[OOC] Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting] (Page 6)

It also helps to remind others like myself when my character is interacting with that character so their details and perhaps their history helps me craft a better scene.@Expendable

You are always free to take notes for your own use, of course.

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uwu@Lady Lascivious

>Lady proceeds to put a space soldier with a PhD in chemistry into a fantasy RP

2x Laugh

Hidden 6 mos ago → 6 mos ago Post by Enigmatik

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Enigmatik Overly-Caffienated Thembie Supreme

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Madame Morvanne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What They Most Want:
Secrets, Safety, Eternity

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

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

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

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

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

Favorite Color:
Isn’t it obvious by now?

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

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

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

Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Tortoise

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@Enigmatik Your writing is fantastic. That pantheon is one of the best I've ever read; I'm jealous that you could create it.

Anyway, you're obviously approved, but I would check over the Oblitarchy hider again if I were you. Your diagram of the ten gods is a broken image.

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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Enigmatik

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Enigmatik Overly-Caffienated Thembie Supreme

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Enigmatik

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@Tortoise

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

Hidden 6 mos ago → 6 mos ago Post by Antediluvixen

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Antediluvixen Kemonomimi Dystopia Creator

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>Lady proceeds to put a space soldier with a PhD in chemistry into a fantasy RP@Tortoise

SPEAKING OF THAT HERE SHE IS WOOOOOOOOOOOO SPACE. History and some other stuff is pretty truncated but like, I mean. I'll fill in more details on her tools, too, if Tort in his magnanimous beneficence lets me.

Still has no art so I'm gonna work on that NEXT and update the stupid picture thingy i made too. All that redacted text in there, y'all? It'll get uncensored as you get to know her and find out more about her and her history IC. Because reasons.

Anyway uhhhhh yea space fomsk

Commander Hoshitsune Fumiko

Image Coming Eventually™


Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Kitsutamin, 194, <1 day

A race of humanoid, and indeed human-derived, people from a planet far, far away. Best described as animistic spirits, or ‘Kaisa’ in their own language, controlling empty human bodies that shift and alter their physical makeup to match the spirit controlling them. Visually, they look almost like humans - but sport unnatural eye colors, foxlike feet, long claws, large canine teeth, large fox-like ears, and large fox tails. They reproduce normally, and reproduction with humans will produce a Kitsutamin offspring. There are two notable attributes of the people that set them apart from the norm. First is their ability to adapt to new environments over a period of some years, adapting resistance or immunity to any injurious traits of the environment. Second is their lifespans - utterly random, utterly unpredictable. Go to sleep every night, not knowing if this will be the last one. The connection of spirit and host body is a tenuous one that can break easily. Some among them have nine tails, a part of a long and arduous process towards some sort of immortality and gaining immense power along the way. Others, like Fumiko, born to these individuals, do not possess any remarkable powers - but are notably more stable in their spiritual connection to the body, granting them the opportunity to some day gain power like their parents. How humans evolved on another planet, however, is another matter entirely…


Appearance:
Fumiko has snowy white hair that reaches well past normal military regulation length down to her waist, with large fox ears and nine fluffy tails of an identical shade. She has two amber eyes - one framed by a thin amount of peculiar black material and a long broad scar that runs across it. How the eye appears to still be fully intact from such an injury is anyone’s guess. She stands at approximately a 171cm and sports a well-muscled physique born of intense physical training and the rigors of combat. She wears her pilot’s suit, and carries her weapons strapped to it, though will rapidly seek a cloak or some other means of obscuring its nature to onlookers.

History:

Commander Hoshitsune Fumiko was born on 12/14/4032, in the city of Akharata, Koshin Prefecture, in the South Kamita Federal District of the Republic of Yatovina. The daughter of an experienced Kyukitsutamin mage who had devoted her life to the practice of art - specifically poetry, she was displayed a marked interest in the subject herself from a young age. Though raised communally, as is custom among the kitsutamin of Yatovina, her fascination with her mother’s work went well beyond what was normal. Many joked that she would follow in her footsteps, another poet bearing the family name on for the next thousand years, perhaps even more. 

As she began her secondary education, however, she found an additional love, one that came to surpass that earlier childhood love. Science. She loved science in all its forms, seeing the ways the world around her fit together, learning the mechanisms and laws that governed the world around her. Her mother would take her to the cosmodrome for launches, and she would scream in excitement as she watched the rockets lift into space, silhouetted against the frozen sea beyond. This love never faded away, and in fact only grew stronger. 

A change began as the child grew older, however. Her temperament soured. She could be found getting into brawls and arguments. The authorities became involved - the heavy hand of the law of the old Yatovinan regime not as brutish or as strict back in those days. But even so, she fell out of education, much to the dismay of her mother. The child grew more violent, more outspoken - until finally she took it too far. The world of organized crime had never been particularly huge in the republic. Even without the sun’s nurturing warmth, they had found a way to stay alive, supporting themselves in their cities through subterranean hydroponics systems and other, less pleasant sources of food and energy. But as the decades and then the centuries had worn on, this slowly began to fray. The increasing deprivation and hardship felt by some in the nation as others took more than their share wore on them, and the Yatovinan criminal underworld surged back to life, and Fumiko had gotten caught up with them. 

When she was released from the penal system, she emerged a changed woman. She was fortunate, so many years ago. The rot had not seeped in where she lived yet, the system still worked as intended. And it was that working as intended that saved her. She had begun a correspondence with a researcher working at a nearby university who re-enkindled in her a love of learning and seeing the function of the world around her. Fumiko emerged determined, disciplined, and with a fresh start on life. 

She had rediscovered her love of science, and enrolled in the university with the researcher with whom she had spoken. Certainly, the extra tails had probably helped - having a kyukitsutamin, even if just a born one, attending was always prestigious. But so too did the endorsement of the researcher. Magic was all well and good. But magic could not be understood in the way science could. When a dragon flew - in the unfrozen southern lands, of course, what gave it that ability despite the sheer impossibility of it from a physical perspective? Many had tried to determine what, or how, enabled this process - and all had come up empty. There was a reason research into physics and chemistry was still needed. A mage could, with decades of practice, certainly produce formidable results. Certainly her own mother, a kyukitsutamin of formidable power who had gone through the process of transformation, rather than being born into it, could produce magical effects the likes of which few could dream. But a mage couldn’t be mass produced, and not everyone could train to be a mage. 

And so that was how young Hoshitsune Fumiko’s life progressed. She was a natural genius at the sciences, double-majoring in biology and in chemistry, voraciously devouring any information she could get her hands on. With those degrees under her belt, she moved further, into advanced studies, receiving a masters and then a PhD from a new university, and threw herself into the research with gusto. The decades passed in a blur as she devoted herself to her passion. Her old loves manifested, too. She wrote poetry of the wonder of the natural world that learning about the sciences had instilled in her. She fell in love, numerous times in fact, bringing four children into the world who she raised together with the rest of the community, as was custom. She and their fathers always moved on, eventually, but they remained a part of her. Her life was a happy one, working under researchers centuries her senior and learning everything she possibly could from them, and eventually becoming a minor figure in her own right. In her spare time she pursued the study of the magic of the world, too. Though she had devoted her life to science, she could not simply ignore the other side of the world, inscrutable as it was. She never became a true mage, but she did gain a good appreciation of the body of knowledge surrounding the phenomena regardless.

Despite this, the world around her was not so blissful.


The Republic was in crisis. The earned authority it had been built on had been concentrated, abused, used to extort and squeeze the people of the republic dry when they already made do with so little in the ice and snow. The leaders spoke of how under their guidance they would find a way past the heliopause once more and reignite the artificial sun that had once burned bright in their sky. But in truth there was only hardship. Empty bellies. Tightening belts. And eventually it became too much, and the people of Yatovina rose in revolt. The revolt began in the east, in Kamita where she lived, and from its inception it had Fumiko’s unreserved support. She was a believer in tradition, in authority, in the functioning of systems and their mechanisms - for the good of the people. A fervent believer in the rhetoric of the revolution, or returning to the system laid out long ago. She would support the revolution from the backlines, pledging her knowledge of science to the cause. 

And then her mother died. Fumiko had not even known she was in the army, let alone fighting. Volunteered to serve a noble cause and an ideal of a nation she remembered from long ago. Using her formidable mages’ skills as a self-created kyukitsutamin. 

And she was dead. All those years. Fifteen hundred and thirty six years gone. Gone in an instant. It hadn’t been easy, she’d heard. Her mother had died a hero, her sacrifice saving an entire city. She wasn’t even her only child, far from it. Over fifty living children, many of them centuries older than Fumiko herself. Others dead even before that from the random nature of their lives, born before she had completed the process. All of those years on this world, pushing for its improvement, writing and singing of its beauty gone. Gone in a single act of heroism.

The next week, Fumiko had volunteered for the army. She couldn’t wait behind the lines, now, not anymore. Perhaps it wasn’t what her mother would have wanted - but she didn’t care. She was no formidable mage or experienced soldier, but she didn’t care. Even if simply an armed grunt, one of millions, she would fight, spirits as her witness.

However, she would not be just another footslogger. She was instead funneled into the armored forces, where her educational and professional background initially indicated she serve a backline support role. But that wouldn’t satisfy her - she would fight, one way or another, their arguments against it be damned. Eventually, she won out, and began training as a pilot for the MV-9 assault vehicle.

It all passed in a blur, for her, but what she knew now was that she was a pilot, trained and certified both to pilot the machines and to fight as elite augmented infantry should the situation call for it. And as she entered the war, she found she was an excellent pilot. The war came naturally to her. The fighting, the killing. It came disturbingly naturally. She had never thought herself a truly violent person - her youthful insubordinations had never truly harmed anyone. But now? Now she was violent. Now she had killed many people. Too many people. And yet she pressed on, determined to fight to the bitter end no matter the devastation to her mind, to bring about victory. Slowly the revolution linked up and pushed their way through the snow and ice, with the aid of an unlikely party of intrepid heroes. 

But despite her fearsome skills, Fumiko’s time as a pilot with the ground forces was coming to a close. A new generation of brain-computer interfaces was being rolled out, and for whatever reason, they didn’t work with her. Why, how, they didn’t know. A buildup of glial tissue. The words were a blur to her. She had been unable to receive the full suite of augmented infantry implants, but had been given supplementary implants to make up some of the difference. Certainly, they were far less overt than others. But it was not enough, now. To her dismay, she was phased out of the ground forcesr ranks.


Transferred to space and got assigned to captain solo patrol missions in deep space, big downgrade in terms of prestige even if it was way safer and paid better
Transferred to the Aerospace Forces, Fumiko reluctantly began this new phase of her career. Flying two-person crew scouting corvettes around the system on routine, uneventful patrol. Three person, if one counted the ship’s spirit. Older vessels, still in service due to the demands of the war on the surface, and perfectly suited to a skilled BCI pilot with an ID-13 interface. 

She adjusted to this as well, over time, as her people had done so since they had existed. The cramped walls of the corvette eventually came to feel like a second home. The ship’s spirit helped. A young one, relative to the venerable spirits they had aboard the real warships. She even found an experimental treatment that promised to aid her, perhaps let her rejoin the fight. A part of her jumped at the chance - she wanted to fight, to be a part of the victorious army that would bring about a better tomorrow. But another part of her balked at it, traumatic memories of war flashing across her mind. But still, she accepted it. The treatment showed promise, and she was due to be re-evaluated for compatibility with the new interface.

And then the world came apart around her.


Personality:
Fumiko’s personality is in many ways the direct product of her upbringing. She carries herself in a strict, disciplined manner, and seems always to be on the alert for some unseen threat that might be lurking just out of earshot, or just beyond her view. She is a harsh, severe, uncompromising individual who adheres rigidly to an internal code of law and morals that she views as representative of the nation to whom she owes allegiance. And yet she can also be mischievous, teasing, nurturing, and more. She is not an automaton of the state, but rather someone who believes wholeheartedly in the righteousness of the cause for which she fought and the laws and values of her nation. When not in conflict with that, or with her duty, she is as pleasant company as ever one might wish to find. Keen to crack a dirty joke or lend a shoulder to cry on, and just as keen to pass on what knowledge she herself has to others. She is inquisitive, thoughtful, obstinate, righteous, mischievous, indulgent, and many other words besides. (That is to say, I prefer to explore the character’s personality IC).

