Alastor cuts an impressive figure standing at 6'4 with a broad chest. He has short but well groomed black hair that he combs back and a thick, well trimmed beard. The only thing that breaks up the growth is a crooked scar going across his right cheek and ending at his jawline. His horns curl, not unlike a ram, and one can tell that they are maintained and looked after. His eyes are a dark blue, complimented by his lavender skin. This look gives him a refined aura, despite his younger age of 24. Alastor wears a custom fit breastplate with the insignia of The Kadosh noble house, which is a gold coin with a dagger through it. He wears a simple leather jacket over the breastplate. At his hip hangs a longsword with a black ribbed hilt and a circular pommel. The same noble insignia is on the pommel.

Alastor is a man whose had to make his presence known all his life. So he is confident and boisterous by necessity. Some might say arrogant but Alastor doubts they would say that to his face. He is a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, for better or worse. This makes him friends and enemies at about the same rate. With this boisterous nature also comes anger. Insecurity. A less than healthy family situation will do that to a person. Alastor doesn't think, he acts, especially when his pride is on the line. But on the flip side of this, he is incredibly determined and disciplined in his goals. He knows what he wants and he will stop short of nothing to achieve them. He is also intensely loyal to those he cares about and has a strong sense of justice. He will step in to help a stranger without a second thought.

That being said, Alastor likes to fight. So if someone needs help he's more likely to pound the opposition rather than look for a diplomatic solution. The same can be said about his own relationships. Alastor hates talking about himself or his feelings towards other people and will shut down until the topic is dropped. And if someone pushes too hard, there might be some "friendly" scrapping about to happen.

Though Alastor was born into an environment of privilege and money, his life has been anything but easy. Primarily due to the fact that he was born a bastard. His father, the head of the Kadosh Noble-Merchant House and his mother, a sickly servant. They fell in love in secret and the servant got pregnant. Though his advisors begged him to just give her some money and send her away, Lord Kadosh couldn't do that. There are some days where Alastor wish he had. Alastor's mother died during childbirth and Lord Kadosh took public responsibility for her child. And so Alastor Shore was born, unable to take the family name due to the circumstance of his birth, he was named after the coast on which his father's estate sat. Alastor had two sisters, Sharkaria and Leki. The heirs of the Kadosh estate. He got along famously with them.

It was his step mother that was the issue. Lady Kadosh had bright red skin and piercing yellow eyes and was every bit as terrifying as she sounded. And she despised Alastor. Not only was he a bastard and name but physically it was very obvious to anyone that there was no relation. Just the sight of him made her blood boil and as such she made his life as miserable as possible. One could be forgiven for thinking she never acknowledged him at all. That's what it felt like. And though his father and sisters loved him, Lady Kadosh had the most power due her extended family, all very powerful nobles. So the lord bent to the lady and Alastor had to suffer the aftermath. With less than zero prospects of advancement in his family, Alastor trained and served as a soldier in his father's retainer for a time, eventually becoming skilled enough to be announced as the official bodyguard of the Kadoshes. This backfired for Alastor however, as he was right back where was as a child, at the mercy of Lady Kadosh.

In the end, Alastor decided he had to find his own way. His whole life he had spent serving his half family, being treated no better than a common guard. He refused to spend his entire life getting tossed aside like he was nothing when he worked so hard to earn the respect of those around him. So he left, with nothing but a sword on his hip and a pack on his back. Where he was going, he had no idea. But for the first time in his life, he felt like the master of his own fate...

Alastor was never good with animals and though he can ride a horse, he doesn't exactly have the money to afford one.

Hobbies:

Recreational Archery (Specifically crossbow)
Drawing (His favorite is landscapes)
Tasting wines (Perhaps the only part of his noble upbringing that he actually likes)
Singing (When no one is looking, though. Maybe if there was someone cute nearby and he was drunk enough he could sing in public.)

