Enigmatik

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Nothing to see here!

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

@Eventua

I genuinely thought I'd accepted this when I first saw it, it's excellent. You create the weirdest concepts and I'm here for it.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Gadri Abzan and Madame Morvanne

Gadri had slowly been making their way to the front of the caravan when the rumbling began. Their eyes were dragged up to the sky, towards the source of the roar - trailing fire and smoke, scorching its way across the sky...

Skymetal.

A gift from the Light-and-Flame. It had to be. For it to fall so close to them, and so blatantly? They watched as it vanished out of view and turned, starting to run back towards their caravan when the blastwave swept through the forest. The trees shook and creaked violently, leaves and branches tumbled down in a hail of foliage. Bracing themselves against a nearby stump, Gadri waited out the wall of force that washed over the caravan, then quickly straightened themselves up and turned back towards their caravan.

Dwarves weren’t particularly great travellers over long distances, but they were natural born sprinters. Their legs were as stout as they were short, which meant that when one started moving, they could get some real power behind each step, driving the blacksmith back the way they’d came, quickly hurrying back inside their forge to pull out what few tools they needed, then immediately dashing out, barely remembering to lock the door behind them.

“I’m going to investigate!” They called out, once again to nobody in particular, then off they went, legs carrying them as fast as they could towards the sight of the crash.

It might have been to nobody in particular, but this time someone did indeed pay attention. The force of the impact had sent plenty of Morvanne’s knick-knacks flying all over the place, even slamming a heavy book into her forehead, where a hefty bruise had already begun to form. The madame herself had been quite enjoying the quieter period rolling through the woods, especially with how peculiar the essences surrounding it were, but this new falling star demanded attention more than cleanup did. She’d have plenty of time to tidy everything up once she returned, but she’d be surprised if she ever got another opportunity in her life to investigate something such as this.

So it was that less than a minute after the dwarf had thumped off through the woods, she too was locking the door to her wagon, hitching up her skirts and making her way through the undergrowth. Even at a careful speedwalk she was quick enough to just about keep Gadri in sight – the dwarf having to slow enough once they were off the road that their size difference came into play.

---

It wasn’t long before the group investigating this strange new phenomenon arrived at the crash site. A deep crater was carved into the mud and dirt, ploughing through one of the forest’s tremendous trees and partially uprooting it. Astonishingly, it seemed as if the tree was resisting this new invader, having fallen back down atop it, roots almost strangling the metallic intrusion into its world.

Gadri edged their way closer to the crater and peered over the edge. A mixture of disappointment and excitement shot through them, mixed with an overwhelming sense of curiosity.

“Well… It’s not starmetal.” That much was obvious, even to a layperson. Starmetal fell in single contiguous pieces, often pockmarked and speckled with pits and dents, and usually had a dull metallic sheen to it. This strange structure had clearly broken up as it came in, shards of metal and fragments of unknown material scattered across the trees and ground surrounding the crater. It looked to be scorched as well – the side facing downwards towards the earth turned black, while a small… Panel? On the topside of the structure had a chrome gleam to it still.

“Not anything I’ve learnt of either…” Morvanne took a half-step forward, only for Gadri to hold a hand up.

“Alright. Listen up.” They turned to the group. “I can’t say for sure what this is, it seems likely that there’ll be some potent magical energy around it. I can withstand that. There’s no guarantees that you can. I’ll go, see if it’s safe.” They turned to Morvanne, who simply nodded.

“It is… Spiritually powerful. I can almost taste it in the air. I’ll observe.” She gestured with a hand forward, and with that, Gadri entered the crater, using tangled roots and disturbed earth as footholds to clamber their way down.

They approached this… Extraterrestrial invader cautiously, drawing out their hammer and tapping it a few times against different parts of the peculiar craft. Each strike rang out like a bell, but with a tone that even the dwarf couldn’t place. Whatever this was constructed out of… Alwyne knew it not.

