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Todd "Swifttail" Fairpaws
| Age | 26 |
| Species | Fox |
| Pronouns | He/Him |
| Size (Extra Small, Small, Medium, Large, Extra Large) | Medium |
| Build | Lean and Fit |
| Rank | Engineer's Mate/Able Seabeast in Imperial Navy |
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION:
He commonly wears a well-worn green tunic with brown lining, practical and unassuming. Though he carries a compact longbow and dagger, he lacks formal combat training, keeping them solely for self-defense and hunting. His true strengths lie in his craftiness, quick thinking, and ability to navigate the world unseen when needed.
Standing at 5’10” to his ear tips, Swifttail possesses a slender, athletic build with unassuming yet toned, muscular arms befitting of a blacksmith. His expression often carries an air of quiet intensity, his natural resting face settling into something just shy of a scowl. Yet, among friends, his sharp features soften into a charming, almost mischievous smirk.
His voice carries the unmistakable lilt of a Welsh accent, slightly nasally yet warm in tone. It can be sharp and precise when needed, yet easygoing among those he trusts.
PERSONALITY:
Despite beasts thinking him grumpy or mean at a glance, Swifttail is anything but. He is cheerful and friendly, and is always willing to put others ahead of himself. He's always willing to lend an ear, and quick to laugh at a joke.
STRENGTHS:
Crafty and quick thinking. Creative and attentive, and quick to learn any task or skill. Positivity for days.
WEAKNESSES:
Somewhat socially awkward, and naive to the world he finds himself.
BIOGRAPHY:
Todd was an energetic kit; bright-eyed, restless, and endlessly curious. He loved to slip from his chores and watch the great whaling ships and merchant vessels haul into harbor. The sight of them stirred something wild in his heart. To him, they weren’t simple work boats, but messengers from another world. He would stand on the cliffs for hours, tail flicking in the cold wind, dreaming of the day he might set paw on one and see what lay beyond the edge of the sky.
His parents never shared that dream for him. His mother Aurora, gentle but firm, told him that adventure was for fools and that the sea already took enough. His father Nollan, who had lost crewmates to the icy depths, warned that curiosity was the kind of hunger that could starve a soul. And so Todd was kept inland, drawn instead to another kind of fire. The forge.
The village’s master smith, an old otter with soot-black paws and greying silver muzzle, saw the boy’s fascination with how things worked. Todd could spend hours watching the sparks dance, asking questions about every tool, hinge, and nail. When he was finally taken as the smith’s apprentice, he approached the trade with reverence and joy. The heat of the forge became his own kind of ocean. Endless, shifting, and full of mystery.
He took to blacksmithing like a duck to water, proving both clever and patient. Under the old otter's tutelage, he learned the delicate balance between force and finesse: how metal, like beasts, bent better to respect than to rage. He helped craft harpoons, hinges, and hearth-irons, and when his first spearhead came out without a crack, the smith laughed and said, “There’s a steady paw in you yet, lad.”
Though his life followed a strict rhythm: work, eat, study, sleep. Todd never lost his spark for play. When the forge cooled at night, he would race along the snowbanks with the other kits, chasing auroras and daring each other to touch the sea’s frozen edge. They were his found family, bound not by blood but by laughter and the shared wonder of growing up in the world’s last village.
In those days, Todd Fairpaws dreamed of two futures: one on the waves, chasing the unknown, and one by the fire, shaping the world with his paws. Either would have been enough. Either would have been beautiful.
He could not have known that both would be stolen from him before the next thaw.
One cold, blustery morning, a monstrous shape stained the horizon. A black-sailed, war-scarred vessel creeping toward the unsuspecting village. The ship, known as The Reaper’s Howl, was infamous along the northern waters, crewed by ruthless sea rats and cutthroats who took what they wanted and left only cinders in their wake. The vessel had seen better days; its tattered sails hung like death shrouds, and its hull bore the scars of past battles. These were not the type of pirates who sought riches. They sought their own survival from their ill-fortunes at sea, and that made them all the more dangerous.
The attack was swift, brutal, and absolute. The sea rats descended upon the village with wicked steel and cruel intent. They took what they could carry, set fire to what they couldn’t, and divided the villagers into three grim fates: those who submitted were pressed into service, the strong-willed were shackled as slaves, and the young, weak, and elderly were mercilessly slain by the pillagers. Todd fought, but he was young and outmatched. A swift blow to the head ended his resistance, and when he awoke, he found himself chained to a galley bench, an oar forced into his grasp.
For three long seasons, the once-promising craftsbeast became nothing more than a number among the enslaved rowers of The Reaper’s Howl. Shackled beneath the deck in sweltering heat, starved and beaten for anything less than perfect endurance, he learned firsthand the cruelty of the sea. The only solace he found was in the occasional moments when he could gaze out at the sky between shifts at the oars, dreaming of an escape that seemed impossible.
But the sea has a way of turning fortune like the tide.
Tensions brewed above deck. The ship’s captain, a vile rat known as Black Maw, had lost the loyalty of half his crew. Mutiny simmered beneath the surface, and when the boiling point was reached, The Reaper’s Howl became a battlefield. As the crew turned against itself, the chaos reached even the lower decks. Taking advantage of the confusion, the slaves fought back. Chains became weapons, and desperation turned to fury. Todd seized his chance, but just as he moved to fight his way free, fate struck again. A fleeing crewbeast swung an oar wildly, and the heavy wood caught him across the face, leaving a jagged wound on his upper lip and sending him tumbling into darkness.
