Jacques Poirot is a very fortunate fellow, a kenku who has been blessed with karmic compensation. His feathers have greyed in the ripe old age of 54, yellowed eyes requiring spectacles perched upon the beak in order to read with precision. Upon his form he wears fine white clothes, under which chain mail protects the gizzards. Often he bears a shield upon an arm, a simple round thing with just as simple a sigil- a crow's foot. ᛉ
Jacques speaks with a bit of a drawl, taking his time to spell out a more precise meaning rather than a concise mess. The world is a confusing place at the best of times, and this avian erudite would like nothing more than to help people puzzle out their best ways forward.
Once upon a time, Jacques was nothing more than a plumate part of a small library's staff, someone who may have dreamed of wizardry and questing for the sake of adventure in his youth but had long set it all aside. He had served the library for nearly thirty years, making it a heart of the community, dedicating himself to knowledge wholly and utterly. It was when restocking shelves one day that it happened- the ladder slipped, the old bird lost his footing, and down he would have fallen.
Except.
Except for the hand, gentle as a cloud in the breeze, moving swiftly but without urgency or panic, that caught him. A hand of warn out paper, edges rounded from years of leafing through with love. The library had its own little godling, one who began to integrate themselves into the library evermore, the collective goodwill and faith in the institution folding in upon itself. It was not a god who sought to proselytize; rather, the written word was its voice, the library its church, learning its sacraments.
This was, of course, a revelation for Jacques, who saw the path forward- with the godling's blessing, he would go out and help people, bring his rounded knowledge around wherever needed. A sorrow shared is half sorrow, a joy shared is joy doubled.
