Timothy and Alaster

Timothy and Alaster are a character pair in LAST THING STANDING.

Description:
Timothy is an eight-year old boy, about 4' 2" in height, with pale, thin features and a mop of black hair that is in desperate need of a trim. Most of his form is covered by a baggy brown robe, which designates his status as a wizard in training. It's a bit frayed at the ends and thin at the knees from all the scrapes and bumps he suffers. He also wears small, pointy-toed shoes, which he hates with a passion.

Timothy is a bright and cheerful child, although somewhat unusual. He craves excitement in his life, and loathes being kept in one place for too long. He also rebels against restrictions or rules as a young child will do, which proved problematic in his life at the Guild of Magicians. His magical upbringing has endured him to a few unusual events, although otherwise his life has been perfectly normal thus far. He is intensely attatched to Alaster, and views him as a surrogate parental figure and protector.

Outwardly, Alaster resembles a tarnished suit of 16th century composite plate armour, with elaborate but pitted gold trim on various parts, standing 6’ tall precisely and with broad, heroic proportions. Opening him up, however, reveals an intricate construction of clockwork and magic. Based on a steel skeleton and with brass clockwork joints and workings, Alaster’s internals are powered by a deep purple “memory crystal” in the centre of his chest, that can be “tuned” to hold simple instructions, or, in this case, the lesser angel that has been bound into the crystal. Accessing the internal structure is as simple as opening the required armour part, as if removing the piece from a human figure.

Alaster moves fluidly yet simultaneously jerkily, as if programmed to move from pose to pose. Likewise, in combat, his moves are well-trained and fluid, but there is a pause between each blow as the next move is inputted into the clockwork mechanisms of his body. This forceful form of motion can appear frightening. Alaster is able to speak via a crude voicebox by constructing pre-recorded words into sentences, resulting in a tinny, slightly sing-song quality to his speech. Alaster has only one purpose - to protect Timothy from harm. If this involves destroying whatever could harm the boy, then so be it.

Equipment/Abilities:
Timothy is only a wizard in training and thus knows only a few basic spells from memory - a simple fireball spell, a levitation spell enabling him to lift anything twice his size, and a basic magical shield that defends against all attacks, both phsycail and mental, for five seconds at the cost of immobility. Timothy doesn't have a great reserve of mental power, and thus overuse of these skills tires him out greatly. Sleep replenishes this reserve, although how long her sleeps for varies depending on how much magic he has used.

Alaster’s armoured outer layer means he can withstand more physical damage than a human being, although he is fragile internally – if critical parts are lost, there is a serious chance of malfunction, and the unique nature of his creation means that lost parts are hard to replace. Alaster can lift loads five times as heavy as a normal human and does not get tired or worn out, although parts can wear out and break if put under stress. Alaster is also not “killed” by anything other than a fatal blow to the memory crystal in his chest, which holds Alaster’s essence and will unleash it explosively if it is breached. Due to his mechanical nature, he is impervious to any form of sensory illusion, although since he is animated by magic, any form of magical drain will adversely affect him. Alaster carries a Vorpal broadsword, a weapon so sharp it is rumoured to cut sunlight.

Biography:
Mage-President for Life Abbadon Teus steepled his fingers, leaned forward on his desk and gave the assembled wizards in front of him his best death glare.

“Well?” he intoned.

The wizards shuffled their feet.

“I’m waiting.”

The nearest Archmage looked up from inspecting the front of his purple robes. Or at least, tried to. But when your Great Ruler is doing a decent impression of a frost giant, you tended to find the weave of the carpet more interesting.

“’s not our fault,” he muttered,

“Not your fault,” replied Teus.

The wizards cowered. The sentence had been like a tomb shutting.

“Not. Your. Fault.”

“It was an accident!” blurted another mage, his pointy hat sagging over his face. “We all know Archmage Yessic was off his rocker anyway! How were we meant to know what he did in that foul pit of his?”

The other wizards muttered their assent. This did not impress Teus in the slightest. His gaze only grew colder as he studied each of the wizards before him, and in particular the one with the saggy hat. Consummate professionals they were not. Like all wizards everywhere, they seemed to have gained their control of power via a mix of educated guesses, wild experimentation and a “let’s wing it” attitude. This was a contrast to his own work ethic, which consisted of being in the right place and time after the previous Mage-President had suddenly and tragically been pushed off his balcony. The only reason he hadn’t executed them all was that, quite frankly, it was his civic duty to order them around. After all, knowledge is power, and magic was derived from knowledge. So better keep THAT power under your thumb.

He sat back in his chair and looked at the piece of paper in front of him.

