[hider=Malleck Freepaw]

[center][h2][color=khaki]Malleck 'Freepaw'[/color][/h2][/center]

[color=khaki]Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:[/color]
An Ainok of 20 years, having travelled with the caravan for three of them. 

[hider=The Ainok Race[/hider]
Hunters and storytellers, Ainok are a canine beastrace indigenous to the savannahs and grasslands that form the borders of Dinnin lands. Ainoks are usually shorter than humans, with a typical specimen standing between 4’11” and 5’6”, they have tough and compact bodies covered in a heat-regulating layer of blotched and multi-hued fur that gives them the name ‘Painted Folk.’ No two Ainok have exactly the same pattern adorning their fur, and the colours can range from deep blacks to pale cream and sandy khaki to russet red, allowing them to blend in with tall grass and lightly dappled groves alike. 

Ainoks bear litters of children that can include anywhere from two to eight pups, who grow and mature slightly faster than humans do – reaching physical maturity at fifteen and being culturally recognised as full adults at sixteen. Well-adapted to a fast-paced hunting lifestyle, Ainoks are natural born sprinters, but this same fast-paced lifestyle claims many of them before their time. An Ainok’s natural lifespan typically ends at around sixty years of age, but many fall before their fortieth birthday, and those who make it to fifty are considered unusually venerable.
[/hider]

[color=khaki]Appearance:[/color]
Malleck has dusty fur, blotched with natural camouflage in hues that range from sandy khakis to deep blacks, with a noticeable 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", and thanks to his regulating fur, usually eschews more clothing than a simple tunic, covered in straps and bags to help him carry anything he needs on the road. 

[color=khaki]History & Personality:[/color]
[hider=Ainok Culture]
The Ainok are, to the surprise of many, part of the loose confederation of peoples known as the Dinnin: self-declared ‘chosen people’ of the God known as the Light-and-Flame, who they believe manifests itself as the sun. The Ainok are the most heterodox of the Dinnin, having adapted their old beliefs into the framework gifted to them by Dinnin preachers in order to form a fusion where the stars are individual gods, yet still each a part of the Light-and-Flame whose worship can be the key to a higher understanding. 

Unlike the settled Great Clans, the Painted Folk maintain a semi-nomadic lifestyle revolving around the savannah’s dry and wet seasons. During the former they range extensively in familial tribes or packs to hunt, while during the latter they encamp at regular gathering grounds, forming large communities that take advantage of regular animal migrations to swell their food stocks. A fractious people, the Ainok are prone to intra and exopack conflict that forms the backbone of their unique system of adoptive slavery. Because of this, Ainok packs often include non-Painted races who have become Dinnin. 

The Ainok also have a unique relationship with magic. Having traditionally had no written language, they do not have wizards, but instead ‘star-speakers,’ shamanistic astrologers and storytellers who not only commune with their astral deities, but also pass down the history of the Ainok people through ancient oral traditions.[/hider] 

A true-blood Ainok through and through, Malleck has grown up with the cycle of dry and wet seasons 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. 

Despite these unremarkable beginnings however, Malleck always sought out more than this. He was born under the light of Otota the dancing star and his paws always itched during the wet season, eager to be on the road again eating up the dusty miles. He bade 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, caravaners, hunters and hostile bands, 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 take 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.

[color=khaki] Motivation: [/color]
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.

[color=khaki]Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:[/color]
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 [i]can[/i] defend himself- after all, he comes from a community of hunters and herdsmen, frequently in conflict, but fighting against other sapients always sat ill with him. It felt wrong- dirty, almost undivine 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 and put some 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.

[hider=Optional: Extra Details]
[center][color=khaki]What They Most Want:[/color]
They'll figure it out at some point!

[color=khaki]If They Had a D&D Alignment, It Would Be:[/color]
Chaotic Good

[color=khaki]Three Likes:[/color]
The sound of laughter, a well-cooked meal, a new story to learn.

