Tortoise

Interest Check for Superhero Setting

I am tentatively interested.

Just count me as Schrodinger's RolePlayer for now; both in the RP and out of it until the OOC starts.

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

@Tortoise

Sorry to hear that man, and don't pressure yourself to write on our behalf. The silly little people who live in your computer aren't worth serious real-life impact. Stay safe!

@Irredeemable

Nah, I don't think it was any kind of stress from GMing that caused the episode, so no worries there.

<Snipped quote>

Lucalrith Endrose

_{♦ Lucalrith Endrose ♦ Luca ♦ Dark Elf / Sphel'ilf ♦
♦ Thirty-Five ♦ One Year Tenure ♦}

Race: The Dark Elves

The Sphel'ilfre

---

The term Sphel’ilfre (sfell-ilf-ray) translates to “chasm people” in Sphelse, and when introducing themselves to outsiders, the people of the chasm only refer to themselves as elves, but the term dark elf or dust elf has become popular in the wider world of Alwyne.

The Dark Elves are smaller than their cousins and live shorter, fraught lives, but they mature quickly (physical, social maturity and legal emancipation by thirty years of age; by fifty, the right to own property and hold council is granted) and because of the nature of Asphodel, possess heartier constitutions. They have deep complexions with desaturated tones, grow black, grey, or white hair, and have black eyes with sclera in shades of grey. Their features are delicate and sharp. Their ears are wider than most elves’ and prehensile, and they have frighteningly acute hearing; little light reaches the bottom of the deepest canyons in the world, so they have developed echolocation, and understand their world through sound before sight. It follows that their eyesight, in daylight, is poor. Most find direct light painful.

_source

In character, they are quiet, thoughtful, loyal, proud, aloof, and severe. They value silence and subtlety - in Sphelse, the concepts of evil, brightness, and harshness all share the same word. In conversation, they consider it cruel to pry for more information than is offered, tactless to provide more information than is asked for, and raising one’s voice above a certain octave in public is a punishable offense in some cities. Moral behavior is dictated by respect for those in one’s immediate area, and defense of one’s clan at any cost.

There are no rulers or representatives among the Sphel’ilfre. Instead, the rules of the hearth are the law of the land; each family is given complete sovereignty over their own home and the right to act as executioner should the need arise, and the law of public spaces is decided by a council of the families that share it. Other issues that pertain to more than one family may also be addressed by council.

Sphelse, the language, has two modes. The common, daily mode is known as Sphelse-soto or simply Sphelse, a whispered tongue that avoids using the diaphragm. The second, Sphelse-teno or Keen-speak, is a singing language that can carry for miles through the canyons and caves of Asphodel, and is used to communicate information between scouting parties or in emergencies, such a cave-in. Keen-tunneling is the process of psionically manipulating the larvae of the scaybeetle, a giant species of cicada, into creating small, smooth tunnels between settlements. These tunnels are keened down, allowing travelers to keep in touch with their families and news to spread between Sphelse cities quickly.

Finally, the Dark Elves worship only one unique deity - Wheye, the avatar of Entropy and Decay, is said to take the form of a dark elven woman with the wings of a moth, whose wispy hair sheds stardust and whose manifold robes fall to tatters with every step.

Locations: Asphodel and the Sphelse Cities

Asphodel

---

Nestled in the valley between the Obsidian and Edithic mountain ranges, Asphodel is a small, subarctic wasteland, and among the harshest climes in the known world - it seems more like the surface of an extraplanetary realm than anything natural to Alwyne.

_source

Dunes of white, powdery sediment provide some barrier between the unseasoned traveler and the sheets of volcanic glass that coat the topography of Asphodel, but the region is known for its dust storms; wind exposes and erodes at these obsidian deposits and creates twisters of glass shards, so small as to be invisible to the naked eye, that flay skin like blades. Heavy, dark mists blanket Asphodel, toxic enough to kill a grown human over the course of several days if the right precautions are not taken.

Rainfall in this region is highly acidic, and the pools that cluster in the western basin of the wasteland are lethal, but so exquisitely clear and beautiful in color that many have attempted to brave the forsaken land to witness them. This pilgrimage destination is known as the Pillars of Wheye, named for the spires of gypsum and selenite that fence the pools.

_source

Asphodel was not always a barren desert. 40,000 years ago, it was a flourishing steppeland, boasting herds of massive beasts, clans of centaur, and a seasonal flowering that painted the valley in majestic reds and purples. Sphelse legend claims that the basin is the site of an ancient ritual, cast by a collective of elven mages attempting to bring the divine realms to ground for some long-forgotten purpose - whether the alien, inhospitable environment we have today is their success or their failure depends on who you ask.

