Teodoire Wynne

Ex-opium peddler Greenbond. Now the party's combat medic.


Male Spryte Greenbond – Player Max Poirot. Healer and controller, and sneakiest PC. Bit of a stoner. Brother of Natalia. Has a mysterious past that he’s mentioned in game several times.


Teodoir opens his eyes under the glare of the afternoon sun streaming in his window. He blinks groggily and reaches a hand out from under his sweat-stained sheets to the nightstand next to his bed. He pushes aside half-filled hookah’s, spilled wine bottles, and sticky masses of tar-like hash until he grabs a seemingly out of place glass of water and throws its contents into his mouth and over his face, bringing himself more into wakefulness. He gives a disgusted look to the emaciated, snoring female form next to him, a puddle of drool forming on the pillow next to her face. “Better to let her sleep,” he thinks, “She’ll probably just fuck everything up today.” He hoists himself out of bed and wanders out of the bedroom.
An unconscious, half-naked faen groans and rolls over as Teodoir steps over him and pushes through the curtains of ivy vines that serve as a door to the kitchen. The fruit trees that have grown into and through the walls of the kitchen droop with the weight of the apples and mangoes hanging from their branches. Teodoir grabs an apple off the living wall and bites into its soft and juicy flesh. Under the spreading branches a pair of verrick sit in the corner smoking a hookah and arguing about the nature of law. Teo ignores the pointless stoner banter and heads out the backdoor to the greenhouse and his most prized plants.
In the greenhouse, the perfume heavy smell of poppies and necter seduces teodoir back into a drowsy state. He lingers over his beloved flowers and vines for a moment reveling in the intoxicating aroma and the worry over today’s deal fades for a moment as he remembers a more frivolous and carefree life.
After leaving the Harrowdeep at the age of his majority, he squandered his inheritance on a hedonistic tour of the Free Cities of the South. Hosting parties and becoming a member of the social scene drove him into debt and more than few addictions. Living on borrowed cash and ostracized from the luxuries of his former friends, Teodoir finds himself renting a small, run-down house in the metropolis of De-shemod with several other less fortuanate quickling faen. They manage to survive by building up a business growing opium under the surprisingly expert gardening skills of Teodoir. With his supernatural talent for botany, he quickly developed a strain of poppy that could grow grapefuit sized seed pods, providing fields worth of opium in a single plant with a potency unmatched anywhere in Serran.
The swollen and ripe seed-pods hang from the vine like stalks of Teodoirs mutated opium poppies. He lovingly pinches them to feel their ripeness, but is pulled out of his daydream by the snoring of an unconscious faen slumped over a pile of golden-brown granulate, a smoldering pipe in one hand. A few sharp kicks to the ribs forces him awake and staring into the angry eyes of his employer. “Wake up you useless git. This shit needs to be harvested and bagged by sundown.”

The east end docks of the De-Shamod harbor have never been a safe place to be caught at night. This is truer now than ever since the Iron Wing Gang has made it a new region of their growing territory. The gang is made up of only dracha. At first they were only a small crew of bandits and thieves. Their hunger for gold and power created a bond between them and soon they began organizing raids of warehouses and robberies of trade routs. Their celebrations and violent initiations of young dracha were rumored to be filled with psychotropic drugs and the pain from new members, and their victims. Because of this they are currently the fastest growing and most feared organized crime gang in De-Shamod. And tonight they have a meeting.
The sound of pony hoofs breaks up the night air and behind it a small cart creaks under the weight of its mysterious cargo. The carts driver, hooded in a dark cloak, urges the pony onward. Next to the driver, a second hooded figure looks around cautiously whispering orders to three others following alongside the cart on foot.
A sudden signal from the driver brings the small convoy to a sharp halt and the all the figures stand in silence. Bringing out a small whistle from his cloak, the driver blows three ascending notes and waits in silence. Moments later a small light reflected from an unknown source alerts the driver. Once again he brings the instrument to his lips and blows four descending notes. Silence passes again before the sound of beating wings is heard overhead.
The starry night is blackened for a moment as a swarm of winged figures soar over the caravan. The group turns in synch and begins circling the cart as the small hooded travelers all watch. Without warning the group descends like a flock of swallows, landing and surrounding the cart on all sides. The biggest one steps forward into the light of a streetlamp and lets out a low rumble from his chest.
Sliding from the cart, the passenger finally removes his hood and lets his beguiled hair and long ears feel the cool night.
The Dracha steps toward him with his palm facing outward open and empty. “Hail to the faen, whose knowledge of crop and patients of nature, will help support the rise of the new powers.” He says through sharp teeth.
“Hail to the Iron Wing, whose protection and guidance brings us all prosperity” says Teodoir with a hint of reluctance, hold up his own empty palm. “It’s a pleasure to see you once again Bu’rach.”
They grasp onto each others hand. The faens hand is almost covered entirely by the claw of the Dracha as they greet the other.
“Bring the cart inside and we can talk business” said Bu’rach. “It will be safer from the prying eyes of the city”. He turns as a large storehouse door openes next to them and begins leading the faens, the cart and all the dracha inside. The doors closes behind them with an ominous boom.

Teodoire Wynne

Serathis: The Storm of Memory fur1ousmax1mus