— “Do you remember… our first night together? It feels like we’ve been unhappy ever since.”
— “I have been happy.”
Sorry, I’m still weeping gently over “Insect Butler.”
Salvatore doesn’t have any pets besides his cats, who stay at home and probably only hang around because he feeds and spoils them. Otherwise he has no steadfast and loyal companion.
He hates that fucking thing, but it followed him home from the Hillsbrad Foothills one day and hasn’t left since. He can’t get rid of it. At first he tried to ignore it, or shut it out of his house and laboratory. Then he tried the more extreme measures of locking it in an iron box and burying it (showed up on his pillow covered in dirt and smiling), setting it on fire (didn’t work, almost burned his house down), cutting it apart (broke six scalpels and a meatcleaver), and feeding it to a kodo (guess which one died, spoiler: it wasn’t the sunflower).
By now, he’s just accepted his fate and tries not to make direct eye contact with the thing. He’s become grudgingly, GRUDGINGLY appreciative of it scuttling around underfoot tidying up cat toys and smoothing down the fringes of his rugs, replacing all of his scalpel blades when they get dull. Still, sometimes he hears it singing in the middle of the night, and a cold shiver runs down his spine, knowing that it’s just sitting in the dark smiling, staring.
That thing is fucking creepy.
Carrefour’s family, when he was alive, maintained a small farm and a reasonably successful business in leather goods and tack. They were poor, but not dismally so. He and his brothers were groomed to inherit both the farm and the trade. Their mother could read and write and knew a little herbalism in the styling of folk remedies. These were all skills that she passed on to Carrefour, whose mind was forever restless and anxious for something new to occupy it. However, learning the higher magics or alchemy just wasn’t a feasible option, even if they’d had the money for schooling or books. They needed every last pair of hands to maintain the farm, to his immense frustration and grudging acceptance.
When he regained his free will and was no longer bound to the Scourge, he was sad to discover his whole family had been wiped out. But also, secretly, guiltily, a little bit relieved. Both because he would never have to address his history as a criminal with them, and because he was no longer tied hand and foot to the farm. He fucked right off and spent the first two or three years of his undeath just reading every thing he could get his hands on, legally or otherwise. You’d be surprised at how much you can accomplish when you don’t need to eat or sleep.
Gren keeps souvenirs not from the animals or people he’s killed, but from the ones that were closest to him. Some of them are more grisly than others. He wears the tooth of a crocolisk he hunted with as a labret, he skinned and tanned his favorite hyena’s pelt and keeps it tucked into his bed roll, and has a pair of dice carved from the bones of a pet boar he kept in his youth. He doesn’t gamble, he just likes the way they feel clicking in his palm.
Mhazra and Salvatore are my crazy cat guys. Mhazra just seems to accidentally attract them and doesn’t have the heart to turn any away. Outside of his raptors, his usual companion is a nigh-indestructible and faithful ginger tom named Biscuit.
Salvatore is unabashed in his cat fanaticism. He has a lot, and treats them with the most affection that anyone in his life receives. He has a few hairless cats that about match him in ugliness, if not in temperament.
Aolani spends his money almost exclusively on fleeting pleasures. He’s been around long enough to know that trauma and terror lurk just around the corner, and your present days might be your last.
He spends a lot of money on expensive cosmetics, beautiful jewelry, etc. Long-term investments are almost unheard of. Having spent much of his youth poor and starving, he will also go all-out on food, depending on the setting and timeline: whether it’s elaborate take-out every night or buying the freshest and most expensive fruits in the market that day.
You know what I’m gonna say to this, right?
Once upon a time I made a surly, vicious goblin enforcer named Gren. He was quiet and kept to himself. He was a hunter and loved his animals best of anyone in the world. He stumbled upon a black dragon whelp in his travels, and raised it as his steadfast companion. Time passed, the whelp grew up, and outlived many of Gren’s hunting companions, whose deaths were always bitter and hard.
I’ve since lost track of his storyline since I haven’t been roleplaying WoW, but in my heart of hearts, Gren is still roaming the Twilight Highlands, fucking badass orc ladies with his bro, Bacon the Black Dragon.
Who is an absolute derp.