[color=khaki]Three Dislikes:[/color]
Gnolls, betraying his trust, being unable to see the stars at night.

[color=khaki]Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:[/color]
Heart! Part of the job, honestly.

[color=khaki]Worst Fear:[/color]
Forgetting

[color=khaki]Favourite Color:[/color]
All of them!

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

[color=khaki]Favourite Time of Day:[/color]
Deepest night- where the stars shine the clearest, and the fire seems that much brighter.

[color=khaki]How They Dress:[/color]
As minimally as possible so other peoples aren't offended. He has fur for a reason.

[color=khaki]Favourite Season:[/color]
The dry season! What do you mean most places don't count a 'wet' and 'dry' season? 

[color=khaki]What Gods/Spirits/Whatever They Worship (If Any):[/color]
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. Malleck was born under the light of the so-called 'Dancing Star,' otherwise known as the Goddess Otota. One of the brightest stars in the sky, Otota is also unusual in that it is never stationary, swaying across the sky from night to night. Because of this, Otota holds a special place within the Ainok pantheon as the Goddess of gaiety, 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.
[/center]
[/hider]

[hider=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.
[/hider]
[/hider]

[hider=Gadri Abzan]

[center][h2][color=lightgreen]Gadri Abzan[/color][/h2][/center]

[color=lightgreen]Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:[/color]
Dwarf, 237 years old, caravaneer for some 70-odd years.

[color=lightgreen]Appearance:[/color]

Gadri stands at a squat and broad 4'6", with the powerful muscles and roughened hands of a craftsdwarf. They complete the look with a heavy toolbelt and many of their own crafts dotting their appearance. To accompany this, they usually don a padded and reinforced turban, covering up short-cropped hair. As with all dwarves, they lovingly take care of their beard, which is carefully braided and knotted around silver rings. In the forge they don a thick apron, heavy duty gloves and sturdy boots, which they trade for finer robes and heavy khohl when out and abour.

Many of the intricacies of Dinnin-dwarvish appearance can easily be missed by those who are not used to the desert-dwelling branch of the race, from how they braid their facial hair to the precise location of jewellery and clothing folds. To those in the know, the braiding of their beard and the cut and manufacture of their clothes tell that Gadri is a tetra- a 'third gender' that Dinnin-dwarves recognise, believing some to be closer to the stone that formed the race than others. Additionally, they are clearly not only a craftsman, but one of the rare scriptsmiths, a unique dwarven trade- as evidenced by the words intricately woven across much of their jewellery. 

[color=lightgreen]History:[/color]

Gadri's story begins in one of the holds of the Great Clans that litter the desert who settle within valleys and crevasses among great mountains in order to minimise the effects of the ancient Covenant made between the Dinnin and their God. The dwarves who lived in these territories were slowly incorporated into the Clans, being neither strictly Dinnin, nor exactly Kaffin, much as the Ainok are. 

It was here, as part of Clan Abzan, that Gadri was born. Apprenticed as a smith at a young age, they grew up in the hold, working with steel and flames, directing the kaffin that laboured under the watchful gaze of their betters, and being brought up in all the ways a true dwarf was supposed to behave. Their skill with smithing earned them the attention of a scriptsmith (what other dwarves would consider 'runesmithing,' although using the Dinnin script rather than an indiginous dwarvish one, lending it certain unique attributes.) This was no small thing- becoming a scriptsmith takes a significant portion of a dwarves young life- lasting almost a century, including several decades of their dwarvish adolescence. 

Hard, delicate and precise toil forged a dwarf meticulous over details and extremely proficient in their craft, but alas, Gadri was not destined to bring honour to their clan and forge great crafts for the emir. Instead, fate took a different path. As so often happens with the delicate web of politics that make up the Holds, skullduggery and backstabbing reared its ugly head up, and as the mess settled, Gadri's hammer was stained with the blood of a fellow Abzan.

