed to have repeatedly seen strange and exotic animals being lead to the kitchen entrance of his house, sometimes in the middle of the night. The noises that usually follow suggest that they were butchered almost immediately.
  • His butler, Didier, followed him in exile from Lys. A stern, quiet man in his fifties, he rarely attracts attention, particularly in the presence of his larger-than-life employer. However, a one-time guest in Fostrin’s home has said that he once saw Didier break the arm of another guest and remove him from the room with shocking speed when the latter became dangerously intoxicated and belligerent. The guest is rumoured to have woken up in his home late the next day with two broken bones, a splitting headache and no memory of the night before.
  • Fostrin’s private parties are a source of endless speculation. As previously mentioned, no one who has attended one speaks of the experience in any detail, no matter how much they are entreated, begged or bribed. Those who haven’t experienced one, however, have countless theories as to their nature. Some suspect they’re orgies that involve the guests (various nobles, artists and adventurers of note) as well as numerous prostitutes. Others suspect that they involve not sex (or not only sex) but ritual torture, murder, conspiracies and/or occult rituals. Others still insist that the parties are likely disappointingly dull, though no one actually believes this, least of all those who claim to out loud.
  • Though most dismiss it as an eccentric affectation, it strikes some as weird that Fostrin is never without his snow-white fox pelt, even in the warmest weather. A few people even find his attachment to the garment to be in rather poor taste, as he acquired it on a hunting trip that cost two of his friends their lives. Some people have claimed that they once saw the pelt move of its own accord, or caught it staring at them with its impossibly shiny, black eyes. Those people, however, were invariably in attendance at either a party or a tavern and thus too drunk to be altogether trustworthy.
  • There are also rumours that his decorative walking stick conceals a hidden blade of some variety, but this – as per usual – comes from less than reputable sources.

STATUS: Last seen plummetting into darkness, putting on a powerfully magic ring and rolling 20 on Use Magic Device

Ernar Fostrin

NIL tomartin R_Loopfrog