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

A Semi-Retired Raider...

Thozna Scrapblast-of-Norplain

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Thozna is a Gnoll (or an Uplifted, as they refer to themselves), one of the hyenafolk that live in the plains, swamps, savannahs and deserts. While specific cultural practices vary from clan to clan they're a generally nomadic people, living a lifestyle of hunting, herding and raiding. Gnolls can be found in a variety of environments, their thick pelts and hardy constitutions making them well-suited for mercenary work. Indeed, it's not uncommon for a petty lord to hire a band of them for use as shock troops or terror squads.

They have a reputation for savagery and are even rumored to be demonic in origin, but these stories are not the full truth. Generally speaking Gnolls don't so much revel in violence for the sake of violence as they lack inherent respect for life. They respect people for their achievements and friends, family and pack members are considered highly important but an outsider's life is of no value on its own, and thus Gnolls have no problem snuffing it out if required. It's not too difficult for someone to be accepted by a Gnoll, however, as many of the Gnolls that roam outside their hunting grounds are working as soldiers, bandits, mercenaries, or bodyguards, and those in the packlands are living extremely communal lives. They're very much time players, they just don't care much about those outside the team.

While they can reach the age of 120 or even past that, in rare cases, they generally die far earlier to illness or violence. Scrapblast is fairly old for one still fighting, estimating herself to be somewhere past eighty. She had an earlier stint with the caravan of about four months, and her second tour has just passed the two-year mark.

Appearance:
Gnolls are much taller and much broader than humans are, and Scrapblast is no exception. She weighs in at a stocky four hundred-odd pounds of muscle and teeth, standing seven feet and eight inches tall while hunched over in the trademark Gnoll slouch. Her thick pelt is colored in a range of browns, the fur on her back having a reddish tint while that of her front lightens into a creamier shade.

While she has a range of scars across her body the vast majority of them are hidden by the tunics and capes she's taken a liking to, save for the wound running down her muzzle. The nasty gash left by a falchion strike tends to dry out and irritate her, so it's not uncommon to catch her running her long tongue up the channel.

Thozna tries to dress presentably by "civilized" standards on a day-to-day basis but feels she is under no compulsion to do so when she puts on her armor. Her war gear was designed to induce fear as much as it was to provide protection, almost deceptively crude. Harsh, rugged steel plates are layered over thick mail, her helmet hugging close to her skull while leaving her jaw free to bite people with.

History:
Thozna was born into the Norplain pack, a Gnollish tribe occupying, unsurprisingly, the Norplain region of the Ashvenkal. At that time the Norplainer gnolls had two main industries: the herding of livestock, mainly cattle and sheep, and raiding. Of course, there were other professions, such as healers to care for the sick or blacksmiths to produce tools, but by and large, they slaughtered animals and enemies. Thozna's mother was a noted warband leader while her father was somewhat infamous in the nearby settlements for his skill with a javelin, and thus her fate was decided.

Gnolls mature quickly compared to humans, becoming adults at around ten years of age. Even before then Thozna accompanied her parents in the field, scoring her first kill in a fight against a party of dog-like Ainok. Thozna likely would have gone on to an impressive but ultimately ordinary career as a warrior, save for one thing.

Gnolls believe that magic is the realm of Mus the Weaver, the mysterious many-eyed patron of seers, tacticians, and clothmakers who was the first hyena given sapience by the dragons of the Ashvenkal. Those marked by her lead auspicious lives and it's considered bad luck to not nurture her gift. Thozna first began to unconsciously levitate objects as a cub. starting with nails before moving knives and pots.

As she got older and gained more control over her magic she chose a personal name in the Gnollish tradition, Scrapblast. It reflected her preferred method of fighting: spraying the enemy with shards of jagged metal. With this power she set out to make a name for herself, battling against rival warbands and raiding the nearby Human and Ainok settlements.

As she got older Scrapblast got bigger, faster and more magically empowered. The months of experience turned into years and the years into decades, Thozna outliving her parents and many of her peers. While Gnolls are naturally long-lived the lifestyle tends to cull the pack, especially those who find themselves on the front. Scrapblast's band, formed when she was fifteen, had seen a complete turnover of members two times over by the time she was thirty.

She was an extremely talented soldier, one with enough stolen wealth to happily retire. But Scrapblast found herself growing bored. The Norplainers had gone through a series of small disasters during her third decade, droughts and outbreaks of disease and pyrrhic victories all adding up. As quickly as they reproduced the pack was still hemorrhaging manpower and those that survived were more cautious. Why throw their lives away when people needed them at home? Scrapblast couldn't blame them for this subtle shift in sensibilities but she couldn't stand by either.

As an accomplished raid leader, she had the right to gather a small band of friends, family and various connected men-at-arms. Scrapblast sewed together her banner and led them to seek their fortunes in service of others. The various headmen and warlords of the Asvenkal always had a need for hired blades and were none too picky about where they came from. Even those whose territory Scrapblast had pillaged in the past were happy to have her on their side.

But by that point in her career, she found those battles boring. Most of the time the band was deployed against disobedient peasants and bandit gangs, only occasionally called to fight against the armies of a rival lord or an outside force that dared to intrude on the Dragon-Sultans' lands. The pay was solid enough to keep her crew interested but Scrapblast was too old to be bought by baubles alone.

Her search for excitement led to her turning to the Dragons, the largely unknowable and inhuman entities whom the Gnolls descended from. It was possible for the Uplifted to ascend to Dragon status with enough strength of spirit and a healthy amount of luck, albiet almost unheard of. There were only twelve who had ever achieved the transformation, but Scrapblast already possessed some of the Dragons' power in the form of magic and was stubborn enough not to let the infinitesimal odds of success dissuade her. A chance find of an old corpse was all the encouragement she needed, Thozna took up the eldritch bones and scales and marched off to search for the ultimate enlightenment.

So she walked out of the Ashvenkal and into wider Alwyne. Scrapblast haggled with merchants in the bustling temple-cities of Velkinir, and searched for abandoned treasures in the ghost towns of the old Costal Elf homelands. One day she was part of a hunting party high in the Ironpeaks hunting for roc eggs, the next she was a guest of a giant who dwelled in a cavern of quartz. She sought to test her mettle so that it would become unbreakable, working to prove to herself that she deserved to join the Forebears in whatever unknown dimension they battled over. When she wasn't moving she was mediating, holding the scavenged pieces of drake-corpse against her as she tried meld her consciousness to the remnants of energy contained within.

This mercenary-monkhood was freeing but still, the passage of time needled at Scrapblast. She was about fifty when she decided to return to the Norplain, having spent so long away from home that she had almost forgotten what it looked like. Her homecoming was awkward, most of those she met having been born too late to know of her save for stories from their elders.

Moreover, in her absence, the pack had elected to settle down entirely. The series of setbacks that they had suffered decades before had put them in a precarious position, forcing them to cooperate more with the nearby settlements. At some point the group stopped traveling their circuit of hunting grounds to move into the outskirts of a trading post, given a place to raise their flocks in exchange for serving as an auxiliary defense.

Once more Scrapblast found herself alienated from her people with no one to blame but poor circumstances. Her half-hearted attempts to form a new warband failed, and she said her final goodbyes.