Likes:

Music
Drinking
Dancing
A good bar brawl
The smell of the ocean

Dislikes:

Classism
Most Nobles
Spiders
Brussel Sprouts

Marita is a tanned woman who stands taller than most human women, tall enough to almost be equal with most men. Coupled with this height is a slim build, almost willowy, but a bit too toned to be able to be considered as such. However such details usually would not be noticeable, for she tends to wear bulky clothing, whether it be her chainmail armor while adventuring or flowing clerical robes when acting as a holywoman. The only time she wears clothing that would be form-fitting or anything that could be considered within shouting distance of revealing is when she dresses "casually" in fine silks and linen dresses that she's fond of. The one constant in her wardrobe is the amulet bearing the symbol of Pholtus proudly displayed on her chest proclaiming her faith for all to see.

The clergywoman carries sharp features and high cheekbones that one might associate with elves, but she is definitely 100% human. Long, pale blonde hair flows braided down to the small of her back and brown eyes peer with contempt down at perceived annoyances.
Her face might be considered fairly attractive were her facial features not always contorted into a sneer, grimace or snarl of some sort.

However, she does maintain a very high standard of personal cleanliness and personal upkeep. When reasonably possible she bathes daily, wakes up early to make sure her hair is brushed smooth and she has her cosmetics applied to her satisfaction.

If you asked Marita to describe herself, she would probably say that she's a confident woman, who isn't afraid to go after what she wants. She has high expectations both of herself and others, and doesn't suffer fools gladly. If you asked someone who was familiar with her, they would probably tell you that she's a stuck up bitch who's never satisfied and always has a reason to talk down you. A difference in perspective really. What both would agree on is that she has a tendency to rub a lot of people the wrong way, but is fiercely protective of what friends she does make.

Growing up as something of a prodigy and surrounded by wealth and luxury, Marita finds herself continually drawn towards the finer things in life and detests dirt and having to do without, viewing herself as above those things. The past 2 years of adventuring have forced her to grow accustomed to hardship, but she would still rather do without, and even now when she has extra funds, she finds herself splurging when she knows she shouldn't, even if it's embarrassing for one of the pious to be doing so out in the open.

Despite her obvious, glaring faults Marita isn't a bad person, or even a particularly selfish one. In fact, her bull-headedness only reinforces her powerful sense of justice and fair play. And even if it doesn't look like it she is almost always acting towards what she considers the best outcome possible. Nor is she unaware that she could stand to be nicer. Deep down she desires friends and to be loved and oftentimes she finds herself regretting in private many of the barbed words that comes out of her mouth before she realizes it, but her pride stops her from ever admitting it out loud.

Marita was born in a deeply religious family, but not in the way that phrase usually means. Deep underground there was a convene that worshipped dark powers that she never fully grasped of. Devils and warped aberrations were a common sight in the settlement, inhuman tongues swapped as freely as Common. Although no doubt much of the inner workings of the cult had been obscured from her undeveloped mind, at the time she had never thought anything amiss.

Until one day when she was 8, for no reason she could discern, nearly everyone went mad and started killing one another with reckless abandon. Marita managed to hide through the worst of it in a closet, and when she deigned to venture out, she found mutilated corpses of her friends and family strewn about, and had to wade through pools of stagnant blood. On her way out from her childhood home, she only ran into one other person, an old friend of her father, bleeding profusely with no soul in his eyes. He lunged at her, teeth bared, and in a panic Marita stabbed him in the gut with a dagger she had picked up. Before she could feel him grow cold, she left the blade impaled in his torso and ran the other way.

Somehow Marita managed to make it up to the surface without any supplies, but she wasn't able to make it much farther before passing out from exhaustion. When she awoke, she was in the care for a man in his mid 40s she had never seen before. He introduced himself as Poldi Sebastiao, a high ranking cleric of Pholtus. He had been traveling with an inquisitorial party when they found her unconscious. Although he was quite busy, he found Marita piteous and took her in as an adoptive daughter of sorts, taking her back to a major city to live in the temple, for there was no place else for her to go. Life in the big city was a radical change for her, but Poldi was a man of great kindness; in a few months time, it was almost as if that dark day had never happened.

