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| Name: |
Quenteal Shaloman |
| Genos: |
Elf |
| Type: |
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The head ranger of the Hollowmarsh
Nature Reserve is rarely seen outside of the legally
defined perimeters of the park. In fact, the last
time that he was seen in the public eye was a little
over fifteen years ago when he appeared in the New
London court, arguing the case for the establishment
of legal protection for the park and its boundaries.
The speech he gave lead to the court giving him a
standing ovation and the judge removing most of the
people present so that the case could continue to
its now inevitable conclusion.
Since then, he’s dedicated almost all of his
time to preserving the natural beauty of the Reserve,
pouring almost inhuman time and effort into cultivating
the wildlife and plantlife. There are specially designated
areas within the park where he conducts his research
and breeding programs, and to which only he has access.
Most of the time, it is his cousin Shaleteal who conducts
the tourists around the reserve, pointing out to them
the most interesting parts, the places of interest
that they would normally not know about and talking
about the history and on-going role of the park, its
aims and its goals, and how far it is to achieving
them. Quenteal will only occasionally show the visitors
around, conducting private tours for special guests.
To regular visitors, he is probably most well known
for appearing seemingly from no where on horseback
to give stern warning to people to stay on the paths,
for being annoyed with his cousin when visitors come
to peer over his shoulder at the research he’s
working on, or for organising things in the Reserves
wooden lodge that serves as their main office. When
people do talk to him and manage to steer him away
from the topic of the reserve itself (which he talks
about most willingly but in cryptic, almost mythical
sounding terms) he talks about poetry and art, the
degeneracy of human society and the tragedy of the
human condition. Any other subject quickly bores him
and he walks away, normally without even so much as
a parting word.
To those who know what to look for, his aloofness,
arrogance, love of beauty and nature are all shining
lights pointing to his true nature, and the horse
he rides that never loses its footing and always seems
to know its riders wishes are just the icing on the
cake. Quenteal came to New London in the mid-Seventies
when he, along with the rest of the country, was trapped
in a post-Sixties malaise, drained from living and
fuelling the hippy dream and unsure what to do now
that it had imploded. Like so many other people, he
one day stepped off a Greyhound bus and found himself
at the Belle Vue bus station, his reluctant son in
tow. Quick to find himself a place in a town where
inspiration and hope were as rare pure gold, he established
a tentative friendship with Justine Riverfair, and
slowly a far stronger relationship with Elise. Together
they’ve worked hard to establish and preserve
Hollowmarsh, and with Elise now otherwise occupied,
he finds that burden increasingly falling onto his
shoulders, a fact he is non-too happy with.
Quenteal is a tree of a man, standing a little
over six foot six and built like a greyhound. His
long brown hair is normally braided and reaches almost
to his waist, and his high Hispanic cheekbones and
tanned olive skin often lead people to assume that
he comes from south of the boarder, although his voice
shows no hint of an accent. His long legs move with
a sureness that only comes from spending many years
in places that don’t have paths, and his long
and immaculate fingers are most often seen wrapped
around some tool of his trade. He wears simple, earthen
toned clothes that wear hard and seldom need washing.
His son, Shaleteal, is shorter than his father, being
a shade over six foot two, and shares his father’s
long, lustrous hair, although not his complexion.
Shaleteal’s skin is far whiter, looking almost
like a Caucasian with a fashionably understated tan.
He is far more willing to talk to guests, but knows
very little about the deep routes of the reserve,
or the Eldritch politics surrounding it. Unfortunately
for both father and son, his mother died a number
of decades ago during that same summer of love that
so inspired the world for a few short years. Whenever
asked about their names, Shaleteal tells people that
their parents were hippies who decided to let the
spirits name their children, which is why they were
lumbered with such a random collection of syllables.
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