Harlan Bellweather

Splat: Touched
Pronouns: He/Him
Height: 5’11
Build: Slender
Occupation: Motel Owner and General Contractor
Apparent Age: Late 30s

Description:

Harlan Bellweather cuts a figure as weathered as The Hollow Inn itself - lean, angular, with a quiet intensity that keeps most at arm’s length. His slender frame carries the kind of wiry strength that comes from years of hands-on work, be it patching up the battered motel or taking on odd contracting jobs around town. His face, all sharp planes and furrowed brows, is framed by an unruly mess of dark curls, streaked here and there with the earliest whispers of grey. A short, scruffy beard does little to soften his severe expression, his green eyes holding a guarded sharpness, as if always weighing whether a conversation is worth his time.

He dresses in the same manner he lives - practical, unpolished, with little concern for appearances. Faded flannel shirts, worn denim, and scuffed work boots make up his uniform, often accompanied by the faint smell of sawdust or motor oil. He moves with an easy, deliberate economy, never one for wasted effort.

Harlan doesn’t speak much, and when he does, his voice carries a rough edge, like gravel underfoot. He has no patience for small talk, no interest in explaining himself, and no desire to entertain questions about his Fae-touched nature. That part of him is buried deep, just another thing he’d rather not think about. He keeps his distance from the Lost, letting them stay at the Hollow Inn out of something that isn’t quite kindness, but isn’t cruelty either. A place to land, a bed to sleep in - nothing more, nothing less. A quiet and understated acknowledgement of something shared, but nothing further.

He inherited the motel by accident, much like everything else in his life. He doesn’t love it, but it’s his, and he keeps it standing because it’s easier than watching it fall apart. Just like him.