Then, they circled around the craft, dragging their fingers along the side. Even with the damage sustained as it crashed into the ground, it was obvious that this was no natural structure. Even if the shattered parts jutting off at uneven angles hadn’t been there, or the odd but deliberate shape of the craft had been totally deformed, there was the simple fact that there was clearly some sort of ladder affixed to the outside, sized for someone significantly taller than a dwarf.

Not that this seemed to stop Gadri from grabbing a hold of one of the rungs and hoisting themselves up, working their way higher until they’d reached the unscorched panel trapped beneath one of the tree’s great roots above. Bracing themselves against it, Gadri rummaged around in their toolbag, then drew out a chain saw and unravelled it, easing one of the handles underneath the branch before pulling them both taught.

It was not an easy task. The root was thick and healthy and seemed to fight the teeth of their tool every step of the way, but in a contest between dwarf-made steel and even this broad tree’s bark, it was only a matter of time before the former won out. With a creak and a crack Gadri wrenched the root free from the rest of the tree and was about to pack the saw away when the panel let out a tremendous hiss and popped open, forcing the dwarf to scamper back down the ladder to avoid being shoved off the craft entirely.

“What in the Light?”

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

@Tortoise

Argh! Imgur not playing ball with me. Will re-upload when I finish cleaning it up.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Madame Morvanne

Madame Morvanne

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
A human of 32. Or so she thinks at least. A pilgrim within the caravan for four years.

Appearance:
A tall, slender, willowy woman, who looks as if a stiff breeze would cart her up into the air and carry her away, into places unknown. The good madame has long locks of flowing, wispy flaxen hair kept neatly tucked inside a full set of modest bonnets, a milky complexion and pale eyes that can never quite decide if they should be blue, grey or green, depending on the condition of light or shadow forces beyond the day or how wide her pupils are.

Her clothing is common for Trist burghers – warm colours, good hearty fabric like wool and linen, with minimal but present details. In other words, clothes of good quality and pleasant make, but not overly expensive, accented with well-made but unexceptional jewellery. She does have more practical garbs for hard treks or blending into foreign cities, but much prefers her comfortable homely wares. In Trist, makeup is considered the purview of either the very wealthy or ladies of the night and she’d be horrified at the implications should someone suggest she should be wearing it.

History

Trist is an old, forgetful land, somewhere to the west and somewhere to the north, not terribly far from the Old Marshes. It is a land of stone, earth, and bones, tilled and toiled upon by peasants, ridden hard upon by nobles, and settled extensively by wave after wave of migrant, invader and coloniser. Out in the oldest of its places, villages that once proudly stood for generations have been covered by the silt of time, and in their place are barrows and tombs... Yet in its beating heart stand proud citadels of heavy stone and sloped roofs, gutters near-overspilling from the rain that frequently drizzles down.

The earth of Trist is fertile and rich, fine fodder for the peasant folk to divide into hedgerow-split fields or to allow sheep and cattle to ramble over. Although few would call it the most blessed place on Alwyne, only a fool would deny that the people of Trist feast more often than they experience famine.

This was the land where Madame Morvanne was born to, as wind and rain crashed against sturdy stone walls, where the cries of her mother were drowned out by the crack of lightning and boom of thunder. She had a first name, once, of that she is sure, but she has found that whatever it was has become quite superfluous now.

In fact, many things about Madame Morvanne have turned out to be quite irrelevant over the years. Even to herself, her life is a patchwork thing, stitched together from threads of recollection around memories who have found new uses. Yet just because she does not remember them does not mean they never happened.

A child to a family of burghers - those who learn crafts like the peasantry yet live behind high stone walls, she was raised to be a lady-in-waiting, as it is the custom in Trist for wealthy women to have a learned assistant to help with managing their house in ways mere servants cannot. She learned to read, to write, to stitch together flesh so a doctor might not be needed, to count coins and tighten a purse, and to dress and undress another faster than they could do so themselves.

