Image Credits: frame Arkane; figure Doll Divine Hipster maker (flashpoint used)

Name: Cleeve Shoreborne

Gender/Preference: Male, he/him, gay

Age/DOB: 58 in 1855*; 10th Day, Month of Seeds

Faction: Various over his life - a Whaler (not the magic kind), Bartender, and Shop Keeper among Black Market types

Family: none known, has a series of short lived relationships with sailors, tough guys, and one or more aristocrats who'd wandered too close and been charmed

Height/Build: 6'3" / slender but muscular like crazy, from decades on ships and doing heavy work, he's not musclebound and is more sleek than some deck hands

Hair: pale flaxen blond with bleached ends, and silvery strands coming through; curly and kept short without much need to style it, shaved on the sides and back; has fashionable short and well kept facial hair

Eyes: hazel green with strong yellow tones; still clear and intense though definitely showing his age with bags below and bushy brows

Appearance: currently his skin is lighter than it used to be, as he's kept indoors much more now; his skin has plentiful fancy and often faded tattoos from his years on the sea, getting one piece of ink in any port he's stayed at; dresses nicely dapper though often in older styles; he still smells a bit of salt and fish, and good cigars; his voice carries over quite a distance, and he has a surprisingly good singing voice

"He has seen so much, and weathered it all with a rare grace. He may yet be shaken, but even the Outsider might meet his match in this one."

Skills and Occupation: His skill set is that of a sea-going strong man, he's able to capture prey, kill and slaughter whales, clean and press oil, the lot required of any whaler in his era. As a shop keeper he's a bit lackluster, blunt, occasionally overestimates his ability to either do math or to barter successfully. However that often means he will just leave a customer hanging, rather than try and bluster his way out of it. He'd rather they come back at some point, than wind up giving ‘his' shop a bad reputation.

Residence: Tower District (docks), Dunwall; the location of his establishment is a former pub, the Black Pony Pub located directly between the shadow of the Palace itself, and the docks nearby. Familiar enough with the place as he spent decades drinking there, he discovered its owners had been killed by rats. When others came into the place expecting a drink, he simply walked behind the counter and began serving them. Hasn't stopped since, and has taken up the mantle of shop keep easily.

Notable Possessions: The location has a large basement larder, where ships cargo can be taken in, and a neatly appointed apartment (along with several rental rooms) above it. Since he didn't really have much to his own name, living aboard a ship most of his life, he's adapted to whatever is in these rooms, and enjoys looking much cleaner and less like a whaling crewman in his later years. He does rent out those rooms, but only to those who can easily prove they're not plague-ridden. His shop contains a LOT of contraband, whether it's weapons and ammunition, Runes and bonecharms, even heretical books are found stashed here and there. But he tries to keep the place on the up and up, and pays his ‘fees' either with booze or coin, depending on who's asking for them.

Personality: While he can be blunt as a crate of bricks at times, he's also sharp as a harpoon when it comes to local gossip, who's-who, and keeping his head on his shoulders if those are people who might want to take it off. He could easily snap most men in two given a grip on them, but prefers to settle scores with drinking games, darts (he's been known to heft an actual harpoon into the dart board...) (and then buy a new dart board), and singing bad shanties. (This world's version of “rap battles”)

Likes and Dislikes: : He can drink any man under the table, and likes a good tussle with one too, whether that be in a boxing ring, or a bedroom, either way. He doesn't care for those weird scary heretics calling themselves Whalers, they're no ship-crew. He will certainly serve them, anyone with the coin, but they'd best come through his shop without that whaler's mask - because that marks them as the wrong sort. He won't turn them in, of course, that's insane. But he has made it clear that if a Whaler comes through, they do so as a ‘civilian' only, and not as a member of that crew

Fears or Interruptions: He's not a young man any longer, but he's fit as an ox... For how long? He's seen plenty of action both on the water and in the city, he doesn't look forward to even more unrest - in the form of that witch Delilah? The city got immeasurably worse in that brief time. He can't handle much more of that nonsense. There are too few people in the city to help rebuild it, how will it survive?

