Sor, The Wanderer

Young. Distant. Strange.


“Let me be no nearer / In death’s dream kingdom / Let me also wear / Such deliberate disguises / Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves / In a field / Behaving as the wind behaves / No nearer – // Not that final meeting / In the twilight kingdom”

-The Hollow Men
-T. S. Eliot


The Wanderer’s current incarnation is that of a female half-orc with green-black skin, silver hair, and golden eyes with strangely violet pupils. She is lithe and even frail for one of her kind, with features that could almost pass for human were it not for the odd coloration, deeply sunken pits of her eyes, and sharply tusked teeth revealed when she parts her lips. Despite her slim, precisely six-foot frame, the density of her muscle and bone give her a weight of exactly 150 lbs.

Sor’s clothing is erratic, magically shifting appearance to suit her mood or goals at any given moment. Nonetheless, her style of dress typically seems out of place for one of her kind, tending to either more formal or simple garments than the barbaric or heavily adorned look of most half-orcs. She typically favors purples and yellows while in a civilized setting or greens and browns in more natural locales. She carries a gleaming scimitar on one hip beneath a quiver of stone-tipped arrows. On the opposite side, a sheathless obsidian longsword faintly etched with runes and a sickle of beaten silver rest. A shortbow and a battered and hacked strange wooden mask hang on her back. Her companions have also seen her wearing crude leather armor sewn from animal skins, a fox-fur headband, high leather boots imprinted with natural patterns in green and gold, and a short cape of many tied lengths of cloth, although these are almost always concealed by the illusion of her attire.

In personality, Sor has shown herself to be defined mostly by impatience. This, combined with a broad stripe of pure contrition means she has a sort of gruff wit but tolerates less nonsense than some of qe’Ra’si’Ja’s previous forms. She still retains the core ideal of everyone having an entitlement to the pursuit of happiness, resulting in a somewhat distorted view when it comes to a question of life versus liberty.

In combat, she sings to the elements around her in baritones that resonate with and evoke primal spirits and shape the world around her. She usually charges into the fray, displaying some of the orc bloodlust within her, but never completely without caution or tactic. A few quickly hummed bars transform her skin into dark bark identifiable as that of a bur oak. Her form with a blade, whether of stone, steel, or flame, is recognizable to some few as an extremely archaic elven technique, abandoned centuries ago because of its flourishes and predictability in always opening with a thrust.

Sor, The Wanderer

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