She planned to make her way to one of the other, more traditional Gnoll tribes and seek entrance on the strength of her storied career, but each time she encountered one, she couldn't bring herself to pop the question. She had left her pack, yes, but she was still too fond of it to renounce her allegiance. So Scrapblast went back to wandering, working as a mercenary at some times and a simple brigand at others. Any battle was an opportunity to improve her sword-arm or her mage's gift, a chance to shift herself closer to her competing goals: Become a dragon, or die trying. In her eyes it would have been a disservice to her legacy to die quietly in a bed somewhere, someone as experienced as she was deserved to die with axe in hand. Her quest continued through her sixties and into her seventies, coming to a pause in a twist of fate.

A cunning, underhanded merchant had passed a tip onto her as part of her payment for services rendered: a competitor of his would be traveling through a relatively empty part of the Sheepshead Isles, and with him he'd have a good stash of gold and some valuables. If Scrapblast were to hit said competitor she'd get his loot and the merchant would have one less problem to deal with.

So hit him she did. It was a simple matter to lay an ambush, his guards merely local toughs he had equipped for that leg of the journey. What complicated matters was the fact that the trader had been accompanied by his family. He and his wife were killed in the initial charge while his eldest child was cut down when she attempted to slash Scrapblast with a razor.

That left the youngest, a boy of not more than three years. While Gnolls don't take issue with the killing of outsiders they're not actively genocidal. Thozna's raids were nearly always smash-and-grab affairs, fatalities would occur but not enough to doom a bloodline or a village to extinction. Moreover, she missed having companions and respected the toddler's now slain family for their attempt at resistance. She adopted the boy as a show of thanks for their noble display and a way to cure her loneliness.

She named him Ryt-kiltu-Sheepshead (roughly translating to "Ryt, found in Sheepshead") and raised him as her own. Scrapblast never hid Ryt's origins from him and he didn't outwardly question her actions, although as he grew up she detected some unspoken angst. Raising a boy meant settling down again, the pair moving into a small farming community named Alstow.

Scrapblast found work as a rancher, having grown up with animals as a cub in the Norplain. The humans she lived among were understandably cautious of her but she proved her good nature the first time a bear strayed too close to the village. After that she was treated with some amount of respect and allowed to raise Ryt in peace. As soon as he was old enough she placed him under the tutelage of the old 'witch' who lived just outside of Alstow.

Another decade passed, Scrapblast finding herself on the wrong side of eighty and once again plagued by restlessness. In her eyes Ryt was an adult, a young man capable of surviving life on the road. There was no need for them to stay huddled up with pigs, not anymore. So they gathered their things and set out in search of his future and her glorious death, whatever forms they would take.

The Pilgrim's Caravan was a natural fit for them, Scrapblast had in fact traveled with it in the past. Rejoining was as simple as falling into line.

Personality:
Scrapblast is old in a profession and species that generally die young, so she likes to think that she has a handle on things. Age has tempered her aggression into something more akin to a dry, morbid sense of humor. While she isn't interested in bloodshed for its own sake she is hardly opposed to it either. She's honorable in the Gnoll sense of the word, where practicality is valued as much as bravery. There is a time and place for single combat, just as there is ambushes and sabotage.

Thozna misses the vivid storytelling of her people and thus is drawn to bards, griots, and poets of all types. This love of story extends to art in all its forms, a good painting or interesting sculpture being quick ways to grab her attention.

She has no time for cowards and, despite her being one herself, doesn't care much for mercenaries. In her eyes most sellswords are people who lack purpose, else they would be fighting for a lord or cause they believed in.

Also, she eats corpses. Gnolls are scavengers to the extreme; as far as Thozna is concerned, a dead person is basically the same as a dead pig. She isn't dumb enough to hunt two-legged game for the sake of it but if someone happens to cross her and she's left with a body? Snack time.

While she has the good grace to keep from just ripping into a freshly slain stranger while others are watching sometimes it's best not to question what sort of meat she's eating.

Motivation:
Boredom. Scrapblast has lived long enough to watch the rest of the Norplain Gnolls die or become sedentary, giving up pillaging for farming and laboring in the burgeoning human settlements nearby. While she can hardly blame her people for choosing a safer path she does find it dreadfully uninteresting. The Caravan represents an opportunity to keep moving until she finds her final battle, whatever form that takes. If she has to die then she is determined to die fighting, as is proper for a warrior of her stature and experience.

Power. While she knows that death through violence is her likely fate, she is not content to sit and wait for it to come to her. She will fight until she cannot fight, and in doing so seeks salvation in the Gnollish tradition: ascending to Dragonhood. Thozna has no way of knowing if she can ever reach this goal but being dissuaded by improbablity only guarantees that she doesn't deserve the honor, so she'll continue building up her physical and magical
prowess and studying the draconic artifacts she's managed to collect over the years.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Gnolls are as intelligent as any other sapient species, capable of building tools and making art. But physically and culturally they are still very much wild animals, capable of running down game and stripping hides from their flesh with claws alone. They're built to survive harsh environments and are quite content to trudge through blazing deserts or frozen tundras.

Her relatively long life has also given her plenty of time to develop skills suiting a professional ravager. Like pretty much every "wild" Gnoll out there she was trained to fight since birth, mastering the use of simple one-handed weapons like hammers, axes and knives. Where she differs from her spear-throwing peers is her training with heavy armor and shields. She can track prey and navigate by the stars, has enough first aid knowledge to keep herself from bleeding to death after a fight and has a keen eye for the value of items she comes across in her travels. In addition to the skills she's gained through practice, her age gives her a distinct physical advantage; as the older Gnolls get, the more their bodies harden. She's notably faster and stronger than the already impressive baseline of her species, able to outrun a horse in a short sprint and then hoist said horse and throw it.

This is something of a mixed blessing, at least among other Gnolls. The general cultural trend of looking for chances to prove one's strength makes elders like Thozna a tempting target for young up-and-comers looking to win duels or achieve fame in battle. Being considered one of the best means that while most Gnolls won't risk challenging her those that do are assuredly just as dangerous, if not more so.

While Scrapblast has a lifetime of experience in the field she's never spent a day in any classroom. She is, by the standards of the civilized world, entirely uneducated. While she can read the common tongue if given time and is capable of the basic arithmetic required for cash transactions don't expect her to chew through epic poems or perform complex calculations. While this wasn't a problem when she's roaming through arid plains and rundown city slums she does suffer a great deal when she has to admit her lack of schooling. She has yet to really understand the civilized world, and she doesn't really care to. She grew up robbing trespassers and forming raiding parties, spent her adult life seeking bigger and bigger bounties and is now expecting a bloody death so that her corpse can feed the carrion birds and other scavengers.

This unrepentant might make right mentality is reigned in for the most part when entering occupied territory but it can lead her to conflict with those who take offense. Similarly, Thozna is nearly entirely incapable of handling accusations of dishonesty, disloyalty, or cowardice. If someone were to call her any of the above her first instinct is to handle it the Gnoll way: knocking them over and stomping their face in. While she can temper this aggressive reaction doing so is never guaranteed.

Magic

Her real talent is the magical gift she's worked to nurture throughout her career. Her chosen name of "Scrapblast" reflects her chosen arcane art: the manipulation of magnetic fields. She naturally manipulates objects to her will, pulling them closer to her or launching them away. In combat she makes use of this by disarming opponents and using their own weapons against them, ripping swords out of the enemy's hands before plunging them into their necks.

While such magic isn't strictly limited to ferrous metals that sort of material is much easier to work with. She can lift a few hundred pounds of steel or pig iron without much difficulty and could conceivably lift up a couple tons of the same (provided it was all one solid object, and with great strain) but her capacity is limited with non-magnetic metals such as lead or copper. Scrapblast can even shift non-metal or even organic objects as all things have a magnetic field, but she can only move a tenth of what she could a ferrous metal.