Motivation:
Before she came to this world, Fumiko’s motivation was simple. Victory. Victory over the forces that threatened what she believed in with destruction. Victory in a brutal war that had raged on and off for over four decades. Victory, so that she could find peace, and return to doing what she loved. Now? She does not know, now. It could be said that her motivation is to find out what happened to her - and that is certainly true. Understanding the nature of… whatever strange occurrence it was that brought her to this place does motivate her. But is it the motivation that drives her? What would she do if she found out? There is no returning whence she came - perhaps in someone’s fantastical dreams or stories a ship might be able to simply lift itself off from the planet. But not here, not in this cold, hard reality. 

Perhaps it is to find a way to live in this strange new land. To understand its laws and its people and find a place for herself in it. Or to understand other, far more baffling things - how are humans present on this world as on her own? Perhaps she will finally learn magic and try to adapt herself to it. Find a little corner somewhere and settle down. Build a tower and become an eccentric local. Would she start another family here? Certainly, she is liable to long outlive most anyone she would know. Would she want her children here to outlive everyone around them? Without the communal society of home, how would she raise them? Who would they become here? 

Perhaps, then, Fumiko’s goal is yet to be decided. Perhaps her motivation is to find a motivation.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Skills:
Combat Training: Trained for a period of some years as both a pilot for the MV-9 AMAV and as an augmented infantry soldier, Fumiko is both highly proficient and highly experienced with all manner of weaponry and in both ranged and hand to hand combat.
Scientific Knowledge: Fumiko is no ordinary dabbler in science, she holds a PhD in organic chemistry and has over a century of experience working in the field - though almost all of it with reagents and materials far more advanced than would be found easily in her new environ. Nevertheless, her understanding of scientific principles, mathematics, and more is immensely formidable and will prove useful even in this new world.
Mechanical Knowledge: Not a particularly strong asset, but an asset nevertheless. Fumiko is, by virtue of her origin and training, a decent hand at understanding and repairing complex mechanical systems. Certainly above the average for this new world. 
Basic medical training: As a soldier, Fumiko received basic training in medicine and field triage. She is no learned doctor back home - but she knows the aorta from the spleen and knows techniques that, absent some other means of healing, can prove life saving in an emergency. 
Magical Learning: Though she possesses minimal actual skill in the use of magic, Fumiko herself does hail from a world where it is a commonplace phenomenon - her own people inherently magical. She understands the phenomena to some extent, and this is perhaps her greatest avenue of integrating herself into this new world. She can, if nothing else, always talk at length about the nature of undeath or of pyromancy with the avid practitioner, even if lacking deeper knowledge.

Strengths:
Combat Veteran: Fumiko is a combat veteran through and through. She has seen horrors the likes of which few can scarce image. She has killed more people than most will ever encounter in their lifetimes. Almost nothing scares or startles her, and she can be relied upon to stay cool and collected no matter the situation. 
Disciplined: A product of the many trials her life has put her through, Fumiko is an immensely disciplined individual. If given an order for a plan or scheme to come to fruition she will follow it to the letter. She will not stray from it, will not allow personal whimsy to distract her from it, and will carry it out to the best of her ability. 
Extremely Knowledgeable: Fumiko’s knowledge, scientific, medical, military, or otherwise, is without a doubt exceptional. While significantly less applicable here than back home, her expertise is undeniably a major asset.
Heightened Hearing and Smell: As a product of her nature as a Kitsutamin and in addition to all the other differences it conveys to her, Fumiko has excellent senses of smell and hearing, like that of a fox. 

Weaknesses:
Stranger in a Strange Land: Fumiko is not from here. Fumiko is not from anywhere NEAR here. And it shows. She is completely out of her element, out of her depth, and out of her mind. Terrified at the alien world she has arrived at, and at what circumstances might have brought her here, she is adrift. She does not understand the native languages or customs, she cannot meaningfully interact, she is without the home and people she has known all her life, and she cannot begin to reason a way out of it. Whatever her formidable strengths and skills, they are fatally undercut by her being cast adrift from everything she ever knew.
Overconfident: As an extension of the former, Fumiko is accustomed to being an expert, a skilled professional, confident in her knowledge and grounding in her world. Here? She is nobody. She knows nothing. And she forgets this fact all too easily, speaking down where she ought not, acting as an authority in that which she is not anymore, and so on. 
Alien: In her own life, her own world, Fumiko is one among millions. Unremarkable except for her extraordinary skills. Here? There are no others like her. She is unique, a literal alien. She will stick out in any crowd and cannot go unnoticed or unremarked. The strange additions to her body - black, reflective surfaces, an eye that glimmers too much to be wholly natural, and more - these only add to her alien nature. 
Haunted: Not by ghosts - except perhaps figurative. Fumiko has seen and done horrible, terrible things. She sleeps poorly at night, kept awake by memories of war and suffering, of things she did. Illusions dance in the corner of her vision, pulling at her spirit and threatening to drown her in a yawning abyss. She can still see it. Still hear it. Still smell it. 

Both:
Hardened: Fumiko is hardened by war. She is callous in the face of death and violence, desensitized and dulled to death’s crimson harvest. This can be both an asset and a liability. Where one might see a resolute defender, another sees a sociopathic monster that has no place in society.
Visibly Scarred: Similarly, Fumiko is marked by war in a physical, distinct way. The scar that runs across her eye is not her only scar, and her otherwise beautiful foxlike features are marred by the damage and marks of war. Some might be impressed by these, others intimidated, and others might shun her. Whatever this strange creature did to get scars like that can’t have been good, after all.
Cybernetic: Fumiko is not wholly organic. Though her body has not been replaced to the extent of the other pilots, her muscles have still been augmented, the eye she lost was replaced, her mind stores vast sums of scientific data - the bulk of which is now useless. Her heart, too, is synthetic, and she has no pulse, no beating of that life sustaining organ. This gives her many advantages, of course, but also disadvantages. She must eat. She must eat a lot, far more than one might ordinarily expect. Electric currents can prove incredibly disruptive to her, far moreso than normal, and can incapacitate her longer than a normal individual. Should something go wrong, she is the only person who can fix it.

Tools:
Revolver: An eight shot high powered 7mm revolver she carried as a personal sidearm. Will fill in more details on this later, reptilian overlord permitting.
Sword: A sword from her home country in the characteristic slightly curved, two handed pattern and partially made from advanced materials, but also bearing enchantments enhancing its hardness and toughness. Will fill in more details on this later, reptilian overlord permitting.
Flight suit: An advanced ground forces pilot’s suit filling numerous different functions and serving as light armor, and it also has a lot of pockets. Will fill in more details on this later, reptilian overlord permitting.
Cybernetics: Fumiko’s body has been enhanced with subtle cybernetic enhancements. Will fill in more details on this later, reptilian overlord permitting.

Tort plz lemme do some nerd shit here I’ll help u conlang an alphabet!

The ruffling of a sheet of paper fills the air as the strangely clad woman sets herself down with a slight grunt, followed by the dim sound of a sword scabbard thumping against the floor. The cracking of someone’s mouth opening, then closing, then opening again. “And you are wanting to ask me questions why, again?” 

Her words come slowly, and are stilted, thickly accented, as though only just recently learned and poorly practiced. Certainly, she is not from here. Not from *anywhere* near here. The strange black material in her face and adorning small parts of her body, the contraption strapped securely to a strange pouch on her thigh, the sword and scabbard made of materials wholly unrecognizeable. That enough was sufficient to mark her as an anomaly - but the two large, white, foxlike ears that protruded from the top of her head, and the nine large white fox tails that trailed behind her, unlike anything else seen before, only added further mystery to her origins. She looked almost human, were it not for those ears, those tails, the odd color of her eyes…

“I had questions for you, newcomer.” Comes another voice, and the sound of shuffling paper fills the room again. “You’re clearly not from here. If what I’ve heard is to be believed, not from this world. So what are you? Where are you from? Why are you here?”

The woman sighs, “Hoshitsune Fumiko, Commander, Yatovinan Aerospace Forces, serial number 5-81- [UNTRANSLATEABLE]. Look, I do not know, yes? I am just as confused as you. Can I go?”

“What do you most want, then?”

“To find out what [UNTRANSLATEABLE] happened to me. Failing that? I just want to find place here, getting home is not option.”

“Would you consider yourself more lawful or chaotic, and would you consider yourself more good or evil?”

The woman laughs, “What? [UNTRANSLATEABLE] is this question? I- fine. Lawful Neutral or Lawful Evil? We need structure. We need order. I fight- fought, for order and peace. I have done bad things. Things I think at time were good? I still think are good? But I do not sleep well. Is it evil to kill a hundred innocent people to end a war sooner? If it saves a thousand, or ten thousand others, is it okay? You can decide.”

“Three likes?”
“I- okay. Learning new things, fresh baked bread, naps.”

“Three dislikes?”
“Stupid questions, quantitative analysis, selfish people, overcooked vege- that is four, my apologies.”

“Do you follow your heart or your mind?”
“My mind. Hundreds are dead because I follow my mind. Thousands w- this language is hard. Thousands are alive because I did not follow my heart. I follow my mind to understand universe, understand cause and effect, I let my heart decide less important things.”

“Worst fear?”
“Forgetting my children’s voices, forgetting sight of snow covered mountains in Kamita, forgetting smell of seared tonbama. Never seeing home again. Losing who I am. Forgetting.”

“Favorite color?”
“Emerald. Or red.”

“What animal are you most like?”
Fumiko simply grins, large shiny white canine teeth glinting in the light as her eyes glimmer with foxlike mischief. “Is it not obvious?” After a moment, she adds, “A raven.”

“Favorite time of day?”
“Midnight. Before I joined military, I liked to go to roof and look at stars and listen to sound of generator humming in bac- nevermind. Or afternoon. Is an excellent time for naps.”

“How do you dress?”
“You mean, when I am not in pilot suit? What I will wear here as time goes on? Probably something soft, with many pockets. Something soft and fluffy to go around my neck.” She rubs the lining of her suit, visibly made of an incredibly soft and comfortable material. “I will be sad when this is wo- you have mending magics yes? Perhaps I will not need to!”

“Favorite season?”
“Oh yes, seasons! We did not have these in my part of world back home. Just eternal nuclear winter. Sun is dead you see an- nevermind. Winter.”

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
“That is question with very long, very complicated answer. Technically, I am spirit myself, yes? Possessing empty human body, altered,” she gestures to her ears, and to her tails, “by my presence in it. But I will save long answer for later. I do not worship any gods, here or back home. But I miss spirits of home, and spirit of my ship. He was kind.”

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Bio

<Snipped quote by Tortoise>

SPEAKING OF THAT HERE SHE IS WOOOOOOOOOOOO SPACE. History and some other stuff is pretty truncated but like, I mean. I'll fill in more details on her tools, too, if Tort in his magnanimous beneficence lets me.

Still has no art so I'm gonna work on that NEXT and update the stupid picture thingy i made too. All that redacted text in there, y'all? It'll get uncensored as you get to know her and find out more about her and her history IC. Because reasons.

Anyway uhhhhh yea space fomsk

Commander Hoshitsune Fumiko

Image Coming Eventually™


Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Kitsutamin, 194, <1 day

A race of humanoid, and indeed human-derived, people from a planet far, far away. Best described as animistic spirits, or ‘Kaisa’ in their own language, controlling empty human bodies that shift and alter their physical makeup to match the spirit controlling them. Visually, they look almost like humans - but sport unnatural eye colors, foxlike feet, long claws, large canine teeth, large fox-like ears, and large fox tails. They reproduce normally, and reproduction with humans will produce a Kitsutamin offspring. There are two notable attributes of the people that set them apart from the norm. First is their ability to adapt to new environments over a period of some years, adapting resistance or immunity to any injurious traits of the environment. Second is their lifespans - utterly random, utterly unpredictable. Go to sleep every night, not knowing if this will be the last one. The connection of spirit and host body is a tenuous one that can break easily. Some among them have nine tails, a part of a long and arduous process towards some sort of immortality and gaining immense power along the way. Others, like Fumiko, born to these individuals, do not possess any remarkable powers - but are notably more stable in their spiritual connection to the body, granting them the opportunity to some day gain power like their parents. How humans evolved on another planet, however, is another matter entirely…


Appearance:
Fumiko has snowy white hair that reaches well past normal military regulation length down to her waist, with large fox ears and nine fluffy tails of an identical shade. She has two amber eyes - one framed by a thin amount of peculiar black material and a long broad scar that runs across it. How the eye appears to still be fully intact from such an injury is anyone’s guess. She stands at approximately a 171cm and sports a well-muscled physique born of intense physical training and the rigors of combat. She wears her pilot’s suit, and carries her weapons strapped to it, though will rapidly seek a cloak or some other means of obscuring its nature to onlookers.