She was apprenticed to a family of minor nobility, but she quickly learnt that little was well within her new home. Her mistress was a weak-willed woman and she had a husband who used this against her and the rest of his household, heavy with his hand, harsh with his tongue, and prone to strong wine that made him all the worse for it. Morvanne learnt quickly that the one place her master rarely bothered to tread was the library of the house - a marvellous thing, but left neglected in the basement, where it secrets had been forgotten beneath the slowly gathering dust.

As she spent her time down there, blowing away cobwebs and parting parchment that had not seen candlelight in far too long, she began to read of things that perhaps ought to have been forgotten. She read of the Sun, and the splendour it once had. She learnt of the Flame, the Tenfold Essences of the soul, of how autumn did not lead to winter, but instead the Silence, and then she learnt of the Threshold, and she began to understand enough.

One day, her mistress noticed that she had not seen the young madame Morvanne around for an unusual while. Nor had her servants, and the master of the house could not remember a young woman by the surname Morvanne having ever worked at their estate before. Soon enough, the servants could no longer remember a madame Morvanne either. When the master of the house passed away - a tragedy for a sleeping sickness to strike like that, it truly was, all memories of Morvanne had left the house entirely, along with the quiet library buried in the earth.

But not all are as susceptible to such things as unwitting nobles, and not all are pleased by the twisting of shoulds and should-nots. Among Trist's people are those wise to the ways of ancient memories, and Movanne, with no tutor to guide her beyond the books, was not terribly apt at disguising the profession in which she found herself. When Wych-Finders came to her new abode she was forced to flee, and then flee again, until at last she realised that, for now, Trist was unsafe for her to say in. The Pilgrim's Caravan came at an apt time to allow her to quietly slip away, but she knew more than most that Trist is an old, forgetful land. She will return there, one day. Of this she is certain.

Personality:
The good Madame is a quiet, studious sort, who tends to travel alongside unusual companions wherever she can - the more unusual the better. She is the sort to listen, long and hard, the kind of listening that can rarely be feigned and she seems to take great and legitimate interest in the things that others have to say. She is fond of books and tea, of long strolls to nowhere in particular, of the houseplants she tends to in her wagon and in the careful sorting of the many curiosities and knick-knacks she has accumulated. In short, she is a regular homebody, except one whose home now rolls along the road.

Motivation:
If she had her way, Morvanne would be back in Trist, sat beside a small hearth in a pleasant house nestled firmly behind a set of thick walls. Perhaps she would even have a husband and let herself grow heavy with child, but above all she would have her library. Until Trist has forgotten her, she works on this last objective most of all. At every stop along the journey, and indeed between stops as well she goes about, gathering literature, cataloguing it and then, most of the time, selling it or gifting it onwards. Most of the caravan probably knows her best as a book merchant and librarian, which suits her just fine.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Morvanne is an occultist - but mind how you refer to such a thing around her, because to Madame Morvanne, the 'occult' is not the domain of fussy old fellows in Hermetic Lodges or tentacle-wielding scholars muttering at skulls. Her practices are easy to miss. She does not read the cards or cast the bones, nor do her spells pour forth darkness or sunder skin from bone. She reads, and she writes, and things that oughtn't ought, and things that ought oughtn't and peculiar bargains lead to peculiar happenstance.

Morvanne's Occultism

In plain English, Morvanne is a spellcaster dedicated to the various powers who those in the know refer to as the Oblitarchy, and the Tenfold Essences that Obliturges categorise. Morvanne in particular found herself predisposed to the Oblitarch known as the Threshold, associated with the essence of Hypist. This is the essence of the sleeping mind - where experiences become memory and memory engrained, and thus the Threshold is a peculiar thing - gifting and taking away knowledge in equal parts, and reigning over all that has been murmured in twilight.

Because of this, Morvanne is unusually well-educated considering her age in matters both of and not of this world, but this comes with it not only a forgetfulness of her own past, but also with remembering things that are not true, at least not within this Time. Outside of the Threshold, she also dabbles in the essences of Syis and Senopy: Change and Silence. Her lucky escapes and the sudden sickness that took her employer have not been entirely happenstance or accident.