Equipment

-Armor and Shield: She doesn't actually adorn herself with grisly trophies...usually.
-Weapons: Has her axe and a variety of knives for skinning people and animals alike. In addition to proper blades, she likes to carry a grab bag of metal shards and a pair of solid iron ingots to pelt the enemy with.
-Net: A blanket of steel rings that she can launch at someone to disable them, now more commonly used for mundane fishing.
-Bedding
-Mess Kit
-Money: A variety of coins, most of them looted or stolen.
-Moron: A riding moose, a magically-produced breed originating with the druids of the Tildretti forest. At twenty hands tall he's pretty much the only thing big enough for Scrapblast to ride and he's as smart as any donkey. The problem is that he's just as stubborn to boot, thus the name.

The Reliquary

Reliquary: A small box of lacquered wood, lined with lead and treated with magic so that it's stronger than steel. The container itself is purely functional, but the shards of bone and scale within carry personal and religious significance for Thozna. They're pieces of an Ashvenkal dragon, extremely rare and extremely dangerous. Just looking at them can cause those unfamiliar to suffer nausea and a lingering, almost nihilistic dread as the alien energies still suffusing the remains leak into the world. Thozna mediates with these pieces clenched in her hands and jaws, working to overcome the weakness of her current self by communing with the echoes of the now-dead beast.

The reliquary can be used as a focus for her magic and in doing so changes the nature of it from focusing on magnetism to decay. Scrapblast drains the soul from her foes, feeding off their strength to revitalize herself. However, this is an extremely risky maneuver as trying to harness the Dragon's remains can backfire. If she's not careful she'll end up being consumed from the inside out.

It is chained to her at all times.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:: For Ryt to find purpose before she achieves her own.

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

Three Likes:Stories, strong drink, those who are bold

Three Dislikes: Being bored, coffee, cowards

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: Her heart

Worst Fear: Dying peacefully

Favorite Color: Brown

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

Favorite Time of Day: Dawn and dusk, Gnolls are naturally crepuscular.

How They Dress: Practically

Favorite Season: Summer

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): Primarily Mus the Weaver and Tel the Hunter, the Ashvenkal Dragons as a whole

...And Her Stolen Son

Ryt-kiltu-Sheepshead

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Ryt's actual age is unknown, his best guess is somewhere between 12 and 14. He's a half-Orc, a somewhat rare and not always liked crossbreed. He's been traveling with the caravan with his 'mother' for the last two years.

Appearance:
Ryt's mother was an Orc but his father was a Halfing, and it shows. He's only four feet tall, barely weighing above sixty pounds soaking wet. He looks young for his age, much to his chagrin as he tries to grow up into a proper man.

History:
Ryt doesn't know his parents' names. He doesn't know where they lived, how they met one another, if they had any family or close friends nearby. He couldn't even tell you if has any surviving relatives. All the information he has is what Thozna gave him: they were merchants who threatened the local monopoly of some rich trader, and the trader had her take them out. His mother, father, and older sister all died within minutes of each other, and she adopted him. The sole survivor.

Wherever he was from originally, his home was Alstow. A quaint farming town, the vast majority of which was human. While there were some Halflings and the odd Dwarf here and there a Gnoll and her Orcish charge stood out. Ryt's earliest memories are of being the Other, not shunned by his peers but regarded with curiosity.

Despite his odd circumstances, Ryt did have a relatively normal childhood. His adoptive caretaker was employed as a ranch hand on one of the larger farmsteads and he helped her with her chores, namely feeding the chickens and mucking out the stalls. When Thozna allowed him to knock off from work early (which was often) he played with his peers, his strangeness not enough to exclude him from circles.

The interesting part of his upbringing was his education. Thozna, embarrassed by her lack of book smarts and wanting better for her charge, arranged for him to be educated by the white witch who lived on the outskirts of Alstow. Old Lady Moira, or Miss Moi as she preferred, was a druid and alchemist. She was the town's healer in addition to providing blessings for the crops, a well-liked if not quite understood figure.

Ryt learned mundane skills like reading and herbalism but was also given instruction in Miss Moi's brand of magic, a subtler, kinder art than that which Thozna practiced. Most of Ryt's lessons were based on working with the flow of magic as opposed to muscling it into doing what he wanted, gently coaxing it into closing small wounds or invigorating sickly animals.

He was a quick study, almost too quick. He was only eleven or twelve when he had learned all that Moi could teach him, the rest he would have to pick up from more experienced teachers and practice in the field. Thozna, already anxious to be on the move, packed up their things without a second thought.

Since joining the caravan Ryt has continued to work on nurturing his gift, supported by an approving Thozna. But as he gets older he chafes under her guardianship. Now a man by the old Gnoll's standards he can't help but feel bitter over his circumstances. Time will tell what, if anything he does about it.

Personality:
For a boy raised by a crusty old mercenary with few qualms or compunctions, Ryt turned out remarkably well. He's soft-spoken and polite as can be, greeting most people with a smile. He's mature for his age, level-headed and very careful to avoid confrontation.

He's actually too careful for Thozna's liking which is a point of contention simmering between them. She's never once apologized or even acknowledged wrongdoing in slaying Ryt's family, and he's grown to quietly resent her for it. Thozna knows he does, he knows she knows he does, but she refuses to give him what he wants without him demanding it of her. This attempt to make him man up has failed thus far, only serving to slowly poison their still-loving relationship.

All this to say, he clings to friends. Whether or not he can say it aloud Ryt desperately wants a family of his choosing, not one that's forced on him. Being snatched away from his peers in Alstow had a profound effect on him so any new friends he makes can expect to be doted on.

Motivation:
Purpose. He's still hanging around Scrapblast because, as complicated and unhealthy as their relationship is, she's the only constant in his life. Until he finds something else to devote himself to he'll just keep tagging along.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
He's a pretty good herbalist and a remarkably talented druid, for his age. While he can't get detailed information out of them he's able to communicate basic thoughts and feelings with animals, a useful trick since he's small enough to look like a snack to a wolf.

He's also extremely tricky to find when he doesn't want to be. His halfling blood has given him near-silent steps and an eye for hidey-holes while his orcish endurance means that he can probably outrun whoever's chasing him if stealth fails.

But being nimble and sneaky means little when you can be hoisted with little trouble. Ryt has all the strength of a particularly ornery kitten, just about capable of carrying small creatures that aren't struggling too much. He'd lose a wrestling match against any reasonably healthy child his age, and if it's an adult grabbing him he's done. Being in his early teens at the oldest also means that he lacks life experience, his worldview still fairly naïve.

Sometimes in situations of extreme stress, he can regress into the primal fury used by Orc berserkers, lashing out like a cornered animal. This can be a good or bad thing depending on the circumstances. Best case scenario the mugger or whoever is warded off by a flurry of scratches and bites. Worst case, they get angry and smash his head against the nearest wall.

Magic

The druid-in-training can't perform much in the way of big, showy spells yet, instead relying on more mundane but still useful magic tricks. With a little bit of focus he can restore life to failing crops or sick creatures, giving them some extra strength with which to fight on. Small cuts and gashes can be healed with a quiet song, and he knows how to produce a number of useful tinctures and tonics.