Possessing surprising intellect and wisdom for a child her age, Marita was able to quickly climb the clerical hierarchy, even if her personality was quite lacking. She was able to meet powerful people and attend lavish parties, while commanding the respect of underlings if by nothing else than competence and a healthy dollop of bulldogging. Everything seemed to be looking up for her until the day she stumbled across that book. It was brought in with other confiscated contraband from a nearby cult that had recently been dealt with. As a rule, contraband was not to be even looked at except by certain members of the court who were able to determine what was safe. However, from a glance, Marita could read the title of the book, and it had her family name on it in Infernal. Without her consent, her hand reached out and grabbed it, and Marita looked through it, perhaps subconsciously wishing that it might tell her if she had any surviving family still out there.

She stopped herself after a few seconds of frantic searching, but those around her had seen enough. Touching contraband before it could be screened was suspect enough, but that she could read the speech of devils called her entire character into question. Had she been corrupted while others weren't looking? Perhaps she had been a sleeper agent or undercover fiend this entire time. No matter how Marita might have protested her innocence, she could not stop what was to come. There was not proof enough to brand her a heretic and completely expel her from the temple, but she could not stay. Disgraced and bitter, she took to the road. Perhaps she could prove her dedication by performing good works in the world in Pholtus' name.

Marita thinks animals are smelly.

Likes: Jewelry
Sports
Gambling
Routine

Dislikes: Filth
Undead
Butchery
Beer

Despite all the trouble her past has brought her and all the clerical training she has undergone, Marita can't find it within herself to hate fiends as she knows she should. She doesn't like them, but the righteous fury that abominations should be dealt with doesn't come to her. In fact, it would be dangerously likely that she would attempt to talk to a devil first rather than smite it on sight. She can't help but doubt that even though she knows she's no demon worshipper that maybe she is a fraud after all.

Kosara's a rather curious tiefling to witness. Different from many of her kind's usual appearances, she doesn't have the usual skin colors their race is known for. Instead she's got a bronze tanned milky colored skin, white eyes and 4 white curved horns that have blue hues towards the tips. She wears her long white hair on a long big braid that she carefully maintains. Her expression is one of confidence and curiosity as she travels the world to see it's mysteries and write them all in her traveling journals that she plans to one day go back home and publish.

She prefers to wear easy to move in clothing that some( especially uncultured prudes!) would consider revealing, however they are typically worn by many of the dancers from her homeland in the deserts where she grew up. Usually that means very revealing tops and bottoms, acompanied by varying additional overclothes made of often see through veil cloths. More often than notin her case they are in different shades of blue. In addition she's wears a number of exotic jewelry and decorations on herself.

With her on her travels, she brings a well worn traveling bag that houses all her possessions and her traveling journal. To the bottom of the bag is attached with tight straps a bedroll. With her she brings a scimitar, dagger and a light crossbow. Her main weapon of choice is the scimitar. As it pairs well with dancing.

Coming out to the Northern lands, she encountered the varying weathers for hte first time. In the deserts at night it could get pretty cool too, but the frosty snowy winters and late autumns were a thing that baffled her to no end at first. As such, she was forced to reevaluate her wardrobe in those regions. In these cases when the seasons and temperatures demand it, she's often wearing similarly to her usual blue hue traveling clothes of similar cut and make of her veil ones, but instead of transparent thin soft veil cloth, using thicker and more protective fabrics, she still usually wears it as revealingly as possible though and at warm taverns, would often change back to her usual getup if for nothing else but to dance.

Kosara is an orphan. She has no memory of her parents nor anybody in her life really. Her earliest memory is already aimlessly wandering the desert as a small child, delirious from starvation and thirst. She has seen the worst and after she was saved and lived on, she has also seen marvels and miracles. Both of mortal and divine make. Despite the horrors of her earliest part of her life, she was raised by a kind being that showed her the good in people, though it also showed her the bad and how to deal with that. Is Kosara a good person? Yes, she revels in helping others, meeting them, learning of their life, their history and making friends. Is she harmless? No, Kosara's well adept at defending herself and understands that both good and evil exist in the world and that sometimes you just have to pull out a blade and fight for survival. The harsh deserts have well engraved that lesson down to her very core, so has her Grandpa's teachings in how to smite evil.

