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Thistle Brambledew
| Age | 68 |
| Species | Hedgehog |
| Pronouns | He/Him |
| Size (Extra Small, Small, Medium, Large, Extra Large) | Medium |
| Build | Frail |
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION:
He stands with a habitual hunch, the kind that comes from years of travel, foraging, and toiling. His paws are bony but deft, their tips stained green and brown from herbs and tinctures. He moves slowly but deliberately, like a beast who’s measured every step in advance.
Thistle dresses in layered fabrics of mismatched origin, creating a long, weather-beaten cloak stitched with patches of cotton and wool. Around his waist hangs a belt cluttered with pouches, vials, and a polished bone spoon. The scent of smoke, sage, soil, and fennel precede him. The unmistakable perfume of a mystic born from nature itself.
Most striking, however, are his eyes. They are dark and damp as peat, yet gleaming with quiet humor. When they meet the eyes of another, it feels as though he’s flipping through the pages of their life, exposing secrets never meant to be told.
And always, just a few paces behind, follows the Porter, a heavily shrouded beast of mystery. Broad-shouldered yet oddly bent, it moves with a halting, uneven gait, limbs too long and jointed in ways that seem to defy comfort. Beneath the layers of cloth and cowl, one might catch a glimpse of the fur of a black rat.
The creature cannot speak, only uttering quiet chitters and strained squeals that sound more insect-like than beastly. Yet somehow, Thistle seems to understand every sound perfectly. Their communication is effortless, like old companions who long ago transcended the need for words.
Thistle tends to him with an almost priestly care by feeding him, tending his ailments, easing his pain with herbs and providing companionship in a world that has utterly forsaken him. In return, the Porter pulls his creaking cart and keeps his coin purse close. To the untrained eye, the pair look like master and servant, but those who linger long enough know better. There is a deep, familial bond between the two, akin to a father and son.
Thistle’s cart is a curiosity in motion. It is a 4 wheeled reliquary that trundles across the Imperium behind its shrouded porter. Built from black-stained mahogany, the cart is sturdy yet worn from decades of travel. The wood bears the soft sheen of oil and age, its finish darkened by candle soot and years of weather.
The roof and sides are draped in old fishing net, from which hang dozens of trinkets and tokens collected across the years. Glass floats, tarnished pendants, dried herbs, beads, bones, and shells that clack softly in the wind. At a glance, it looks part traveling shop, part shrine, and part omen.
Both flanks of the cart are fitted with outward-facing shelves lined with stoppered bottles and jars. During travel, folding wooden panels close to protect the stock; when parked, they drop open into small display tables adorned with bottles, bundles of herbs, and hand-painted placards promising cures, fortunes, and charms. Each sign is written in faded looping script that still occasionally glitters faintly when the sun strikes it.
The rear of the cart opens into a narrow, low hallway, barely two meters deep but packed with goods. The air thickens with the scent of dried flowers, wax, and herbal smoke. Shelves of tinctures, salves, and curios line the walls, their labels written in foreign hand and fading ink.
Beyond the hall lies the heart of the cart. A candlelit chamber with floor, walls, and ceiling are all made from carved mahogany, burnished with oils and scoured by many seasons of age. A deep red rug sprawls across the center, patterned in curling shapes of burgundy and rust.
Every surface overflows with oddities: glass shards, pressed flowers in resin, teeth in jars, brittle scrolls, bundles of herbs, coins of lost nations, and bird bones. The place hums with life and history as a cabinet of curiosities where the cabinet itself breathes.
At the center rests a round table draped in blood-red velvet, crowned by a small crystal orb veiled by a creamy linen sheet. Flanking it are a veiled deck of cards, a modest tea set, and an ornate potbelly brazier that keeps the air warm and perfumed with frankincense, sandalwood, and rose. A fifth chair, high-backed and worn smooth, sits opposite the entryway and an arms reach from the brazier. This is Thistle’s seat, and perhaps, the only one that truly matters.
Above, a tiny chandelier dangles from the low ceiling, its trembling light scattering through hundreds of colored glass vials that line the walls with hues of green, blue, ochre, and gold, casting the space in a living mosaic of color. Within that glow, time feels slowed, voices hushed, and the world outside seems to fade into unreality.
PERSONALITY:
He is an exceptional salesman, not through charm or force, but through attention. Thistle sees through beasts the way a surgeon sees through flesh and pelt, understanding what aches, what they hide, and what they hope to hear. His gaze pries gently but deeply, peeling back the layers of pretense with unnerving ease.
