The good Doctor himself is tall and broadly built, a handsome man who has, apparently, taken good care of himself, at least until the most recent of years. His hair is a neutral, sandy color, somewhere between blonde and brown, and his amber eyes are sunken and bloodshot within his head. A constant tic pulses in his forehead and cheek, thrumming in tune with his emotions. He favors simple, but presentable clothing, and often wears a plain brown smock, splotched with darker browns and purples.
Jillia, meanwhile, is a slight woman, of dark hair and the palest skin, her eyes a hard, open black, as if they had no pupils, and her gaze is distant, unfocused. Her skin, meanwhile, is always cold and hard to the touch, but most disturbing is that despite her fluid motion, her eyes never blink, and her breast never rises nor falls with the breath of life…
Once, years ago, Dr. Henry Adamson was a normal doctor, caring for the ill and infirm in a small office in the capital city. Like many such doctor, he had a nurse, one whom he eventually fell in love with and married, Jillia. And, in time, Jillia fell ill with one of the wasting diseases of the time, and despite all Dr. Adamson’s efforts, she slipped from him, dying late one night beneath the light of the full moon.
And when he rose the next morning, Dr. Adamson stared into his mirror, as he declared, “Death, too, is a disease, and I shall be the one to conquer it!”
The finest alchemists, chemists, and pharmacists he could find he drew upon, giving each orders for small concoctions, potions and salves to warm the body, to contract the muscles, to provide air where there was none. All these things and more he gathered, adding each to the piece by piece treatment of deaths symptoms that he was gathering, as he swiftly depleted his own wealth. And all this time, too, he was forced to preserve the body of his test subject, his beloved Jillia. In the end, he was forced to petty crimes and graverobbing in order to support his income, to pay for all these things, but his keen mind and desperation allowed him to evade justice. And in the end, when he added all these things together, they worked, after a fashion.
The eyes of the woman opened, her skin warmed, and when asked, she stood. But, in this moment, Dr. Adamson realized his failure. All the symptoms of death, he had treated, but the creature standing before him had no soul, no life. And in that moment, he moaned, his mind reeling in terror from doing that which no man can do.
They would need to flee, that much he realized. Flee where he could begin anew, and find a way to bring her soul back… or to kill that which was already dead.
Dr. Adamson may or may not have access to a full surgeon’s kit, appropriate for technology. He will have armed himself, an arquebus if available, else an /extremely/ sharp scalpel if not.
Much like Dr. Frankestein, whom this character is based on, /heavily/, this character should be loathed and feared by the townsmen for what he’s done. Mob justice may be gathering when the PCs encounter him. Otherwise, he may have fled it, and is seeking a place to hide with his creation, and may seek succor from the PCs. He will likely be nervous in any case, and perhaps feel guilty for what he has done. Unlike the typical necromancer, he’s done what he could to better mankind… but neither he nor humanity are ready for the ramifications of the results.
Jillia… well… she’s dead. Her body may get up and move around on command, but she’s dead, Jim.