To call upon these powers Morvanne must conduct rituals: long-winded things requiring careful preparation, the right ingredients, and potentially hours of tongue-twisting work to complete. Calling upon an essence requires items, people, times or places strong in that essence: A bloody knife for Ravume, a lover’s assistance for Percus or the deep midwinter for Senopy. For more complex rituals other, occasionally conflicting essences must be called upon and the more powerful the ritual, the more intense the essences going into it must be. A small Hypist ritual might only require twilight, but for the greater rituals… Well, a city on wheels is rather liminal, is it not?

The Oblitarchy

The ‘Gods Before Gods,’ the Oblitarchy are a lost pantheon of deities who have, according to their believers, existed before anything else. Before there was Alwyne there were two of them: The Nowhere and The Glory, consisting of existence and everything outside of it, locked in an eternal dance which neither could overcome. The Nothing however, begot The Sunderer, and living up to their name they slew The The Glory and usurped The Nowhere, and from this calamitous beginning, all other Oblitarchs would rise, each one domineering an aspect of the mortal world that had formed with their struggles.

The Ten Oblitarchs and their Essences are typically depicted around a ten-pointed star, showing their relation to the other Oblitarchs. Clockwise, from the top:

The Sun Divided is the truest form of the slain Glory, heading the triarchy known as the Gods ex Solari. It is the rising sun – a peerless, wrathful, and unforgiving deity that seeks to bring forth the hours of The Glory once again and to gather all other essences within itself, to remake the universe as it once was. Its essence is Ejas, and it consists of the waking mind – higher intelligence, the drive of knowledge for knowledge’s sake, and the unrelenting progress of mortals.

The Chalice is the second of the Gods ex Solari: Once the warmth and comfort of the sun that nurtured life, the Chalice still holds that benevolent spirit. Its essence, Prist, is the only of the ten essences that can be physically touched, for it consists of the physical body – bones, muscle, sinew and blood.

The Threshold heads the diarchy of the Gods Obsucras. The Threshold is twilight – it is soft and dimly lit, existing between day and night, and holds dominion over all that is liminal. Its essence is Hypist, and where Ejas is the waking mind, Hypist is the dreaming mind. It is a master of irrationality and illogic. It holds memories and recognition, half-truths and lies, and shares freely, although not without cost.

The Prism is the other of the Gods Obscuras and one of the more esoteric of an already esoteric lot. Shunning one form, the Prism is ever-changing and ever-formless, refusing to be neatly categorised or pinned down. Much like itself, its essence, Syis, is the constant drive for change and evolution, although it cares little for the direction that this change takes.

The Nowhere is the oldest of the Gods ex Nihi, and is the only of the Oblitarchs to have lasted unchanged from the dawn of nothingness. If the Oblitarchs can indeed dwell in our reality, The Nowhere holds itself somewhere far beyond the comfort of Alwyn, out in the unforgiving darkness where nothing dwells and nothing can ever dwell. It exists in contrary to anything else, and has created only once – its greatest mistake. The Nowhere’s essence is Nihi, and it is true illogicality. Things which must not be known and cannot be known, places where life itself has been banished, never to return, - these are where Nihi is strongest. Those few mortals brave enough to try to master Nihi are known as apocalypsists and almost inevitably meet untimely demises.

The Sunderer heads the Gods ex Nihi, having overthrown its parent and shattered the Glory. It measures itself not on its own merits, but on how effectively it contrasts the Sun Divided, the pair locked in eternal enmity just as the Glory and the Nowhere once were, long ago. The Sunderer’s essence is Ravume, and although often categorised as nothing more than hatred, jealousy, ego and anarchic rage, is far more about contest and competition, thriving where there is conflict, and quick to raise a blade when offended or challenged.

The Silence is an oft-forgotten member of the Gods ex Nihi, which is ironic, for it is the ultimate fate of all mortal life. The Silence reigns in the ice of deepest winter, at the bottom of the darkest caves and in the endless abyss deep beneath the ocean’s surface. Its essence, Senopy, is the quiet death that comes to all mortals not slain in piques of Ravume – old age, sickness, cancer and frailty, those things that linger deep within the bones of mortals that comes out one day to claim them – this is Senopy.