Having been raised from early age by a Ki-Rin of all things, Kosara saw a lot of the desert that the Ki-rin lived in and looked after. He taught her morals, history, to read and to write. He was the kindest being she had ever met to that point and honestly since. He taught her kindness and as the Major parental figure in her life she grew up, striving to be just like him. Admittedly living with a Huge Horned Golden Grandpa Horse, is an experience that few can relate to. Needless to say, the Ki-rin also had her often live within one of the towns under his protection while he dealt with his usual Celstial tasks of smiting evil and the like. The place she lived at when not with her Grandpa Horny Golden Horse, was an inn at an Oasis town where every night there were exotic dancers entertaining weary travelers. Watching them so often and living among the dancers, she naturally picked up on the craft and got to really enjoy it. It is also what sparked her wanderlust as most nights, she'd meet travelers from far and distant lands, retelling stories and marvels they've seen along the way.

Kosara origin is a bit of a mystery that is likely to never be discovered even by herself. Her earliest memory is that of endless sands as she was wandering starved and dehydrated in the desert. She was barely a 4 years old at the time give or take a few months or maybe a year as she doesn't exactly know her birthday or birth year. In her weakest and most vulnerable moment, she was saved by death and oblivion in the soft embrace of the sands by what she thought at the time to be a mirage. It was a huge golden scaled horned horse, what else was a child of that age supposed to think? Turned out it was a Ki-rin that lived in those deserts and he had decided to save her and helped raise the unusually colored tiefling child.

Since that fateful day, her life turn a turn for the better. The Ki-rin looked after her and cared for her like a grandfather of sorts. He was old and mentorly, but also kind and caring. The first time he broke through her shell of wariness, she called him' Grandpa Horny Golden Horse' since she didn't know his name and it kinda stuck. He never did tell her if he had another name and to this day, years later when she is already an adult, Kosara still calls him that affectionnally. When she grew up a little, the Ki-rin started to leave her in a Oasis town he protected when he was doing his duties. She grew up there in the care of a innkeeper that the Ki-rin had saved years ago. The place was a stopping point for travelers across the deserts. There were exotic dancers and other entertainers every day and every night. She grew up watching the nimble and dextrous dancers with their graceful movements that captivated the eye and mind and often times would politely ask the weary travelers to regail their stories and many did so for a curious child. Thus her life growing up was spent between living with the Ki-rin who taught and cared for her and living in the inn in the care of the inkeeper and his employees. Eventually she started to also help around the place when she was old enough and gradually moved on to oftentimes performing with the other dances. She actually lost her tail early on when she tried to do a sword dance as an untrained child. She was grounded for a long while and the Golden Grandpa Horse was very disappointed with her. She eventually had the entire rest of it removed so half a tail doesn't be in the way.

As she grew up and matured, the sensations of wanderlust only grew in her heart until she couldn't wait anymore. She had learned all she could for the time being from her Grandpa and as much as she loved dancing with the other girls in the inn, she wanted to go out there and see hte world! Grandpa had brought her to the ocean that bordered the desert, but she wanted to see beyond that too! The fabled snow covered Northern lands, the jungles beyond the oceans and even the seemingly endless fields of wheat that were apparently like sea of gold even more beautiful than the desert sands. One day after meeting with the Ki-rin, she told him she wanted to venture out on her own and see the world. He gave her his blessings and a promise to always be with her, if not by body then at least by mind and will. He wasn't really lying, seeing she had become a warlock tied to him. After a few days of talking and living like how she did as a child, she gathered her traveling bag, said goodbye to her Grandfather, did the same with her friends and sisters by all, but blood in the Inn and ventured out with the first merchant caravan heading towards the great ocean port cities.