Kinslaying, regardless of reason, is a dire crime within the Holds, and although their skill as a scriptsmith was enough to save their life, Gadri could no longer stay in the holds. The back of their right hand was marked with a heavy brand and they were cast out of the hold. 

[hider= The Great Dinnin Clans]
Of all the groups that make up the Dinnin people, it is the Great Clans who are the best-known by outsiders. 
Empire-builders, architects and warmongers, they are the most civilised and settled of any of the Dinnin groups. 
Born not long after the first Dinnin formed the Covenant with the Light-and-Flame, the first of the Great Clans were nothing more than bands of conquered humans who converted to the faith and rose up in the standings of the nomadic desert tribes, but as their numbers grew and their lands became more and more inhospitable, they were forced to leave behind their Baraka brethren, striking out in search of fertile lands.

Large united migrations of these sun-worshipping peoples threatened those who had already been struggling against the mysterious desertification of their realm, and the nascent clans quickly found themselves embroiled in conflict as they tried to settle and grow their population. Clan founders – many of whom were direct descendants of the original Baraka, led their people in a serious of great wars, carving out city-states that would form the basis of the modern Great Clans.
[/hider]

[color=lightgreen]Personality:[/color]

Gadri is a dwarf. A rather dwarfish sort of dwarf, although one tinged by their Dinnin faith and life experiences on the road. They abstain from intoxicants (other than coffee and nutmeg, both of which are rare to encounter on the road,) dedicate themselves to their craft, and are generally rather taciturn and stoic. Despite this, they've travelled with the caravan and had a long enough life to be a valuable source of information. 

As any craftsdwarf ought to, Gadri is protective of the unique skills that their species have developed, but eager to share the fundementals of working with steel and silver. When in the forge they are strict, serious and focused, expecting orders to be followed quickly and correctly, and harsh on those that dissapoint them, although they'd argue this is the best way to learn.

[color=lightgreen]Motivation:[/color]
An exile from their people, Gadri has no real home to turn to. For them, the almost seventy years they've spent within the caravan makes it as good as their home. One day, perhaps, they would like to wash the blood from their hands and return to their homeland... But until that day comes, they serve as the caravan's premiere smith and metalworker.

[color=lightgreen]Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:[/color]

A dwarven smith is always in high demand no matter where they go, and Gadri happily serves as the Caravan's main arificer. Most of the time, this is little more than mending wagons or repairing old tools, but they also tinker with some of the metals purchased along the road, turning them into new crafts that can fetch a higher profit than just their base ingredients. In addition, they take great pride in maintaining any weapons or armour entrusted to them, and those willing to pay the dwarf's (sometimes extortionate) fees can find themselves with some truly beautiful pieces of art. In order to facilitate this work, Gadri's wagon has been extensively personalised and customised to turn it into a true rolling smithy, able to be set up and taken down in only a few hours, less if others assist them with it. 

Even with all this though, Gadri is still falliable. Most obviously is their position as an exile - something they've kept carefully disguised from all but a tiny minority among the caravan. Then there is the natural peccadillos of dwarves - slow over long distances (but natural sprinters) water-averse and prone to nurture grudges for decades.

[hider=Scriptsmithing]
Like all dwarves, Gadri is unusually magically resistant- both to the hostile effects of magic cast upon them, and for the purposes of channeling magic themselves. Dwarves are not [i]immune[/i] from magical effects- a fireball still scorches them and some can indeed channel arcane power, but dwarves as a whole have instead developed their own system of bending the immaterial to their will- Scriptsmithing. Known by several other names- runesmithing, glyphcrafting, and so on and so forth, the core of scriptsmithing is the same. With strike of hammer and bloom of flame, dwarves can imbue items, thereafter elevated to 'artifacts' with potent magical power. Each scriptsmith goes through decades of their life training in scriptsmithing- from days as a journeyman apprentice, writing and reciting the words, to a proficient student, capable of wielding the hammer themselves, to finally a fully qualified smith, each hammerblow pulling from sources beyond to fill their crafts with power.

