An Introduction to Mr. Nimsby

Herbert Nimsby is a sad little man.

Every morning he wakes up and says to himself, Herbert, you are a sad little man. Stop being so silly.

He tries his best to linger in the softness of his bed — stays as long as he can, which isn’t very long at all, until his anxious mind rouses him up and into his ill-fitting suit, into the kitchen for wheat toast with a half a pad of unsalted butter and a cup of half-steeped tea.

He sees the best in people and has a natural affection for all things despite his sensitivity. He loves his little things — his beige apartment, his out of tune piano, his buttons, his plain meals and checker board — but it does not extend to himself, whom he can only regard as being rather too sad and unseemly to think about for long. 

If only, he often thinks, I was someone else. But then, he sighs, what would become of my beige little apartment? My little piano and my porcelain cups? 

He was the only person he knew that had any love for these things and he couldn’t help but believe he was the only person in the whole world that did. And even if he met someone that said yes, oh how I love to watch paint dry! I love to play checkers — nice and slow, and I love to sit and think long and hard about each turn, he would not be able to help himself from doubting. No, he’d think. They’re just being nice to you, Herbert. Don’t be silly. 

The whole world seemed so nice to him even if it really ostensibly wasn’t. Just the fact someone like him had his own little corner and could enjoy a piece of candy now and again was enough for him to think, how kind!

He approaches all things like a guest. Gracious, tip-toed, bashful, like he’s been kindly welcomed into the space he inhabits under a set of tenuous pretenses.

When he was born, Herbert was chosen by a Demon rather disinterested in the rearing process outside of the prospect of having a warm, cute little thing to bring around; and so, his upbringing was spent in the soft darkness of his Demon’s pocket, fed crumbs and sweets and given the occasional scritch on the head but little more than this.

It followed that when Herbert was too large to fit in a pocket, he was released into Burrowgatory — now horrifically sensitized to the bright lights, loud noises, strong smells and all other manner of sensation it had to offer. Simply put, most things are unpleasantly overstimulating to Herbert.

He tries his best to partake in the sins he’s expected to… but his stomach is too weak to be gluttonous, his mind too anxious to be slothful, his skin too sensitive to be lustful, his life too small and meek for him to muster up any pride. He has greed, but not for any objects others would find any value in. Otherwise put — it might appear to anyone else that Herbert is holding back, but in reality, it simply takes far less to satisfy him than it does others. No matter how much he tries, his indulgence only amounts to resembling another succubun’s moderation. 

He is a kind, meek man. There is a constant air of anxiousness about him as much as there is an air of warm geniality — a genuine and instantaneous interest in the lives and wellbeing of anyone he meets, all pitched under a slight stutter and half-whispers, as if he was constantly wary of speaking over someone more important than himself. 

He wears an ill-fitting suit; he swims in everything he wears, from the pants that ride too high and are prevented from falling off of him solely by a well-worn belt, to the tie around his neck, one in a collection of indistinguishable-to-all-but-him brown ties. His outfits are overwhelmingly mute — aside from the pink lapel flower, usually perched on the right breast of a vest. 

Herbert enjoys watching chess tournaments, but the masters move too quickly for his liking, and so he enjoys amateur chess tournaments, specifically; he often goes to feed wild imps at the park (as a human might feed pigeons); one of his greatest vices is butterscotch, but sweets often give him headaches — and so, one half of a butterscotch satiates his sweet tooth for the day (an indulgence may preclude  an additional 1/4th of a butterscotch achieved via the usage of a pill splitter). 

He is wonderfully entertained by looking out the window. His most beloved hobby, however, is fixing and collecting broken and discarded things; the armchair, the tv, the porcelain, the kettle, his own clothes — all rescues, mended with care. His fixes are obvious to the eye; the fact that they were broken is something he never tries to obfuscate. They’re sturdy and serve their purposes all the same. (His latest project is a truly miserable little piano; it’s taking quite some research and hard work, but it becomes a bit more musical every day.)

His odd dress, his meekness, his choice in hobbies, and his avoidance of the many pleasures of Burrowgatory among other things have made him something of an outcast. Unfortunately, Herbert is a very lonely individual. 

If he isn’t at his office job as an accountant (a role he takes great pride in) or milling about his apartment, you can often find him playing checkers in the Heavenly Embassy, a place where he feels less judged for his less-than-usual tastes.