A young woodsman and hunter, eager to travel the world, and learn how to hunt and catch the mysterious creatures that live in it.

To look at him, you wouldn’t guess Finn was born and bred south of the Zerovican Alps. Most of his friends growing up were tall, dark and lanky. Finn is compact, lithe, deep-chested and maybe only 5’9". He has a round, tan face and tawny hair. On his upper shoulder there's a spidery, rune-like tattoo that crawls up his neck and isn't quite disguised by his shirt collar, The Mark of Finding.
 
Finn was raised by his mother, who owned a Lighthouse a few days south of the mountains. Lots of work to do, to keep the lighthouse running. At six he was helping to wind the lens (until they were able to buy the runic clockwork mechanism that kept it turning on its own). At eight he was walking four kilometers to and from the one-room school house each day, and then toting oil from the fuel house up the tower to the lamp when he got home. With responsibility also came freedom to hike and fish and hunt. There were other kids who were kinda his friends, who lived along the trail or down the shore, but he spent a lot of time exploring on his own as well. You ever wonder how far your pet cat ranges when you let it out for the night? It’s probably twice as far as you think. Finn ranged farther, knew every stone, every cave, every tree along the coast near his home.
 
Finn’s father returned home when time allowed, which wasn’t often. Maybe two or three times a year, with a large, worshipping entourage. Once, his father’s team arrived travelling north, with a massive Aboleth on two spits slung between teams of oxen, and Finn sat by the campfire with shining eyes as his father told the (obviously well-rehearsed) story of its capture. Other times, his father would take Finn deeper into the forest than he usually dared to go by himself. He learned to aim a rifle, and to set snares. How to watch. He practiced staying perfectly still in the leaves, as a thing twice as tall as a bunkhouse with legs like tree trunks lumbered past, and once it was gone his father would wink, light his pipe and say “Next time I’m down we’ll track that thing back to its hoard. That’s where the real prize is.” 
 
But every time there was a next time there was always some reason not to, and the visits became fewer and eventually stopped altogether. Finn only asked his mother about his father once, when he was seventeen. To which she replied, in a thick voice, “I hope he found what he was looking for.” 
 
In the months leading up to his final year of school, Finn anticipated, with dread, a “talk”, where his mother informed him of her plan to turn the lighthouse over to his care. So it was with great surprise one night after dinner when she slapped a leather billfold on the table and informed him that it was time for him to stop staring out at the breakers and get a real education. He was only 80% sure he knew what she meant. 
 
So he went to Tallwater.

Age

22

Gender

Male

Eyes

Green

Hair

Blond

Skin Tone/Pigmentation

Tan

Height

5'9"