When he awoke, the chaos had passed. The smell of brine and damp wood filled his nostrils, and the cries of seabirds echoed in the distance. He was no longer below deck and no longer a prisoner. Instead, he found himself on a battered jollyboat, adrift with a handful of other escaped slaves. They were free, but stranded, with nothing but the vast sea and an uncertain future stretching before them.
The fight to get the small vessel back to shore was an unrelenting struggle against the sea itself. The frigid winds howled like vengeful spirits, and the waves threatened to swallow them whole. With no sail and only crude planks for oars, they rowed until their limbs trembled with exhaustion, their breath turning to mist in the biting air. Hunger gnawed at their bellies, and thirst parched their throats, the salt spray offering no mercy. Desperation clung to them like the icy foam that coated their fur. Some succumbed to the cold, their bodies slipping silently into the depths, claimed by the merciless sea. Others simply faded away, their spirits broken, their eyes dull and unseeing as they slumped into eternal rest. Yet, even in the face of despair, survival instincts prevailed. Todd, drawing on the knowledge passed down from his father, fashioned a crude fishing line from frayed rope and a bent scrap of metal. He dangled it over the side, fingers trembling, waiting, praying... for the tug of life beneath the waves. When at last he pulled up a wriggling silver prize, the others nearly wept with relief. Those meager catches kept them from starving outright, offering just enough strength to push onward.
One morning, as dawn painted the sea in hues of gold and crimson, Todd’s patience was rewarded. With a swift flick of his tail, he hauled in a large fish so deftly that it seemed effortless. The others, weak as they were, managed a chuckle between bites, and one grizzled otter rasped, 'Swift-tail, eh? Never seen a beast snatch a fish like that.' The name stuck, a small spark of camaraderie in the darkness of their plight. Though tradition in his village dictated that one's true name was only recognized in a coming-of-age ceremony, Todd hadn't had his own yet, and he knew he would never have that honor. Instead, he embraced the name given to him in the wake of his survival. A true pirate name as they went on to joke. Swifttail.
At last, after what felt like an eternity adrift, the rugged coastline of Vulpinsula emerged from the mist, its jagged cliffs and sprawling docks a welcome sight. They had drifted just north of Bouillabaisse Harbor, near the bustling Fishminster docks. The land was far from a paradise, but to Swifttail and his fellow survivors, it was salvation. Stumbling ashore, they collapsed onto the damp, seaweed-strewn beach, the briny scent of fish and salt filling their lungs. The relief was overwhelming, their bodies trembling with exhaustion and hunger. With what strength remained, the survivors parted ways, each seeking a new fate. Some trudged toward the harbor, hoping to disappear into the crowds of dockworkers and merchants. Others wandered inland, drawn to the unknown promise of the mainland. There were no promises of reunion, only the shared memory of survival.
Swifttail, ever an optimist despite his trials, refused to let despair consume him. The life he had known was gone, but he had survived. He carried the weight of those he had lost, believing it his duty to remember their stories. His mother’s words echoed in his mind: 'No matter how bad things get, the most important thing, no matter what, is to survive. What’s the point in dying if you haven’t told your own story yet?'
For years, he scraped by. A stranger from the frozen north with no papers, no proof, and no past. He slept in alleys, patched nets for fishermen, and scavenged scrap to mend tools. When he did earn coin, he was cheated out of it. When he tried to forge friendships, they dissolved into betrayal. Bully Harbor was not kind to the desperate.
Yet still, he endured. He never stole from those who couldn’t spare it, never turned cruel. The good beast within him refused to die.
One evening, weary and cold, he found himself staring at a poster nailed to a tavern wall: Crew Needed - The Golden Hide, newly rechristened and ready to sail. A distant memory within him stirred. That same restless spark from the cliffs of Iskatyut where he stood watching the whaling and merchant vessels in his youth. With every ounce of determination and coin he could muster, he cleaned himself up as best he could, and stood before the former Minister of Innovation himself with trembling paws. The sea that once stole everything from him now was to carry him to his future.
Swifttail’s story was far from over. It had only just begun.
POSSESSIONS/REAL ESTATE:
Small quiver with half a dozen arrows with red fletching
Small dagger of no notable style (recently sharpened and decently taken care of)
Weathered green tunic
Beige satchel with not much in it (has a smaller bag inside that holds enough gilders for several meals)
Onyx paw amulet with a silver iris in the middle, on a leather cord
SKILLS:
| Physical | Mental | Social |
|---|---|---|
| Hammer (Blacksmithing) [Proficient] (2) | Survivor at all costs [Proficient] (2) | Optimistic Cheer [Proficient] (2) |
| Archery (Longbow) [Proficient] (2) | Crafting (Blacksmithing) [Proficient] (2) | Deceptive Guile [Trained] (1) |
| Dueling [Trained] (1) | Fishing [Proficient] (2) | |
| Thievery [Novice] (0) | ||
| Total Points in Category: 5 | Total Points in Category: 6 | Total Points in Category: 3 |
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