Grandpa Horny Golden Horse - a Ki-Rin that is also Kosara's patron. Kosara named him when she was a small child and came under his care in the desert and the name stuck. She grew up under his care and cares for him as true family would. He's a grandfatherly figure more than anything and he doesn't really hangs around much. He's after all busy with other grand Celestial or Patronly tasks.

Faceclaim( if one is that needed beside the picture): Gemma Arterton

Fun Fact - Grandpa Horny Golden Horse often times reaches to Kosara in messages through the use of winds and sands if he feels dramatic, forming the words from a pile of sand that's being blown away by the wind until only the message remains or by plain old messaging spells if he's just missing her. On occasion it's to give her a task or another to complete.

Fun Fact - Kosara's has trained as exotic dancer and it's part of the reason why she still wears the costumes and styles of it. She's proud of it, plus it makes stupid people do funny things around her. Despite losing her tail in stupid childishly stubborn attempt to imitate blade dancers, she still does it, having overcome the initial trauma of it.

Likes:

• Dancing
• Music
• Blades
• Rainy days(she gets REALLY happy)
• GOLD
• Jewelry and shiny trinkets
• Traveling
• To explore strange new lands. To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no one has gone before!

Hobbies:

• Culture
• History
• Dancing
• Writing

Although tall for a wood elf, Naivara is merely middling in height when compared to the average member of the other humanoid races. She has the lithe, graceful build that the elves are famed for, and in general a casual observer would say that she puts the wood elf in wood elf. Oddly for a druid, Naivara moves comfortably in the bustling city as she does in the heart of the deep wilderness. There is an easiness to all of her movements, a softness to her walk, and something wild in the way she strides. Perhaps as a result of her time away from other humanoids, Naivara has some odd habits. She sees little purpose in personal space and often stands far too close to people when talking. Most unfortunately if one cares about good manners, she has a habit of touching others without warning or smelling the air around a person, in the manner of a beast, as if she is trying to suss out some hidden information about a stranger.

A woodland creature, Naivara has hazel eyes, sharp eyes like those of a predatory animal that shine with an uneasy wildness. Her brown hair reaches just past her shoulders and Naivara keeps it perpetually tied into a tight pony tail. Naivara makes a habit of decorating her hair with small branches, leaves, and brambles she finds in her travels. She has copperish skin with faint tones of green in the right light. A lifetime spent in the wilderness is no easy task, even for a druid, and Naivara bears the marks of a life spent adventuring far from civilization. Her skin is a tapestry of small to moderately sized scars, all faded with time, and the warm colors of her skin make it clear that she spends most of her time outside.

She dresses as one would expect a druid of the forest, pragmatically and with the chief concern being an ability to quickly vanish into the forest. She wears a well-worn pair of leather boots, that she has resoled more times than she would be willing to count. She has a pair of thick wool breeches, dotted with patches and stitches where she has had to repair them. Over her waist she has a sturdy leather belt capable of holding all that she needs to be on hand. Her shirt is a muted gray, once several measures to long, time has worn it down, and the cut down sleeves now perfectly suit the druid. Often, but not always, Naivara will wear a simple suit of leather armor over her clothes, particularly when she is traveling in dangerous territory. To provide protection from the weather, Naivara tosses an ample cloak with a hood onto her shoulders, once a beautiful shade of midnight, the cloak now appears to be dyed a quietly dying and tattered gray.

Slung onto Naivara's belt with a strip of leather is a sturdy club, wrought in gnarled oak that looks to have seen quite some usage and far better days. A close inspection of the club will reveal a surprisingly intricate collection of wood carvings. Strapped to the small of her back, Naivara also carries a handcrafted stone knife, her druidic focus, with an oaken handle, that is adorned with ritual carvings depicting a sacred full moon hunt. An insightful observer might note that the carving on her weapon and druidic focus were clearly the work of the same artist.

Naivara is a strange creature, a constant traveler, a wandering hermit, and steadfast druid, driven by a curiosity to see the world, but shaped by the wilderness that has enveloped her soul.