The Constant is the lesser of the diarchy known as the Gods Exertus, and is as much a contrast of the Prism as the Sunderer is the Sun Divided. It not static, but instead driving ever-forward, an unrelenting force that refuses to allow others to slow or divert it. Its essence, Effiv, is willpower and fortitude, and sheer dogged determination – the drive to climb the highest peaks and cross the deepest valleys for no other reason than that they are there, and therefore should be conquered.

The Flame heads the diarchy of the Gods Exertus, and is one of the most intimately mortal of all the Oblitarchs. The Flame is ingenuity and skill, progress not for progress’ sake, but for improvement and inspiration. Its essence, Emiv, was there when mortalkind first learnt to make sparks to tame the flames, and has been there for every subsequent step of the way. It is technology, learned skills and craftwork, and it will only grow stronger.

The Delight is the last of the Gods Ex Solari, and is the rawest form of the Glory – its explosive force, its pulsing rhythm, its undulating colours. Its essence, Percus, is lust and gluttony, sloth and pride, but also delight, love, happiness and all the other of the myriad emotions that swell a mortal’s heart.

Possessions:
Morvanne’s Wagon: A comfortable and cozy construction, Morvanne’s wagon is carved from hardy oak and stuffed with all manner of scrolls, books, trinkets and of course, plenty of tea. It even has its own sleeping area so she does not need to pitch a tent every night.

Unending Odds-And-Ends: Although Morvanne is best known for her trading of books and scrolls, she is also a well-known oddities merchant. Family heirlooms, archaeological artifacts, coins from dead kingdoms and sometimes genuine magical items are all collected and categorized. Most of these she sells on, but some she keeps, and puts away for her own uses.

Notables of Her Collection

An Ancient Whisper: It is said that once upon a time there was a winter that refused to end. At the ends of Alwyne, where the temperature never goes above freezing, there is water that has never known a form other than ice. Now it refuses to melt even when thrown into fire. A gemstone-sized piece of this ancient whisper resides in a small dish atop Morvanne’s hearth.

A Bell-Jar of Moths: On hazy nights, when the sky is dark and the air is fresh and clear, moths are irresistibly drawn to the small drop of incense left at the bottom of the bell jar. They always find their way home, in the end.

A Hand of Glory: Stolen from a gibbet, prepared in a mixture of nitre, salt, ashes and incense, dried in the days where the red star hangs low in the sky, hung from an oak tree to see three nights, then impaled to a temple to a false deity for a day. It takes a ritual to make such a powerful tool.

A Conclave of Candles: Each one embraced in its own case, each one a different peculiar colour. They smell of old books and fresh blood, of newly minted coins and fresh flowers. Morvanne lights them sparingly and always burns them to completion when she does.

A Lethey Concoction: Anaesthetic and amnesiac both, the waters of the Lethe are found best in one’s deepest slumber. Only a drop must be stolen from a dream to brew a full pot of sweet-smelling oblivion.

An Ironwood Wand: Not all Morvanne’s tools are connected to the Oblitarchy – some would be common to any studious spellcaster. Ironwood is known for its strength and sturdiness, and makes perfectly functional, if unimpressive wands. This one has been imprinted with a simple force spell, suitable for bowling down foes, blowing heavy objects about and helping shift a stuck wagon from a rut. It serves as Morvanne’s main defensive option should she be accosted.

An Unending Ledger: Average to look at, this plain leatherbound ledger holds a peculiar trait to it: perhaps an enchanter’s first project or an attempt at a truly endless book that ended poorly. Once the last page of the ledger is filled up the first page will lose its ink, allowing for one to write over ancient transactions with fresh ones. Very convenient for a woman like Morvanne.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
Secrets, Safety, Eternity

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
True Neutral

Three Likes:
A fresh set of tea samples, a well-loved tome, a lost secret rediscovered.

