Sir Bronwell Thistlecroft
Bear (Once Human) - Former Merchant Prince, Quartermaster, Storyteller
Backstory
They say that nobility is a matter of breeding, class, and coin, Sir Bron had all three... that is until one fateful day, he would trade his clean manicured hands for fur and paws.
Born Bronwell Thistlecroft, heir to the Thistlecroft trading fleet and one of Dawnsbury’s most lucrative merchant lines, he rose quickly through commerce and court alike. A rotund man with a fondness for cherry brandy and verbose speeches, Bronwell was known for his silver tongue, his absurdly large collection of imported slippers, and his uncanny ability to price any good to the copper on scent alone.
However wealth breeds jealousy and envy, and so it was that, on the eve of the Sunmarket Gala, a rival of ill repute slipped a cursed trinket into Bronwell’s pocket, a small carved totem with the grin of a wolf and the tongue of a devil. The transformation was not immediate... but it would take hold. For three days, Bronwell sneezed uncontrollably and felt that his clothes felt half a size smaller. On the fourth however, he woke up as a bear.
But he woke up no ordinary bear, he was still rather dignified, and one who still fancied waistcoats and demanded someone butter his crumpets just so.
At first, perhaps he thought he could explain himself. But no matter how eloquent the thought, it emerged as a deeply guttural growl, usually accompanied by drool. His beloved servants fled, his rivals declared him dead, and one particularly nervous butler tried to shoot him with a crossbow.
Disgraced, ran out of his home, presumed devoured by himself, and unable to reclaim his estate... which was quickly converted into a luxury bathhouse, Bronwell wandered the forests and coastlines in search of someone who could understand him.
And then he found them moored along the shore at low tide, the Emberwake.
He approached, looking for passage across the sea, to maybe a distant land where he could become a trader once more, a fickle dream, but a dream nonetheless. He padded up to the ship, dragging a crate of dried fish he'd "acquired" from some smugglers in the forest beyond the coastline. The crew looked... perplexed, blades drawn, but unsure what to make of the situation as the bear began... pleading?
After some deliberation they let him onto the ship where he would see their mess of supplies and begin reorganizing them, tapping one claw like a disapproving librarian. A bemused voice came from the group, "Is he... alphabetizing the rations?" And the silence that followed was long, but soon came laughter, and then bread.
That night, they let him stay, and the next morning their stores were inventoried, secured, and cleaner than they'd ever been.
He never left after that fateful night.
Life on the Emberwake
Now, Sir Bron, or more commonly known as just Bron, serves as the quartermaster aboard the Emberwake, not because anyone appointed him, but because he simply began doing it, growling at mismanaged stockpiles and scrawling surprisingly legible ledgers with his claws. He wears a tailored sash and tiny glasses perched on his snout, and keeps a monocle in a box labeled “For Important Affairs.”
He speaks only in growls and snarls, but animals understand him, as well as Phoebe, one of his favorite crewmates and his personal translator, or so he claims.
Despite his appearance and booming bearish voice, Bron remains deeply emotional. He keeps a locket with a faded portrait of his human self, and sometimes sits by the stern, humming old Dawnsbury tunes no one else can hear. His greatest wish is not to be human again, but to be remembered as he was, dapper, respected, and surrounded by friends who saw him for the heart within the fur.
And if anyone asks why a bear is managing their trade inventory, Sir Bron will lift his snout proudly, adjust his glasses, and let out a deep, refined rumble that translates roughly to, “Because somebody here has to do it properly.”
Soft grumble followed by a sigh, then a wistful whine.
“I miss tea served in porcelain and the rustle of ledgers… but most of all, I miss being asked how my day was, and the luxury of answering.” - On his past in Dawnsbury
A soft, rumbling roar that ends in a low whimper.
“Even if no one ever sees me as more than a bear… I will love like a man, protect like a friend, and die with the name Bron on my lips.” - Reflecting on life
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