A young elf and developing druid, she struggles with a desire to change the world for the better, while also protecting the natural world and maintaining the balance. Naivara earnestly believes that change is necessary, that those in danger should always be aided, and that passivity is never the answer to the troubles of the world. However, as a druid she feels bound to protect nature, to defend the forests, and to ensure that the animals thrive. Her goals are thus often conflicted and she struggles against dark thoughts and the words of some of her fellow druids that argue for more drastic actions to protect the balance that is necessary for nature to thrive. At her core, Naivara is a problem solver, she is no passive druid willing to watch from the sidelines, she acts, she acts with vigorously, and then she contemplates the matter. Like a beast of the wilderness, she has come to rely on her instincts, and she trusts them impeccably.

Driven to seek out her own isolation from others, Naivara bears all the hallmarks of a life spent in solitude. She is friendly enough, kind, and even interested in other people, but there is something unpracticed in the way she talks, the way she smiles, and the way she acts. Her manners are strange, her habits are odd, and sometimes she seems to be acting more like talking animal than an elf. Sarcasm remains a constant difficulty for her and even jokes can sometimes leave the young elf confused, which is not to say she doesn't try, but her attempts at sarcasm can generously be described as interesting. Buried beneath long years are the vestiges of urban life, a patchy accent, and faint recollections of a different life.

Naivara is no regal elven princess born to royal parents, she is no sophisticated urban dwelling elf raised to be the scion of house of wealthy merchants, and she is no happy faced elven beauty brought into a pleasurable life of artistic pursuits. Her parents were not nice. Her parents were not wise. Her parents were not remarkable, interesting people. In truth, Naivara remembers nothing of her parents. No faces, no amusing habits, no kind gestures, and not even their names. Her name was the gift of passing merchant, an aged elf unwilling to let another elf wander the world unnamed. She has no elven surname, no ties to an ancient, storied house, and instead she calls herself Gray after the cloak she is fond of wearing.

Naivara's first memories are of the cold, merciless streets of a bustling city. She recalls only hunger and cold. She remembers few kindnesses. Her friends were other children. Other beggars. Other lost souls. The unwanted. The outcasts. The abused and the forgotten. She watched her friends steal. She watched her friends get
hurt. She watched her friends get thrown into dark jails cells. She shared their struggles. She did what she had to in order to survive. She tries not to remember. She tries to forget the friends that died, the friends that died alone in a gutter, still young, and still lost.

Certain that her own doom was upon her, Naivara eventually escaped the city. Pursued by a contingent of the city guard, she ran thoughtlessly into the wilderness. Away, far away, from the city she hated, and way from the people she despised. Reaching the deepest parts of the wilderness, Naivara found herself lost, truly lost, hopelessly lost in the way that only a the uninitiated and unprepared can lose themselves in an endless forest. Starving she grew weaker, dying slowly with each passing day. Collapsing from exhaustion, she found herself staring up at a strange fur covered man adorned with leaves and a diminutive pixy. Saving her, offering her food, water, and shelter, the strange fur covered man spoke little, but offered only a simple name, Brown Fur. The pixy spoke tirelessly, calling itself only the Storyteller, filling in any silence with long stories about the Seelie and Unseelie courts and their ceaseless conflicts.

When Naivara had recovered, the strange fur covered man, brought her to a stranger meeting, full of stranger people still. Surrounded by the ancient trees, she found herself in the very heart of the forest attending a meeting of druids belonging to the Circle of the Moon. With a soft smile, Brown Fur offered her a place, if she wanted it, a chance to learn, a chance to grow as part of a nature, and a chance to live, truly live. It was the first time in her life that she had a teacher, a mentor, and a parent even.