Regardless of its origin, Asphodel has been incapable of supporting life above ground for some time. In the canyons and caves that form a natural march between the desert and the mountain ranges, however, animals and people alike eke out a living.

↭

The famous bridgelike cities of the Dark Elves, built into the canyons of Asphodel, are structured like so:

To shelter the inhabitants of Sphelse cities from the dangerous weather above, tarps made of fungal leather are stretched across the top of the city’s gulch in layers, with a mesh of soil and mycelium padding between each tarp. Then, various plants and fungi are planted in the underside of the tarps and the walls of the canyon; a bridge is built below, with conjured sources of daylight to nourish the hanging gardens. These Gardens are the foundations of every Sphelse city. They filter both the poisonous air of the surface and the pollution from the below, they provide fresh produce and a healthy habitat for game, and their acidic soils grow rare ingredients used for vital, necessary trade with foreign nations.

Beneath the Gardens lies the Dwelling, where the poor and middle class carve apartments into the walls of the canyon and develop commercial districts on the bridges between. Beneath the Dwelling is the Elysian, the ‘waterfront’ property near the bottom of the ravine and where the palaces of the wealthiest families can be found. Finally, there is the Riverine, built on the banks of the canyon’s river if it has one. If it is one of the five cities that share a river deep enough to support schooners, docks can be found in the Riverine, but mining, fishing, and keen-tunneling can also be found at this level.

The eight Shelse cities are; Acharest, Abiis, Dirgest, Phens, Phassil, Sorics, Ulervest, Viis. Of these, Abiis is the largest - in fact, there is no Riverain district in Abiis, and its canyon is so deep that there is no documented bottom.

Appearance

---

[5’5”, 104 lbs, grey hair, black eyes] Luca is a short, thin, tired-looking young man. He has an ebony complexion and choppy, damaged hair that should be charcoal grey, but is more often muddled with ash and dust - his features are sharp like all dark elves, with some suggesting a distant mixed heritage, but it's difficult to tell - wide, bruised eyes, a slightly broken nose, prominent cheekbones, a short chin, a brittle smile.

In clothing, he prefers loose, sheer material with bright colors and patterns, precious clasps and buttons, embroidery, and other such embellishments. To put it simply - plain designs with heavy decoration. He often wears a wool poncho, clasped at the shoulder with a symbol of Wheye, and alternates between several earrings; plain copper hoops, a lapis teardrop, lyrebird feathers, and a carnelian stud. When he’s not wearing his blackened goggles, he’ll blindfold himself with gauze to avoid damaging his eyes during the day.

His mannerisms are boneless, but careful. His pace is measured, and he stops often to take account of his surroundings. His clothing and hair smell of cigarettes, spice, and clay. He’s soft-spoken, and his voice is easily his best feature, slow and silvery with a slight smoker’s rasp.

Timeline

---

The name Endrose can be found in any chronicle of medicinal and alchemical history; the members of this clan guard the secret behind synthesizing Cassandra, a hallucinogenic, paralytic drug said to imbue the user with powerful precognitive abilities (among other innovations, such as the cure to wasting disease). Centuries ago, they enjoyed wealth and power for their contributions, but time and misfortune set them on a steady decline. By the time Luca was born, it was to a clan that numbered less than a dozen.

♦ TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO ♦

Luca’s mother brings them from Phens to the city of Leviathan, a melting pot of humans, dark elves, dwarves, and goblins and the closest port to Asphodel - meaning that all of the rare ingredients produced in Asphodel and nowhere else must be funneled through Leviathan before they are distributed to the rest of Alwyne. Drawing on her contacts in Dirgest and Abiis, she sets up an apothecary, vending illicit material under the table. It’s wildly successful, but it’s stepping on the toes of another prominent family in Leviathan.

♦ TWENTY-THREE YEARS AGO ♦

The Vedics, a clan of dark elves who control a large criminal syndicate in Leviathan, manufacture the death of the apothecary Avamava Endrose, orphan a twelve-year-old Luca, and resume their monopoly over the exportation of regulated produce from Asphodel. Luca’s inheritance is seized by the council that convenes over such matters in Leviathan and it is decided that the assets will be released to him on his fiftieth birthday, or sold to the highest bidder should he perish before then. Luca is placed in a small temple of Wheye.

Within a week of his stay in the temple, he was thanking his mother for the lessons in testing food before eating it; eight of the fourteen bowls of porridge he’d been allowed had been poisoned. Realizing that if he wished to survive the Vedics’ ambitions towards his inheritance, he’d need to stay out of the public eye, Luca leaves the temple. The next decade of his life is spent eking out a living in the underground of Leviathan, doing everything and anything it took to survive.

