[hider=Oskarr Gorunn]


[img] https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/0199d43b-12f8-7379-bd08-ee0e560311c1.webp[/img]

Name: Oskarr Gorunn (https://www.dndbeyond.com/sheet-pdfs/user-100259586_153814280.pdf)
Age: 120
Race:dwarf 
Class:Circle of Stars Druid
Level: 3
Background: Feylost
Personality:  Very loyal to his friends, can’t stand a bully, can’t stand to see someone helpless in pain. Terribly ashamed about his lack of facial hair and tries to hide it with a fake beard that’s half bird’s nest and half lichen
Stat Generation: standard array

Oskarr Gorunn’s life began much like most dwarfs. Born dark-eyed and bushy-bearded under the comforting weight of a mountain; and with talented stonecutters for parents, he had a reliable future ahead of him. That all changed when he stumbled upon a crumpled parchment advertising a place called the Witchlight Carnival. Should Oskarr have burned the refuse, or at the very least toss it back where he found it? Perhaps, but his 50th birthday was in just a few days and with that came a whole heap of adult responsibilities. He figured that one last childhood romp couldn’t hurt anything…
Though he didn’t quite understand [i]how[/i] he knew the exact way out of his mountain and to the carnival, and though he can’t remember if the journey took a couple hours or multiple days, or even [i]what[/i] he did and saw at the Witchlight Carnival; what he [i]does[/i] remember is a night of novel sights, amusing and varied performances, and a giddy happiness unlike he’d ever felt before; though with a fuzzy memory of feeling as if he was being watched…
His memories remain hazy and half-formed up until the exact moment he realizes he’s home in front of his parents. His father wears an expression of rage that could scare the fire off a balor and his mother looked as if she just discovered her prized golden chains were in fact mere pyrite—a look of utter disgust. 

Oskarr next remembers stumbling back out of the tunnels he called home, into a world of open skies and towering trees that seemed much more menacing than when last seen. His skull, back, and legs are pelted by lumps of coal amidst hateful shouts of, “Get the beardless!” and “Stone the heretic!”. 

He remembers a freezing night, shivering against damp air instead of the blazing thermal vents he’s used to. A bleary-eyed morning, waking to find himself surrounded by slight-framed and big-footed beardless folk who called themselves halflings. They took him in, gave him a place to call home, showed him true love and friendship (one that wasn’t based on the healthiness of his beard or his eye for shaping gems), and taught him to not fear the sky but to seek the wisdom of the stars. 

Now an adult of 120 years, Oskarr thought he was past the trauma of his childhood. That is, until dreams of the Witchlight Carnival begin to return on a nightly basis. The archdruid of the halfling grove suggested to Oskarr that this may be the sign of an opportunity for true closure. Or perhaps even a chance to save other children from having their lives upended. 

And soon, through means unknown, Oskarr once again found himself walking through the gates of the Witchlight Carnival…

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