In dangerous situations he can instinctively call upon nature to defend him, although he has little control over the shape it takes. A cloud of flies might suddenly buzz out of nowhere to blind an attack, a shower of sparks might singe their hair or they might find the solid ground they walk on is now a quagmire.

And while he's not hurling around armored knights like Ol' Scrapblast he is really good at skipping rocks. Like, magically good. Sometimes he can bounce one ten times in a row. That counts for something, right?

Equipment

-Buford: Ryt's pet and almost-familiar, a very friendly and slightly stupid dog. Buford is still a bit too obstinate to be an assistant but his connection with Ryt does make the boy's magic a little more potent when he's around.
-Knife: Designed for pruning plants and sawing through small branches as opposed to fighting but Thozna makes him wear it on his belt anyway.
-Druid's Kit: Put together by Miss Moi as a parting gift. Contains a mortar, pestle, measuring spoons, vials for samples, seeds and various other bits and pieces.
-Money: Thozna gives him a little pocket change here and there.
-Trelawney: Thozna's giant horse-moose thing is too smart and stubborn to pull the cart so it falls on the smaller, stupider mule to do so. Sometimes carries Ryt in addition to a million other bits and pieces.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want: A family of some kind.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: Chaotic Good

Three Likes: Animals, fresh air, Thozna

Three Dislikes: Cruelty, bullies, Thozna (it's complicated)

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: Mind

Worst Fear: Depending on the day, Thozna being disappointed or proud of what direction he takes.

Favorite Color: Purple

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

Favorite Time of Day: Twilight

How They Dress: In simple, loose peasant's clothes

Favorite Season: Spring

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): A variety of nature spirits and Mus the Weaver
_{No, M., Jesus isn't an option}

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

didnt finish porting/editing characters from first iteration, just dumping what I got here so I don't lose it
EDIT: Should have all the character stuff done, if they're reaccepted I'll start the worldbuilding stuff!

A Semi-Retired Raider...

Thozna Scrapblast-of-Norplain

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Thozna is a Gnoll (or an Uplifted, as they refer to themselves), one of the hyenafolk that live in the plains, swamps, savannahs and deserts. While specific cultural practices vary from clan to clan they're a generally nomadic people, living a lifestyle of hunting, herding and raiding. Gnolls can be found in a variety of environments, their thick pelts and hardy constitutions making them well-suited for mercenary work. Indeed, it's not uncommon for a petty lord to hire a band of them for use as shock troops or terror squads.

They have a reputation for savagery and are even rumored to be demonic in origin, but these stories are not the full truth. Generally speaking Gnolls don't so much revel in violence for the sake of violence as they lack inherent respect for life. They respect people for their achievements and friends, family and pack members are considered highly important but an outsider's life is of no value on its own, and thus Gnolls have no problem snuffing it out if required. It's not too difficult for someone to be accepted by a Gnoll, however, as many of the Gnolls that roam outside their hunting grounds are working as soldiers, bandits, mercenaries, or bodyguards, and those in the packlands are living extremely communal lives. They're very much time players, they just don't care much about those outside the team.

While they can reach the age of 120 or even past that, in rare cases, they generally die far earlier to illness or violence. Scrapblast is fairly old for one still fighting, estimating herself to be somewhere past eighty. She had an earlier stint with the caravan of about four months, and her second tour has just passed the two-year mark.

Appearance:
Gnolls are much taller and much broader than humans are, and Scrapblast is no exception. She weighs in at a stocky four hundred-odd pounds of muscle and teeth, standing seven feet and eight inches tall while hunched over in the trademark Gnoll slouch. Her thick pelt is colored in a range of browns, the fur on her back having a reddish tint while that of her front lightens into a creamier shade.

While she has a range of scars across her body the vast majority of them are hidden by the tunics and capes she's taken a liking to, save for the wound running down her muzzle. The nasty gash left by a falchion strike tends to dry out and irritate her, so it's not uncommon to catch her running her long tongue up the channel.

Thozna tries to dress presentably by "civilized" standards on a day-to-day basis but feels she is under no compulsion to do so when she puts on her armor. Her war gear was designed to induce fear as much as it was to provide protection, almost deceptively crude. Harsh, rugged steel plates are layered over thick mail, her helmet hugging close to her skull while leaving her jaw free to bite people with.

History:
Thozna was born into the Norplain pack, a Gnollish tribe occupying, unsurprisingly, the Norplain region of the Ashvenkal. At that time the Norplainer gnolls had two main industries: the herding of livestock, mainly cattle and sheep, and raiding. Of course, there were other professions, such as healers to care for the sick or blacksmiths to produce tools, but by and large, they slaughtered animals and enemies. Thozna's mother was a noted warband leader while her father was somewhat infamous in the nearby settlements for his skill with a javelin, and thus her fate was decided.

Gnolls mature quickly compared to humans, becoming adults at around ten years of age. Even before then Thozna accompanied her parents in the field, scoring her first kill in a fight against a party of dog-like Ainok. Thozna likely would have gone on to an impressive but ultimately ordinary career as a warrior, save for one thing.

Gnolls believe that magic is the realm of Mus the Weaver, the mysterious many-eyed patron of seers, tacticians, and clothmakers who was the first hyena given sapience by the dragons of the Ashvenkal. Those marked by her lead auspicious lives and it's considered bad luck to not nurture her gift. Thozna first began to unconsciously levitate objects as a cub. starting with nails before moving knives and pots.

As she got older and gained more control over her magic she chose a personal name in the Gnollish tradition, Scrapblast. It reflected her preferred method of fighting: spraying the enemy with shards of jagged metal. With this power she set out to make a name for herself, battling against rival warbands and raiding the nearby Human and Ainok settlements.

As she got older Scrapblast got bigger, faster and more magically empowered. The months of experience turned into years and the years into decades, Thozna outliving her parents and many of her peers. While Gnolls are naturally long-lived the lifestyle tends to cull the pack, especially those who find themselves on the front. Scrapblast's band, formed when she was fifteen, had seen a complete turnover of members two times over by the time she was thirty.

She was an extremely talented soldier, one with enough stolen wealth to happily retire. But Scrapblast found herself growing bored. The Norplainers had gone through a series of small disasters during her third decade, droughts and outbreaks of disease and pyrrhic victories all adding up. As quickly as they reproduced the pack was still hemorrhaging manpower and those that survived were more cautious. Why throw their lives away when people needed them at home? Scrapblast couldn't blame them for this subtle shift in sensibilities but she couldn't stand by either.

As an accomplished raid leader, she had the right to gather a small band of friends, family and various connected men-at-arms. Scrapblast sewed together her banner and led them to seek their fortunes in service of others. The various headmen and warlords of the Asvenkal always had a need for hired blades and were none too picky about where they came from. Even those whose territory Scrapblast had pillaged in the past were happy to have her on their side.

But by that point in her career, she found those battles boring. Most of the time the band was deployed against disobedient peasants and bandit gangs, only occasionally called to fight against the armies of a rival lord or an outside force that dared to intrude on the Dragon-Sultans' lands. The pay was solid enough to keep her crew interested but Scrapblast was too old to be bought by baubles alone.

Her search for excitement led to her turning to the Dragons, the largely unknowable and inhuman entities whom the Gnolls descended from. It was possible for the Uplifted to ascend to Dragon status with enough strength of spirit and a healthy amount of luck, albiet almost unheard of. There were only twelve who had ever achieved the transformation, but Scrapblast already possessed some of the Dragons' power in the form of magic and was stubborn enough not to let the infinitesimal odds of success dissuade her. A chance find of an old corpse was all the encouragement she needed, Thozna took up the eldritch bones and scales and marched off to search for the ultimate enlightenment.