History: Born and raised in Dunwall, however spent most of his youth and young adulthood aboard whaling ships working for the Fullterton Whalehouse - until that disaster, which he managed to avoid only by virtue of being on shore leave getting himself a tattoo at the time. Before then, he'd sailed nearly around the world, not just in the waters around Gristol looking for whales. He has seen Pandyssia, but only from a ship - he wasn't among those required or even allowed to set foot on its shore. He has many stories, most of them made up or stolen from other people's exploits, but some are true and astonishing. After all, no one's left that could dispute most of them. By the mid-1830s, he really was not enjoying the rat-gnawed Regent... while war is good for business, civil war isn't, and that is just what it felt like to Cleeve. Frankly if this Regent would just get on with either proclaiming himself emperor, or getting himself ousted, he will be able to do this job much more easily. Thankfully, that happened in 1837. He's been in charge of the Pub and Shop ever since.

*Note that originally he was created for the Dunwall era 1837, he would have been in his prime during the era directly following the Regent's time on the throne.

**

It wasn't a dream, it wasn't all just a dream.

He'd often dreamed of the sea, while sleeping in his bed above the pub, nestled among the old bonecharms and new pistols. His many adventures and the long sea voyages during his youth were deeply embedded after all, he knew the way the water would move under his legs just by looking at it through a spy glass while sitting on his rooftop stool too. But this, this was no dream.

The Void had called him, or perhaps the Outsider did, but spoke not at all as he floated in it for a brief time. Colder than that time their ship floundered against an iceberg, dry too - not that any of the water here in the Void could be said to be 'wet', it felt ghostly, like passing through a spider web that clung with chill. He'd seen the Void before, how the Outsider knew or cared - he survived along with a few of the lucky crew on that failed journey over the north pole; colder than the cold winds and water, the slicing ice that shattered with the impact of their ship prow. It felt almost warm, when he woke on that iceberg, to be rescued.

It was warm now, but he wasn't in his bed above the pub. He was - apparently - on another World, he didn't know its name and wouldn't be able to describe it anyway, he only saw the briefest and narrowest part of this coastline bay anyway. And was only there a few days, a bit confused, but still... Warm. Warm and mostly dry, though it was impossible to be 'dry' this close to the bay itself.

He swore he heard a strangely familiar chuckle, echoing in his mind, when someone urged him to 'sign up for the Nekrat clutch!' What did that even mean? What was a 'neck rat' and why would he want to clutch it? He had it in his mind that it was a necklace of rats, and that wasn't very appealing at all... until he approached the docks and saw a creature - not whale, not a seal, what was it? - leap over the dock in a tall graceful arc. It splashed down and caused nary a ripple even though it had fins plentiful enough to do a show at the Golden Cat...

"Wait, what is--" he started to say, but by that time someone else had called forth spectators and candidates alike in the late afternoon. There was a... large, large creature looking from halfway under the water, he didn't know its name because it wasn't from his World so he didn't presume, but it had tentacles and a graceful alert looking horse-like head, so he knew it was a friend. Cleeve couldn't help but notice that the woman who'd announced this clutch had turned from a seal to a woman in a smooth moment, and he blinked hard to make sure that he really wasn't dreaming. This whole day would be like that. Apparently though, the creature that sired this nest of eggs below in the sand just under that dock, was a 'Nekrat' in the faintest of seafoam blue-white. His partner, a rich crystal blue bearing fins that reminded him of the blue ice below that fateful 'berg.

His childhood fascination with the creatures in the World's vast seas burned so brightly just then.

It was only when a small yellow nose poked out of the water, glanced around, and resurfaced near one of the other 'candidates' that Cleeve truly understood what was happening. He knew that dolphins sometimes befriended folk on ships, he also knew that - with a pang of guilt - the whales he'd hunted for more than 20 years were intelligent and kind creatures until cornered or speared. His gut began to twist a bit, the Void knew - the Void held whales too, he remembered vividly seeing them circling him as though they would eat him, but didn't, when he was near-frozen and all but consumed by the Void already.

Another pair of the young of this amazing nest found their friends. It wasn't until dark that the last of them would find their own companion, but for the moment, Cleeve took note of a very dark and sleek shape that zipped one way and then the next but homed in on him in particular. He was hardly visible due to the glinting of the sunsets rays over the dark bay surface, lightning on oil, with big yellow eyes.