By now, Gadri is a more than competent scriptsmith, capable of forging great artifacts for others, should they have the time and ingredients to do so. The very finest of scriptsmith crafts are made from the legendary 'starmetal,' believed to be leftover fragments of ancient Gods that came before the Light. In its raw form, starmetal is fantastically magically unstable, throwing out wayward energies that sicken and even kill those handling it unprotected- but the dwarves, with their natural resistances, are able to forge and refine it, creating artifacts with a beautiful damascene finish. Fantastically rare, Gadri has only three precious artifacts made from this stuff- their hammer, chisel, and a single ring, each one with its script woven with their own hands.

Scriptsmithing's potential, in the hands of a master smith, is almost unlimited. So long as one knows the words with which to express their intent, a scriptsmith can create anything from wondrous automata to staves capable of stopping a rampaging oliphaunt dead in its tracks. Alas, such a thing requires a dwarf far more ancient and far more competent than Gadri, whose crafts, while still potent, are greatly limited by not only their resources but also their age. One simply does not become a master scriptsmith in a century or two.
[/hider]


[hider=Optional: Extra Details]

[center][color=lightgreen]What They Most Want:[/color]
A grand piece of starmetal, to return home.

[color=lightgreen]If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:[/color]
True Neutral.

[color=lightgreen]Three Likes:[/color]
Nutmeg-infused coffee, a roaring forge, a well-made craft.

[color=lightgreen]Three Dislikes:[/color]
Politics, their beard being mussed, the biting cold.

[color=lightgreen]Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:[/color]
Once, their heart. Once.

[color=lightgreen]Worst Fear:[/color]
Never returning home.

[color=lightgreen]Favorite Color:[/color]
The damascene sheen of starmetal.

[color=lightgreen]Most Like The Animal:[/color]
The humble termite. Hardworking, fastidious, and capable of raising crafts that will long outlive themselves.

[color=lightgreen]Favorite Time of Day:[/color]
The early morning, with a fresh-brewed cup of coffee, and a freshly-awoken forge, a day of work stretching ahead.

[color=lightgreen]How They Dress:[/color]
Like the merchant that they are.

[color=lightgreen]Favorite Season:[/color]
Autumn - before the nights become freezing in the desert, but where the midday sun is cool enough to allow forgework.

[color=lightgreen]What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):[/color]
Although the dwarves of the Dinnin mountains traditionally worshipped their own pantheon, increasingly they've turned to the way of the Covenant, and the faith of the Light-and-Flame.
[hider= The Light-And-Flame]
The Dinnin people are characterised, first and foremost, by their relationship with their patron deity, known as the Light-and-Flame. The Dinnin believe that their God manifests as the sun, and thus set aside time each day for prayers at dawn, midday and dusk… But this connection goes far deeper than merely structured worship.
Before there was the Dinnin, the people of the world existed in a state of ignorance and barbarism, having forgotten the truth and power of the Light-and-Flame. Those who would become the Dinnin were a group of desert-dwelling nomads, pushed to the outskirts of inhabitable lands. It was here that they began to rediscover the Light-and-Flame, until eventually they made a great pilgrimage to the Jabal Ilah, the most sacred of mountains, and the Light-and-Flame spoke to them. 

It offered them a Covenant – their souls would be indelibly marked by their God, and they would forever need to worship none but it. In exchange, they would be gifted new forms and new powers, and the people forced to the margins would once again rise triumphant. Those that accepted became the first of the Baraka, made righteous and true. These forms were scaled and cool, to resist the desert heat better. Their legs were changed to tails, to scale the dunes and clamber across the rocks quicker, and they were granted swiftness, strength, and wisdom. Those that rejected the offer were marked as ‘Kaffin,’ and driven out by the Baraka.
But the Covenant had other effects than merely creating the Baraka. The searing of Dinnin souls granted them a fragment of the Light-and-Flame’s unrestrained power, and wherever a large group of Dinnin settled, the deserts would soon follow with them. As the Dinnin expanded, fertile plains began to dry out, riverbeds became sunbitten dirt and green grass wilted replaced by blowing sand. The only thing that seems to restrain this desertification is major geographical barriers – oceans and mountains in particular. [/hider]

