Mason Carnell Roark

A solid, spare, and bearded man in his early thirties.


Breckston Road is marked only with a worn wooden sign, and is all but hidden by the press of brush that grows thick and wild in the seasons that aren’t winter. The road is difficult to find, being at the end of three other rural ways, only two of which are paved, and the third is prone to washing out to bare and tumbling rocks come springtime. Typing the address into navigation software returns a confusion of odd results.

The rough way wends down a steep grade , stopping abruptly in an ill-kept driveway. A short ways ahead, a curious house is nestled in the wood. Smoke rises from a pipe in its steep roof, and candlelight can be seen flickering behind smoky windows.

The man working in the stone-walled garden is of medium height, and sturdily built. His checkered flannel rolled up above his forearms, and his shovel digs a fresh furrow through the dark earth of the wooded cottage.

Mason Carnell Roark

I Am Providence Arakavnos