Despite his ominous reputation, Thistle is not cruel, nor a fraud. He considers himself an honest merchant. One who sells salves, teas, and tinctures with true medicinal value, though he dresses them in mysticism. His tonics heal, his charms calm, and his fortunes, whether by smoke, stain, or bone, often strike closer to truth than comfort.
He has a collector’s spirit, filling his cart with curious relics and oddities from every town he passes through. To him, these are pieces of the living world that tie reality to the spiritual realm. To him, they are fragments of stories that should not be lost.
Beneath the smoke and superstition, Thistle is a creature of deep compassion. His bedside manner is gentle, his humor dry, and his patience near endless. Those who earn his care often find themselves disarmed by it. He may smell of fraud and fake omen, but his intentions have always been for the good of those he serves. Thistle does not see himself as a mystic or a menace. Only as a beast doing honest work in a world that fears honesty.
STRENGTHS:
- Insightful Observer: Thistle reads beasts like an open book. He knows when someone lies and when they’re desperate enough to believe truth and fiction alike.
- Herbal Mastery: A lifetime of experimentation has made him an unmatched herbalist.
- Composure Under Fire: Thistle never raises his voice. He meets every storm with the stillness of deep water.
- Empathic Healer: For all his unsettling aura, he possesses genuine compassion.
- Master Peddler & Performer: Knows how to dress wonder in smoke and confidence. A true showbeast of subtle gestures and whispered mystery.
- Collector’s Mind: Possesses encyclopedic knowledge of relics, folklore, and minor superstitions from across the Imperium, using them to navigate both conversation and danger.
WEAKNESSES:
- Perceived as a Curse: Misfortune often follows his visits, sometimes by coincidence, sometimes not. This makes him unwelcome in many towns, forcing constant travel.
- Physical Frailty: Age, exhaustion, and a life on the road have worn his body thin. He hides pain well, but long days or cold nights take their toll.
- Obsession with Meaning: Sees patterns and portents everywhere, even when they aren’t there.
- Guarded Nature: Keeps others at emotional distance. His compassion runs deep, but few ever see beyond the mask.
- Reluctant Believer: Though he deals in omens and faith, Thistle himself wrestles with the line between superstition and genuine power, and what it costs to blur them.
- Bound by Routine: His endless circuit across the Imperium has become both calling and curse. He cannot stay; to linger too long in one place unsettles him to his core.
BIOGRAPHY:
The oldest beasts claim he’s been circling the Imperium longer than their grandfathers’ memories stretch. He first appeared, by most reckonings, sometime around 1730, already gray-furred and weathered, driving the same battered mahogany cart, pulled by the same cloaked porter. He was old then, they say, and he looks no older now.
Every 90 days or so, almost to the day, the cart of Thistle Brambledew will creak its way through town, marking the turn of the season. Some say the hedgehog follows an invisible road known only to him. An endless loop around the landmass of the Imperium. Others insist he’s not bound by roads at all; that he simply appears where he’s needed, or where something needs collecting.
No records name a birthplace. No family has claimed him. The ministries have tried, on occasion, to track his route or levy taxes, but he never seems to cross the same stretch of road twice in the same way. The cart simply arrives, stays for a handful of days, and vanishes again. Only the faint scent of sage and smoke lingers behind, like a dream forgotten upon waking.
As for the Porter, he has always been there as constant as the cart itself. Some say Thistle found the creature long ago, half-dead on the roadside. Others claim he summoned it from Hell's Gates themselves. Whatever the truth, the two have never been seen apart.
Over the years, Thistle has become both curiosity and omen. Villages await his arrival like a recurring dream, sometimes with hope, sometimes with dread. He brings medicines, charms, and fortunes, but he also stirs the dust of buried things. Marriages are mended, fevers broken, secrets unearthed. And sometimes, he leaves behind an energy that feels heavier than before.
When asked where he’s going, Thistle only smiles that knowing smile and says,
"Round again, same as the sun. I stop when it does."
POSSESSIONS/REAL ESTATE:
Pouches of dried herbs and powders
Glass vials filled with brightly dyed tinctures
Smoky hand-rolled cigarettes
A black, creaking cart pulled by a cloaked porter
Reputation of misfortune trailing behind him
SKILLS:
| Physical | Mental | Social |
|---|---|---|
| Wanderer [Proficient] (2) | Observational (Seasoned) (4) | Peddler (Proficient) (2) |
| Manipulator (Proficient) (2) | Mysterious (Seasoned) (4) | |
| Herbalist (Proficient) (2) | ||
| Total Points in Category: 2 | Total Points in Category: 8 | Total Points in Category: 6 |
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