Three Dislikes:
Uninvited guests, being left out of the loop, unfortunate reminders.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Mind. One cannot blindly follow their heart in her field of study – it never ends well.

Worst Fear:
In her darkest dreams, where the line between The Threshold and The Nothing are too blurred, she sees an unlit pyre, surrounded by high-collared hunters with manacles at their waists and torches in hand.

Favorite Color:
Isn’t it obvious by now?

Most Like The Animal:
Perhaps a little stereotypical for someone as fond of books as she is, but an owl suits Morvanne quite nicely. She is quiet, wise, and does all her greatest work under the cover of darkness.

Favorite Time of Day:
Twilight.
How They Dress:
See appearance.
Favorite Season:
She should like Winter the most, as it’s very easy to weave with Senopy when snow lies heavy on the ground, but in reality she’s particularly fond of early autumn.
What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Cough

I'm reposting Morvanne because she's basically content complete. I'll need to do some more edits, mostly proofreading and completing all the various colours that need to be done, but the core won't change from this unless she needs to be overhauled in any way!

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Madame Morvanne

Madame Morvanne

_{(If you've got a picture you're using, right here would be the place to drop it.)}

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
A human of 32. Or so she thinks at least. A pilgrim within the caravan for four years.

Appearance:
A tall, slender, willowy woman, who looks as if a stiff breeze would cart her up into the air and carry her away, into places unknown. The good madame has long locks of flowing, wispy flaxen hair kept neatly tucked inside a full set of modest bonnets, a milky complexion and pale eyes that can never quite decide if they should be blue, grey or green, depending on the condition of light or shadow forces beyond the day or how wide her pupils are.

History

Trist is an old, forgetful land, somewhere to the west and somewhere to the north, not terribly far from the Old Marshes. It is a land of stone, earth and bones, tilled and toiled upon by peasants, ridden hard upon by nobles, and settled extensively by wave after wave of migrant, invader and coloniser. Out in the oldest of its places, villages that once proudly stood for generations have been covered by the silt of time, and in their place are barrows and tombs... Yet in its beating heart stand proud citadels of heavy stone and sloped roofs, gutters near-overspilling from the rain that frequently drizzles down.

The earth of Trist is fertile and rich, fine fodder for the peasantfolk to divide into hedgerow-split fields or to allow sheep and cattle to ramble over, and although few would call it the most blessed place on Alwyne, only a fool would deny that the people of Trist feast more often than they experience famine.

This was the land where Madame Morivanne was born to, as wind and rain crashed against sturdy stone walls, where the cries of her mother were drowned out by the crack of lightning and boom of thunder. She had a first name, once, of that she is sure, but she has found that whatever it was has become quite superfluous now.

In fact, many things about Madame Morivanne have turned out to be quite irrelevant over the years. Even to herself, her life is a patchwork thing, stitched together from threads of recollection around memories who have found new uses. Yet, just because she does not remember them does not mean they never happened.

A child to a family of burghers - those who learn crafts like the peasantry yet live behind high stone walls, she was raised to be a lady-in-waiting, as it is the custom in the city of Trist for wealthy women to have a learned assistant to help with managing their house in ways mere servants cannot. She learned to read, to write, to stitch together flesh so a doctor might not be needed, to count coins and tighten a purse, and to dress and undress another faster than they could do so themselves.

She was apprenticed to a family of minor nobility, and at first, all seemed well, but there was little well within the manor which she found herself now living in. Her mistress was a weak-willed woman, and she had a husband who used this against her and the rest of his household, heavy with his hand, harsh with his tongue, and prone to strong wine that made him all the worse for it. Morivanne learnt quickly that the one place her master rarely bothered to tread was the library of the house - a marvellous thing, but left neglected in the basement, where it secrets had been forgotten beneath the slowly-gathering dust.

As she spent her time down there, blowing away cobwebs and parting parchment that had not seen candlelight in far too long, she began to read of things that perhaps ought to have been forgotten. She read of the Sun, and the splendour it once had. She learnt of the Light-And-Flame, the tenfold essences that made up the soul, of how autumn did not lead to winter, but instead the Silence, and then she learnt of the Threshold, and she began to understand enough.