Cleeve! Over here! - the creature knew his name?

"What in the Void..." no, it wasn't the Void though - it was not a dream. He staggered a few steps and then proudly waded half into the wavelets, as this amazing dragon came to him. "Garest, how am I to explain the likes of you?" He chuckled. Garest didn't seem to care, what he did care about just at that moment was that he'd found his one, and there would be such fun to be had in their future!

**

They remained at Big Bay for a short time, while Cleeve learned a bit about how to care for and help his new Nekrat. Garest was still apt to give off high-pitched chittering laughter any time he thought about 'necklace of rats' and then realized that he could easily eat a hundred 'rats' - though was warned away from doing so until they knew the plague was over...

He slept in a cot with the small dragonet in a specially made seawater bath, while still on this other world, but it was clear that he would be leaving them before the others. Capable and sure, he was no dwarf from a faroff realm, he wasn't a sea-creature himself, but he knew how to tend and teach the ways of his own World's waters.

"And there you are," a voice echoed through his whole body, "young and old, legged and finned... a matched pair the likes I've never seen, and I have seen a lot."

Cleeve heard a sort of rustling, almost like foot steps but when he turned it was clear that those fine boots had never touched a floor in their entire existence - if they really existed at all. The young man gently floating as if he was in water was ... well, he was incredibly handsome, and though he looked young, Cleeve knew who this was. He knew that the Void had claimed this man before he'd become perhaps twenty, and that was--

"Thousands of years ago," the Outsider completed his thought, "there were whales in the waters of the World, but never dragons." He paused, as Garest's eyes opened and focused on this other human in awe tinted with a little suspicion. That suspicion turned to child-like glee, when he added, "and none as delightful as you."

It is cold here, who is this man? You seem to know him, but I don't! You think he's pretty!

Cleeve blushed something fierce, perhaps the first time he'd ever done so in decades. The Outsider gave a chuckle, genuine, happy.

"So... we can go home? I can go home with him?" Cleeve said, his voice wasn't behaving, it almost cracked. There were tears rolling from his eyes; hot, plentiful tears.

Why do you cry? Are you sad? You don't feel sad?

They woke, both dragonet and human, in the basement of the pub, a bathtub was filled with the local seawater and seemed to slosh with motion even though they merely appeared and didn't splash. Cleeve sat up and wiped the tears from his face, pushing his fingers over his generous mustache and realizing something new. He had a tattoo, a new one on the back of his left hand, but it wasn't like those he'd seen on some of the witches or others... He knew, he knew beyond a doubt what this one meant.

"I'm not sad, Garest, I'm happy beyond measure," Cleeve said. "This isn't his mark, but I know what it means. I've seen it in a dream somewhere, and I knew what it meant then too."

He showed it to the little curious dragon:

"It means 'life'," he said, quietly, examining it briefly before realizing where they were and that it was barely even midnight. "It means I ... might live to see the whales return to the seas right-proper." Cleeve picked up the Nekrat and carried him out of the dim smuggler's den, and under the sheltered dock beyond. There was a whole network of tunnels below the active docks, sealed for centuries but unearthed by this smuggler or that pirate every few decades. He'd discovered them somehow, or perhaps he hadn't - perhaps he just woke with this knowledge and knew that he could open the rusted gate with a nudge. There, with the sounds of the waves slowly rising and falling beyond the thick stone jetty structure, they could hide both stolen goods and little growing dragons safely.

"I know you don't want to be hidden, Garest," Cleeve said, "but if the Abbey sees you I don't know what they'd do."

His mind said otherwise, and Garest knew exactly what they would do. So they remained hidden, but little Garest would grow into big Garest and still fit well within the tunnels! Under the pub was a larger area where he could lounge during the day, warm air flowing into the chamber, along with the scented smoke from cigars, and the laughter of patrons in the pub above it. And when evening came, the storm Nekrat moved from the shelter into the sea to glide along side the exotic fish, the hagfish and eels, and the whales - bigger than twenty of his kind put together perhaps...

But they let him frolic with their young, and there would indeed come a day when Cleeve Shoreborne would see whole pods of them surface - and his Garest leaping through their plumes of breath.