Non-Factol NPCs

[Makeshift]

Name: Ignaeus the Haruspex
Gender: Male
Race: Human (?)
Class: Wizard
Age: ?????
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Faction: Factionless
Height: 3' (while in normal stance), 7'3'' (while standing)

A shadowy red pile of old bones and ragged skin, digging at the Ditch on the wrong side of antipeak, that is how many of the Lower Ward know Ignaeus. Those berks in the know, however, Knights of the Post and people who work with the dark of Dark things, know him as other things. A fount of knowledge no one should know, a pinpointer of futures much better than any charlatan or cleaner of singing pools, a picker of entrails and a ghoul without appetite.
He spends his night digging at the refuse that piles up in the Ditch, as well as any stray corpses prospecting clients or random fiends bring his way. He digs out entrails and organs, lays them out on the ground and picks at them with his bony finger, his gray old eyes peering at them, until he finds whatever he is looking for. Then it's on to the next.

Ignaeus wears red robes that might have been luxurious once, now they are only red and brown with offal and refuse, having not been washed in who knows how long. He reeks of death and the miasma of old blood follows him around wherever he crawls.

Say what you want about the veracity of whatever fortunes he tells for whatever devils and dark things he tells them to, he has an awfully good knack of avoiding danger and ill fortune. He's never around when someone with long knives comes a-calling.

[Makeshift]

Name: Kalamizov Glumfoot
Gender: Male
Race: Halfling
Class: Bard
Age: 60-something
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Faction: The Bleak Cabal
Height: 3'4''

Hailing from an impoverished shire of the Halflings, somewhere on the wrong side of the Outlands, Kalamizov spent most of his life toiling away in the barren potato fields that used to bring his ancestors wealth and prosperity. After barely escaping a githyanki raid, and the death of all he held dear, Kalamizov made his way to Sigil. there among the urchins he first came to grips with his losses and the innate meaninglessness of the Multiverse. Then, naturally, for a while, he went mad. As all Bleakers do, Kalamizov finally stumbled out of his stupor and fugue into the glum reality and banality of life in the Hive. Seeking to rid himself of his former life and ties, so as to further find meaning in his own self, he began writing, at first, artless plays about potato farmers and cooks that populated his half forgotten childhood home. He later graduated to uproriour sardonic comedies about life in Sigil, and especially in the fictive ward of Shudderrook, a place for his ironic political takes and stereotypes about rival factioners. Surprisingly his comedies have found home in other hearts than just the Bleakers', the Sensates and the Athar especially find them enjoyable. The Athar for the open mockery of belief and optimism, and the Sensates for the many extremes found in Kalamizov's plays, and yet entranced by something buried deep withinm, a glimmer of hope in his otherwise dark and stormy worlds, a last echo fo the joyous halfling spirit his family used to embody.
In his offtime he frequents Market Ward cafes and pubs, writing his plays with inkstained fingers and a goblet of something clear and strong next to him, he moonlights as a factotum to the Bleakers, offering guidance and muttered advice between scribbled words and sips of whatever bleach he's managed to scrounge up.

Lately he has developed something of an obsession with the Kadyx. Perhaps a kindred spirit in macabre and glum humour? Or a character study for his next play... Either way he's been known to throw jink at sightings and information about the strange bloody jester