History:

Commander Hoshitsune Fumiko was born on 12/14/4032, in the city of Akharata, Koshin Prefecture, in the South Kamita Federal District of the Republic of Yatovina. The daughter of an experienced Kyukitsutamin mage who had devoted her life to the practice of art - specifically poetry, she was displayed a marked interest in the subject herself from a young age. Though raised communally, as is custom among the kitsutamin of Yatovina, her fascination with her mother’s work went well beyond what was normal. Many joked that she would follow in her footsteps, another poet bearing the family name on for the next thousand years, perhaps even more. 

As she began her secondary education, however, she found an additional love, one that came to surpass that earlier childhood love. Science. She loved science in all its forms, seeing the ways the world around her fit together, learning the mechanisms and laws that governed the world around her. Her mother would take her to the cosmodrome for launches, and she would scream in excitement as she watched the rockets lift into space, silhouetted against the frozen sea beyond. This love never faded away, and in fact only grew stronger. 

A change began as the child grew older, however. Her temperament soured. She could be found getting into brawls and arguments. The authorities became involved - the heavy hand of the law of the old Yatovinan regime not as brutish or as strict back in those days. But even so, she fell out of education, much to the dismay of her mother. The child grew more violent, more outspoken - until finally she took it too far. The world of organized crime had never been particularly huge in the republic. Even without the sun’s nurturing warmth, they had found a way to stay alive, supporting themselves in their cities through subterranean hydroponics systems and other, less pleasant sources of food and energy. But as the decades and then the centuries had worn on, this slowly began to fray. The increasing deprivation and hardship felt by some in the nation as others took more than their share wore on them, and the Yatovinan criminal underworld surged back to life, and Fumiko had gotten caught up with them. 

When she was released from the penal system, she emerged a changed woman. She was fortunate, so many years ago. The rot had not seeped in where she lived yet, the system still worked as intended. And it was that working as intended that saved her. She had begun a correspondence with a researcher working at a nearby university who re-enkindled in her a love of learning and seeing the function of the world around her. Fumiko emerged determined, disciplined, and with a fresh start on life. 

She had rediscovered her love of science, and enrolled in the university with the researcher with whom she had spoken. Certainly, the extra tails had probably helped - having a kyukitsutamin, even if just a born one, attending was always prestigious. But so too did the endorsement of the researcher. Magic was all well and good. But magic could not be understood in the way science could. When a dragon flew - in the unfrozen southern lands, of course, what gave it that ability despite the sheer impossibility of it from a physical perspective? Many had tried to determine what, or how, enabled this process - and all had come up empty. There was a reason research into physics and chemistry was still needed. A mage could, with decades of practice, certainly produce formidable results. Certainly her own mother, a kyukitsutamin of formidable power who had gone through the process of transformation, rather than being born into it, could produce magical effects the likes of which few could dream. But a mage couldn’t be mass produced, and not everyone could train to be a mage. 

And so that was how young Hoshitsune Fumiko’s life progressed. She was a natural genius at the sciences, double-majoring in biology and in chemistry, voraciously devouring any information she could get her hands on. With those degrees under her belt, she moved further, into advanced studies, receiving a masters and then a PhD from a new university, and threw herself into the research with gusto. The decades passed in a blur as she devoted herself to her passion. Her old loves manifested, too. She wrote poetry of the wonder of the natural world that learning about the sciences had instilled in her. She fell in love, numerous times in fact, bringing four children into the world who she raised together with the rest of the community, as was custom. She and their fathers always moved on, eventually, but they remained a part of her. Her life was a happy one, working under researchers centuries her senior and learning everything she possibly could from them, and eventually becoming a minor figure in her own right. In her spare time she pursued the study of the magic of the world, too. Though she had devoted her life to science, she could not simply ignore the other side of the world, inscrutable as it was. She never became a true mage, but she did gain a good appreciation of the body of knowledge surrounding the phenomena regardless.

Despite this, the world around her was not so blissful.


The Republic was in crisis. The earned authority it had been built on had been concentrated, abused, used to extort and squeeze the people of the republic dry when they already made do with so little in the ice and snow. The leaders spoke of how under their guidance they would find a way past the heliopause once more and reignite the artificial sun that had once burned bright in their sky. But in truth there was only hardship. Empty bellies. Tightening belts. And eventually it became too much, and the people of Yatovina rose in revolt. The revolt began in the east, in Kamita where she lived, and from its inception it had Fumiko’s unreserved support. She was a believer in tradition, in authority, in the functioning of systems and their mechanisms - for the good of the people. A fervent believer in the rhetoric of the revolution, or returning to the system laid out long ago. She would support the revolution from the backlines, pledging her knowledge of science to the cause. 

And then her mother died. Fumiko had not even known she was in the army, let alone fighting. Volunteered to serve a noble cause and an ideal of a nation she remembered from long ago. Using her formidable mages’ skills as a self-created kyukitsutamin. 

And she was dead. All those years. Fifteen hundred and thirty six years gone. Gone in an instant. It hadn’t been easy, she’d heard. Her mother had died a hero, her sacrifice saving an entire city. She wasn’t even her only child, far from it. Over fifty living children, many of them centuries older than Fumiko herself. Others dead even before that from the random nature of their lives, born before she had completed the process. All of those years on this world, pushing for its improvement, writing and singing of its beauty gone. Gone in a single act of heroism.

The next week, Fumiko had volunteered for the army. She couldn’t wait behind the lines, now, not anymore. Perhaps it wasn’t what her mother would have wanted - but she didn’t care. She was no formidable mage or experienced soldier, but she didn’t care. Even if simply an armed grunt, one of millions, she would fight, spirits as her witness.

However, she would not be just another footslogger. She was instead funneled into the armored forces, where her educational and professional background initially indicated she serve a backline support role. But that wouldn’t satisfy her - she would fight, one way or another, their arguments against it be damned. Eventually, she won out, and began training as a pilot for the MV-9 assault vehicle.

It all passed in a blur, for her, but what she knew now was that she was a pilot, trained and certified both to pilot the machines and to fight as elite augmented infantry should the situation call for it. And as she entered the war, she found she was an excellent pilot. The war came naturally to her. The fighting, the killing. It came disturbingly naturally. She had never thought herself a truly violent person - her youthful insubordinations had never truly harmed anyone. But now? Now she was violent. Now she had killed many people. Too many people. And yet she pressed on, determined to fight to the bitter end no matter the devastation to her mind, to bring about victory. Slowly the revolution linked up and pushed their way through the snow and ice, with the aid of an unlikely party of intrepid heroes. 

But despite her fearsome skills, Fumiko’s time as a pilot with the ground forces was coming to a close. A new generation of brain-computer interfaces was being rolled out, and for whatever reason, they didn’t work with her. Why, how, they didn’t know. A buildup of glial tissue. The words were a blur to her. She had been unable to receive the full suite of augmented infantry implants, but had been given supplementary implants to make up some of the difference. Certainly, they were far less overt than others. But it was not enough, now. To her dismay, she was phased out of the ground forcesr ranks.


Transferred to space and got assigned to captain solo patrol missions in deep space, big downgrade in terms of prestige even if it was way safer and paid better
Transferred to the Aerospace Forces, Fumiko reluctantly began this new phase of her career. Flying two-person crew scouting corvettes around the system on routine, uneventful patrol. Three person, if one counted the ship’s spirit. Older vessels, still in service due to the demands of the war on the surface, and perfectly suited to a skilled BCI pilot with an ID-13 interface. 

She adjusted to this as well, over time, as her people had done so since they had existed. The cramped walls of the corvette eventually came to feel like a second home. The ship’s spirit helped. A young one, relative to the venerable spirits they had aboard the real warships. She even found an experimental treatment that promised to aid her, perhaps let her rejoin the fight. A part of her jumped at the chance - she wanted to fight, to be a part of the victorious army that would bring about a better tomorrow. But another part of her balked at it, traumatic memories of war flashing across her mind. But still, she accepted it. The treatment showed promise, and she was due to be re-evaluated for compatibility with the new interface.

And then the world came apart around her.


Personality:
Fumiko’s personality is in many ways the direct product of her upbringing. She carries herself in a strict, disciplined manner, and seems always to be on the alert for some unseen threat that might be lurking just out of earshot, or just beyond her view. She is a harsh, severe, uncompromising individual who adheres rigidly to an internal code of law and morals that she views as representative of the nation to whom she owes allegiance. And yet she can also be mischievous, teasing, nurturing, and more. She is not an automaton of the state, but rather someone who believes wholeheartedly in the righteousness of the cause for which she fought and the laws and values of her nation. When not in conflict with that, or with her duty, she is as pleasant company as ever one might wish to find. Keen to crack a dirty joke or lend a shoulder to cry on, and just as keen to pass on what knowledge she herself has to others. She is inquisitive, thoughtful, obstinate, righteous, mischievous, indulgent, and many other words besides. (That is to say, I prefer to explore the character’s personality IC).

Motivation:
Before she came to this world, Fumiko’s motivation was simple. Victory. Victory over the forces that threatened what she believed in with destruction. Victory in a brutal war that had raged on and off for over four decades. Victory, so that she could find peace, and return to doing what she loved. Now? She does not know, now. It could be said that her motivation is to find out what happened to her - and that is certainly true. Understanding the nature of… whatever strange occurrence it was that brought her to this place does motivate her. But is it the motivation that drives her? What would she do if she found out? There is no returning whence she came - perhaps in someone’s fantastical dreams or stories a ship might be able to simply lift itself off from the planet. But not here, not in this cold, hard reality. 

Perhaps it is to find a way to live in this strange new land. To understand its laws and its people and find a place for herself in it. Or to understand other, far more baffling things - how are humans present on this world as on her own? Perhaps she will finally learn magic and try to adapt herself to it. Find a little corner somewhere and settle down. Build a tower and become an eccentric local. Would she start another family here? Certainly, she is liable to long outlive most anyone she would know. Would she want her children here to outlive everyone around them? Without the communal society of home, how would she raise them? Who would they become here? 

Perhaps, then, Fumiko’s goal is yet to be decided. Perhaps her motivation is to find a motivation.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Skills:
Combat Training: Trained for a period of some years as both a pilot for the MV-9 AMAV and as an augmented infantry soldier, Fumiko is both highly proficient and highly experienced with all manner of weaponry and in both ranged and hand to hand combat.
Scientific Knowledge: Fumiko is no ordinary dabbler in science, she holds a PhD in organic chemistry and has over a century of experience working in the field - though almost all of it with reagents and materials far more advanced than would be found easily in her new environ. Nevertheless, her understanding of scientific principles, mathematics, and more is immensely formidable and will prove useful even in this new world.
Mechanical Knowledge: Not a particularly strong asset, but an asset nevertheless. Fumiko is, by virtue of her origin and training, a decent hand at understanding and repairing complex mechanical systems. Certainly above the average for this new world. 
Basic medical training: As a soldier, Fumiko received basic training in medicine and field triage. She is no learned doctor back home - but she knows the aorta from the spleen and knows techniques that, absent some other means of healing, can prove life saving in an emergency. 
Magical Learning: Though she possesses minimal actual skill in the use of magic, Fumiko herself does hail from a world where it is a commonplace phenomenon - her own people inherently magical. She understands the phenomena to some extent, and this is perhaps her greatest avenue of integrating herself into this new world. She can, if nothing else, always talk at length about the nature of undeath or of pyromancy with the avid practitioner, even if lacking deeper knowledge.

Strengths:
Combat Veteran: Fumiko is a combat veteran through and through. She has seen horrors the likes of which few can scarce image. She has killed more people than most will ever encounter in their lifetimes. Almost nothing scares or startles her, and she can be relied upon to stay cool and collected no matter the situation. 
Disciplined: A product of the many trials her life has put her through, Fumiko is an immensely disciplined individual. If given an order for a plan or scheme to come to fruition she will follow it to the letter. She will not stray from it, will not allow personal whimsy to distract her from it, and will carry it out to the best of her ability. 
Extremely Knowledgeable: Fumiko’s knowledge, scientific, medical, military, or otherwise, is without a doubt exceptional. While significantly less applicable here than back home, her expertise is undeniably a major asset.
Heightened Hearing and Smell: As a product of her nature as a Kitsutamin and in addition to all the other differences it conveys to her, Fumiko has excellent senses of smell and hearing, like that of a fox. 