♦ TEN YEARS AGO ♦

Luca no longer needs to pickpocket, burgle, scam, or worse to make ends meet. He’s squirreled away enough stock and befriended enough proxies to make and sell his own Cassandra, which allows him to eat well, dress well, and most importantly, support the opium addiction he’s developed in recent years. The future seems promising, and Luca begins to build the connections he’ll need to keep himself safe when the time comes to claim his property.

♦ THREE YEARS AGO ♦

Luca makes the mistake of trusting a woman named Edilthshi, charmed by her biting tongue. He allows her into his home one night, and wakes a day and a half later in an unfamiliar wine cellar, mind-addled by a number of poisons, just cognizant enough to suffer severe withdrawal. He makes up for the time he’d spent sleeping in the days the Vedics keep him awake, trying to pry the secret of Cassandra from him through various tortures. It’s like trying to draw blood from a stone, but not because of an iron will on Luca’s part - had he been remotely coherent, he would have told them the truth a hundred times over. He would have murdered his own kin to stop the things they did to him.

He suffers three days of abuse before the magebane they’d been dosing him on lapses enough for him to drain the health from a sleeping guard and cast phase. He abandons the life he’s built for himself and leaves Leviathan.

♦ ONE YEAR AGO ♦

Luca chances upon the Pilgrim’s Caravan outside of a small orchard village. The caravan is convenient for his purposes. He signs on under the guise of an apothecary, but many caravanners are familiar with what he actually supplies, and he draws as much business from within the caravan as he does in the locations they visit.

Personality

---

His manner is vague and aloof, and you would think there was nobody shyer. Luca’s the quiet sort. He withholds information until he sees a clear benefit in revealing it, but he’s keen to watch others and compile observations. He’s reluctant in conversation and distrustful of most people, despite the fact that he’s desperately lonely. His poker face is excellent, but his nerve is lacking, and the only reason he’s so rarely been accused of cowardice is because he’s adept at covering his tracks when he decides to make like a coward and hide. He’s self-serving and callous, but non-violent by nature. He’s short on scruples, well aware of the fact that scruples can’t be eaten or otherwise imbibed, and he’s yet to find an ethical boundary he’s unwilling to cross; he calls this pragmatism, but his hedonistic quirks and addictive personality speak a different truth.

♦ [DESIRES] ♦

With an eye for the artistic, Luca covets all things beautiful. When he was small, this manifested as a tendency to hoard the textiles, jewelry, and sculptures he liberated from less appreciative audiences wherever he found the space, but necessity has made him sell or abandon his collections. The only comfort he’s found outside of inebriation is in his material possessions, and he wishes to live the tasteful life of a noble - to have clean, healthy hair, to wear tailored and flattering clothing, to sleep on silk and eat fresh fruit. It’s not about the luxury, really, it’s about the look. He already knows that there’s no earthly pleasure that can compare to a calm ocean under the stars, viewed through the lens of blue lotus - often, his desire to be blind on opiates and to look nice compete directly with one another.

♦ [FEARS] ♦

Physical pain and attachment. He’s had many experiences he wishes he could part with, experiences that have prompted his drug abuse to forget, but nothing has stuck with him like Vedic’s hospitality. Beyond that, he favors objects over people because dropping an earring doesn’t cut as deeply as losing a loved one.

♦ [MOTIVATION] ♦

He tells himself that he’s biding his time, waiting until he’s old enough to claim his property and powerful enough to protect it, and that when he’s the head of his own mercantile empire, the Vedics will get their due. The caravan presents a moving target while he’s building this future. Deep down, he knows he’s stalling; the more distance he puts between himself and Leviathan, the easier it is to forget his past, and lose himself in the pleasures of the present.

Skills

---

I. Spellcasting - Before her untimely death, Avam passed many of her skills down to her son, including her talent with transmutation.

II. Apothecary - Luca is an alchemist, but one of a very specific variety. While he’s familiar with the recipes for the tonics and aromatics one might find in the home of any village healer, his real talent is in distilling ingredients down to their component parts in the pursuit of the pleasurable effects they have on the body.

III. Stealth & Agility - Luca spent his childhood hunted. One won’t find him when he doesn’t wish to be found. He’s able to hold his breath and still his movements for up to a minute and moves comfortably across rooftops.

IV. Appraisal - His passion for art has led to a keen eye and a familiarity with the worth of various goods. He’s played the part of appraiser and pawnbroker many times before.

V. Scrimshaw - A hobby he picked up in his twenties. He’s not the most adept at it, but it keeps his hands occupied.

♦ [STRENGTHS / WEAKNESSES] ♦

Strength / Sphelse - Luca is more resistant to gaseous toxins than other variants of elves - while this is mildly annoying to his purposes, it’s still a boon he wouldn’t give up. He interprets the world through echolocation as much as he does through sight, and can see clearly in complete darkness, as well as detect the shape of objects through obstacles that block his vision. This sensitivity to sound has made his movements almost undetectable.

