Paddye (prime)
Appearance
Paddye Ofeinian is of average height and appears to be very old. He has crow's feet-framed, brooding grey-blue eyes and tanned skin with long, wiry deep red hair typically worn in a single braid. He has a time-worn, rugged face and a thick, deep red beard braided with tiny obsidian ale mugs.
His right shoulder is pierced with a black-tinted amethyst pygmy octopus.
He has a broken white skull tattoo on his finger, a brimming ale-mug tattoo on his neck, and a green-eyed barmaid tattoo on his arm.
He is wearing a dark crimson wool smoking jacket, a flannel shirt, an iron and mithril band, an old fleece sack, a silver-edged sable fur sporran, a grey-stringed stained leather satchel, a simple invar stein on a bronzed leather belt strap, a crimson and black tartan greatkilt, and some steel-clad mining boots.
Backstory
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Paddye, known to most as Paddy, is often seen as a grumpy drunk, the cleric with a slurred laugh, a loud belch, and a wobble in his step. Most dismiss him as just an old sot, always lost in his cups. But that’s exactly how Paddy prefers it. The drunken façade has always been his Modus Operandi, a cloak as effective as any shadow, hood, or cast of invisibility. The reality is, he rarely drinks, only enough to maintain the ruse and keep others underestimating him. When the mask is off, he is razor-sharp, clear-eyed, and coldly professional.
Paddy is a devout, though secretive, follower of Onar, the Assassin of the Gods. A faded tattoo on his finger is the only open mark of his faith, and even that goes unnoticed by most. He walks in the footsteps of his god: every move is measured, every word considered, every action deliberate. Strike only with purpose, never reveal your hand, let others see only what you want them to see.
His life has long been entwined with the Order of the Broken Skull, a clandestine brotherhood so secretive that most believe it is only a rumor. Loyalty is the order’s highest law: trust in your own, never betray a brother, test outsiders before you let them in. The Order still thrives, working in the deep shadows of society, and Paddy remains one of its most skilled hands.
Long before his role as the ship's cleric aboard Admiral Nightpixie's Man O'War, The Madness, Paddy was a fixture in the Faendryl’s most dangerous circles, called upon for jobs that could not be spoken of openly. When he visited Pixie’s home when she was a child, he was never drunk, always the consummate professional, efficient and quiet in his “work.” But even then, his eye was drawn to the smallest details, and he never missed the way Pixie was treated by some members of her family. It wasn’t his place to interfere, but he’d slip Pixie a wink and a smile on his way out, sometimes leaving her a small toy or trinket when prying eyes would not see. In a home ruled by cold ambition, these gestures meant the world to her, and she grew quietly fond of the “mysterious dwarf” who saw what others missed.
When Pixie rose to command and needed to choose her crew, there was never a question, Paddy would be by her side. Not as a showpiece, but as her secret insurance. Unseen, he would vet every would-be crew member, testing their stories, weighing their loyalties, and searching for cracks before they could ever cause her harm. His job: to ensure those closest to Pixie were truly trustworthy, and that any threat would be revealed long before it could strike.
On The Madness, Paddy is both a ghost and a sentinel. Overlooked by most, he listens, observes, and weaves together the ship’s hidden currents. In the chaos of pirate life, secrets spill freely around him; every muttered scheme and whispered fear finds its way to his ears. He is loyal to those who have earned it, never doubting their word, never betraying their confidence. His loyalty to Pixie is unshakeable, rooted in a bond that stretches back to stolen trinkets and silent winks.
Those rare souls who find themselves dragged back from the brink of death by Paddy’s hand never quite forget the experience. When he links his soul to theirs to resurrect them, they feel the assassin within him, a brief, chilling sensation of a dagger pressed to their throat. As their senses return, menacing shadows seem to cling to their cold body, materializing out of nothingness. With surgical precision, Paddy strikes at each dark tendril with a single finger, cutting them away one by one. Slowly, he draws a single line across their neck, releasing them from the final bond of death. In that moment, the edge of the grave and the mercy of the assassin blend into one: a gift, and a warning, from a cleric who serves Onar in the open sea.
When the night is darkest and true danger stalks the decks, those who know to look past the drunk will see the assassin’s cold clarity in Paddy’s eyes, and the hand of Onar guiding his every move.