Weaknesses:
Stranger in a Strange Land: Fumiko is not from here. Fumiko is not from anywhere NEAR here. And it shows. She is completely out of her element, out of her depth, and out of her mind. Terrified at the alien world she has arrived at, and at what circumstances might have brought her here, she is adrift. She does not understand the native languages or customs, she cannot meaningfully interact, she is without the home and people she has known all her life, and she cannot begin to reason a way out of it. Whatever her formidable strengths and skills, they are fatally undercut by her being cast adrift from everything she ever knew.
Overconfident: As an extension of the former, Fumiko is accustomed to being an expert, a skilled professional, confident in her knowledge and grounding in her world. Here? She is nobody. She knows nothing. And she forgets this fact all too easily, speaking down where she ought not, acting as an authority in that which she is not anymore, and so on. 
Alien: In her own life, her own world, Fumiko is one among millions. Unremarkable except for her extraordinary skills. Here? There are no others like her. She is unique, a literal alien. She will stick out in any crowd and cannot go unnoticed or unremarked. The strange additions to her body - black, reflective surfaces, an eye that glimmers too much to be wholly natural, and more - these only add to her alien nature. 
Haunted: Not by ghosts - except perhaps figurative. Fumiko has seen and done horrible, terrible things. She sleeps poorly at night, kept awake by memories of war and suffering, of things she did. Illusions dance in the corner of her vision, pulling at her spirit and threatening to drown her in a yawning abyss. She can still see it. Still hear it. Still smell it. 

Both:
Hardened: Fumiko is hardened by war. She is callous in the face of death and violence, desensitized and dulled to death’s crimson harvest. This can be both an asset and a liability. Where one might see a resolute defender, another sees a sociopathic monster that has no place in society.
Visibly Scarred: Similarly, Fumiko is marked by war in a physical, distinct way. The scar that runs across her eye is not her only scar, and her otherwise beautiful foxlike features are marred by the damage and marks of war. Some might be impressed by these, others intimidated, and others might shun her. Whatever this strange creature did to get scars like that can’t have been good, after all.
Cybernetic: Fumiko is not wholly organic. Though her body has not been replaced to the extent of the other pilots, her muscles have still been augmented, the eye she lost was replaced, her mind stores vast sums of scientific data - the bulk of which is now useless. Her heart, too, is synthetic, and she has no pulse, no beating of that life sustaining organ. This gives her many advantages, of course, but also disadvantages. She must eat. She must eat a lot, far more than one might ordinarily expect. Electric currents can prove incredibly disruptive to her, far moreso than normal, and can incapacitate her longer than a normal individual. Should something go wrong, she is the only person who can fix it.

Tools:
Revolver: An eight shot high powered 7mm revolver she carried as a personal sidearm. Will fill in more details on this later, reptilian overlord permitting.
Sword: A sword from her home country in the characteristic slightly curved, two handed pattern and partially made from advanced materials, but also bearing enchantments enhancing its hardness and toughness. Will fill in more details on this later, reptilian overlord permitting.
Flight suit: An advanced ground forces pilot’s suit filling numerous different functions and serving as light armor, and it also has a lot of pockets. Will fill in more details on this later, reptilian overlord permitting.
Cybernetics: Fumiko’s body has been enhanced with subtle cybernetic enhancements. Will fill in more details on this later, reptilian overlord permitting.

Tort plz lemme do some nerd shit here I’ll help u conlang an alphabet!

The ruffling of a sheet of paper fills the air as the strangely clad woman sets herself down with a slight grunt, followed by the dim sound of a sword scabbard thumping against the floor. The cracking of someone’s mouth opening, then closing, then opening again. “And you are wanting to ask me questions why, again?” 

Her words come slowly, and are stilted, thickly accented, as though only just recently learned and poorly practiced. Certainly, she is not from here. Not from *anywhere* near here. The strange black material in her face and adorning small parts of her body, the contraption strapped securely to a strange pouch on her thigh, the sword and scabbard made of materials wholly unrecognizeable. That enough was sufficient to mark her as an anomaly - but the two large, white, foxlike ears that protruded from the top of her head, and the nine large white fox tails that trailed behind her, unlike anything else seen before, only added further mystery to her origins. She looked almost human, were it not for those ears, those tails, the odd color of her eyes…

“I had questions for you, newcomer.” Comes another voice, and the sound of shuffling paper fills the room again. “You’re clearly not from here. If what I’ve heard is to be believed, not from this world. So what are you? Where are you from? Why are you here?”

The woman sighs, “Hoshitsune Fumiko, Commander, Yatovinan Aerospace Forces, serial number 5-81- [UNTRANSLATEABLE]. Look, I do not know, yes? I am just as confused as you. Can I go?”

“What do you most want, then?”

“To find out what [UNTRANSLATEABLE] happened to me. Failing that? I just want to find place here, getting home is not option.”

“Would you consider yourself more lawful or chaotic, and would you consider yourself more good or evil?”

The woman laughs, “What? [UNTRANSLATEABLE] is this question? I- fine. Lawful Neutral or Lawful Evil? We need structure. We need order. I fight- fought, for order and peace. I have done bad things. Things I think at time were good? I still think are good? But I do not sleep well. Is it evil to kill a hundred innocent people to end a war sooner? If it saves a thousand, or ten thousand others, is it okay? You can decide.”

“Three likes?”
“I- okay. Learning new things, fresh baked bread, naps.”

“Three dislikes?”
“Stupid questions, quantitative analysis, selfish people, overcooked vege- that is four, my apologies.”

“Do you follow your heart or your mind?”
“My mind. Hundreds are dead because I follow my mind. Thousands w- this language is hard. Thousands are alive because I did not follow my heart. I follow my mind to understand universe, understand cause and effect, I let my heart decide less important things.”

“Worst fear?”
“Forgetting my children’s voices, forgetting sight of snow covered mountains in Kamita, forgetting smell of seared tonbama. Never seeing home again. Losing who I am. Forgetting.”

“Favorite color?”
“Emerald. Or red.”

“What animal are you most like?”
Fumiko simply grins, large shiny white canine teeth glinting in the light as her eyes glimmer with foxlike mischief. “Is it not obvious?” After a moment, she adds, “A raven.”

“Favorite time of day?”
“Midnight. Before I joined military, I liked to go to roof and look at stars and listen to sound of generator humming in bac- nevermind. Or afternoon. Is an excellent time for naps.”

“How do you dress?”
“You mean, when I am not in pilot suit? What I will wear here as time goes on? Probably something soft, with many pockets. Something soft and fluffy to go around my neck.” She rubs the lining of her suit, visibly made of an incredibly soft and comfortable material. “I will be sad when this is wo- you have mending magics yes? Perhaps I will not need to!”

“Favorite season?”
“Oh yes, seasons! We did not have these in my part of world back home. Just eternal nuclear winter. Sun is dead you see an- nevermind. Winter.”

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
“That is question with very long, very complicated answer. Technically, I am spirit myself, yes? Possessing empty human body, altered,” she gestures to her ears, and to her tails, “by my presence in it. But I will save long answer for later. I do not worship any gods, here or back home. But I miss spirits of home, and spirit of my ship. He was kind.”
@Lady Lascivious

The reptilian overlord will permit it.

Approved. Drop in the char tab, whatevers. 

Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Antediluvixen

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Antediluvixen Kemonomimi Dystopia Creator

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Antediluvixen

Kemonomimi Dystopia Creator

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<Snipped quote by Lady Lascivious>

The reptilian overlord will permit it.

Approved. Drop in the char tab, whatevers.@Tortoise

HURRAH TIME FOR NERD SHIT 

<3

1x Laugh

Hidden 5 mos ago → 5 mos ago Post by Expendable

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Expendable The Certifiable

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Expendable

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@TortoiseI'd like to bring in a group. 

Name: Justin Tyrell, disposed prince.

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan: 
Human, 22, 7 days.

Appearance: 
This aristocratic gentleman puts you in mind of a fierce wolf. He has deep-set eyes the color of the midnight sky. His silky, straight, jet black hair is neck-length and is worn in a pageboy style. He is tall and has a masculine build. He has small ears and wide feet. His wardrobe is professional, mostly tan and lincoln green.
Justin grew up in the small kingdom of Vultzberg, mostly known for its ancient roads and hard cider. As far as historians can determine, the people who lived there before built really good roads, then one day decided to use them. 

The small kingdom was surprisingly well-off, thanks to various mines, but the prince realized everyone had grown to expect rather lavish presents for even minor things, which made him scowl. About the only person who never asked him for anything was his cousin Catherine, whose family had a farm. They had to struggle a bit, but they seem to be genuinely happy.

During his mother's funeral, he overheard two boys wondering what sort of present they were going to get for attending. Prince Justin lost it, swearing at them with words that even made the guards blush, and his cousin Catherine seated next to him wanting to crawl away in mortification. Someone tagged him, "Bad Prince Justin" and it stuck.

The king sent him off to college in the neighboring kingdom of Ohmskrieg, hoping some time away would make people forget. However, following the king's accidential encounter with a pitch fork two years later, Justin returned to find the bandit Ned trying to rob his poor cousin on the border and a kingdom in turmoil. Even his cousin was acting strangely, asking him to meet in odd places and then pretend he caught her.

His father's fortune teller, Siri, assured him it would all be sorted out soon, but the Bandit Ned, working with one or two of the guards, was digging a tunnel into the castle's strongroom to rob the treasury. Because he wouldn't know who to trust, she suggested he move what he could to his room in the castle without telling anyone. Ned, she assured him, would be caught, but he might hide the loot so he needed to move the gold now.

Using a secret locked passage between the strongroom and a storeroom, he transfered a good part of the kingdom's gold to several chests and had them brought up to his room, saying he had to pack away some old clothes. However, the servants also brought up a creepy chained iron coffer that his father had shown him once. The king had made him practice saying one of the words engraved on the lid in a certain way until he was satisfied, promising someday to explain it all as he handed him a small key. 

It was then he noticed his cousin Catherine was outside his window, seated in a sling being lowered to the castle walls below, in full view of half the kingdom. He went down to ask her what was going on, she just smiled and waved at the guards above to haul her back up.

Returning to the fortune teller, he told her of his cousin's last antics, the fortune teller assured him everything would be explained soon, but the temple was retiring her that night, so it would be a week before the next fortune teller would arrive. Confused by this, he returned to the castle only to be captured by the guards and spent the night in a cell. The next morning, bound and gagged, he was brought to the throne room to see his cousin Catherine be crowned as Voltzberg's new queen, and her first order was to order Bad Prince Justin's exile for all the terrible things he did to the kingdom and her person, much to his confusion. 

Guards dragged him outside to a pair of wagons loaded with the chests from his room, including the iron coffer, but most of the guards were called back when one of them came out screaming someone had dug their way into the treasury. At the dock, he was placed on board the same ship the fortune teller was on, smiling when she saw him being dragged aboard, and the key to his bonds given to the captian, on orders not to release him until after the ship was well away from the kingdom.

When he was unbound, he demanded to know if she had set this all up, but Siri explained she became aware of the actions of others and simply took advantage of them to ensure Justin's safe escape into exile. Did he really want to fight his ingrateful people to get his kingdom back? If there was any hope for him, he needed to build up some good relations with the common people, and what better way than to offer his skills in service to the common folk? Slaying monsters, rescuing princesses, that sort of thing.

