Tuft Popkhern

Full Name: Tuft Popkhern

Unit: The Lost

Home Realm: Dur-Demarion

Fighting Since: Dead of Winter 2016

Race: Ghost, former human

Fighting Style: Punch shield with flail, spear

Garb and Leather: Leather: Flynnt

Story

It was a brisk April’s morning as Garth Lerik entered the Scattered Ash tavern and ordered his usual; one bowl of soup, one tankard of ale, several more tankards one after the other well into the evening, and “some goddamn respect around here.” As is routine, he took a few bites of the soup, prepared with great care by Tuft behind the counter, before getting sidetracked by his drink and the barkeep’s low neckline. Before long he was barking insults at the staff, providing their usual reminder that it was time to call in the guards and close the bar for the night, another successful day under their belts. Tuft made his way home and stepped gingerly through the door. Despite his best efforts, he entered the bedroom to see the faint shine of a man’s eyes opening.

“How was work today, my love?” said the man.

“And here I thought tonight would be the night I could let you sleep,” answered Tuft.

“As if I could sleep without knowing how your day was.”

“You’ve done a fine job of it so far.”

“That… what was his name… Garth was it? giving you trouble again?”

“No more than we're accustomed to. How was the shop today?”

“A woman ordered eighteen hats. Seemed like… seemed like an unusual amount of hats…”

“Oh get your beauty sleep, Jamie.”

“Beauty sleep…” Jamie let out something between a yawn and a chuckle, “you're cute.” and with that, Jamie fell promptly asleep. Tuft kissed him and followed suit.The next day began like any other for Tuft. He awoke to breakfast prepared by his beloved, though Jamie knew Tuft was always the better cook. Jamie left for work and before long, Tuft would do the same. The Scattered Ash was quiet this morning. Even Garth would enter with naught but a mild grunt at the other patrons, before taking his perch at the bar and placing his order in a weak, haggard voice. He had already finished his first three drinks by the time Tuft had finished preparing a batch of soup. As soon as Garth took his first bite, he muttered the words “needs salt.” Tuft, stopping from his path back toward the kitchen, turned to respond, “I tasted it myself, but I’d be happy to go and get you-”

“No it needs more salt.”

“Sir, Mr. Lerik, allow me to-”

“I gotta do everything myself huh?” with that, Garth stood and took one step toward the kitchen before collapsing under his own weight, his face growing pale. “The fuck you put in my soup, tiny?” he moaned.

“I’d sooner blame it on the ale, but frankly you haven't looked okay since you got here. Do you feel alright?” with what little strength he had left in his body, Garth drew his sword and clumsily lunged toward Tuft, taking a wild swing before descending toward the floor yet again, this time nearly tossing a sword across the tavern. Tuft, however, was so overcome with shock in those few seconds that he failed to notice either this reckless maneuver or the blood now gushing from his own neck.

Death came swiftly to the now expired form of Tuft Popkhern, but to the rest of his being, this transition from life unto life felt like falling asleep. Though where sleep is a peaceful entrance and an unpleasant exit, Tuft’s death began with pain, but would end some time later with a slow, tranquil reemergence of the senses. In fact, he began to feel that his entire being was a bundle of senses capable of perceiving but never experiencing. The world appeared as vibrant as ever, sounded as harmonious, and smelled as sweet, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never seem to reach out his arm and touch whatever he came across. Tuft couldn't remember where his new life began, but he would find himself in front of a fairly fresh tombstone depicting the words “Tuft Popkhern.” Only now did the he fully realize these circumstances. Tuft was a passenger in life, no longer a participant. Tuft was, as many would say, a ghost. His previous life was still somewhat hazy in his mind, so he attempted to work his way from the most recent memories backward. Unfortunately, this meant that the first scene to play in his head was looking down to see a distinct crimson pouring down the front of his shirt. This seemed but a moment long, the rest clouded by terror. There was blood, there was pain, then there was this. So Tuft worked backwards again. He recalled Garth, shouting empty. Garth did this to him. A faint voice in Tuft’s head suggested that traditionally, now would be the time for vengeance. Spirits of lore might torment their killer, cursing even the murderer’s whole lineage. But Tuft wasn’t angry; Tuft was confused. What would lead a man to become a creature of such deep loathing that at eleven in the morning, it would eschew the bedrest it needed to nurse a benign sickness, and rather choose to sink its coin into a well’s full of ale and kill a frightened cook. Finding no greater need of his presence, Tuft traveled to the Scattered Ash, finding, to some surprise, Garth Lerik, alternating between swigs and grumbles, this time with no disregarded bowl of soup in front of him. It had occurred to Tuft that a man who had some time ago committed murder should be barred at least from the very location on which it had happened, and for once, Tuft began to wonder how Garth, to his credit, continually paid in full for his drinking habit, despite it appearing to be all he did throughout the day. Tuft began to follow Garth from day to day. Time, as it would happen, does not pass for a ghost the way it does for a man. Years felt like days, and days felt like days. Throughout whatever length Tuft investigated this miserable soul, he would find Garth one night after the other returning home to a once splendid mansion, now in decay. Every room that wasn't Garth’s bedroom and the hallway leading to it had collected several decades’ worth of dust. It would seem that the Lerik family was once a clan with the means to shape communities, to give back to the world, and to inspire greatness. Garth, now their last living heir, had transformed this into the means to pay barkeeps and to pay off guards. Perhaps Tuft had hoped to be inspired by a tale of Garth Lerik that betrayed the image of a man with a common cold slashing the throat of a lowly cook. Perhaps Tuft never wanted his idea of Garth to be tarnished. But the reinvigoration of Tuft’s spirit had reminded him, he may have died for an insufferable alcoholic, but he lived for a charismatic haberdasher with excellent cheekbones. Did Jamie miss him too?

Events Attended

Beltane, 2017