Hair: brown / Eyes: yellow / Race: Fae Spirit
The being known as the Margrave von Schimmel ( the "Count of Mold") is a very old, very strange creature -- equal parts faerie lord and primeval earth elemental. He is spiritually tethered to the realm of fungus and decay, granting him an array of magical abilities that are manifest through mushrooms, molds, and spores of all kinds. The full scope of his powers is unknown, but they are seemingly versatile and far-reaching.
The Margrave pines openly for the lost age before men, when Faeries and Elemental Spirits were the dominant powers in the world. Although he and his kind thrive in darkness, he has expressed little interest in bringing about the Black Sun. He has declared his mistrust of Scavra, and professes resentment toward those beings he calls True Gods, treating them as oppressors and meddlers in what he sees as the true order of things.
In spite of this, his attitude toward individual humans and other intelligent beings appears to be pleasant and convivial. However, like many Fae beings, his moods may also be erratic or petty. Despite his friendliness, he has demonstrated broad indifference to the impact his long-term schemes may have upon short-lived mortals.
The Margrave von Schimmel appears as a tall, impossibly-thin figure with a long beak-like face and a broad-brimmed hat. He wears shabby pilgrim's clothes and a motley cloak, and clutches a gnarled walking stick (that may or may not actually be a part of him).
A closer look reveals that his entire body seems to be shifting mass of fungal surfaces and chitinous growths, with eye-like pods that blink in and out of existence. This somewhat humanoid appearance is very likely not his true form.
The Margrave is known to exist simultaneously in both the mortal world, and on various planes of the Spirit World, where his aspect is considerable larger and more abstract. Like many Archfey, he is likely nearly immortal, but his physical incarnation on Earth seems to be vulnerable to magical attacks, meaning he can be harmed, or possibly even destroyed.
When the Margrave was first encountered, he was singing a quaint little folk tune to himself in a thick Torvarian accent...
You can dry a few
Or fry a few
Or eat them dewy and cold
Put some on your wounds
Have a dream that confounds
Let all world grow mold
Out in the moonlight
Dances Moldy Jim
After the rain falls
Can you hear his hymn?
Afield, he plants the mushrooms,
Enough for you and me.
Frolic all night
And never dawn we’ll see
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