So she walked out of the Ashvenkal and into wider Alwyne. Scrapblast haggled with merchants in the bustling temple-cities of Velkinir, and searched for abandoned treasures in the ghost towns of the old Costal Elf homelands. One day she was part of a hunting party high in the Ironpeaks hunting for roc eggs, the next she was a guest of a giant who dwelled in a cavern of quartz. She sought to test her mettle so that it would become unbreakable, working to prove to herself that she deserved to join the Forebears in whatever unknown dimension they battled over. When she wasn't moving she was mediating, holding the scavenged pieces of drake-corpse against her as she tried meld her consciousness to the remnants of energy contained within.

This mercenary-monkhood was freeing but still, the passage of time needled at Scrapblast. She was about fifty when she decided to return to the Norplain, having spent so long away from home that she had almost forgotten what it looked like. Her homecoming was awkward, most of those she met having been born too late to know of her save for stories from their elders.

Moreover, in her absence, the pack had elected to settle down entirely. The series of setbacks that they had suffered decades before had put them in a precarious position, forcing them to cooperate more with the nearby settlements. At some point the group stopped traveling their circuit of hunting grounds to move into the outskirts of a trading post, given a place to raise their flocks in exchange for serving as an auxiliary defense.

Once more Scrapblast found herself alienated from her people with no one to blame but poor circumstances. Her half-hearted attempts to form a new warband failed, and she said her final goodbyes.

She planned to make her way to one of the other, more traditional Gnoll tribes and seek entrance on the strength of her storied career, but each time she encountered one, she couldn't bring herself to pop the question. She had left her pack, yes, but she was still too fond of it to renounce her allegiance. So Scrapblast went back to wandering, working as a mercenary at some times and a simple brigand at others. Any battle was an opportunity to improve her sword-arm or her mage's gift, a chance to shift herself closer to her competing goals: Become a dragon, or die trying. In her eyes it would have been a disservice to her legacy to die quietly in a bed somewhere, someone as experienced as she was deserved to die with axe in hand. Her quest continued through her sixties and into her seventies, coming to a pause in a twist of fate.

A cunning, underhanded merchant had passed a tip onto her as part of her payment for services rendered: a competitor of his would be traveling through a relatively empty part of the Sheepshead Isles, and with him he'd have a good stash of gold and some valuables. If Scrapblast were to hit said competitor she'd get his loot and the merchant would have one less problem to deal with.

So hit him she did. It was a simple matter to lay an ambush, his guards merely local toughs he had equipped for that leg of the journey. What complicated matters was the fact that the trader had been accompanied by his family. He and his wife were killed in the initial charge while his eldest child was cut down when she attempted to slash Scrapblast with a razor.

That left the youngest, a boy of not more than three years. While Gnolls don't take issue with the killing of outsiders they're not actively genocidal. Thozna's raids were nearly always smash-and-grab affairs, fatalities would occur but not enough to doom a bloodline or a village to extinction. Moreover, she missed having companions and respected the toddler's now slain family for their attempt at resistance. She adopted the boy as a show of thanks for their noble display and a way to cure her loneliness.

She named him Ryt-kiltu-Sheepshead (roughly translating to "Ryt, found in Sheepshead") and raised him as her own. Scrapblast never hid Ryt's origins from him and he didn't outwardly question her actions, although as he grew up she detected some unspoken angst. Raising a boy meant settling down again, the pair moving into a small farming community named Alstow.

Scrapblast found work as a rancher, having grown up with animals as a cub in the Norplain. The humans she lived among were understandably cautious of her but she proved her good nature the first time a bear strayed too close to the village. After that she was treated with some amount of respect and allowed to raise Ryt in peace. As soon as he was old enough she placed him under the tutelage of the old 'witch' who lived just outside of Alstow.

Another decade passed, Scrapblast finding herself on the wrong side of eighty and once again plagued by restlessness. In her eyes Ryt was an adult, a young man capable of surviving life on the road. There was no need for them to stay huddled up with pigs, not anymore. So they gathered their things and set out in search of his future and her glorious death, whatever forms they would take.

The Pilgrim's Caravan was a natural fit for them, Scrapblast had in fact traveled with it in the past. Rejoining was as simple as falling into line.

Personality:
Scrapblast is old in a profession and species that generally die young, so she likes to think that she has a handle on things. Age has tempered her aggression into something more akin to a dry, morbid sense of humor. While she isn't interested in bloodshed for its own sake she is hardly opposed to it either. She's honorable in the Gnoll sense of the word, where practicality is valued as much as bravery. There is a time and place for single combat, just as there is ambushes and sabotage.

Thozna misses the vivid storytelling of her people and thus is drawn to bards, griots, and poets of all types. This love of story extends to art in all its forms, a good painting or interesting sculpture being quick ways to grab her attention.

She has no time for cowards and, despite her being one herself, doesn't care much for mercenaries. In her eyes most sellswords are people who lack purpose, else they would be fighting for a lord or cause they believed in.

Also, she eats corpses. Gnolls are scavengers to the extreme; as far as Thozna is concerned, a dead person is basically the same as a dead pig. She isn't dumb enough to hunt two-legged game for the sake of it but if someone happens to cross her and she's left with a body? Snack time.

While she has the good grace to keep from just ripping into a freshly slain stranger while others are watching sometimes it's best not to question what sort of meat she's eating.

Motivation:
Boredom. Scrapblast has lived long enough to watch the rest of the Norplain Gnolls die or become sedentary, giving up pillaging for farming and laboring in the burgeoning human settlements nearby. While she can hardly blame her people for choosing a safer path she does find it dreadfully uninteresting. The Caravan represents an opportunity to keep moving until she finds her final battle, whatever form that takes. If she has to die then she is determined to die fighting, as is proper for a warrior of her stature and experience.

Power. While she knows that death through violence is her likely fate, she is not content to sit and wait for it to come to her. She will fight until she cannot fight, and in doing so seeks salvation in the Gnollish tradition: ascending to Dragonhood. Thozna has no way of knowing if she can ever reach this goal but being dissuaded by improbablity only guarantees that she doesn't deserve the honor, so she'll continue building up her physical and magical
prowess and studying the draconic artifacts she's managed to collect over the years.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Gnolls are as intelligent as any other sapient species, capable of building tools and making art. But physically and culturally they are still very much wild animals, capable of running down game and stripping hides from their flesh with claws alone. They're built to survive harsh environments and are quite content to trudge through blazing deserts or frozen tundras.

Her relatively long life has also given her plenty of time to develop skills suiting a professional ravager. Like pretty much every "wild" Gnoll out there she was trained to fight since birth, mastering the use of simple one-handed weapons like hammers, axes and knives. Where she differs from her spear-throwing peers is her training with heavy armor and shields. She can track prey and navigate by the stars, has enough first aid knowledge to keep herself from bleeding to death after a fight and has a keen eye for the value of items she comes across in her travels. In addition to the skills she's gained through practice, her age gives her a distinct physical advantage; as the older Gnolls get, the more their bodies harden. She's notably faster and stronger than the already impressive baseline of her species, able to outrun a horse in a short sprint and then hoist said horse and throw it.

This is something of a mixed blessing, at least among other Gnolls. The general cultural trend of looking for chances to prove one's strength makes elders like Thozna a tempting target for young up-and-comers looking to win duels or achieve fame in battle. Being considered one of the best means that while most Gnolls won't risk challenging her those that do are assuredly just as dangerous, if not more so.

