Gulliver Ingold
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Gulliver had always been popular with the urchins. It didn't take a whole lot to get on their good sides, honestly. Some food, coin, and shoes offered freely here and there. A kind word or two. Don't snitch. Maybe help a few hide after they've pilfered some pockets. It likely helped that he found most of them to be agreeable company, himself. Some nights he would pack up foodstuffs, a few trinkets, and a violin and play for them in one of the old underpasses they liked to congregate in to exchange stories and spoils.
Of course, when you are centuries old, children grow up and move on very fast. If they are lucky, at least. Gulliver had observed thousands of dirty-cheeked imps grow into the desperate miserable and get themselves killed or incarcerated that way. Still, he befriended them. It was almost like keeping dogs, as utterly patronizing as that sounded. And sometimes, on the rare occasion, one made something of themselves and Gulliver saw it fit to keep up with and check in on them.
Or was made into something, as seemed to be the case with Garrod. Garrod had been another of those urchins, a small child plucking coin and valuables from pockets to get by, when Gulliver had first met him. And then he was a man, grown to surpass the wiry half-fae in height and strength, and a rather effective hunter of monsters. It was a profession Gulliver could respect, if not understand. It meant he traveled a lot, which Gulliver also tended to do, and sometimes they would leave at the same time and wander a bit of whichever way they were going together. He knew how to find signs of the human, and frequently did so at his whim.
It was one such night with one such whim.
You see, it wasn't at all uncommon for children born and raised on the streets to not know their own dates of birth. They had no family to tell them, and it became a rather unimportant factor in their lives as they struggled to survive. Birthday celebrations were not a luxury they could afford. Gulliver had decided, perhaps fifteen years prior and on yet another of his whims, that Garrod would not go without a birthday. He would designate a day and bring celebration to the man, whether he wanted it or not.
Best of all, Gulliver would never pick the same day and the poor man would never know when to expect it. It was simply always a risk whenever the both of them were in the same town.
He had a small, single serving cake in a box (Gulliver did not have much of a sweet tooth), something with lemon and blueberries this time. He had his violin. He had enchanted sparklers. He had hats. He had a lovely set of spessartine quartzite whetstones in wrapping. And he had a not-inexpensive bottle of overproofed, cask-finished bourbon. He hoped the latter two would make Garrod more receptive of the hats.
Most of it fit under one arm, freeing up the other hand to rap his knuckles against the door of the old, partly neglected building in the Outer City that the monster hunter used as a base when in Alliria. Gulliver knew better, at least, than to just waltz in unannounced. "I know you're home," he chirped in his soft and buoyant tone after the rhythmic tap of his knuckles on the tired wood of the door. "It's that time of year again, Garrod."
Not in the least ominous. Nope.
Garrod Arlette
Of course, when you are centuries old, children grow up and move on very fast. If they are lucky, at least. Gulliver had observed thousands of dirty-cheeked imps grow into the desperate miserable and get themselves killed or incarcerated that way. Still, he befriended them. It was almost like keeping dogs, as utterly patronizing as that sounded. And sometimes, on the rare occasion, one made something of themselves and Gulliver saw it fit to keep up with and check in on them.
Or was made into something, as seemed to be the case with Garrod. Garrod had been another of those urchins, a small child plucking coin and valuables from pockets to get by, when Gulliver had first met him. And then he was a man, grown to surpass the wiry half-fae in height and strength, and a rather effective hunter of monsters. It was a profession Gulliver could respect, if not understand. It meant he traveled a lot, which Gulliver also tended to do, and sometimes they would leave at the same time and wander a bit of whichever way they were going together. He knew how to find signs of the human, and frequently did so at his whim.
It was one such night with one such whim.
You see, it wasn't at all uncommon for children born and raised on the streets to not know their own dates of birth. They had no family to tell them, and it became a rather unimportant factor in their lives as they struggled to survive. Birthday celebrations were not a luxury they could afford. Gulliver had decided, perhaps fifteen years prior and on yet another of his whims, that Garrod would not go without a birthday. He would designate a day and bring celebration to the man, whether he wanted it or not.
Best of all, Gulliver would never pick the same day and the poor man would never know when to expect it. It was simply always a risk whenever the both of them were in the same town.
He had a small, single serving cake in a box (Gulliver did not have much of a sweet tooth), something with lemon and blueberries this time. He had his violin. He had enchanted sparklers. He had hats. He had a lovely set of spessartine quartzite whetstones in wrapping. And he had a not-inexpensive bottle of overproofed, cask-finished bourbon. He hoped the latter two would make Garrod more receptive of the hats.
Most of it fit under one arm, freeing up the other hand to rap his knuckles against the door of the old, partly neglected building in the Outer City that the monster hunter used as a base when in Alliria. Gulliver knew better, at least, than to just waltz in unannounced. "I know you're home," he chirped in his soft and buoyant tone after the rhythmic tap of his knuckles on the tired wood of the door. "It's that time of year again, Garrod."
Not in the least ominous. Nope.
Garrod Arlette