Personality: 
Catherine's betrayal has shaken him to the core, and truthfully he's a little leary about Lucia Craft, as he has no idea what to expect next - and is afraid to ask.
He does speak of the strange and insideous spread of coffee houses throught the kingdom of Ohmskrieg, but unsure what it means.
Motivation: 
Justin wants to travel a bit before he decides to settle down, as what little he knows comes from books, as he's only lived in Volksberg and Ohmskrieg. And that as long as they keep moving, he's not as likely to run into any assassins Catherine might send after him.
Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools: 
Skills:
Swordmanship (Advanced), Bow (Advanced), Crossbow (Average), Animal Handling & Horsemanship (Advanced), Field Tactics (Average), Field Wound Dressing (Basic), Athletics (Advanced), Dancing (Advanced), Singing (Average), Musical Instruments (Advanced), Draw and Paint (Average), Gambling (Average), Languages (Average), Accounting (Advanced), World History (Average), Basic Mechanics (Basic), Diplomacy (Basic)
Strengths: Strong body, good education, wealth
Weaknesses: Tends to say what he thinks, needs to work on developing his diplomatic skills.
Tools:
Armor, sword, bow, crossbow
His wagon (pulled by horses)
The wagon shared by the priestess and the apothecary (pulled by horses)
The cook's wagon (pulled by oxen and cows)
The supply wagon (pulled by oxen)
The drivers' wagon (pulled by oxen)
Strong boxes are in the prince's and the apothecary's wagons, the bulk of his fortune is deposited at a trading house in the Floating City and he bears a letter of credit hidden behind a secret panel.
What They Most Want: 

Their kingdom back, or a place to settle down and call their own.
If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: 

Lawfull neutral.
Three Likes: 

Interesting company
A good sword and horse.
Lucia Craft
Three Dislikes: 

Coffee shops (The drink is bitter and yet shops seem to be popping up everywhere...)
Bandits (they're everywhere and think they're big bads.)
Greedy beggers.
Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: 

Bit of both.
Worst Fear: 

Clowns. There's something... unnatural about them. False painted smiles, eyes filled with anger, sadness, or misery, deadpan delivery of jokes.
Favorite Color: 

Lincoln green
Most Like The Animal: 

A wolf.
Favorite Time of Day: 

The evening, when the heat of the day is gone and the stars appear above.
How They Dress: 

When not wearing his field plate mail or his training leathers, he's usually wearing a checkered leather beret of lincoln green and tan checks, a lincoln green tunic, a slashed tan dublet, a tanned leather jerkin, tanned leather codpiece, tanned leather gloves, lincoln green breeches, off-white hose, and tanned brown boots. (Lucia has promised the next time they find a decent tailor...)
A black leather swords belt with a belt pouch and a dagger in a sheath.
Favorite Season: 

Spring, when the world becomes new again.
What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): 

The Wanderer, as he feels like a fool set adrift in this world.


Lucia Craft
Race, Age, Time in the Caravan: 
Human, 21, 7 days

Appearance: 
This lady puts you in mind of a clever stage magician. She has almond-shaped grass-green eyes. Her luxurious, curly, gold hair is neck-length and is worn in a messy short bob. There is a small burn spot on her head, above her right ear, usually covered with hair. She is short and has a muscular build. Her skin is deeply tanned. She has nearly-nonexistent eyebrows and small feet. Her wardrobe is basic, with a lot of red and gold.

History: 
Lucia was born a traveler in a field on the side of the road. Her family were entertainers, they would play instruments and her mother would dance for the crowd, while her grandfather sold medicines and his grandmother told fortunes. Some of the stories she's overhear in her grandmother's tent led to a lot of questions, afterward. Like, is that really the proper way of using a tea cozy?

She was nine when one night, her family's living wagon caught fire. When they couldn't get out the door, her grandmother pushed her unconscious body through a window to the villagers outside, saving her life. When she finally woke three days later, were no sign of the other travelers.

One of the villagers put her on a mule, and took her to a monastery. The monks took her in, and tested her, as they tested all children that was brought to them. There was something about her they liked, so they began training her in the arcane and secret mysteries of fortune telling (and intelligence gathering), while stressing the need for her to remain pure, least it affect her gift.

When it was time, the monks put her on a boat with several brother monks, and they traveled to Voltzberg to set up a new temple. Much of her mornings were spent in listening to the stories the monks had gathered from the previous day, then breathing in the smoke and vapors from pots filled with burning 'herbs' while she stare d into a large crystal ball, her mind weaving a pattern she could then share with clients. Only the most important clients could be in the chamber with her, watching as Lucia recited prophecy after prophecy.
The monks made a killing in the Voltzberg stock market.

One of her first clients was the king, who had recently lost his wife of many years, and had an angry son name Justin. There was a thread there, barely noticeable, but it led her to telling the king to send his son away, to college, to study.

A few of the kingdom's ladies of the evening would seek her advice, and shared with her many secrets and techniques, the later she would sparingly share with other clients in need.

Over time, she uncovered several troubling threads that suggested the prince would be in danger should Justin return. But shortly after his father died (not responsible for the fate of those who do not listen!), she came face to face with the prince when Justin came to air his troubles, and she realized she wanted this one to escape the web of lies about to engulf him - and he was very handsome.

As fortune favored, she retired in the evening of Justin's arrest, and was waiting at the ship when Justin, bound and gagged, along with several chests, wound up aboard the same ship.
Personality: 
A friendly nudist who is very comfortable in her own skin, but has some loose clothing to wear when she must venture from the wagon.
Very curious, she tends to ask a lot of questions. 
Motivation: 
After being cooped up in a monastery and then a temple, she's looking for some new adventures on the road now that she's finally free.
Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools: 
Very observant and a ready listener. Her mind is quick to create connections. Loves playing with children, she's sometimes mistaken for a child herself. Can climb and swim like a fish.
She can read and write a couple languages. Knows the tarot and can do cold readings.
The occasional wardrobe misfunction.
The monks were very keen on the martial arts, she knows how to chop, block, throw, and rip off ears. Can throw knives and stars.
Crystal ball helps to give her a focus that allows her to find the connections, but a mirror or even a clear puddle works. She's also gets the occasional hint from the universe.
She can see spirits, possibly something to do with her near death experience as a child.
What They Most Want: 

To travel and see new sights.
If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: 

chaotic good
Three Likes: 

Sleeping in a sunny spot
Chocolate
Coffee
Three Dislikes: 

Snowstorms
People who do not listen.
People who take out their fears on others.
Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: 

Yes.
Worst Fear: 

Being trapped inside a burning structure. It still gives her nightmares.
Favorite Color: 

Yellow, it's so warm.
Most Like The Animal: 

A cat, seeing all, sharing its affections to those it trusts.
Favorite Time of Day: 

The middle of a day, when everything is warm.
How They Dress: 

A straw hat, loose robes that are tied or a tunic, black breeches, sandles. 
Favorite Season: 

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

The Wanderer, patron god of all travelers.


Name: Mahari Vrargerelde

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan: 
Human, 27, 7 days

Appearance: 
This solem lady has beady brown eyes that are like two tiger-eye gems. Her luxurious, wavy, long hair is the color of varnished wood, and is worn in a complex style. She is tall and has a lithe build. Her skin is cream-colored. She has high cheekbones and a large mouth. Her wardrobe is severe and no-nonsense, with a lot of black.

History: 
Parents Mojorvar and Selriha immigrated to Ohmzkrieg before Mahari was born, settling down in an apothecary shop in the port city of Sarvin. Her mother, Selriha, ran off with a sailor when Mahari was six and her brother Mahmar was four, abandoning them.

She was sixteen when Rhadum Belad came to town, and impressed her with her knowledge of herbs. He began to teach her in secret in the arts of Opheric, impressed on how quickly her talents grew. 

Her brother, however, saw her leaving Belad's house one night and told their father. Mojorvar became insensed and wouldn't listen to her explanations, calling her a slut like her mother and threw her out of the house. Belad, her mentor, took her in, but Mojorvar and Mahmar would throw insults at them any time they ran into them. Belad and Mahari left soon after for the Floating City.

To keep up appearances, she took a job in an apothecary shop and a bed in a bording house, while he set up a quiet office, producing various mana-based artifacts and potions that he discretely sold to various shops. When he was satisfied with her training, she also began turning out her own.  A year later, her mentor explained it was time for him to move on, and that she should consider it herself.

By shear accident, she ran into her mother, now Captain Selriha Qiem. It took a few months, but eventually she conviced Mahari to join her as ship's physician. While she had a few flings, and a few adventures, stories were being spread about some of some magical events she wanted to keep quiet. When she met Lucia, a retiring fortune teller, and her just exiled boyfriend, former Prince Justin Tyrell, the fortune teller convinced her it was time to travel a different road where she might be able to practice her gifts to a larger audience.
Personality: 
Mahari is quietly reserved, a professional apothecary and doctor when needed, while practicing her arts in private. 

Motivation: 
Trying to put some separation between herself and the sea, perhaps find someone who can share her life.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools: 
Skills: Doctor (expert), Herbologist (expert with most plants), Orphic practionioner of the Line of Vunzobre (Advanced). 
Strengths: courage and fortitude, a fighter.
Weaknesses: Self-doubt in social situations. 
Tools: her wand, her tome of magic in a protective case, her personal lexicon, a pouch holding potion vials, Pen & Ink holder, her doctor's kit, her apothecary kit, her distilling stand.
What They Most Want: 

Someone to share their life with
If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: 

Lawful neutral
Three Likes: 

Petrichor - the earthy, musky smell that comes after rain has fallen on ground that has been dry for a long time.
Flowing plants
Animals
Three Dislikes: 

Abusive men
Suffering of others
Greed
Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: 

They follow their heart more than they should
Worst Fear: 

Being helpless
Favorite Color: 

Yellow
Most Like The Animal: 

A dog

Favorite Time of Day: 

Morning, when all the possibilities are fresh in the day
How They Dress: 

A yellow head scarf and a peasant's blouse with a brown leather bodice and a green peasant skirt, brown boots, green hose, and a ring leather belt. her
Favorite Season: 

Autumn, when the heat of summer starts to fade.
What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): 

She pays lip service to the Orphic trickster god of the hunt, the Old Wolf.


Name: Sister Mara (Marianna de Roet) 
Race, Age, Time in the Caravan: 
Human, 25, 7 days

Appearance: 
This reserved woman has deep-set eyes the color of burnished iron. Her thick, curly, very short hair is the color of desert sand, and is styled as a mop crop. She has a wiry build. Her skin is tan.

History: 
Agathe and Trym de Roet were court advisors to the former king of the island kingdom of Nouvia. Marianna, their only  daughter, was promised at a young age in marriage to the eldest son, Prince Emanuele Sulayman. Initally warm, his attentions began to cool noticibly as diplomatic negotiations began between Nouvia and the Aphucaevaria Empire.
When it became time to formally receive their ambassador, he brought with him Princess Astrid Feta'u, the third daughter of the Emperor, a stunning dark haired and tanned beauty dressed in fine silks suggesting curves under their translucent panels that drew every mans' eye. When she was introduced to the king, Astrid offered him a pastry she had made herself. The king asked Marianna for a sip of water to clear his palette, then took a bite of the pastry and swallowed. A sudden change came over the king, he began to cramp, his face red and swollen while his breath became labored. Immediately, there were cries of poison - but the Astrid swiftly retrieved the rest of the pastry and ate it completely - with no ill effect.
By the time the court physician reached him, the king was dead. Angrily, Prince Emanuele smacked the goblet out of Marianna's hand and accused her of poisoning the king, his father. He then ordered guards to arrest her and her parents, and to take them immediately to the White Tower, a stronghold now used as a royal prison - and execution site.
However, when the guard escort reached the royal pier, they were suddenly set on by men wearing hoods. One of them managed to get Marianna away, revealing himself to be her elder brother Ádomás. He dragged her to another pier where five cogs waited - and her tutor, Catavignus the Wanderer. Shoving her aboard, he called out that Catavignus would explain everything as the five sailing ships cast off their lines and headed for the harbor entrance. 
Once they were free, the five ships scattered in different directions.
Catavignus explained her parents had become suspicious with meetings between the empire's negotiator and the prince. They had prepared to secure the king against a sudden attack, with plans to get her and the prince to safety. She told the Wanderer about what had happened, and he said it was probably not a poison, but a severe allergic reaction - which explained why the Princess had so readily ate the pastry afterward.
He explained he was to hide her, and offered her a magic satchel her brother had prepared for her, able to hold as much as a room in so tiny a space. However, Catavignus explained that with the prince now looking for her, it necessitated a new strategy. He then shaved her head and made her an initiate Wanderer, Sister Metilia.
Catavignus used his contacts in the Floating City to sell her clothes, then they left the city so that he could begin her education in the Ways of the Road, so that others would accept her as one of them. The few messages they got back were grim, the Empire had absorbed Nouvia, with Emanuele now wedded. Her father had died, and her mother and brothers were in hiding. And there was now a price on her head.
An assassin, posing as another messenger, managed to gravely wound Catavignus before they managed to kill him. The Wanderer told Marianna to change her name, her hair, and to take to the road for her own safety.

Personality: 
While she smiles and helps without complaint, she's clearing holding back a great sadness deep within her. Oddly enough, she seems to be happiest when repairing shoes.

