Antiquarian is one of the sub-types of the Darkling seeming. Dusty, quiet and diligent, they surround themselves with dusty tomes of lore and the artifacts of long-dead lands and peoples. Theirs is the blessing of the Keys to Knowledge.
Some Antiquarians could almost be mistaken for Wizened. However, where the Wizened are defined by the tasks that shaped them, Antiquarians are shaped by a more abstracted force of age and secrecy. Most spent a long, long time in Faerie, even if they returned to the mortal world not long after they left. They are embodiments of the fear of old age, the frightening prospect of trading youth and vigor for wisdom. Antiquarians are recognizable for the touch of age that lingers on them. Many appear ancient and withered, even if the Mask sometimes shows them as modestly weathered at best. A layer of dust may perpetually fall from an Antiquarian’s joints as he moves; his skin may be like brittle parchment or a faded almost-ivory hue that hints at unknown color bleached away by countless years. Even those Antiquarians who seem quite young both in their fae miens and mortal Masks carry themselves as though they keep far too many years in their pockets.
An Antiquarian’s time in Faerie is often marked by isolation and creeping dread, by long stretches of crushing silence spent in the dust-choked libraries and galleries of Fae mansions. Some Antiquarians went for long periods of time without seeing their Keepers, set aside and forgotten like worn-out playthings, with nothing to eat but the stray vermin they could catch. Other Antiquarians were changed by the very nature of the secrets they learned or recorded. Many True Fae are pathologically uninterested in learning about anything that doesn’t concern them — mortal names and customs, for instance. An Antiquarian makes a useful servant for keeping track of all the tedious trivia that is really too troublesome for a noble of Arcadia.
Antiquarians are the Old Ones, wise but frightening. Some may be shaped by the legends of cannibal crones such as Baba Yaga or the witch in the gingerbread house, more inclined to lure prey to them with trickery and cleverness than ogrish strength. Those faeries with an obsession for counting might have spawned Antiquarians, kept to record tallies of the number of pebbles in a riverbed or the number of bricks in a city’s houses. Some Antiquarians may manifest as entities from the legends of long-dead peoples, such as myths that live on only in the books of scholars. An Antiquarian could appear to be a dry Egyptian mummy with a jackal’s face, a bird-footed witch with a penchant for muttering in old Sumerian or even a peculiar creature from the legends of a culture no longer known in the mortal world.
Counting taboos (spilled rice or seeds, books in a bookcase), fear of burning paper, cannot deliberately lie in writing, repulsed by infants or children’s laughter, cannot eat meat with bones, must speak in whispers indoor.