Devoted servant of the Raven Queen
He was just a squalling infant when the clerics of the Raven Queen found him on the front steps of their temple. Just as they accepted the unclaimed dead, the black priests accepted him without complaint. Though they gave him a proper name at the time, it was quickly forgotten. The nickname “Whiskers” is the name that stuck on account of the long, blond whiskers growing out from his snout.
Although he loved books and learning, he preferred to be outside. On warm nights, he would sneak out and sleep in the tall grass that surrounded the temple. Sometimes he wouldn’t sleep at all but would instead wander through the forest, exploring and marveling and trying to figure out exactly how and when the dew appeared. Some of the more conservative clerics admonished him if they caught him coming back in the morning, but the High Priest would wave them away dismissively, give him a sly wink, and share her breakfast with the child.
The kinds of tasks that go hand-in-hand with youth and agility were, of course, assigned to him. His least favorite was scaling the heights of the temple’s inner sanctum to clean cobwebs. It wasn’t the sticky wads of dust and spider silk that bothered him, but the height. He invariably became nauseated and dizzy, throwing up on more than one unsuspecting priest’s head. Understandably, he learned to do the chore very quickly.
Stoicism was the constant lesson of Whiskers’ life, and he learned from those around him to quell his emotions—or at least to hide them from everyone else. The one passion they encouraged in him, though, was his devotion to the god of death. His fierce allegiance earned him the brown robes of the Acolyte at the age of 12.
On they day they called his 16th birthday, he was sent out to wander the world for a year and a day. It was hard for him, but he supposed that was the point. Wherever he went, his empathy, charm, and compassion (not to mention his feline features) made him—if not welcome—at least tolerated. He took odd jobs where he could, assisted with some births, and presided over more than a few deaths. Weather-beaten and exhilarated, he returned to the temple and received his chain and black Cleric’s robes.
Whiskers appreciated being home and earning his knot, but he was restless. There were so many unjust deaths in the world, and the weight of them burdened his conscience. The following nine years of dedication and study were difficult.
But his discontent did not go unnoticed. Upon his graduation to the full priesthood, he was sent back into the world. His orders were simple: Heal the sick and the wounded; honor the dead and the dying; bring justice to those who attempt to harm others; and punish hubris and those who attempt to avoid their fate. More than 11 years later, he still repeats these commandments to himself every morning when he awakens and every evening before he goes to sleep.
Standing at 5’4” and weighing only 100 lbs., Whiskers is a runt. His dark chocolate “skin” is actually a layer of fine fur that covers his entire body. His slitted hazel eyes practically glow against their dark backdrop as they constantly scrutinize the people and things around him. He has a pronounced snout and blond whiskers that extend several inches from it. His waist-length blond hair (more like a mane, really, than proper hair) is barely contained in a single braid. Beads, leaves, feathers, and leather strips decorate the braid—some woven in purposely, and others the result of a few too many nights spent under the stars.
The whisper of chainmail is barely audible beneath the traditional black, hooded robes of the Raven Queen’s servant. A length of rope is wrapped three times around his waist and tied off on his left side with an intricate knot. An iron pendant bearing the sigil of his god hangs from a thick iron chain around his neck. The necklace appears to weigh a considerable amount, but he carries it without complaint. His clawed feet are bare, a personal form of perpetual penance.