Strength / Observation - Always cautious, he watches and listens to the people around him and takes good notes. He can guess a number of things about a person just by the way they look, speak, and act, and the ability to remember others’ schedules serves him well when stealth is required.

Strength / Mercantile - He’s had two decades to get over his inborn shyness when it comes to haggling, and his familiarity with the worth of artisanal and illicit goods makes him a formidable opponent in the game of bartering.

Weakness / Sphelse - Though he’s long grown accustomed to the abrasive speaking voices of other races, sudden loud noises and shouts are still painful and disorienting. There’s no growing accustomed to the daylight, however. Exposure to direct light can blind him for up to two hours. With their small size and weakened lifespans, the dark elves are fragile; what bruises another might break Luca’s bones.

Weakness / Combat - He’ll remember a spell or two when cornered and can throw a punch, but Luca’s no warrior. He’d much rather run and hide than stand and fight.

Weakness / Addictions - He’s sampled a wide array of vices, but Luca’s addicted to opium and tobacco. He chain smokes around the clock, but is more conspicuous about his opium use - most who’ve been in close quarters with him will report that he’s quieter than usual towards the end of the day, and mean as a viper if he’s forced to speak. After two days without a fix, his hands tremble and what had been nausea progresses to intense vertigo. He’s incapacitated with pain by day three.

♦ [SPELLBOOK] ♦

Phase - the caster takes on an ethereal aspect for three minutes. During this time, they are rendered transparent and non-corporeal, may pass through solid objects, and are able to move on a vertical as well as horizontal axis, but may not manipulate solid matter that was not on their person before the spell was cast. Luca is able to cast this once every five days.

Telekinesis - the caster gains the ability to manipulate objects without physically touching them. Luca is able to cast this once a day, and it may affect up to four objects weighing a total of 100 lbs. within fifteen feet of his person.

Levitate - the caster is able to move on a vertical axis at halved speed for two minutes. The spell may fail if more weight is added to the caster. Luca is able to cast this twice a day.

Distort - The target of the spell is blurred to the senses for ten minutes, and thinking creatures are compelled to ignore it. This illusion spell may be cast on the self or targeted, and requires the sacrifice of a tiger’s eye gemstone.

Drain - A curse that saps the vitality from the target and feeds it to the caster. Luca is able to cast this three times a day.

Tidbits

Miscellaneous

---

♦ Alignment - Neutral / Neutral Evil
♦ Goddess - Wheye. Theoretically.
♦ Heart or Mind - Mind
♦ Color - Turquoise
♦ Animal - Magpie
♦ Time of Day - Between 3 and 6
♦ Season - Summer
♦ Song - No Eyes by Baths

@kellascat

To be reviewed in more depth later, but a first glance-over has this looking really solid.

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

Appreciate it, guys <3

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

RP is still coming. Planned launch date is now tomorrow.

I had... some kind of seizure, or panic attack, or something yesterday. I don't know exactly what it was. I lost control of my body completely, couldn't stand or hold anything, just thrashing around on the floor. It's not the first time. I don't know if it will impact my ability to write, so my priority is now getting the first post up and kicking things off for y'all.

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

Hey guys, still planning to kick off the RP tonight, but it's taking longer than I wanted, partially because I'm still wrapping up my own sheet. It's not very large or glamorous or anything. I've just been a lil under the weather, physically and mentally, this week, so stuff is running slower than I expected.

I am pretty proud of the hider I just finished for my dude's form of magic, tho.

Magic: Utterance

Utterance has been described as a kind of cross-breed between druidism and elemental magic. It is a form of language, allowing one to speak (literally, with their voices) to the non-living aspects of nature, like stone, or sunlight. The obvious use for such a power would be to control natural elements; to tell a fire to cook or to burn down, to teach ice to freeze itself around a threat, to call on rain for the crops. It can do those things, though not so quickly or effectively as a true wizard often can.

Instead, the main reason the Uttering Monks study it is for learning from nature. Nature, after all, witnesses and knows many things mankind does not. One who speaks to the stars may learn from them the correct paths to travel, may hear of ancient history those stars' eyes have seen, may be told of great and secret things that happen in the heavens. Those who whisper to the wind may hear it whisper back, telling them of news from far-off lands, of secrets said in a king's chambers while the window was open and the night breeze whistling by. They cannot control the elements with the same precision as a mage, maybe, but a Sayer (that is, one who practices Utterance) knows far more.

And this learning goes deeper than head-knowledge, too. Finally, a Sayer has an Aura. Their Aura is based on the elements of nature they most often speak too, because as you commune with something such as fire, you will find that burning power seeping into your own soul. The Aura a Sayer has is felt almost tangibly around them, and heard in their voice, giving most of them a kind of unnatural charisma. One who speaks to stone seems strong and unbreakable, one who speaks to ice becomes coldly intellectual. All of them feel impossible to argue with. A good Sayer tends to get their way in conversations. Their voices carry a lot of weight.