“So I am meant to conclude,” He said, slowly, “that the loss of not one, but TWO magical artefacts of great power was, and I quote, an accident? Indeed, that the fault lies with someone else?”

A pause.

“So whose fault was it then?”

The wizards shuffled again, and managed a few um’s and ah’s. Teus let them squirm for a bit.

“Let’s try an easier question, shall we,” he suggested smoothly. “First of all, what is it?”

--

Aging, wizened fingers fumbled, regained control, and slotted the last component into place. In response, a faint pink glow illuminated the cramped, stuffy workshop. It glinted off the brass cogs and shone off the dull plate metal.

Archmage Yessic smiled a toothless smile.

Then he raised his hands and began to chant.

--

“It’s a Switzerman. A clockwork contraption. There’s plenty of those about, isn’t there? What is so urgent about this one?”

“It’s not just a normal Switzerman, my lord,” responded the floppy-hatted man. Teus turned his stare back to the speaker.

“Why not?”

“There’s something bound inside its memory crystal.”

“What?”

“We think it’s an angel.”

A pause. Teus’ burrow frowned, and a plethora of questions rushed to the forefront of his mind. He had to push the majority of them away. Stay practical.

“How?” was his next question.

“We don’t know, my lord,” said another wizard. “Even a lesser being from the Divine Realm is hard enough to summon, let alone bind to something. It’s like holding a wolf’s mouth open with twigs. If we had access to his notes…”

“Which are the property of the government,” snapped Teus sharply.

“…then we might be able to figure out how he did it,” said the wizard, not breaking stride.

Teus pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no intention of fulfilling the request

“So when did it start moving?”

--

“Can’t catch me! Nyer nyer!”

“Aw, come on, no fair!”

Sadly, Timothy Yessic’s protests fell on deaf ears, and the other children left him behind to loiter in the corridor.

Timothy hated the Guild. He hated the stuffy, stupid wizards that patronized him, he hated the dull corridors with their gothic styling, he hated the flickering candles and he hated the lack of magic that seemed to happen. Sadly, he was only eight, and so these thoughts were expressed as “its boooring” and a frown or folded arms. And now he was alone in this boring corridor, with this boring statue and these stupid flickering torches. There weren’t any bats here. Animals didn’t like magic.

The boy turned to the statue and shoved his mop of hair from his eyes so he could glare at it properly.

“You’re stupid,” he told it.

It failed to respond. This was not what Timothy had wanted at all. He walked up to it, craning his neck backwards so he could keep eye contact.

“Bet you don’t even walk,” he muttered, and poked it.

There was a grinding noise, and the statue proceeded to prove him wrong.

--

“His grandson?”

“Of course,” replied the floppy-hatted wizard, whom Teus had pegged as their spokesperson. “It stood outside his bedroom when he went to sleep, it stood outside his classrooms when he was learning. It watched him when he played with his friends. I think you can guess what old Yessic wanted it to do.”

A pause, whilst everyone shuffled this into their worldview. The office grew yet more oppressive.

“So,” Teus began, considering each word before it escaped, “we have a lesser being from the Divine Realm, bound to the soul of an armoured clockwork man, ordered to watch the grandson of one of the most powerful mages to ever have lived, and carrying a…”

He checked his paper again.

“A Vorpal broadsword. Congratulations, gentlemen. Need I remind you that not only are those the sharpest weapons ever forged, but there are only ten of those left in existance? And who is going to pay for the loss of an artefact like that? I don’t think your coffers are that deep, to be frank.”

“We can get it back.”

Teus raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

The wizard nodded. This one had a considerable waistline.

“It’s just a matter of setting up a scrying glass,” he boomed. “Then we can locate where it is via the divine energy it gives off-”

“Bollocks!”

This came from saggy-hat.

“A scrying glass isn’t strong enough,” he said, looking incredulous. “We’ll have to use Eisenkopf’s Everywhere Principle to find-”

“We don’t have the materials,” interjected a wizard near the back. “If we just opened a portal-”

“Don’t be a fool!”

“Look, we just have to-”

“That would be far too-”

Teus folded his arms. Immediately, the squabbling wizards fell silent.

“You will have everything you need,” he said, once they were all paying attention again. “Materials, manpower, time. All of it. In return, you are tasked with two things. First of all, you must find out why Archmage Yessic thought that his grandson would need a bodyguard of this calibre. And secondly, you must find out where in the Nine Realms it has taken the boy. Or you will all be hung. Do I make myself clear?”

He had.

Development
Timothy spend most of his time being an eight year old, and also crying. Alaster did robot... things?

Death
Timothy and Alaster got messily eaten by the Inn's weird nightmare-state in Eta Carina.