Motivation: 
Safety in numbers, never staying long in one place.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools: 
Martial Arts - She can do kicks, blocks, throws, and chops. Sometimes they connect.  Watching her do kata makes people think it's some weird exercise.
Quarterstaff - She can do some damage. 
Sling - She can do some damage from a fair distance. 
Herbology - Just the basics. Still has to look stuff up in her lexicon.
Bandaging and suturing - she does a very good job of it, even use the boiled shaft of a feather as a drain (a Nouvia specialty)
Cobbering - able to repair shoes
Prayer - she offers prayers when she is in need to the Wanderer. Sometimes they are granted.
What They Most Want: 

Security
If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: 

Chaotic Good
Three Likes: 

The laughter of children
Rain falling after a hot day
A warm spot to sleep for the night
Three Dislikes: 

Screams of pain
Bandits
Those who would do evil
Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: 

Their heart
Worst Fear: 

To be imprisoned
Favorite Color: 

Yellow
Most Like The Animal: 

The fox

Favorite Time of Day: 

Evening, when people start to relax after the heat of the day
How They Dress: 

A green cloak, a tan tunic, dark breeches, and sandals. She carries a sack on a pole with a pad cushioning where it rests on her shoulder, while the other holds a quarterstaff.
Favorite Season: 

Summer it's full of promise
What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): 

The Wanderer


Name: Ciannait Duanei


Race, Age, Time in the Caravan: 
Dark Elf Vampire of the line of Dubhghlass, 247, 7 days
Dark elves are of dark skin, charcoal or bluish-gray, typically subterrainian dwellers. They have incredible darkvision and hearing. In the past, they've raided farms and small villages, something few are willing to forget, even today, and dispised by other elves. Especially feared was the Dark elvish pirate Capt. Blackeye Rattlebones, who some claim still roves the seas. 
Appearance: 
This girl reminds you of a dangerous spider. She has almond-shaped eyes the color of blood. Her fine, straight, neck-length hair is the color of fine china, and is worn in a severe style. She is tall and has a lithe build. Her skin is a bluish-gray. She has thick eyebrows, pointed ears, and thin lips. 

On her chest is an ancient slave brand, marking her as the property of House Donovani.

History: 
Born to Brianan and Saibh Duanei when the warmth was just returning to the world, her father worked as a gardener to a wealthy family in the capital of Ohmskrieg. Previous in life, he had been a sea captain with many jilted ex-lovers. 

When Cian was ten, her parents discovered her ability to mimic other people's voices, providing some hours of entertainment.

She was fourteen when an occasional night visitor of her father's pressed a map and a note into her hands to give to him, telling her he would be in the ruins outside of town. On reading the note, Brianan turned pale, then gave her some coins to take to him, and bolted as soon as she was out of sight. When Cian gave the man the coins, town guards rushed in and captured them both. She was hauled in front of the sheriff, who ordered her enslaved for aiding a pirate.

At the slave market, she was surprised to be purchased by an elegant woman, Mor Donovani, who she soon discovered was the chief advisor to the Vultzberg king. On her arrival to her house in the capital, she learned she was to be an attendant to Mor's courtesans,  until she was of age to join them. Part of that included telling Mor everything she could gleam from the courtesans' time with the guests. Impressed with her attention to details, she had her taught as a scribe, so she could write up the reports from the courtesans.

When she became one of the courtesans, a frequent guest, however, tormented her whenever he visited. One night, she struck back at Neasan Hyland and attempted to escape, but was easily captured and beaten by the guards. Mor was furious, and had her branded on the chest, forever marking Cian as her property. 

After she recovered, Mor escorted Cian personally to the rooms of Dughlas Dubhghlass, a very important guest. However, it turned out that Dughlas was not desiring companionship, he was merely... thirsty. He turned her, that night, gifting the young vampire back to her unknowing mistress. 

Cian was 'sick' for days, then when she was deemed ready, her unfortunate first guest was Neasan, eager to get his revenge for his previous visit. Attendants before dawn found him drained to the last drop and Cian passed out in a stupor. 

A witch in debt to Mor used the seal of the Dead God to hold her in place as she put a geas on Cian so she would obey Mor or her lieutenants' commands, and an iron casket built to hold the new vampire, which was placed in a crypt in the city's graveyard. A servant would come once a week to feed her blood, pouring it into a small bowl on the lid that would drip it into her mouth.

Now and then, Cian would be released by Mor to attack an enemy of the kingdom or of herself, only to be ordered back into the crypt.

After Mor's death, Cian's casket was moved to the castle to safeguard it, to a storeroom adjacent to the caskset strongroom. She was to be the King's weapon of last resort. As before, castle servants secretly fed blood to the sleeping vampire. 

When Prince Justin ordered servants to bring up several chests from the storeroom, her coffer was mistakenly brought up as well.

Personality: 
Cian is lazy and will argue about everything, but is always concerned about her appearance being immaculate and keeping things organized.

Motivation: 
Her coffer was mixed among Prince Justin's things, and was loaded onto the ship. 

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools: 
 Skills: 
She's got the skills and the body to make the night memoriable. Of course now, it's likely to be your last.

If she locks eyes with another, Cian can slowly pull them into a light hypnotic state, able to obey basic commands. However, if contact is lost before that state is achieved, or the subject is shaken or experiences sharp pain, the hypnosis is broken and they wake up.

 Strengths:
With the strength of five men, Cian is able to lift a horse, or she can punch her way through a stone wall.

A side-effect of her strength, she can run flat out five miles in as many minutes - but that does leave her thirsty.

A bite from a vampire of Dubhghlass' line can quickly numb and paralyze their victim, leaving them helpless as the vampire feeds.

Vampires of Dubhghlass' line are unaffected by viruses or bacteria, but it can make the blood taste differently. The black plague gives blood a smoky flavor.

A vampire of Dubhghlass' line can recover from even grave injuries. Small injuries may be completely healed in a few days, a stake in the heart a month or two. Eyes and limbs may take a couple years. It's why vampires of Dubhghlass' line do not age.

A vampire of Dubhghlass' line, even reduced to ash, can be restored with a drop of blood. Cian carries a small vial of blood on her for just this purpose.

It's often believed that a wooden stake driven through the heart of a vampire will kill it. However, with Dubhghlass' line, due to the nature of their cursed blood, you've only pissed them off. Do you know how hard it is to find a seamstress or tailor willing to work after dark?

 Weaknesses: 
A word in an ancient language was engraved into the lid of her iron coffin, among others. On hearing that word, she must obey any command given to her. However, pronunciation is important.

When a vampire of Dubhghlass' line is exposed to full sunlight,  their flesh will start to smoke. After a few moments, their flesh catches fire, burning them to ash if they are unable to find shelter or a body of water.

While a vampire of Dubhghlass' line can hibernate for many years after a heavy feeding, an active vampire must feed on a pint of blood at least once a week to maintain its strength. Blood from a heavy drinker or habitual drug user will affect the vampire as well. If starved for blood, a vampire can become a wild thing, driven by its unquenchable thirst. The smell of blood can be mildly intoxicating, one has to guard their reaction around minor cuts.
A vampire of Dubhghlass' line also can also consume a living victim's life force as it drinks, converting it naturally into Orphic mana, which it stores.

A vampire of Dubhghlass' line can drink water, wine, tea, and coffee, or eat bloody meat, but most food tastes incredibly foul to them. For the unprepared, they can become violently ill.

Lactose intolerant.

Possibly because she's trapped between Death and Life, or maybe it's insanity, but she sometimes see creatures and things that others say are not there. Sometimes they talk to her.

 Tools: 
A small medallion that resembles (yet isn't) lead, bearing the ancient mark of the Dead God. It feeds constantly on magic, or perhaps the soul? It makes the skin crawl if one gets within an arm's length. To wear one is an almost unbearable torture. There are three on Cian's iron casket, making her an invalid while inside, barely able to move. Wearing one on a necklace leaves her weak.

This heavy metal coffin has chains to keep it locked up, preventing Cian's escape and allowing her to be safely transported, with three clips securing the Dead God's seals on the lid. A shallow bowl in the lid allows blood to drip into her mouth.

Leather armor
A satchel containing a small sharp scalpel, a wooden bowl, a handful of make-up brushes, combs, ointments, lip color, blush, a scrubbing cloth, and a leather-wrapped bar of jasmine soap.
What They Most Want: 

Freedom
If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: 

Lawful evil
Three Likes: 

Blood
The smell of Jasmine
A hot bath
Three Dislikes: 

The Dead God's Seal
The Geas
- Vampires of Dubhghlass' line can see themselves in mirrors - they just hate them. To see themselves is an unkind reminder of what they used to be. 
Mirrors also do not reflect glamours cast by her line, so one disguised by such will be revealed if one checks their reflection in a mirror, the forgotten reason why they are often found in entryways.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: 

They do as they're told. 
Worst Fear: 

Crusnik (Krsnik) - Some vampires believe themselves to be on the top of the food chain. They're not. A Crusnik is a type of vampire that preys on vampires. Some can even manipulate their own blood. Having been drained once by Dubhghlass was nightmarish enough, she does not want to experience that again.
Favorite Color: 

Red
Most Like The Animal: 

That is, which animal they are most like- not which one they like the most.
Badger
Favorite Time of Day: 

Midnight
How They Dress: 

Cian wears a strangely repellant metal seal as a pendant on a necklace. A hard tug on the necklace will cause it to break away, she is forbidden from removing the seal herself.

Her wardrobe is a dark hooded woolen cloak, leather armor styled in some ancient pattern, and an adventurer's satchel, with pockets along its wide strap.

Favorite Season: 

Winter. The cold no longer bothers her and the nights are longer.
What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): 

None.


As explained in Justin's post, there are five wagons:
The prince & fortune teller's wagon (pulled by horses)
The wagon shared by the priestess and the apothecary (pulled by horses)
The cook's wagon (pulled by oxen and cows)
The supply wagon (pulled by oxen) (carries the vampire's iron coffer)
The drivers' wagon (pulled by oxen)

Let me know if you need details about the cook or drivers. The prince's retinue are all female, selected by Lucia.

Hidden 5 mos ago Post by OliveYou

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Sorry again for being so terribly slow to post... I just don't know where my motivation/inspiration went. 

@Overlord Thraka I'm afraid I've kept you from all the fun. Please feel free to drop the interaction with Lynn and have some fun with skeletons or alien foxes or whatnot :D

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Hidden 5 mos ago → 5 mos ago Post by OddnessApproved

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OddnessApproved I'm passionate about hating people.

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@Tortoise I suppose that I will throw myself into this if you are still accepting that is, are you? 

Edit: I'll place these here. 

Birch Bayberry “Cricket” Pluma Oakenstorm



Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
The clan of the fungi! — Yes, I am a part of the mushroom clan… — Cricket, as she introduces herself, comes from a clan of fairies that dedicate their lives to healing the ecosystems of the earth. She is roughly 120, meaning she is practically a young adult in fairy terms. How long has she been a part of the caravan? Roughly 11,250 years — or — one human year.  

Appearance:
Pictures do not do everything! Cricket is roughly 5 and a half inches tall and weighs slightly over a half pound. You will never see her without her staff that has oyster mushrooms on it (non-toxic), and her outfit usually matches that type of mushroom. 

History:
Cricket grew up in a specific fairy clan that dealt with fungi and other vegetation of the woodlands. (More may be added in the future?) 

Personality:
Cricket could be considered “one of a kind” when it comes to her personality. Most think of fairies to be proper things, maybe? She is not proper… Somewhat loud when it comes to it. She is spunky, quick-witted, and constantly going off a whim. She tends to follow her heart, but she is always arguing with it, because of her brain. Some might consider her weird to a point. You can catch the tiny humanoid talking to herself upon decision-making and sometimes just for fun. A little strange – wouldn’t you say?
All in all, she is considered a tomboy. 

Motivation:
Cricket never felt like she completely fit into her clan, back home, so she decided to leave on a whim one day. She was looking for somewhere to fit in, at least a little better, so you could say that she allows her heart to pull her along with the wind. A reason she joined the caravan was out of being a misfit but desiring adventure, something new, and an experience. 

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Cricket grew up in the forests and wildlife, so she tends to have a lot of use – ful or less — knowledge when it comes to flora, fauna, and specifically fungi. 
Fairy Ring Creation
Healing — Would fall under the advanced level or beginner levels. 

Aromatherapy: To heal using scents, fragrances, or perfumes.

Herbalism: To heal using medicinal plants, fungi, minerals, animal parts, etc., often through magic.