While Scrapblast has a lifetime of experience in the field she's never spent a day in any classroom. She is, by the standards of the civilized world, entirely uneducated. While she can read the common tongue if given time and is capable of the basic arithmetic required for cash transactions don't expect her to chew through epic poems or perform complex calculations. While this wasn't a problem when she's roaming through arid plains and rundown city slums she does suffer a great deal when she has to admit her lack of schooling. She has yet to really understand the civilized world, and she doesn't really care to. She grew up robbing trespassers and forming raiding parties, spent her adult life seeking bigger and bigger bounties and is now expecting a bloody death so that her corpse can feed the carrion birds and other scavengers.

This unrepentant might make right mentality is reigned in for the most part when entering occupied territory but it can lead her to conflict with those who take offense. Similarly, Thozna is nearly entirely incapable of handling accusations of dishonesty, disloyalty, or cowardice. If someone were to call her any of the above her first instinct is to handle it the Gnoll way: knocking them over and stomping their face in. While she can temper this aggressive reaction doing so is never guaranteed.

Magic

Her real talent is the magical gift she's worked to nurture throughout her career. Her chosen name of "Scrapblast" reflects her chosen arcane art: the manipulation of magnetic fields. She naturally manipulates objects to her will, pulling them closer to her or launching them away. In combat she makes use of this by disarming opponents and using their own weapons against them, ripping swords out of the enemy's hands before plunging them into their necks.

While such magic isn't strictly limited to ferrous metals that sort of material is much easier to work with. She can lift a few hundred pounds of steel or pig iron without much difficulty and could conceivably lift up a couple tons of the same (provided it was all one solid object, and with great strain) but her capacity is limited with non-magnetic metals such as lead or copper. Scrapblast can even shift non-metal or even organic objects as all things have a magnetic field, but she can only move a tenth of what she could a ferrous metal.

Equipment

-Armor and Shield: She doesn't actually adorn herself with grisly trophies...usually.
-Weapons: Has her axe and a variety of knives for skinning people and animals alike. In addition to proper blades, she likes to carry a grab bag of metal shards and a pair of solid iron ingots to pelt the enemy with.
-Net: A blanket of steel rings that she can launch at someone to disable them, now more commonly used for mundane fishing.
-Bedding
-Mess Kit
-Money: A variety of coins, most of them looted or stolen.
-Moron: A riding moose, a magically-produced breed originating with the druids of the Tildretti forest. At twenty hands tall he's pretty much the only thing big enough for Scrapblast to ride and he's as smart as any donkey. The problem is that he's just as stubborn to boot, thus the name.

The Reliquary

Reliquary: A small box of lacquered wood, lined with lead and treated with magic so that it's stronger than steel. The container itself is purely functional, but the shards of bone and scale within carry personal and religious significance for Thozna. They're pieces of an Ashvenkal dragon, extremely rare and extremely dangerous. Just looking at them can cause those unfamiliar to suffer nausea and a lingering, almost nihilistic dread as the alien energies still suffusing the remains leak into the world. Thozna mediates with these pieces clenched in her hands and jaws, working to overcome the weakness of her current self by communing with the echoes of the now-dead beast.

The reliquary can be used as a focus for her magic and in doing so changes the nature of it from focusing on magnetism to decay. Scrapblast drains the soul from her foes, feeding off their strength to revitalize herself. However, this is an extremely risky maneuver as trying to harness the Dragon's remains can backfire. If she's not careful she'll end up being consumed from the inside out.

It is chained to her at all times.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:: For Ryt to find purpose before she achieves her own.

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

Three Likes:Stories, strong drink, those who are bold

Three Dislikes: Being bored, coffee, cowards

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: Her heart

Worst Fear: Dying peacefully

Favorite Color: Brown

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

Favorite Time of Day: Dawn and dusk, Gnolls are naturally crepuscular.

How They Dress: Practically

Favorite Season: Summer

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): Primarily Mus the Weaver and Tel the Hunter, the Ashvenkal Dragons as a whole

...And Her Stolen Son

Ryt-kiltu-Sheepshead

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Ryt's actual age is unknown, his best guess is somewhere between 12 and 14. He's a half-Orc, a somewhat rare and not always liked crossbreed. He's been traveling with the caravan with his 'mother' for the last two years.

Appearance:
Ryt's mother was an Orc but his father was a Halfing, and it shows. He's only four feet tall, barely weighing above sixty pounds soaking wet. He looks young for his age, much to his chagrin as he tries to grow up into a proper man.

History:
Ryt doesn't know his parents' names. He doesn't know where they lived, how they met one another, if they had any family or close friends nearby. He couldn't even tell you if has any surviving relatives. All the information he has is what Thozna gave him: they were merchants who threatened the local monopoly of some rich trader, and the trader had her take them out. His mother, father, and older sister all died within minutes of each other, and she adopted him. The sole survivor.

Wherever he was from originally, his home was Alstow. A quaint farming town, the vast majority of which was human. While there were some Halflings and the odd Dwarf here and there a Gnoll and her Orcish charge stood out. Ryt's earliest memories are of being the Other, not shunned by his peers but regarded with curiosity.

Despite his odd circumstances, Ryt did have a relatively normal childhood. His adoptive caretaker was employed as a ranch hand on one of the larger farmsteads and he helped her with her chores, namely feeding the chickens and mucking out the stalls. When Thozna allowed him to knock off from work early (which was often) he played with his peers, his strangeness not enough to exclude him from circles.

The interesting part of his upbringing was his education. Thozna, embarrassed by her lack of book smarts and wanting better for her charge, arranged for him to be educated by the white witch who lived on the outskirts of Alstow. Old Lady Moira, or Miss Moi as she preferred, was a druid and alchemist. She was the town's healer in addition to providing blessings for the crops, a well-liked if not quite understood figure.

Ryt learned mundane skills like reading and herbalism but was also given instruction in Miss Moi's brand of magic, a subtler, kinder art than that which Thozna practiced. Most of Ryt's lessons were based on working with the flow of magic as opposed to muscling it into doing what he wanted, gently coaxing it into closing small wounds or invigorating sickly animals.

He was a quick study, almost too quick. He was only eleven or twelve when he had learned all that Moi could teach him, the rest he would have to pick up from more experienced teachers and practice in the field. Thozna, already anxious to be on the move, packed up their things without a second thought.

Since joining the caravan Ryt has continued to work on nurturing his gift, supported by an approving Thozna. But as he gets older he chafes under her guardianship. Now a man by the old Gnoll's standards he can't help but feel bitter over his circumstances. Time will tell what, if anything he does about it.

Personality:
For a boy raised by a crusty old mercenary with few qualms or compunctions, Ryt turned out remarkably well. He's soft-spoken and polite as can be, greeting most people with a smile. He's mature for his age, level-headed and very careful to avoid confrontation.

He's actually too careful for Thozna's liking which is a point of contention simmering between them. She's never once apologized or even acknowledged wrongdoing in slaying Ryt's family, and he's grown to quietly resent her for it. Thozna knows he does, he knows she knows he does, but she refuses to give him what he wants without him demanding it of her. This attempt to make him man up has failed thus far, only serving to slowly poison their still-loving relationship.

All this to say, he clings to friends. Whether or not he can say it aloud Ryt desperately wants a family of his choosing, not one that's forced on him. Being snatched away from his peers in Alstow had a profound effect on him so any new friends he makes can expect to be doted on.

