Chuck Avery

"You'd best star' running now, boy, 'cuz I'm the law in these parts, and you be guilty as charged."


  • Name: Chuck Avery
  • Nicknames: "The Seventh Marshall"
  • Age and Birth Date: 39
  • Location: Cessnock, never far from The Lift

Public Knowledge

"The Seventh Marshall" went to the surface about seven years ago on assignment, presumably chasing down a fugitive. He had himself posted in Cessnock within a month, and has never formally returned to the Turritella. Ever since he took watch over the Lift's gateway, smuggling and crime have become much more expensive (regrettably, that also means it's much more profitable for those who can pull it off). His brutal efficiency at putting down minor criminals is widely known, and his brute squad - little more than a major posse of well-payed exiled strong-arms and magically skilled minor aristocrats and tradesmen - is a well respected force regularly employed by traders and Aristocrats who need bodyguards on the surface.


Avery isn't an imposing man. He's small, with the pale skin and blue hair and eyes, which give him an appearance of borderline hypothermia. Avery never sweats, in spite of Cessnock's muggy heat, and most people who've met him can't help but notice that his breathing is so regular it almost seems absurd. He'll stop mid-word to take a breath.

In spite of his small stature and sickly flesh, the man's mouth is fierce. Tight and well-formed, with a square chin, deeply cleft. His body's center of gravity seems to hang low because of his angular head. The rest of his body is sharp bone with cord-like muscle, so lean it almost looks unhealthy.

He always wears his simple duster and collared shirt, and has his badge attached to his leather cap, at the forehead, for all to see.


There are only two pieces of his character that Avery reveals to the public. His sense of justice, and his contempt for those without one. He strictly follows the letter of the law when it supports his own beliefs, but will gladly go beyond all normal boundaries if he believes the Writs didn't account for the situation well enough.


An intentional PR campaign would have the public believe Avery was an extraordinarily gifted user of both Bone and Breath magic and that he's also a quick-draw and crack shot. This could be a ploy to scare his enemies... or it might not.


The fake Marshall sniffed the air behind his desk, gently pushing on his small window to let in the breeze. He smelled oil and the smoke of burning herbs and spices. There was a metallic tinge to the air that he didn't like, and the air was stirring restlessly. At his feat, his small crippled dog was standing on alert, instead of resting in his bed.

Avery smiled. The paperwork on his desk was a warning, written by one of his lackeys who had been sneaking his way into a smuggler's ring over the past year. A bunch of men who fancied themselves revolutionaries, without even knowing that the guns at the bottom of The Lift had nothing against the ones on top. Just a bunch of tools of their own egos.

But as amusing a lesson as it may be to let the boys storm the gate only to find out they didn't know how to operate The Lift – or, if they somehow did, let them find out that Theo Garrett already had a small backup prepared on the top side with some of the best equipment available to the Frontiersmen – the Technical Sergeant had no intent on reneging on his duties. No smuggler force had successfully broken the gates of The Lift since he had assumed his command, and none would today.

Avery stood up and paced around his room quickly, stretching his arms and loosening his joints. He picked his longest swickershot up and slipped his neat, leather cap over his hair, pulling the brim down low over his eyes. He let the shadows mask his maniac expression of delight.

"Let's shoot us some scum, eh Fido?"

The dog panted happily in response.