As a last note: Utterance isn't one language, it's many. Each part of nature speaks its own tongue, after its own form. All these things have a secret language; twilight, shadows, thunder, time. But these tongues are not like the languages of men, that anyone can learn them if they just study enough. They are stranger.

Take the language of the stars, for one example: to hear it spoken feels like fire, like a burning light, full of wisdom and cold fury. It feels like you're hearing something from another world, something straight from the cold void of space. It is so much more than just sounds. So when someone speaks it, they do indeed form actual words with their tongue, but there's something deeper happening that everyone who hears it can sense.

That's no accident. Before one can speak the language of, say, water, they must spend months or years in silent and intense meditation, learning to think like water. The same goes for any other natural language. Someone who wishes to speak to the wind must think as quick and surely as the wind. And during this time, the student must take a vow of total silence; they cannot speak a word in any language, even an ordinary one. This can take much focus. Only after a long time has passed is the student ready for a proper Sayer-Teacher to be brought in, who will finally show them the real words and syntax of the language that they wished to learn. After that, their vow of silence can be broken, and it becomes like learning any mortal language.

Each natural language is different, so this process has to be repeated for every Utterance one learns. You may already know how to speak to lightning, but if you want to speak to thunder, you still have to go back and start your meditations from scratch. So only the very old or very dedicated can know more than a few Utterance languages.

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

@Crusader Lord

Knossos is approved!! You're a born worldbuilder, as always. I like him.

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

<Snipped quote by Crusader Lord>

@Tortoise

Unless you already noticed I mean, or like, ah....sorry. (T_T)

@Crusader Lord

Of course I've already seen it, worry not. I just know you lean towards longer sheets, so I figured I'd kill some smaller projects before getting your sheet. Is coming.

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

OK, I'm done with my beastkin.

Free-Spirited Fanged Fighter

"You wanna tell me your story? Go ahead, but I don't give a shit. If you wanna my respect, put'em up and fight! That's how I work."

---

Basic Information

Name: Korzan
Alias: The Fanged Fighter
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Race: Beastkin (Werewolf)
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Time in the Caravan: 9 months, after being defeated by the Caravan.

---

Appearance and Fashion

Appearance: Korzan is a 1.82m (5'11) tall werewolf. He is very muscular and has pride in being that way, doing exercises day after day in order to grow more "ripped", as he himself says. His fur is grayish-blue and white, and his eyes are sky blue. His hands are humanoid and don't grow into claws, but his feet are wolf-like and his claws are sharp.

Dressing Style: As someone who doesn't care about fashion, Korzan's style is very simplistic. He wears a belt around his torso and some bandages on his arms, as well as baggy pants, with the only thing preventing them from falling being the belt that he also doesn't close. The pants also have a hole in the butt for his tail, and the hole wasn't prepared beforehand but ripped by Korzan. The only armor he actually wears is a pair of leg guards. He wears two earrings on his right ear.

---

Personal Information

History: While Korzan doesn't like talking about his past, he comes from a hidden beastkin village located in the near-central southwest region of Alwyne. The name of the village? He forgot and doesn't bother remembering it. Neither the name nor the exact location of the village, which he was supposed to know since he lived that. If bothered enough to talk about it, Korzan simply resumes his home as a "boring shithole of weaklings", meaning that the village he came from doesn't emphasize fighting and rather prefers a peaceful setting.

When it comes to his journey, though, Korzan left home simply because he didn't want to spend his life away "rotting in silence", as he says, so he departed to have some fun. He traveled throughout the world trying to find people to pick up fights with and to declare himself the strongest in all Alwyne. This also means that he ended up in trouble with several places and has been banned from kingdoms and villages because of his troublemaker nature. That, and the fact that he always ended up causing chaos at pubs, his favorite place to spend the night.

At the places that enjoy a good brawl as a sport, he always sought to win, entering every arena or tournament he could. While winning some and losing some, Korzan ended up building a name for himself, getting known as The Fanged Fighter. Known as a powerful pugilist, vicious respectable opponent, and sore fair loser, people love watching his fights whenever some event of the sort happens.

That's when, during his travels, Korzan ended up meeting the Caravan. After seeing some people like Virro, Jormon, Hoogarth, and Roter, he foolishly bravely challenged them to a fight, making it clear that it didn't matter who came at him, he would defeat all of them. He demanded that they would pay for a party in the next town's pub if he won, and would join them if he lost, which he was sure would never happen.

... Well, the results speak for themselves, because it's been 9 months that he's been in the Caravan. If you ask him, though, he'll never admit his loss.

