Theo Garrett

"Gentlemen, we stand at the twilight of an age. Will we make a dawn of it, or let it settle into dusk?"


  • Name: Theo Garrett
  • Nicknames: None
  • Age and Birth Date: 84
  • Location: Outskirts of Kaipalu (?)

Public Knowledge

The Garrett is the General of the Frontiersmen, and is an able leader. He takes his role seriously, and believes in his work. It seems he has a certain command of Blood magic, or possibly just experience, which make him expert at reading people's emotions and abilities, and let him see through lies with virtually no effort. He rarely speaks, but when he does, his voice is lush and deep, and his words are always carefully chosen.


The General of the Frontiersmen takes his image very seriously. He wears well-tailored formal officer's uniform during all meetings and public functions, with his badge pinned proudly over his heart. An older man, Garrett has deep gray hair, slightly wavy, over a round and jowly face. His skin is leathery and bronze, carrying no spots or blemishes but for a rash of old age on his left cheek, which left it pink and jagged.

He holds himself with absolute austerity, except around children, which turn him into a kind ball of smiles. In spite of his age, he shows no sign of palsy, and is known among his colonels and the sheriffs of Kaipalu to still regularly practice shooting every morning, after a short run of aerobics. The fat buildup of old age has softened his image, but it doesn't seem to have slowed him down.


Garrett is a man of the public, and his personality is well known. He speaks little, and rarely tells a joke, though he has been known to occasionally quip a harsh insult at members of high society. He seldom smiles, and always follows the rules of courtesy absolutely. In a famous tale, he stood for an entire Aristocratic dinner, when one of the ladies of the house could not, herself, sit because of stomach pains. Many of the Aristocrats don't know what to make of the old man, finding him quaint or stoic.

The truth is, he's a traditionalist. The General is good at his job, and believes in his work. An officer, he feels, should always take himself seriously and make an exaggerated example of himself for everyone else, whether they be servants and their families or the servants of the Families.


Garrett is an officer first, a statesman second, and a father third. He has little interest in any other hobbies. He's as well-qualified as any Frontiersman when it comes to shooting or organizing law enforcement, and has some extra talents at internal revue and finance that make him well-suited to being the General, instead of just a Colonel under some other man. He's expert at turning fund-raisers to his own advantage, and at pressuring the smaller Aristocrats into granting his force endowments to stay off the radar of their local marshal. What little money is loose enough to get into the pockets of the Frontiersmen Garrett can shake out.

A more useful ability of Garrett's is the ability to judge people, quickly and easily, of their strengths and weaknesses, and to use them for a job they're best suited. It was Garrett who selected Chuck Avery as a technical sergeant in charge of fugitives to the surface, and he seems even more pleased at the way his peer has been established in Cessnock as the first franchise of the Frontiersmen outside of the Turritella. He hand-selected all of his own colonels and most of the currently-operating marshals.


Garrett found that the afternoon light from the Spire had a harsh and brittle feel to it, so he always made a point of staying indoors with his shades drawn for an hour or two after lunch. Not to set a double standard, he let his colonels do the same, when they were around, giving a brief siesta for everyone, no matter how much paperwork was still unfinished. The harshness of the light had finally started to fade, though, and Garrett sat at his desk, eyes closed slightly, holding a light cigar in one hand while drumming on the table with four fingers, just in front of his mostly-empty glass of whiskey with the other. On his desk, unmoved from the time he poured his glass and snipped the cap off of his cigar, was a series off crisp, white papers.

After spending a few minutes carefully fixing his gaze on the far wall, forcing himself to continue relaxing, a chime rang from a small clock on the far wall. He sighed, and glanced at the paperwork in front of him, double-checking the broken wax seal on the envelope to its side to make sure, for the seventh time that day, that the paper was authentic. The seal bore the insignia of a cloaked figure with a marshal's badge where his face ought to be. It was a symbol only Garrett himself, and the sender, knew. For the seventh time that day, Garrett resigned himself to the authenticity of the report. Besides, the handwriting and signatures were loose and tight, just like always. There was no doubt. Garrett signed, and stroked his eyebrow, careful to keep the smoldering end of his cigar pointed away.

He hated reading reports on criminal Aristocrats. Especially minor ones. How to deal with them was always an issue of such delicacy it made the Generals temples ache. At least with the major families, one could just contact the liaison to the Frontiersmen, or the family head, and they would deal with the problem internally then make a donation to the Frontiersmen for their trouble.

But this was just a far-off branch family. They had protections under the Writs, but they were hardly a part of major politics. Garrett's men could move in and make an arrest, but it would cause an incident if he didn't have the blessing of at least one of the Families before acting. And this wasn't an offense so minor that the General could let it slip - they'd killed a boy and tried to cover it up, to avoid the fine. That tickled the old man in a way he didn't like one bit. He didn't like being treated like a fool by a bunch of lowly men who just happened to come from good blood.

Considering for a moment, he lifted his pen, upper lip twitching, and set to writing.