Seasons passed as Naivara learned from the druids of the Circle of the Moon. Brown Fur taught her how to survive in the wilderness. Brown Fur taught her the ways of the animals of the forest. Brown Fur taught her to understand the plants that grew across the lands. She learned from the other druids, when their paths crossed. She learned the rituals of the Circle of the Moon. She learned the hidden language the druids used to communicate. She found solace in the forest. She found purpose in the wilderness. And slowly, slowly the scars of her past began to fade, began to sink deeper within her, where they no longer cut at the strings of her heart.

When Brown Fur said she was ready, Naivara was initiated into the many mysteries of the wild order as a druid of the Circle of the Moon. Her task was as obvious as it was necessary, to guard the wilds, to protect the creatures of the wilderness, to defend the plants, and to maintain the balance. Parting ways with Brown Fur, Naivara ventured out on her own. She found her own forest. She found her own piece of the wilderness to protect.

In time, she felt a growing wanderlust, a desire to see more, to do more, and to become more. Driven by her own instincts and whispers of her heart, she began to travel, never content to stay in one place for too long. Stories of a strange hermit, a wood elf shrouded in gray, sometimes followed in her wake. A charitable entity, if a strange one, the gray cloaked figure was said to aid those in need, particularly those lost in the wilderness.

In her travels, Naivara encountered many strangers. Some kind, some not so kind, and some full of malice. She made friends, slowly at first, but then with some regularity. Time spent with others rekindled her enjoyment in some aspects of civilization. Months spent in the wilderness were sweetened by a friendly conversation with a forester. Weeks spend trudging in the cold were warmed by watching a master painter at work. And food was much improved by addition of the exotic spices that could be found in the cities.

Naivara had simply been passing through another unremarkable village, following the compulsions of her own being, as she was handed a letter from by an old friend. A grizzled ranger, now retired, she had saved the man from a band of marauding trolls some winter before. He said it was important. He asked her to read the letter. To think about it.

A man she had never heard of, much less met, Gregory Arbalest, purported Sheriff of Avonshire, requested her help. He knew her name, he knew who she was, strange the druid thought, but not uncommon. She was no guttersnipe hiding in the darkness. The mention of goblins filled her heart with a heavy weight. She had encountered goblins before, they were evil, unnatural creatures, prone to despoiling nature. She did not like them. She would act. She would help. She had to. She could not ignore an earnest call for help.

N/A

Likes

• Nature
• Animals
• Exploring
• Stories
• Art

Dislikes

• Long Dresses and overly fancy clothing
• Needless formalities and pained ceremony
• Having to stay still or in one place for too long
• Greed

Hobbies

• Traveling
• Studying plants and fauna
• Drawing (often plants and fauna)
• Carving (wood and stone)
• Drinking tea

Faceclaim: none other than the image included in my character sheet.

Miscellaneous, perhaps interesting tidbits:
Naivara has terrible table manners, being mostly used to eating along in the woods. She doesn't quite understand personal space, thinks hugs are perfectly reasonable at all times, and doesn't find it weird to smell someone's hair. Fortunately, she has learned that licking the faces of any traveling companions is generally frowned upon.

Naivara is currently engaged in a longstanding project to understand sarcasm and the finer points of modern humor. This is going badly, very badly, and Naivara sometimes misunderstands the most obvious jests or sarcastic comments as earnest statements.

Naivara greatly enjoys artistic things. She loves to paint and draw, can sing surprisingly well for one so shy about drawing attention, and is generally mollified by any great display of artistic or musical talent.

"I consider myself an honorable and respectable person. And I know the battlefield is a rather hectic place. Should things kick off in an unpleasant manner communication could become difficult to convey. Minds become muddied and we as soldiers and fighters may make choices we will regret without thinking about it properly. That is why I am giving the lot of you the option to surrender now before I have my way with you. Proper shelter and treatment will be present for those who surrender now. Any takers?" ~Likely talking to a bunch of orcs or goblins while they are in the middle of a dinner
"I think I got it. But just incase, tell me the whole thing again. I wasn't listening."
"If you're going to make a joke about it make it now. I've heard them all and I'd rather just get it out of the way now."
"Yes sir... I mean.... Grace? Lord? Sir? ser?"