Personality: If not something obvious, Korzan's a fighting maniac that loves a good brawl. He's the type that speaks with his fists and not with his mouth. He also loves when things get even more chaotic, which is when he gets overly excited and far more dangerous since he loses all self-control and just goes berserk without any sort of restraint or consideration for those around him. This makes him entirely problematic because teamwork isn't his specialty.

There's also the fact that Korzan doesn't respect people who haven't shown their strength or made an effort to fight. This means that he won't listen to people who are too pacifist even to try a punch, no matter how weak they are. Mages and archers are also included on this list because Korzan hates people who "are too scared to face everything forward". This doesn't apply to swords or other weapons like axes, he makes an exception because he thinks that knights and mercenaries are on the frontlines, just like him.

Even so, Korzan isn't a rule, law, or orders follower. He does whatever he wants based on his morals, likes, and values. He also has the intricate "hobby" of not only disobeying people but doing exactly what they told him not to do, just for the fun of it. There were other instances where the other members of the Caravan had to bail him out because he did exactly what they told him NOT to do. This makes him get on the nerves of other people quite easily.

Deep down, though, Korzan's really happy to be a part of a new group, even though he's pretty dishonest with his emotions and doesn't tend to show his weak sides. He's also very fond of kids and likes to play around with them as a big brother or something. That, and at his most profound point, he has a thing for being pet and ruffled, though he doesn't publically let people do those things, being caught off-guard most of the time.

Likes:

• Fights. The more chaotic, the better;
• Drinking and smoking. He's a heavyweight on drinking, but abuses that fact and drinks without end;
• Kids. He likes to play around with them;
• Being pet and ruffled. Yes, Korzan has a weakness for that.

Dislikes:

• Peace and quiet. Korzan hates the stillness;
• People who don't put an effort of strength;
• Magicians and archers.

Worst Fear: Not being able to fight anymore.
Favorite Color: Gray blue.
Favorite Time of Day: Nighttime.
Favorite Season: Has no preference.
Heart/Will or Mind/Reason?: Korzan follows his heart/will.
Motivation: Other than losing a bet with the Caravan, Korzan is going with them to grow stronger and to try his hand at them again.
Lifelong Dream: Korzan's lifelong dream is to be recognized as the strongest being in the entire world.
Spirit Animal: He doesn't have a spirit animal because he is one.
Faith and Beliefs: He doesn't have any faith.

---

Battle and Equipment Information

Skills: Korzan's main skills are all related to combat. First of all, he's a great fighter and dedicated martial artist. His style is really varied, but it mixes styles like kung-fu, karate, and judo, with a bit of muay Thai. His movements are very nimble and fast, as well as focused considering he takes fighting to win, despite his rather violent and cocky personality. He's also very good at outdoor activities such as running, climbing, etc, considering how much he's a physique enthusiast.

Werewolves, in particular, are born with a special "power" that allows them to heal faster than other races so their regenerative functions are naturally better than a human, elf, or even some other beastkin.

There's also the fact that werewolves are far more powerful under the influence of the full moon, so Korzan gets even stronger, faster and wilder than before.

Korzan's also pretty good at walking around in nature, such as forests, mountains, and other non-manmade places. Because of his heightened senses as a beastkin, he has good eyesight, hearing, and smell, which becomes really useful in cases where somehow the groups split into those sorts of places.

Strengths and Weaknesses: Beastkins have a better constitution than most races so Korzan has inhuman strength, speed and is more resilient to damage than humans. This also means that he can jump higher and reach places that humans normally can't, like the roof of a house without any stairs. And because of his athletic prowess, he doesn't get easily tired like other people, being able to go for hours on exercise without getting too much strain.

The problem is that, outside of battle, Korzan isn't useful. He's not the best talker, his impulsive nature is more of a hindrance than anything, and the fact that he does whatever he wants whenever he wants doesn't help at all. He's also not smart so he avoids complicated stuff or just sleeps through it because it isn't interesting to him.

Another singular problem is that Korzan falls for the most stupid taunts known to live beings. It doesn't help that he's short-fused, but he gets possessed like a bull seeing red once you provoke him.

It's also important to notify that, while he gets stronger on the full moon, Korzan's animal instincts overwhelm any reasoning he has and he starts to behave like a savage animal that doesn't have control. Of course, one can make him stop by treating him like an animal, but they have to be quick to do it, otherwise, they're dead.

Weapons and Tools: Korzan uses no other weapons, and has no extra tools or even a bag. If anything, he's just walking around with what he has now and just leaves whatever money he gets on some quest or whatnot with someone more careful and organized that actually cares about money.

