Most of the stories told at campfires and in darkened basements are false. Not the ones about Old Boris. Dwelling in a tiny freehold out in the North Carolina wilderness, Old Boris likes his privacy. He likes it so much, in fact, that he'll deal summarily with anyone who intrudes upon it, including nobles, commoners, Seelie, Unseelie, fae, and mortals. He doesn't care. With a sawed-off shotgun in one hand and a particularly nasty cantrip prepped in the other, he'll come slithering out of the Blue Ridge night if anyone disturbs his privacy. Sometimes he'll give his victims a chance to flee if he's feeling magnanimous. Usually, he isn't feeling that way.
A particularly cadaverous example of the kith, he looks like nothing so much as a desiccated corpse. Incongruously, he wears wire-rimmed granny glasses, but the innocence they project is quickly destroyed by the stained shirt and pants, rotting boots, and cracked gloves he wears; uniformly stained dark brown.
Supposedly the ghosts of all of his victims are still lurking in the woods near his home. He has, however, managed to bind them all to his service and they watch the borders of his lands.