Fireborn: Dark Phoenix
With a hearty drag on a cigar, he flashes teeth - a grin, a snarl? Gone. Hot-tempered as ever, mercurial as the Sirocco. But he frowns less.
“I am a servant. I do not question Lady Syri’s designs, I enact them. I am an Artist, and if I study the Art of Symbology to my Mistress’s satisfaction then I may become her sorcerous protégée. And – ‘spy’ is such a grubby word – I am a negotiator. I negotiate the Truths from cracks in the walls between ages and tucked into parcels of lies that my Mistress wishes to expose. What could be more verminous than that?” Though he speaks with a distinctly Korakoven clip, Rotis has vaguely referred to his ‘tribe’ once or twice, in passing.
By the time he’d arrived in Shephame with the other refugees from Trynsham, the shell-shocked Dragonborn had resigned himself to exile from his postal depot. His time there had been a legitimate venture, he vows. Lady Syri’s business was in need of trustworthy hands at the helm, and she sought to curry favour with Argopolous: “Learn what this Lord possessed, or knew, that was worth so much; discover this and we may both yet learn of what magics he had found.” He claims to have been in her employ for 14 years or so, and viscously conceded to be about 27 or 28 years of age.
Nowadays, he prefers to spend his spare time pouring over his weathered tomes on the Art of Symbology rather than the tired ledger. Rotis is at his most animated when speculating and philosophizing on symbolic matters, and thoughtfully frowning or scowling otherwise. Smiling is for the complacent.