---

Music Themes

Main Theme: Prex -Materia Kyokoensis- (Puella Magi Madoka Magica: Portable)
Battle Theme: Get Down to Business (Guilty Gear X2 Accent Core Plus)

@MagusDream

Approved. Really, I shoulda read this one in the same batch as @Smike and @Irredeemable. We seem to have lots of canine-types hanging around. I don't know if you'll form a three-way friendship to last the eons or rip each other to pieces.

With the talk about getting ripped and the over-emphasis on being stronk, your werewolf has got some gym-bro vibes. I don't know how I feel about it, but I hope to at least once hear him asking Malleck "BRO, do you even lift??"

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

Whew! Save for a grammar once over my characters should be done, lemme know if something needs to change @Tortoise

A Semi-Retired Raider...

Thozna Scrapblast-of-Norplain

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
<sub>Thozna is a Gnoll, 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 on a band of them for use as shock troops or terror squads.

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 years old. She had an earlier stint with the caravan of about four months, and her second tour has just passed the two-year mark.</sub>

Appearance:
<sub>Gnolls are much taller and much broader than humans are, and Scrapblast is no exception. She weighs in at a stocky three hundred and eighty pounds, 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 for whatever reason. 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.</sub>

History:
<sub>Thozna was born into the Norplain pack, a Gnollish tribe occupying, unsurprisingly, the Norplain region of the Asvenkal Savanah. 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 human 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. 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 sewing together her banner and leading 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-Sultan's lands. The pay was solid enough to keep her crew interested but Scrapblast was too old to be bought by baubles alone.

So she walked out of the Asvenkal 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.

It was freeing in a way, 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 trade 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.

She never once considered putting her weapons down. 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 for a noble death 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 two or three years. While Gnolls don't take much 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. Leaving the boy to the elements wasn't an option and there was no orphanage around that would take kindly to a bloody Gnoll dropping off the survivor of its raid.

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 human 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.</sub>

Personality:
<sub>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 prefers practicality to honor, because what good is being righteous if you're dead?

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 human 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.</sub>

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. Until she's slain in glorious combat she can make a little money trading odds and ends.}

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
<sub>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. Thozna is far larger than any man and stronger than all but a rare few, capable of running down animals and stripping their hide from their flesh with her claws alone. She's built to survive harsh environments and is 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-chucking peers is her training with heavy armor and shields. She can track game 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.

But 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.

Scrapblast 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 looking for a bloody death so that her corpse can feed the carrion birds and other scavengers. This unrepentant might makes 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.

Thozna is nearly entirely incapable of handling accusations of dishonesty, disloyalty or cowardice. If someone were to call her any of the above she'd handle it the Gnoll way: knocking them over and stomping their face in.</sub>

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 manipulate 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-metallic objects.

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: An Elkitir, a magically-bred cross between horse and elk originating with the druids of the Tildretti forest. At twenty hands tall he's pretty much the only equine 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.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want: For Ryt to find purpose before she finds a proper death.

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
_{No, M., Jesus isn't an option}

...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:
<sub>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 would 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.</sub>


Personality:
<sub>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.</sub>

Motivation:
_{Purpose. He's still hanging around Scrapblast because, as much as he wishes he never met her, 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:
<sub>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.</sub>

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. 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-deer 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}

@Smike

Approved, obviously, these are two near-perfect sheets. I really look forward to seeing how Ryt and Thozna's relationship flows through the RP

Malleck

Malleck 'Freepaw'

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Malleck belongs to the Ainok- a race of humanoid canines indigenous to Alywne's savannahs and deserts, with significant variety between individual specimens. A quick way to irritate almost all of them is to mistake them for Gnolls, their bitter enemies. He's young for most races, at 20, but reached maturity five years prior, and has been travelling with the caravan for three years.

Appearance:
Malleck has dusty fur, blotched with natural camoflague in hues that range from sandy khakis to deep blacks, with a noticable cross pattern that stretches from his muzzle to his nose, the crossbar reaching to the ends of his brows. He has a shaggy plume of hair that's been braided and tied with baubles and other accessories in an attempt to tame it, and bright amber eyes with black sclera. He stands at around 5'5", a normal height for Ainoks, with the typical tight-wound muscle. His fur serves double duty to both cool him in warm environments and warm him in cool ones, meaning he usually eschews more clothing than a simple tunic, covered in straps and bags to help him carry anything he needs on the road.

History & Personality:
The Ainok are a semi-nomadic peoples who live as a periphery ally of the desert's great Dinnin kingdoms. Travelling throughout the dry seasons, Ainok clans, usually made from extended family units settle into temporary pastoral settlements during the wet season to reap the benefits of nature's sudden flourishing. A true-blood Ainok through and through, Malleck has grown up with this cycle- from his time as a pup on his mother's back to an adult of fifteen, expected to be able to hunt and provide for his family.

