¶ Blarp the omniscient Prankster
Mad patron saint of Calad Bar. Feline of Foreknowledge. Trouser-Spoiler of the Masses.
Slogan: "Foreseeing folly, one prank at a time."
Motive: Public amusement. Possibly cosmic mischief. Likely both. May be unclear even to Blarp, and that's probably the point.
¶ Overview
Blarp is the unofficial patron saint of Calad Bar. Everyone knows he's a cat. This is not in dispute. What is in dispute is which cat, where he is, and how a creature with whiskers and an arsehole-first attitude towards reality somehow knows about cursed heirlooms, political scandal, and the precise whereabouts of your missing left sock.
No one's ever seen Blarp. Not clearly. There are sightings, of course — cats with smug expressions, suspicious tail flicks, and that look that says "I know about your browser history." But they've always turned out to be just cats. Probably. Mostly. Unless the pigeon was lying.
¶ Pranks
Blarp communicates exclusively through other animals. You might be enjoying a peaceful breakfast when a frog launches itself into your porridge, croaks:
"Message from Blarp: Yer cousin's a liar, the ring's cursed, and never trust a dwarf called Kevin,"
— and then flings itself back out the window, gibbering in amphibian terror.
Or a passing pigeon lands on your head, belches out a prophecy in your nan's voice, and pecks your eyebrow before flying off in a flurry of feathers and guilt.
Blarp never tells the whole truth. He tells the most inconvenient, embarrassing, or cryptically infuriating part of the truth, and only if he's in the mood. He is widely considered hilarious by everyone except the current target of his amusement, who is often left red-faced, pantsless, or in the middle of a duel they didn't know they'd started.
Some say he works for the City Council. Others say he is the City Council. Most agree that he's probably just a cat. With opinions. And maybe a grudge.
¶ Admirers
While Blarp has no official worshippers (apart from that one pigeon cult, but they're in counselling), he has inspired an entire generation of pranksters, truth-twisters, and petty chaos agents — most notably the Wee Knapkins, who regard him as a sort of celestial cousin with excellent cheese taste. From enchanted whoopee cushions in the City Council to tea sets replaced with screaming crockery, many acts of civic mischief are followed by someone muttering: "Bet it was Blarp. Or someone channelling him."