One day, her mistress noticed that she had not seen the young Madame Mervivanne around for an unusual while. Nor had her servants, and the master of the house could not remember a young woman by the surname Morvanne having ever worked at their estate before. Soon enough, the servants could no longer remember a Madame Morvanne either. When the master of the house passed away - a tragedy for a sleeping sickness to strike like that, it truly was, all memories of Morvanne had left the house entirely, along with the quiet library buried in the earth.

But not all are as suceptible to such things as unwitting nobles, and not all are pleased by the twisting of shoulds and should-nots. Among Trist's people are those wise to the ways of ancient memories, and Morivanne, with no tutor to guide her beyond the books, was not terribly apt at disguising the profession in which she found herself. When Wych-Hunters came to her new abode she was forced to flee, and then flee again, until at last she realised that, for now, Trist was unsafe for her to say in. The Pilgrim's Caravan came at an apt time to allow her to quietly slip away, but she knew more than most that Trist is an old, forgetful land. She will return there, one day. Of this she is certain.

Personality:
The good Madame is a quiet, studious sort, who tends to travel alongside unusual companions wherever she can, the more unusual the better. She is the sort to listen, long and hard - the sort of listening that can rarely be feigned, and seems to take great and legitimate interest in the things that others have to say. She is fond of books and tea, of long strolls to nowhere in particular, of the houseplants she tends to in her wagon and in the careful sorting of the many curiosities and knick-knacks she has accumulated. In short, she is a regular homebody, except one whose home now rolls along the road.

Motivation:
If she had her way, Morvanne would be back in Trist, sat beside a small hearth in a pleasant house nestled firmly behind a set of thick walls. Perhaps she'd even have a husband, or let herself grow heavy with child, but above all she would have her library. Until Trist has forgotten her then, she works on the last objective most of all. At every stop along the journey, and indeed between stops as well, she goes about, gathering literature, cataloguing it and then, most of the time, selling it or gifting it onwards. Most of the caravan probably knows her best as a book merchant and librarian, which suits her just fine.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Morvanne is an occultist - but mind how you refer to such a thing around her, because to Madame Morvanne, the 'occult' is not the domain of fussy old fellows in Hermetic Lodges, or tentacle-wielding scholars muttering at skulls. Her practices are easy to miss. She does not read the cards or cast the bones, nor do her spells pour forth darkness or sunder skin from bone. She reads, and she writes, and things that oughtn't ought, and things that ought oughtn't and peculiar bargains lead to peculiar happenstance.

Morvanne's Occultism

In plain English, Morvanne is a spellcaster dedicated to the various powers who those in the know refer to as the Oblitarchy, and the tenfold essences that their occultists categorise. Morivanne in particular found herself predisposed to the Oblitarch known as the Threshold, associated with the essence of [WIP]. [WIP]. is the essence of the sleeping mind - where experiences become memory and memory engrained, and thus the Threshold is a peculiar thing - gifting and taking away knowledge in equal parts, and reigning over all that has been murmured in the night.

Because of this, Morvanne is unusually well-educated considering her age in matters both of and not of this world, but this comes with it not only a forgetfulness of her own past, but also with remembering things that are not true, at least not within this Time. Outside of the Threshold, she also dabbles in the essences of [WIP] and [WIP].

[WIP]

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:

Three Likes:

Three Dislikes:

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:

Worst Fear:

Favorite Color:

Most Like The Animal:
_{That is, which animal they are most like- not which one they like the most.}

Favorite Time of Day:

How They Dress:

Favorite Season:

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

And made my post! A quick one from Gadri should folks wish to come across them as they stroll to the front of the line, and then Malleck doing silly Malleck things.

