Merrin Hale
Merrin Hale is the sort of man who looks like he’s made of old leather, cheap whiskey, and spite — and he wouldn’t argue the point. A senior member of the Chapter of Devils, Merrin has long since traded the frontlines for the back rooms of Quietus Abbey, where he manages the Chapter’s archives, requests, and supply chains with a pen in one hand and a dagger in the other. Don’t let the gravel in his voice or the worn flannel fool you — he remembers every ghoul he's ever put down, and he can quote necromantic rituals by chapter and verse.
Though rarely seen on the road these days, Merrin’s name carries weight. When he does saddle up, it's usually because someone else has already screwed up the job. He’s known for his sharp wit, sharper temper, and an encyclopedic knowledge of undead behaviors, curses, and "the sort of dark magic that leaks under your fingernails when you try to clean it up." He’s the one younger hunters write to when a revenant won’t stay down or when a lich is muttering in a language older than the Abbey itself.
In the halls of Quietus, Merrin is a constant presence — equal parts librarian, quartermaster, and grouchy uncle to every greenhorn trying to earn their mark. He’s rarely thanked, never asks for it, and doesn’t much care what anyone thinks — as long as the dead stay dead, and his damn ink well stays full.
I passed through Mirebeau last autumn, half-intending to enjoy the lake and maybe a decent glass of cider. Instead, I found myself sharing a bench outside Quietus Abbey with a man who looked like he’d wrestled a plague and won — but just barely.
Merrin Hale, they called him. The Chapter’s quartermaster, researcher, curmudgeon-in-residence. Gruff as a weathered boot and twice as stubborn, but there was sharpness in his eyes — the kind you don’t earn without loss, or without surviving more than your share of midnight battles. He spoke little, but when he did, it carried the weight of someone who'd read things no one should, fought things no one could, and buried more friends than enemies. He smelled of ash, ink, and iron. Not unpleasant. Just true.
He reminded me of the kind of man the world only seems to grow in hard soil — not heroic, not gentle, but necessary. The sort of soul who doesn’t mind being forgotten, so long as the job’s done right. I suspect he’s buried more monsters than history ever will. I liked him. - Victoria Pendrake
Though rarely seen on the road these days, Merrin’s name carries weight. When he does saddle up, it's usually because someone else has already screwed up the job. He’s known for his sharp wit, sharper temper, and an encyclopedic knowledge of undead behaviors, curses, and "the sort of dark magic that leaks under your fingernails when you try to clean it up." He’s the one younger hunters write to when a revenant won’t stay down or when a lich is muttering in a language older than the Abbey itself.
In the halls of Quietus, Merrin is a constant presence — equal parts librarian, quartermaster, and grouchy uncle to every greenhorn trying to earn their mark. He’s rarely thanked, never asks for it, and doesn’t much care what anyone thinks — as long as the dead stay dead, and his damn ink well stays full.
I passed through Mirebeau last autumn, half-intending to enjoy the lake and maybe a decent glass of cider. Instead, I found myself sharing a bench outside Quietus Abbey with a man who looked like he’d wrestled a plague and won — but just barely.
Merrin Hale, they called him. The Chapter’s quartermaster, researcher, curmudgeon-in-residence. Gruff as a weathered boot and twice as stubborn, but there was sharpness in his eyes — the kind you don’t earn without loss, or without surviving more than your share of midnight battles. He spoke little, but when he did, it carried the weight of someone who'd read things no one should, fought things no one could, and buried more friends than enemies. He smelled of ash, ink, and iron. Not unpleasant. Just true.
He reminded me of the kind of man the world only seems to grow in hard soil — not heroic, not gentle, but necessary. The sort of soul who doesn’t mind being forgotten, so long as the job’s done right. I suspect he’s buried more monsters than history ever will. I liked him. - Victoria Pendrake
Current Location
Children
Height
5'10
Weight
185lbs
Aligned Organization
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