Motivation:
Purpose. He's still hanging around Scrapblast because, as complicated and unhealthy as their relationship is, she's the only constant in his life. Until he finds something else to devote himself to he'll just keep tagging along.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
He's a pretty good herbalist and a remarkably talented druid, for his age. While he can't get detailed information out of them he's able to communicate basic thoughts and feelings with animals, a useful trick since he's small enough to look like a snack to a wolf.

He's also extremely tricky to find when he doesn't want to be. His halfling blood has given him near-silent steps and an eye for hidey-holes while his orcish endurance means that he can probably outrun whoever's chasing him if stealth fails.

But being nimble and sneaky means little when you can be hoisted with little trouble. Ryt has all the strength of a particularly ornery kitten, just about capable of carrying small creatures that aren't struggling too much. He'd lose a wrestling match against any reasonably healthy child his age, and if it's an adult grabbing him he's done. Being in his early teens at the oldest also means that he lacks life experience, his worldview still fairly naïve.

Sometimes in situations of extreme stress, he can regress into the primal fury used by Orc berserkers, lashing out like a cornered animal. This can be a good or bad thing depending on the circumstances. Best case scenario the mugger or whoever is warded off by a flurry of scratches and bites. Worst case, they get angry and smash his head against the nearest wall.

Magic

The druid-in-training can't perform much in the way of big, showy spells yet, instead relying on more mundane but still useful magic tricks. With a little bit of focus he can restore life to failing crops or sick creatures, giving them some extra strength with which to fight on. Small cuts and gashes can be healed with a quiet song, and he knows how to produce a number of useful tinctures and tonics.

In dangerous situations he can instinctively call upon nature to defend him, although he has little control over the shape it takes. A cloud of flies might suddenly buzz out of nowhere to blind an attack, a shower of sparks might singe their hair or they might find the solid ground they walk on is now a quagmire.

And while he's not hurling around armored knights like Ol' Scrapblast he is really good at skipping rocks. Like, magically good. Sometimes he can bounce one ten times in a row. That counts for something, right?

Equipment

-Buford: Ryt's pet and almost-familiar, a very friendly and slightly stupid dog. Buford is still a bit too obstinate to be an assistant but his connection with Ryt does make the boy's magic a little more potent when he's around.
-Knife: Designed for pruning plants and sawing through small branches as opposed to fighting but Thozna makes him wear it on his belt anyway.
-Druid's Kit: Put together by Miss Moi as a parting gift. Contains a mortar, pestle, measuring spoons, vials for samples, seeds and various other bits and pieces.
-Money: Thozna gives him a little pocket change here and there.
-Trelawney: Thozna's giant horse-moose thing is too smart and stubborn to pull the cart so it falls on the smaller, stupider mule to do so. Sometimes carries Ryt in addition to a million other bits and pieces.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want: A family of some kind.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: Chaotic Good

Three Likes: Animals, fresh air, Thozna

Three Dislikes: Cruelty, bullies, Thozna (it's complicated)

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: Mind

Worst Fear: Depending on the day, Thozna being disappointed or proud of what direction he takes.

Favorite Color: Purple

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

Favorite Time of Day: Twilight

How They Dress: In simple, loose peasant's clothes

Favorite Season: Spring

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): A variety of nature spirits and Mus the Weaver
_{No, M., Jesus isn't an option}

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

Woah, Smike! Yeah, I remember you; we're still open and of course you're welcome to join us. I'm sorry I forgot to tag you- there were so many names.

@Smike

@Tortoise

No worries, just glad I happened to see this! If I recall, the duo I had were starting with the caravan, but should I change that now that I’m coming in later?

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

Snip

@Tortoise

I wasn’t tagged and didn’t see this but I was around for the last iteration, is this still open?

EDIT: if you’re not Tortoise but got an @ from this I’m so sorry, I had quoted the intro post and realized after that it might @ you all again <_<

Rise of Rasalhague

She was told to take point, so point was what she took. Fuka shifted the Dragon up ahead of the pack, its elephantine feet sending up clouds of irradiated rock dust with every lumbering stop. She didn't have the total oblivious required to lie about her lack of elegance in piloting, and she was far too prideful to let anyone know how much it bothered her. Still, it warranted more time in the simulators when she was back onboard the Ankhanne.

The samurai kept an eye on the scout signatures pinged to her neurohelmet, hoping that they would prove to be suicidally overconfident and try and tangle with the lance. Her score was bleak at the moment, and a few easy snipes would really raise her mood. But alas, no such luck. Instead she had to focus on ramming her cockpit into the ground. Every step had to be deliberate, careful to avoid the more awkwardly protruding rocks lest they-

An explosion blasted apart the mechbay's doors, Fuka turning her guns on the source too slowly to stop a shell from ripping through the Dragon, the entire mech shuddering and staggering as Fuka fought to keep her balance with the new hole punched through her leg.

"HIT! Right leg is fucked!"

The culprit was a Hunchback, its hilariously overkill mega cannon a lot less funny when she was on the receiving end. She had been caught off-guard by the assault and found herself trying to lean on the leg now partially splattered across the irradiated snow. The neurohelm helpfully relayed the Dragon's precarious position by absolutely donkey-punching her inner ear, Fuka fighting the sensation of seasickness while just barely managing to keep from going prone.

All the while, VTOLs came screaming over the horizon while little jump-jet fuckers dropped in from the heavens, each one the potential source of an anti-armor charge. It was a hell of a lot to manage on one's first job and a hell of a lot for supposed pirates to have on hand.

All in all, her first time being on the receiving end of an ambush sucked. But unlike a certain FedSun Failure, she was determined to come out of it victorious...or at least manage to blow her brains out before they could manage to toss her into a cell.

The Slave in question was flooding the comms with garbage, Fuka handily ignoring him as she fired all but one of her weapons wildly. But when you were as good a shot as she was, spray and pray got results. Her own autocannon, much smaller and more impotent than the one strapped to the Hunchback (damn, did she want to salvage that Hunchback!), was nonetheless accurate, a shell crashing into the enemy mech's right leg. Her medium laser followed Ulrik's, Fuka helping to melt through all that armor.

The Rippers were a secondary issue but an issue nonetheless, and as expected Alvin wasn't capable of dealing with problems he couldn't grovel his way out of. Fuka picked up his slack with a missile barrage, her LRM spitting a stream of high explosives at the pack of transports. Three managed to evade the attack, but the fourth suffered a direct hit, the missile blasting open the back half. What remained of the transport dropped like a rock, careening towards the ground while Fuka deftly flicked her comms to HER-4K's private channel.

"That's how it's done, housepet!" she barked, lameleggedly dragging herself back behind the Centurion for cover.

Rise of Rasalhague

Either Fuka was off her game or her comrades were simply faster than her, and she hadn't yet decided which was preferable for her pride. She had managed to knock the arm off one of the little flyweight bastards but had yet to actually splatter a cockpit, and what fun was piecemealing a mech if you didn't get the kill? Disabling the enemy was necessary but not as enjoyable as getting the final tap, the veggies before the proverbial desert.

Fuka grumbled to herself in consternation, fingers tapping against the joystick as Sulser crowed about his achievement. She had been hoping for more from her first foray into piloting for hire, and her flighty nature made it hard to remember that she existed more for drawing attention than for snagging kills.

"He just said to regroup," Fuka stated simply, shuffling the Dragon towards their commanding officer. "So probably do that."

