Epimetheus

The son of two potently venomous parents, this boy has inherited his mother's subtly dangerous mien, and deadly elegance in addition to her venom. A skilled herbalist, he knows the use of every plant, from leaf to root. He can brew a potion that will nearly work miracles, or an exquisite cup of tea. His abilities alone would make him quite sought after, even if he hadn't inherited his mother's beauty as well. And yet, he settles where he will, and handpicks his clientele, turning away powerful warlords and mages who would have him in their service and their beds alike. Oh perhaps the occasional tyrant will grow too bold and come with force, threaten him at swordpoint, and he will come quietly with a smile in his eyes. He will serve them for weeks, sometimes months. And then, always, eventually, they will be found lifeless, and he back where he wills. A pity, he says turning back to his shelves of nightshade and oleander, but they died of their own ignorance. After all, is not one of nature's lessons not to touch what is bright and beautiful, for it hides the most potent venom of all?

There is a silk weaving hanging on the wall of his chosen home, always waiting untouched for him when he returns. His mother wove it for him while he was in the egg, and it was the only possession he left his birth clan with. It is woven with the image of delicate leaves, hundreds of different kinds. They grow from a single stem, green upon green, making the pattern difficult to decipher for anyone who does not already know them all by heart. There was a message hidden in it for him, the recipe for a potion worth its weight in gold, and it amuses him to leave it hanging in plain sight for anyone to see and pass over, unknowing of its secret.