Nature Empowerment
Clairsentience: can sense the energy that radiates from the soul of a creature or living thing. 
Transmorph: Can only turn into different types of fungi to hide. 
Fairy Dust Manipulation
Nature Manipulation

Specifically, Fungus Manipulation

Vulnerabilities/weaknesses/etc…: 
— Iron: harmful, being pierced with iron can be fatal. Iron clashing together, no matter if it is swords or bells, can cause this little fairy to become dizzy or nauseous. 
— Silver (can burn her) 
— If someone pours sugar or salt (or sometimes sand) in front of Cricket, she impulsively has to count each grain till she is done counting. 
— Cream (aka fairy alcohol) 
— Poppy seed extract: causes Cricket to faint or be very drowsy. 

What They Most Want: Pretty rocks.

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

Three Likes:
— Rocks and fungi 
— Buttons
— Sugar 
Three Dislikes:
— Iron: smells like rotten eggs 
— Rue, St. John's wort, and yarrow (anti-fairy herbs)
— Lies 
Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: Heart 110%

Worst Fear: Iron

Favorite Color: Carrot 

Most Like The Animal:
A dog, specifically a golden retriever

Favorite Time of Day: Dawn and Dusk 

How They Dress: Like a homeless person or hermit — give or take.

Favorite Season: Spring and Fall 

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Gods? Deities? Spirits!! Pffttt! — who needs those? Those are real? I mean... they are kind of cool, I guess. Please don't smite me. I was just joking when I said you aren't needed. 


Virro



Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Virro’s homeland is known to be the Feywild, with extremely remote origins. He’s roughly 225 in age and has been with the caravan for about five decades.

Appearance:
Virro stands an inch or two over seven feet and weighs somewhere around 270 pounds. He is a slender and lengthy individual with lean muscles. Even though he is tall and weighs a decent amount, he would be considered to have a petite skeletal frame for his species.

History:
Like most of his species, he grew up in a democratic tribe. Their ways can be considered bizarre to others — humans — as common practice in his tribe was to exile ones who caused forest fires (even accidentally) or brought harm to any animals, especially of rarity. When Virro was a youngling, he experienced the wrath of forest fires from an uncareful member of the tribe — learning how to distance himself from other individuals at a young age.
Virro stayed in his community for roughly forty-five years before going off on his own. Deciding to take the path of a hermit and learn the ways of the druid. He went out into the forest to find his way and learn from the natural world. Loneliness became addicting and Virro lived this singular lifestyle for around one-hundred years before departing from the Feywilds. He made his way into the outer world, traveling the vast world around him and experiencing the outside world for thirty years before meeting the caravan. He has been traveling with the caravan since.

Personality:
More often than not, Virro keeps himself in a middle-latitude zone. Constantly being indifferent but rational and reasonable about the decisions and responses he gives others or himself — these are the foundation for his personality. 
Sometimes it is difficult for even the most strong-minded individual to keep a reasonable mindset and Virro is not an exception. He can be extremely passionate. Showing what he truly cares about. This can lead to him even becoming emotional and showing how sensitive he can be about certain topics. 

Other than his indifferent ways and his sometimes passionate explosions, Virro tends to be a friendly individual. Trying his best to respect everyone, he has a harder time with humans. He sees them as destructive, ignorant, and arrogant. Even with humans, he tries to be polite — his common tongue seems to always stay in a polite and blunt sphere. 

Motivation:


Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Virro knows the common language along with giant and elvish — knowing giant better than any language that he can speak. This might be because his tribe follows the multiple deities that created the species of giants and such. 

Strengths:
— Powerful build: Virro might have a lean build, but he can carry, push, drag, and move a lot more than what he weighs. 
— Transparency: Virro can make himself transparent. This helps him to be unseen in the forest and in times of having to be sneaky. 
— Access to Nature Magic (Energy based):
    → Nature Manipulation
    → Nature Channeling
— Fauna and Flora handling, communication, and friendship: He can speak to the flora and fauna along with having a balanced relationship with most creatures in the forest. He has no language to understand his leafy or furry friends, but he is patient enough to listen to their body language and behavior to know what they need or want. 
— Advanced and diverse knowledge of the natural world 
— Proficiencies with a bow and arrow, knives, and daggers.
— Wild-based cooking (venison, wild root vegetables, etc…) 
—  Medical knowledge of wrapping, bandaging, splinting, stitches, and invasive-based procedures. All based on experiences from what he had to do on himself (no formal experience). 

Vulnerabilities/weaknesses/etc…: 
— Consumption: This could be considered a weakness when food is scarce. It takes at least twice as much food a day to keep Virro functioning. A common thing with his kind or species his size.
— Extremely honest to a fault. Anyone — even someone that has the smarts of a box of rocks — could catch Virro lying. For some reason, his kind becomes physically uncomfortable upon lying even by omission. A few tell-tales of him lying are fidgeting, pacing, no eye contact, and massaging his torso, arm, or where it hurts the most from lying. 
— Decision-making when it comes to the forest (animals or plants especially of rarity) and anything else. He might choose a kelpie over you.
— The ashes of Ashwood can be used in many ways to default Virro into a bad situation (and others of his species). It can be used as a poison in food or drink, becoming fatal if consumed. If the ashes are poured in a thick line, Virro cannot cross it. Meaning one could trap themselves into a circle that Virro cannot break or cross to get to the other. 
— Like much different fey, iron is known to be a weakness for certain species. Natural healing appears to not be suitable when recovering from the cut or pierced flesh by iron. This can become fatal and magical healing is recommended, infection has a higher chance of spreading and killing him without unnatural ways of recovery.

Tools and inventory: 
— Two twin daggers 
— A book mixed of experience: herbology, fauna, flora, recipes, songs, certain spells, and more 
— Pan flute (knows how to play, has been playing since he was a kid)   
— Bow and a handful of arrows

What They Most Want: Protection and safety for the fauna, flora, and all of the wild.

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

Three Likes:
— Tea 
— Soup
— Meditation. Alone time. Peacefulness. Quietness.  
Three Dislikes:
— Individuals who lack empathy for the fauna, flora, or ones who need it. 
— Negative energy 
Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: He is always debating with the two, but he tries to stay reasonable.

Worst Fear: Forest fires (PTSD from childhood trauma with a forest fire) 

Favorite Color: Forest greens, browns, tans, and natural colors 

Most Like The Animal:
unknown

Favorite Time of Day: undecided

How They Dress: A traveler of the forest

Favorite Season: Any

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Virro follows under the goddess Iallanis, the goddess of peace and mercy. He knows his people’s origins to be derived from the goddess Othea having an affair with the god Ulutiu. 

Theme song
Battle theme music

Hidden 5 mos ago Post by Tortoise

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@Tortoise I suppose that I will throw myself into this if you are still accepting that is, are you? 

Edit: I'll place these here. 

Birch Bayberry “Cricket” Pluma Oakenstorm



Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
The clan of the fungi! — Yes, I am a part of the mushroom clan… — Cricket, as she introduces herself, comes from a clan of fairies that dedicate their lives to healing the ecosystems of the earth. She is roughly 120, meaning she is practically a young adult in fairy terms. How long has she been a part of the caravan? Roughly 11,250 years — or — one human year.  

Appearance:
Pictures do not do everything! Cricket is roughly 5 and a half inches tall and weighs slightly over a half pound. You will never see her without her staff that has oyster mushrooms on it (non-toxic), and her outfit usually matches that type of mushroom. 

History:
Cricket grew up in a specific fairy clan that dealt with fungi and other vegetation of the woodlands. (More may be added in the future?) 

Personality:
Cricket could be considered “one of a kind” when it comes to her personality. Most think of fairies to be proper things, maybe? She is not proper… Somewhat loud when it comes to it. She is spunky, quick-witted, and constantly going off a whim. She tends to follow her heart, but she is always arguing with it, because of her brain. Some might consider her weird to a point. You can catch the tiny humanoid talking to herself upon decision-making and sometimes just for fun. A little strange – wouldn’t you say?
All in all, she is considered a tomboy. 

Motivation:
Cricket never felt like she completely fit into her clan, back home, so she decided to leave on a whim one day. She was looking for somewhere to fit in, at least a little better, so you could say that she allows her heart to pull her along with the wind. A reason she joined the caravan was out of being a misfit but desiring adventure, something new, and an experience. 

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Cricket grew up in the forests and wildlife, so she tends to have a lot of use – ful or less — knowledge when it comes to flora, fauna, and specifically fungi. 
Fairy Ring Creation
Healing — Would fall under the advanced level or beginner levels. 

Aromatherapy: To heal using scents, fragrances, or perfumes.

Herbalism: To heal using medicinal plants, fungi, minerals, animal parts, etc., often through magic.

Nature Empowerment
Clairsentience: can sense the energy that radiates from the soul of a creature or living thing. 
Transmorph: Can only turn into different types of fungi to hide. 
Fairy Dust Manipulation
Nature Manipulation

Specifically, Fungus Manipulation

Vulnerabilities/weaknesses/etc…: 
— Iron: harmful, being pierced with iron can be fatal. Iron clashing together, no matter if it is swords or bells, can cause this little fairy to become dizzy or nauseous. 
— Silver (can burn her) 
— If someone pours sugar or salt (or sometimes sand) in front of Cricket, she impulsively has to count each grain till she is done counting. 
— Cream (aka fairy alcohol) 
— Poppy seed extract: causes Cricket to faint or be very drowsy. 

What They Most Want: Pretty rocks.

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

Three Likes:
— Rocks and fungi 
— Buttons
— Sugar 
Three Dislikes:
— Iron: smells like rotten eggs 
— Rue, St. John's wort, and yarrow (anti-fairy herbs)
— Lies 
Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: Heart 110%

Worst Fear: Iron

Favorite Color: Carrot 

Most Like The Animal:
A dog, specifically a golden retriever

Favorite Time of Day: Dawn and Dusk 

How They Dress: Like a homeless person or hermit — give or take.

Favorite Season: Spring and Fall 

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Gods? Deities? Spirits!! Pffttt! — who needs those? Those are real? I mean... they are kind of cool, I guess. Please don't smite me. I was just joking when I said you aren't needed. 


Virro



Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Virro’s homeland is known to be the Feywild, with extremely remote origins. He’s roughly 225 in age and has been with the caravan for about five decades.

Appearance:
Virro stands an inch or two over seven feet and weighs somewhere around 270 pounds. He is a slender and lengthy individual with lean muscles. Even though he is tall and weighs a decent amount, he would be considered to have a petite skeletal frame for his species.

History:
Like most of his species, he grew up in a democratic tribe. Their ways can be considered bizarre to others — humans — as common practice in his tribe was to exile ones who caused forest fires (even accidentally) or brought harm to any animals, especially of rarity. When Virro was a youngling, he experienced the wrath of forest fires from an uncareful member of the tribe — learning how to distance himself from other individuals at a young age.
Virro stayed in his community for roughly forty-five years before going off on his own. Deciding to take the path of a hermit and learn the ways of the druid. He went out into the forest to find his way and learn from the natural world. Loneliness became addicting and Virro lived this singular lifestyle for around one-hundred years before departing from the Feywilds. He made his way into the outer world, traveling the vast world around him and experiencing the outside world for thirty years before meeting the caravan. He has been traveling with the caravan since.

Personality:
More often than not, Virro keeps himself in a middle-latitude zone. Constantly being indifferent but rational and reasonable about the decisions and responses he gives others or himself — these are the foundation for his personality. 
Sometimes it is difficult for even the most strong-minded individual to keep a reasonable mindset and Virro is not an exception. He can be extremely passionate. Showing what he truly cares about. This can lead to him even becoming emotional and showing how sensitive he can be about certain topics. 

Other than his indifferent ways and his sometimes passionate explosions, Virro tends to be a friendly individual. Trying his best to respect everyone, he has a harder time with humans. He sees them as destructive, ignorant, and arrogant. Even with humans, he tries to be polite — his common tongue seems to always stay in a polite and blunt sphere. 

Motivation:


Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Virro knows the common language along with giant and elvish — knowing giant better than any language that he can speak. This might be because his tribe follows the multiple deities that created the species of giants and such. 

