Old Man Jones
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Old Man Jones is a towering, weathered figure with bluish, shark-like skin, ridged facial features, and a worrying lack of eyes. His body is humanoid but retains a certain unnatural quality—his fingers are a little too long, his movements a little too fluid. His tail, partially concealed by his coat, sways lazily, betraying an awareness that never fades.
Identifying Characteristics
He wears a tattered, long brown coat, waterlogged at the hem, moss growing on one shoulder like an old, forgotten relic of a place not meant for mortal minds. Underneath, he sports a worn vest, hinting at a past where he might have tried blending in with society before realizing he preferred the company of things unseen.
Jones carries an old-fashioned but well-maintained rifle slung over his shoulder, modified with an elongated barrel and abyssal etchings along its stock. A harpoon-like spear is attached to it by a thick rope, a relic from some eldritch hunt long past. At his hip, a serrated dagger with a bone handle rests in a sheath.
Mental characteristics
Personal history
Intellectual Characteristics
Old Man Jones is a survivor, a pragmatic wanderer who has seen things that no sane being should ever witness. He doesn’t mince words, and when he does speak, his voice carries the weight of something ancient, something tired. He claims he has no grand purpose, no allegiance to anything beyond his own continued existence. But those who spend time around him realize the truth—Jones is a man on the run, not from mortal law, but from cosmic forces that refuse to let him go.
He has an odd sense of humor, dry as the void, often making references to creatures and places no one else has ever heard of. He doesn’t explain himself, either. He just lets the unease settle in, as if daring others to question whether he’s joking or not.
Morality & Philosophy
Despite his grim exterior, he has an unshakable work ethic. Hunting is his trade, and he does it well. He tracks creatures that should not exist, bringing them down with methods no sane tracker would even consider. Wizards and scholars seek him out for rare spell components, paying him handsomely to procure organs and glands from creatures best left unnamed. Jones does not care for their reasons—only that the job pays.
However, beneath his hardened shell, there’s a strange sense of honor. He refuses to hunt sapient beings, and he won’t take contracts that disturb the fragile balance of the planes. He knows better than anyone what happens when you take too much.