But, Malleck always sought out more than this. He was born under the light of Otota the dancing star, his paws always itched during the wet season, eager to be on the road again, eating up the dusty miles. He bid farewell to his family when he was sixteen, departing alongside a merchant caravan returning from trade with one of the Great Clans deeper into the desert. Although he had had brief interactions with outsiders before- the Ainok are no strangers to traders, caravaneers, hunters and even the occasional hostile band, this was the first time he had been truly exposed to different cultures and ways of thinking, and he loved it.

He drank in the diversity and the uniqueness, adding their tales sand stories to his own mind, and whenever he could took the opportunity to tell them and retell them at the fire, enhancing his own tales as he did so. It is one thing to have a firm grasp of a single method of storytelling- quite another to begin to understand the universal traits that sapient species use in their myths and legends, and to weave them together.

Soon after the caravan arrived in settled lands however, one of the guards informed him that there was an even better option out there. The Pilgrim's Caravan was, coincidentally, in the same city they were, and with thanks to his previous travelling companions, he joined up, bringing with him his stories, while being always eager to learn more.

Motivation:
Malleck is a classic example of someone filled with wanderlust, and travels both out of a desire to see the world and to imitate the passage the Dancing Star of Otota makes across the skies. He knows not when his wandering will end, or if it even will at all, but is more than happy to stick with the Pilgrim's Caravan for as long as it stops his feet from itching.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
As an open and gleeful follower of Otota, Malleck is expected to be able to bring cheer wherever he wanders. to this end, he has immersed himself in the entertaining arts- music, singing, storytelling and dance. He can work his magic with only a willing audience, but any instrument is obviously a boon. A not-insignificant part of his memory is dedicated to the countless tales he's heard and repeated across his pilgrimage, but for all this knowledge, he is undoubtably rather 'book dumb.' Coming from an oral culture, Malleck can neither read nor write, and he has neither inclination nor patience to dedicate himself to learning how to do so. He also cannot swim and easily and violently becomes motion sick, preferring to walk if at all possible over sitting in a caravan or boat.

As with most long time travellers, Malleck can defend himself- after all, he comes from a community of hunters and herdsmen, frequently in conflict, but fighting against other sapients always sat wrong with him. It felt wrong- dirty, almost indivine in a way, and so instead he much prefers to laugh off an insult than to take a swing. For self-defence, he prefers anything that can extend his reach, distance between himself and his foe- be that a spear, stave or simply a sufficiently long and durable stick. When it comes to magic, Malleck's powers are extremely limited- he is neither a shaman nor wizard- although he practices the Ainok's typical astronomical fortune-telling and can produce a few minor illusions, mend a broken rope or help seal a small cut, anything greater than this is beyond his abilities.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
They'll figure it out at some point!

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

Three Likes:
The sound of laughter, a well cooked meal, a new story to learn.

Three Dislikes:
Gnolls, betraying his trust, being unable to see the stars at night.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Heart! Part of the job, honestly.

Worst Fear:
Forgetting

Favorite Color:
All of them!

Most Like The Animal:
'Dog' would be pretty stereotypical, but also wrong. Malleck's more like a songbird of some kind.

Favorite Time of Day:
Deepest night- where the stars shine the clearest, and the fire seems that much brighter.

How They Dress:
As minimally as possible so other peoples aren't offended. He has fur for a reason.

Favorite Season:
The dry season! What do you mean most places don't count a 'wet' and 'dry' season?

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
The Ainoks of the savannah worship the stars- which come into view so brightly and clearly each night when the sun sets. They believe that these stars are each Gods in their own right, and that those born under the light and influence of various celestial bodies are favoured or disfavoured by these Gods. Born under the light of the so-called 'Dancing Star,' otherwise known as the Goddess Otota. Being both an incredibly bright star, and one that appears to be the most mobile in the night sky Otota holds a special place within the Ainok pantheon as the Goddess of gaity, enjoyment, fertility, pleasure, and so on and so forth. Malleck considers himself a staunch follower of Otota's light, and it is under her auspex that he travels.

Notes/Worldbuilding:

Ainok do not traditionally use last names, as by and large they stay within small familial groups, and even during interactions between groups, misunderstandings are easily avoided. 'Freepaw' is a rough translation of the Ainok term for a wanderer who has willingly left their family, distinguishing Malleck from a banished and disgraced Ainok.

Took me longer than anticipated, but here it is!

@Irredeemable

You already know you're approved.

Yours and Smike's charactes already have some tension bubbling. I love it, and also will attempt to subtly add to it, because stirring the pot is the most fun a GM has.

Pilgrim's Caravan: An Open-Ended Fantasy (with Worldbuilding!)

Hey guys, been off line a couple of days. I'm back now. Sheet reviews and whatnot to follow later today.