So far everyone was still alive, but there had been a few good knocks. Unfortunately, those hit included herself and Jaromir, two of the more experienced pilots, as opposed to someone less valuable like Alvin or the babbling rookie. Hopefully, the local yokels didn't have too much more in the tank, or were willing to be less discerning in their target selection.

"Let me pull up front once we get going. The Dragon can get battered a bit more before I have to worry."

Rise of Rasalhague

She had paused her assault only to communicate with the lance leader, allowing the crew of the crippled Goblin a few extra seconds of panic before she unloaded the rest of her ire into them. A short burst from the autocannon hammered the tank's hull, blasting open the armor and obliterating the poor bastards inside as the ammunition cooked off.

The resulting corona of flame and fuel spray made Fuka snicker, just another firework among the glorious display. The little vehicles were nothing but a distraction, fun to play with but unremarkable save for their age. The real challenge would be the rival mechs! Fuka craved the rush that came with testing herself against her fellow pilots, and she knew she would get her chance when Ulrik ate a series of missiles.

"Finally!" she crowed in answer to Dash, throwing up dust as she stomped the valley floor. "Let's shred the bastards."

He was actually a step ahead of her, already facing off against one of the little Locusts as Fuka scrambled to reposition. The blasts of laser fire were blinding and beautiful in equal measure, but they were off-target. A poor start, but now wasn't the time to be giving critiques.

She would show by doing.

The autocannon swung up as the samurai locked in on the 1V, Fuka leading her target before squeezing the trigger. There was the satisfying ker-chunk of the autoloader and the jolt of a shell being launched, the autocannon shot splashing squarely against the 1V's right arm. Immediately she followed up with a beam from her medium laser, the bolt of blue slicing through the now weakened plating and into the sensitive equipment hidden underneath.

The Locust wasn't built to stand up to that sort of punishment, and as it stumbled to try and escape the crossfire its arm was simply sheared open, the machine gun hanging limply from the rest of the frame. Fuka had drawn its attention from her lightly armored comrade, and in doing so she had almost certainly left herself open for return fire, but no matter.

It was her job to look big and mean and shootable, if the enemy was targeting her then that meant things were going well.

Something was glowing off in the distance, a brief glance at the scanners telling her that the Firestarter was embroiled in a struggle of its own.

"Alvin, help the pyro out!"

Dice Results

A/C 5=Hit for 5 damage against LCT-1V Right Arm
Medium Laser=Hit for 5 damage against LCT-1V Right Arm (Destroyed)

STAR WARS: OUTCAST SQUADRON

Im interested, have a mando character I wouldn't mind reworking, but I'll have to see if my schedule clears up. Will know by tomorrow!

Rise of Rasalhague

Fuka had rebelled against her family and her homeland, rejected their patriotic dogma in favor of pure militarism. They spoke of honor and courage and loyalty, trying to hide a lust for power behind sentimentality. They would never refer to it as such of course, such a soft word did not suit the mighty Combine, but that's exactly what it was.

Sentimentality. Clinging to a way of life that was ancient before the DC even existed. Fuka found it quaintly amusing now that she was removed from it, but it had been enraging when it had controlled her life.

And yet, despite her drastic efforts to escape the Combine's clutches, she found herself succumbing to that same sin: sentimentality. She hadn't just enjoyed herself on the battlefield, she had identified herself by it. She was a pilot damn it, and a pilot without a war to fight was a whetstone without a knife. She craved purpose, a flight to fight for, and paychecks to covet!

Strapping into the Dragon was like coming home, the samurai beaming brightly as she drummed her fingers against the controls. The weapons were hot and the armor was solid, the bossman's warning coming in through the comms. Fuka refrained from replying, simply clinging to her support straps as the lander clattered to a stop.

An uphill charge straight into enemy fire wasn't exactly an easy task, but it was probably the one she was best suited for. Fuka had many flaws but a lack of self-awareness wasn't one of them. The fancy flanking maneuvers and tactical scouting were best left to more nimble folks, her lead foot would stay right in the thick of it.

The valley was beautiful in its cold hostility, and had she been given more time Fuka would have gladly sat down to take in the view. But instead of a sightseeing tour, she got an ambush, a wave of antiquated war machines opening up on her little lance.

"Moving!"

A manic glee had entered her voice at the show of violence, her Dragon lumbering forward at speed. As long as she kept in a straight line she could just about manage to move without falling on her ass, but it didn't leave her a lot of room for error. As she charged up towards the front one of the bastard Goblins sighted in, a burst of gamma rays shearing off some of her armor in a spray of slag.

Shit.

It wasn't a critical blow, the Right Torse was still relatively intact, but she wanted to keep the stress testing to a minimum. The tank responsible was reduced to scrap before she could turn her guns on it, Fuka making a note to thank Jaromir as she looked for a convenient object of ire.

An Edgar presented itself at an inopportune moment, Fuka raising her autocannon and aiming for its cockpit. At that range she barely needed the targeting system, cold eyes were more than enough to measure her shot. A squeeze of the trigger sent a shell straight through the viewport, all that "reinforced" glass doing nothing to stop the round from ripping it apart.

Then it was on the next. The Dragon turned to get a better angle at one of those nasty little Goblins, Fuka's second shot smashing through the treads. Good hit, no kill.

"Tell me if we're pushing up boss, I'm doing alright."

Orbis: The Liberation of Gyrland

That was the most nerve-racking part, the waiting. Sitting there in the dark listening to the crackle of comms, safe for the moment but keenly aware that you were balancing on the edge of disaster. One accidental sound, an unfortunate gust of wind to blow away the fog, the merest hint of paranoia in the enemy, any number of minor mishaps could flip the ambush on the poor idiots setting it. And as one of those poor idiots, Rimau was understandably concerned.

She drummed her fingers against the rickety armrest of her frame, beating out a silent rhythm as her team chimed in one by one. The golden child's AI friend tagged all known hostiles and Rimau whistled in approval, the markers a welcome addition to the signatures her own systems had picked up.

There was a dull thud of metal feet against sand, the sound of surf being displaced by some monstrous charging figure as the Ogre moved forward. The twins shifted into action against the bunker, and the telltale thump of a missile tube gave way to the horrendous sound of impact.

Rimau had no time to stare at the twin's handiwork, fingers already blurring across her jury-rigged setup. The hiss of smoke canisters comforted her as she surrounded herself with chaff, the Dustcloud suite activating in time with the shoulder of her weapon. At this distance she could stick with the HBR, sighting it on a Widowmaker attempting to acquire a target.

Two slugs punched straight through the tank's hull, a gout of flame spurting from the jagged gash as ammo and fuel cooked off. Rimau switched targets immediately, dropping her Frame to a kneel as she eyed a Lancer attempting to close the gap between it and Cardinal One. Another burst slammed forth, the shell blasting the chassis open before the pilot even knew it had been seen.

Anyone who happened to turn their attention towards the Chop Shop would see nothing except an inky fog rolling across the waves, a walking cloud moving at a steady pace towards the Ruzi defenses. The Dustcloud's constant activity ensure that Rimau was forever concealed, her Frame hidden from all. There was simply no way the enemy could get a lock on her, forcing the enemy to fire blindly at the roiling mass.

Another Widowmaker fired and hit nothing, a snapshot in return its legs out from under it as Rimau switched on her comms.

"Cardinals I'm moving up on you,I'll take the Widows if you can snag the Lancers."