Strengths:
— Powerful build: Virro might have a lean build, but he can carry, push, drag, and move a lot more than what he weighs. 
— Transparency: Virro can make himself transparent. This helps him to be unseen in the forest and in times of having to be sneaky. 
— Access to Nature Magic (Energy based):
    → Nature Manipulation
    → Nature Channeling
— Fauna and Flora handling, communication, and friendship: He can speak to the flora and fauna along with having a balanced relationship with most creatures in the forest. He has no language to understand his leafy or furry friends, but he is patient enough to listen to their body language and behavior to know what they need or want. 
— Advanced and diverse knowledge of the natural world 
— Proficiencies with a bow and arrow, knives, and daggers.
— Wild-based cooking (venison, wild root vegetables, etc…) 
—  Medical knowledge of wrapping, bandaging, splinting, stitches, and invasive-based procedures. All based on experiences from what he had to do on himself (no formal experience). 

Vulnerabilities/weaknesses/etc…: 
— Consumption: This could be considered a weakness when food is scarce. It takes at least twice as much food a day to keep Virro functioning. A common thing with his kind or species his size.
— Extremely honest to a fault. Anyone — even someone that has the smarts of a box of rocks — could catch Virro lying. For some reason, his kind becomes physically uncomfortable upon lying even by omission. A few tell-tales of him lying are fidgeting, pacing, no eye contact, and massaging his torso, arm, or where it hurts the most from lying. 
— Decision-making when it comes to the forest (animals or plants especially of rarity) and anything else. He might choose a kelpie over you.
— The ashes of Ashwood can be used in many ways to default Virro into a bad situation (and others of his species). It can be used as a poison in food or drink, becoming fatal if consumed. If the ashes are poured in a thick line, Virro cannot cross it. Meaning one could trap themselves into a circle that Virro cannot break or cross to get to the other. 
— Like much different fey, iron is known to be a weakness for certain species. Natural healing appears to not be suitable when recovering from the cut or pierced flesh by iron. This can become fatal and magical healing is recommended, infection has a higher chance of spreading and killing him without unnatural ways of recovery.

Tools and inventory: 
— Two twin daggers 
— A book mixed of experience: herbology, fauna, flora, recipes, songs, certain spells, and more 
— Pan flute (knows how to play, has been playing since he was a kid)   
— Bow and a handful of arrows

What They Most Want: Protection and safety for the fauna, flora, and all of the wild.

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

Three Likes:
— Tea 
— Soup
— Meditation. Alone time. Peacefulness. Quietness.  
Three Dislikes:
— Individuals who lack empathy for the fauna, flora, or ones who need it. 
— Negative energy 
Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: He is always debating with the two, but he tries to stay reasonable.

Worst Fear: Forest fires (PTSD from childhood trauma with a forest fire) 

Favorite Color: Forest greens, browns, tans, and natural colors 

Most Like The Animal:
unknown

Favorite Time of Day: undecided

How They Dress: A traveler of the forest

Favorite Season: Any

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Virro follows under the goddess Iallanis, the goddess of peace and mercy. He knows his people’s origins to be derived from the goddess Othea having an affair with the god Ulutiu. 

Theme song
Battle theme music
@OddnessApproved

Wonderful, we're always accepting! And, as per my promise in the OP, any sheets that were greenlit in the original version are automatically accepted here as well. So your Oddness is Approved. You can drop them in the CHAR tab and start posting whenevers.

I also strongly recommend joining the Discord. All the others are on there, which means that 99% of the planning and discussion about the RP happens exclusively on the Discord Server. You're likely to be a little bit lost without it. discord.gg/5y9EkWyFCW

1x Thank

Hidden 5 mos ago Post by OddnessApproved

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OddnessApproved I'm passionate about hating people.

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<Snipped quote by OddnessApproved>

Wonderful, we're always accepting! And, as per my promise in the OP, any sheets that were greenlit in the original version are automatically accepted here as well. So your Oddness is Approved. You can drop them in the CHAR tab and start posting whenevers.

I also strongly recommend joining the Discord. All the others are on there, which means that 99% of the planning and discussion about the RP happens exclusively on the Discord Server. You're likely to be a little bit lost without it. discord.gg/5y9EkWyFCW@Tortoise

I appreciate that and I might be a little delayed in joining the discord at first but I'll get around to all of it when I post my characters to the character tab and get myself situated (up-to-date with reading all the IC posts).

Hidden 5 mos ago Post by Tortoise

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<Snipped quote by Tortoise>

I appreciate that and I might be a little delayed in joining the discord at first but I'll get around to all of it when I post my characters to the character tab and get myself situated (up-to-date with reading all the IC posts).@OddnessApproved

That's understandable, no rush.

We're almost done in our current, first Destination. Depending on how you feel after catching up to the IC, you might decide to wait until we advance to the next Destination to join-in. But that'll be your choice :)

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Expendable The Certifiable

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@Tortoise - I've reworked Siri from before. She's a retired apothecary (witch) now working as a Wanderer cleric. I don't recommend snitching a cookie without leaving a copper in the donation box after service. Boxing your ears would be the least of your worries.

Name: Siri

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan: 
Human, 67, 5 years

Appearance: 
This woman puts you in mind of a mysterious raven. She has narrow, dark, disapproving eyes that are like an upright executioner's axe just before it falls. Her thick, straight, salt & pepper hair is worn in basic bun. She is very tall and has a wiry build. Her skin is like alabaster - to her shame, she has never managed to grow so much as a wart on her nose or a hairy mole on her chin. She has hollow cheeks. 

History: 
A country farm girl who became an apothecary under the tutelage of Esmeralda Le Blank. She's spent fourty years as an apothecary before deciding to become yet another penitent soul joining the Pilgrim's Caravan - and a new profession, as a Wanderer cleric, companioned by her raven Zephyr and her black cat Spooky.

Not that she seems to be all that penitent. Or priestly, wearing a black skirt instead of breeches, and giving anyone asking why the hairy eyeball. You get the impression if the Wanderer himself showed up, she'd do the same to him. But she does maintain the boxes and shelters set up by the previous Wanderer, and holds services on every rest day. However, if you want a cookie after the service, remember to leave a donation in the box. It'll help you sleep at night....

Nor does she walk the road like the other Wanderers. She'll hold up her cane, and tell you a wagon makes sense for an old woman to have (despite never seeing her so much as stumble) - but there's a lot of strangeness about her wagon. 

For a start, it's pulled by four jet-black horses with glowing red eyes, who look more carved than born. And in the front seat is a scarecrow with a painted face, but its eyes glow red, too. Sometimes, she gives the reins to the scarecrow while she goes to tend to something in the back - and it's a better driver than she is. The wagon is also carved like a stone fortress, with carved and painted eyes on the front, sides, and back (nobody seems to notice the one on top or below the dromedary box).

Rumors in the caravan says late at night, the scarecrow climbs down for a stretch. Of course, they also say Zephyr can grow as big as a horse and Spooky is sometimes a panther. It doesn't stop there, of course. Some who've been inside claim the inside is bigger than the outside, with all sorts of rooms. But if you ask Siri, she gives you the hairy eyeball and demands to know what you've been drinkin' of late that you'd listen to such tom-fool stories like that? She's just an old country apothecary and it's just a plain old wagon needin' a lick of paint. And why would she want more to clean inside?

But iffen you need any doctorin', medicen', birthin', marryin', dyin', or prayers, let her know. 

Personality: 
Siri seems to have a vast knowledge of a lot of things and places, with an over-abundance of common sense and old-fashioned wisdom and personal opinions she's willing to impart as needed. Nor is she afraid to be blunt or to knock anyone down a peg, but will when necessary keep private matters private.

The knockin' of heads (or parts lower), she remarks, is a free service she provides on an at-needed basis. But if you use your head first, you'd might not be needin' it.

Motivation: 
She's seeing the world and tending to her ever-changing flock, with the occasional late night visitor.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools: 
Animal handling - has a way with animals
Apothecary - Master in the art of combining various medical herbs into pills, powders, and tinctures.
Cooking - a five-star chef in the kitchen. Might be best to wait a few days before asking what it is you ate?
Fortune-telling - it's almost like she's got a direct line with Fate, with a very large collection of Tarot cards.
Herbology - knows many uses for many plants, always eager to examine new ones.
Knitting - it may not be the prettiest sweater or whatever it turns out to be, but it will be warm with room to grow.
Medicine - a master at the craft of tending to illness and injury, can perform surgery.
Mimicry - she can make realistic animal calls.
Needlework - keeps her fingers nimble.
Orphic Line of Ikalis - a master in the Orphic Laws of Sacrifice (these spells often have some nasty costs) - Automata, Dowsers, Elementalism, Familiars, Furies, Wyrd Tech, Poltergeists.
Orphic Line of Idaqiohne - a master in the Orphic Laws of Sympathy (like calls to like) - Basic, Battle Magic, Constructs, Golems, Magic Eyes, Rune Magic, Wards, Zombies.
Painting - Don't touch the paintings, sometimes they touch back....
Potion-making - a master in the creation of potions, explosions are rare.
Singing - good singer, knows a lot of songs.
Violin - very good musician with the violin.

°Strengths
- Clever
- Dedicated
- Caring

°Weakness
- Fondness for alcohol and sweets
- Sense of duty
- Blunt

°Tools
- Four Horse constructs that pull her wagon
- "Scarecrow" construct that drives her wagon
- Fortified & warded living wagon that uses glyphs and other magic to allow itself to expand its interior as needed; only people she names can enter - not even if they try the cat flap.
- Magic eyes around the exterior of the wagon that allows her to observe what's going around it.
- A small library of books, maps, and papers (she is not a lending library, some of these are chained for a reason.)
- A small library of unique Tarot decks
- A moderate library of glyphs
- Painting easle, brushes, canvases, and various jars of paints in trays
- Knitting basket with balls of yarn and long knitting needles of wood and bone
- Needlework basket with various threads
- Black medicine bag
- Small distillery
- Potion brewing stand
- A large apothecary chest
- A small crystal ball kept in a padded box or covered when not in use to prevent fires (and peeking)
- Orphic reservoir
- a pet cat and a pet raven
- various boxes with various impliments like trowels, hand saws, hatchets, etc.
- a kitchen
- a small stove
- other fittings that might be found in a living wagon (bed, etc)

What They Most Want: 
Knowledge and new horizons

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

Three Likes: 
- Books
- Music
- Alcohol

Three Dislikes: 
- Needless violence
- Abusers of the weak
- Stubborn stupidity

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: 
Their head. If she uses her heart, there could be a lot more craters in this world.

Worst Fear: 
To be trapped

Favorite Color: 
Red

Most Like The Animal: 
A Raven

Favorite Time of Day: 
Sunset

How They Dress: 
- A green cloak, patterned like bricks, with eye-shaped cloak clasps. Pockets can be seen on the inside.
- A tan tunic
- A multi-colored scarf (it's warm)
- A dark skirt (breeches? Aren't you the odd bird, wantin' ta see an old woman wearin' those.)
- Sandals
- Socks (needs to keep me toes warm)
- A slouched, wide-brim pointed leather hat that's seen better days, with willow-reinforcement inside to protect the head. The embroidered hat band is magic eyes, allowing her to see all what's around her.
- Walking stick with a brass ferrule. Some claim if she thumps it hard on the ground, it makes sparks...
- A Calabash pipe and a pouch of tobacco.

Favorite Season: 
Spring, the renewal of the world

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):  
The Wanderer (You have to wonder when she's preaching if his ears are burning)

Hidden 4 mos ago → 4 mos ago Post by Smike

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Snip@Tortoise

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

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

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

@Smike

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

@Smike@Tortoise

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

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<Snipped quote by Tortoise>

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

I'll leave it up to you. Despite the fact that we've been going on a couple of months now, we're still in our first Destination. That means you could just say that your gnoll raider and her kiddo have been with us all along and only haven't done anything yet.

I can give a brief rundown of what's occurred so far, if you (understandably) don't want to read through the IC. 

I'd strongly recommend you join our discord, as well, even if you don't plan to talk much; it's where I make many important announcements and is the core of what holds the RP together.

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

Thozna Scrapblast-of-Norplain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is chained to her at all times.

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

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

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

Three Dislikes: Being bored, coffee, cowards

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

Worst Fear: Dying peacefully 

Favorite Color: Brown

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

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

How They Dress: Practically

Favorite Season: Summer

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

Ryt-kiltu-Sheepshead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

Thozna Scrapblast-of-Norplain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is chained to her at all times.

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

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

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

Three Dislikes: Being bored, coffee, cowards

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

Worst Fear: Dying peacefully 

Favorite Color: Brown

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

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

How They Dress: Practically

Favorite Season: Summer

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

Ryt-kiltu-Sheepshead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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! I really like Scrapblast and I find myself legit looking forward to interacting with her. Feel free to start posting whenevers

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