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Governor Pipkin "Pip" Allo - Details

Born

15 August 1220

STR

9 (-1)

DEX

10 (0)

CON

11 (0)

INT

13 (1)

WIS

10 (0)

CHA

14 (2)

Acrobatics

0

Animal Handling

2

Arcana

1

Athletics

0

Deception

2

History

1

Insight

0

Intimidation

2

Investigation

1

Medicine

1

Nature

1

Perception

0

Performance

2

Persuasion

2

Religion

0

Sleight of Hand

0

Stealth

0

Survival

0

MAX HP

30

Speed

30 ft/round

Occupation

Governor of Rueside

Archetype (i.e. Class)

Puppet Governor

AC

10

Age

52

Species

Human

Gender

Male


Backstory

Governor Pipkin "Pip" Allo is the publicly celebrated leader of Rueside, a city trying to pull itself out of the mire of Coia's violent history. Born to a family of minor textile merchants in the Silk District, Pip never aspired to rule. However, his unthreatening demeanor and malleable nature caught the eye of the ambitious Lord Tyrell during the political reshuffling that followed the Dragonbone Vanguard's dissolution. Tyrell maneuvered Pip into the governorship, seeing him as the perfect figurehead: likable enough to placate the commoners, yet spineless enough to obey orders without question.

For over a decade, Pip has worn the heavy chain of office, signing decrees he barely reads and hosting banquets he doesn't enjoy. Publicly, he is known as a fair, if somewhat ineffectual, administrator who favors bright, cheerful cloaks and loud, untroubled laughter—a carefully constructed mask to hide his crippling anxiety. Privately, Pip is consumed by "The Coward's Guilt." He knows Tyrell's shadow operations in the city are ruthless, potentially connected to the dark remnants of the House of Silk, but Pip is too terrified to intervene. He keeps a hand-drawn map of the old sewer smugglers' routes beneath his floorboards, adding to it obsessively, fantasizing about an escape he knows he will never have the courage to attempt. He is a man trapped in velvet, resenting the strings that make him dance but fearing the fall if they are cut.


Description

Pip is a man of diminishing physical presence, seemingly shrinking inside his opulent attire. He stands short and round, with a face like a nervous pug, characterized by watery blue eyes that dart constantly to the corners of the room. He is almost always draped in a voluminous cloak of bright saffron or emerald silk, heavily embroidered with gold thread—garb far too grand for a man who sweats so profusely. His thinning grey hair is plastered across his scalp, and his fingers are perpetually stained with ink from nervous fidgeting with his quill. He walks with a hurried, shuffling gait, as if expecting a blow from behind.
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