[/center]
[/hider]
[/hider]

[hider=Madame Morvanne]

[center][h2][color=BlueViolet]Madame Morvanne[/color][/h2][/center]

[b][color=BlueViolet]Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:[/color][/b]
A human of 32. [color=BlueViolet]Or so she thinks at least[/color]. A pilgrim within the caravan for four years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To call upon these powers Morvanne must conduct rituals: long-winded things requiring careful preparation, the right ingredients, and potentially hours of tongue-twisting work to complete. Calling upon an essence requires items, people, times or places strong in that essence: A bloody knife for [color=black]Ravume[/color], a lover’s assistance for [color=crimson]Percus[/color] or the deep midwinter for [color=white]Senopy[/color]. For more complex rituals other, occasionally conflicting essences must be called upon and the more powerful the ritual, the more intense the essences going into it must be. A small [color=BlueViolet]Hypist[/color] ritual might only require twilight, but for the greater rituals… Well, a [color=BlueViolet]city on wheels is rather liminal[/color], is it not? 
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[hider=The Oblitarchy]
The ‘Gods Before Gods,’ the Oblitarchy are a lost pantheon of deities who have, according to their believers, existed before anything else. Before there was Alwyne there were two of them: [color=slategray]The Nowhere[/color] and [color=Yellow]The Glory[/color], consisting of existence and everything outside of it, locked in an eternal dance which neither could overcome. The Nothing however, begot [color=black]The Sunderer[/color], and living up to their name they slew [color=Yellow]The The Glory[/color] and usurped [color=slategray]The Nowhere[/color], and from this calamitous beginning, all other Oblitarchs would rise, each one domineering an aspect of the mortal world that had formed with their struggles.

[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/kvYcZg7.png[/img][/center]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[color=crimson][b]The Delight[/b][/color] is the last of the Gods Ex Solari, and is the rawest form of the Glory – its explosive force, its pulsing rhythm, its undulating colours. Its essence, Percus, is lust and gluttony, sloth and pride, but also delight, love, happiness and all the other of the myriad emotions that swell a mortal’s heart.
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[b]Possessions:[/b]
Morvanne’s Wagon: A comfortable and cozy construction, Morvanne’s wagon is carved from hardy oak and stuffed with all manner of scrolls, books, trinkets and of course, plenty of tea. It even has its own sleeping area so she does not need to pitch a tent every night.

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

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

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

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

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

[color=BlueViolet]A Lethey Concoction[/color]: Anaesthetic and amnesiac both, the waters of the Lethe are found best in one’s deepest slumber. Only a drop must be stolen from a dream to brew a full pot of sweet-smelling oblivion. 
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An Ironwood Wand: Not all Morvanne’s tools are connected to the Oblitarchy – some would be common to any studious spellcaster. Ironwood is known for its strength and sturdiness, and makes perfectly functional, if unimpressive wands. This one has been imprinted with a simple force spell, suitable for bowling down foes, blowing heavy objects about and helping shift a stuck wagon from a rut. It serves as Morvanne’s main defensive option should she be accosted.

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

[hider=Optional: Extra Details]
[center][color=BlueViolet]What They Most Want:[/color]
[color=blueviolet]Secrets[/color], [color=white]Safety[/color], [color=darkblue]Eternity[/color]

[color=BlueViolet]If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:[/color]
True Neutral

[color=BlueViolet]Three Likes:[/color]
A fresh set of tea samples, a well-loved tome, a lost secret rediscovered.

[color=BlueViolet]Three Dislikes:[/color]
Uninvited guests, being left out of the loop, unfortunate reminders.

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

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

[color=BlueViolet]Favorite Color:[/color]
[color=blueviolet]Isn’t it obvious by now?[/color]

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

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