Your fun African Wild Dog (the species on which Malleck and his people are based) for this post is that they have all kinda of vocalisations, none of which you'd really expect to come from an animal named 'Wild Dog!' They chirp, hoot, squeak and even sneeze to communicate.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Gadri Abzan

Gadri sighed as the wagon ahead rolled to a stop, rattling to a halt like every single other vehicle ahead of them had done. Another thrown wheel or broken suspension. They tugged, frustrated, at the end of their beard, then stood from the driver's seat and headed into the main forge. The terrain here was infuriating - too much stop-and-start to set up the forge, yet oppressive and uncomfortable enough that they couldn't take the opportunity to actually appreciate the quiet.

Not that there was ever much quiet for the caravan's dwarven metalworker. They grabbed a heavy leather satchel sat next to the door, tightened the strap holding their hammer to their apron, then stepped out the back door, firmly pulling it to and locking it. Far too many valuables to trust even other caravaners around this particular wagon.

"Going to see if I can't clear the holdup quicker," they explained to nobody in particular, then set out at their usual steady pace, boots sinking a little into the soft, constantly damp mud.

Malleck 'Freepaw'

Talking to Athulwin (@Tortoise)

It was too green in these woods.

Too green, too wet, too... Alive. In his time inside the caravan, Malleck had seen all sorts of sights alien to most of the painted folk, but the one thing that he could never quite get over was how lush everything seemed normally. When you grew up surrounded by chest-high stalks of yellow-green broken up by the occasional pop of colour from a bush or tree, even a simple temperate meadow seemed like an impossibly verdant explosion of life. The Forest of Emerald though, with its overwhelming palette of... well, emerald green, was something else altogether. It almost hurt his eyes to stare out at the sun-dappled grass, dew dripping down each stalk, or look up at the hardwood pillars that jutted into the sky, taller than any building he'd seen.

But that wasn't the worst part of all this - oh no. The worst part was that the vast canopies that hung above the caravan were thick enough that at night, you could only just make out the starlight where it slipped between wide, heavy leaves. Instinct told him that Otota had shifted across to the east and closer to the horizon line, but until they finally gave this strange place the slip, instinct was all he had. The last glimpse of Otota he'd had was eight days ago.

Needless to say, that he was somewhat on edge, and when the wind-whispered message from Athulwin came he practically leapt out of his skin before realising who and what it was. He nodded - the gesture entirely meaningless, then pushed himself up from the back of the stopped cart he'd been resting atop, giving a wave to the kindly older woman who had shared a fire with him last night. "Thank you for your time! And the soup, it was delicious!" Then, with steel-shod staff in hand and a tambourine tinkling against the side of his rucksack, he set off. There'd been the constant muttering of refugees among the Caravan for a few days now, but so far he'd not seen hide nor hair of them, and Athulwin's suggestion was a good one. Now, all he needed to do was to track down Athulwin, and from him find the location of the refugees.

As he strolled along, waving and cheerily greeting those that he passed by, he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. There was a presence hanging over him - spiteful and intelligent. It liked that he couldn't see Otota. It sounded ridiculous, but he was convinced that at least some part of the forest had it out for him.

Then again, maybe he was just starting to go a little crazy. Either was a possibility.

Twenty solid minutes of walking along the stopped Caravan later and he finally caught a glimpse of the familiar shape of their navigator's carriage. A spring entered his step, digitigrade legs easily accelerating him into strides that were surprisingly long for a creature his size, hopping over a small puddle to land just outside the man's rear door.

"Knock knock! Malleck here! Got your message Athulwin!" He followed the sentence up with a noise that most who had interacted with him had come to know - a high-pitched chirp, followed by a quick yip. Knocking had somewhat baffled the Ainok when he had first joined the caravan - his people's homes were made from hide or bartered fabric, 'knocking' just wasn't something you could do, so instead they used that distinctive call to let people know that someone wanted their attention. Other races, he had quickly learnt, preferred you to bang on a solid object, so he'd split the difference and just said 'knock' these days.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

@Tortoise

it's a fair cop

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

@Tortoise

To be fair, a lunatic screeching about THE LIGHT AND THE FLAME* with scrawled snakes all over their wall in questionable fluids does sound pretty survival horror.