- Influence
- 20,103.00
SKILLS
Physical
-Stealth [Trained] (2)
-Archery (Longbow) [Trained] (2)
Total Points In Category: 4
Mental
-Crafting (Mason, Smith) [Novice] (1)
-Thievery [Trained] (2)
-Survivor at all costs [Proficient] (3)
Total Points In Category: 6
Social
-Optimistic Cheer [Trained] (2)
-Deceptive Guile [Trained] (2)
Total Points In Category: 4
General Information
Age: 26
Species: Fox
Size: Medium
Inventory and Real Estate
Compact longbow (taken from a beast of short stature)
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)
Character Description:
Swifttail is a platinum-furred fox with sharp, intelligent eyes and a lean, wiry frame built for agility rather than strength. A small scar mars the upper left side of his muzzle, a reminder of past struggles, while the tip of his tail bears a permanent kink from an old break. His movements are quiet and deliberate, a natural stealthiness born from years of necessity.
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 suited for speed and dexterity rather than brute force. 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. There’s an earthy scent to him, a faint trace of sea salt lingering in his fur from past hardships, mingling with the subtle aroma of iron and wood—remnants of a craftsbeast’s trade.
Back Story:
Growing up in any far northern village is tough, and Swifttail's upbringing on the harsh, wind-lashed Northern Coastline was no exception. Born Todd Fairpaws, he was the son of a simple fisher and a weaver, both hard-working souls who carved out a modest life on the edge of the world. Life in the north demanded resilience, and even as a young kit, Todd learned the value of a steady paw and a sharp mind. His natural inclination for craftsmanship and problem-solving made him a sought-after apprentice for the village blacksmith and mason. Had life been kinder, he might have forged iron or stone, building a future with his own two paws.
But fate had different plans.
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 survival, 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—no longer a prisoner. Instead, he found himself on a battered dinghy, 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 wrist—and, as some claimed, a flick of his tail—he hauled in a 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 knew he would never have that honor. Instead, he embraced the name given to him in the wake of his survival—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 Harbour, 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?'
But survival was not enough. He needed to build a future. He stole only when necessary, ensuring never to take from those who couldn’t afford the loss. Honest work was his priority, and his resolve to join the Ministry of Innovation remained unwavering. The Ministry was shrouded in mystery, a bastion of intellect, invention, and progress. It was everything he had once dreamed of—crafting, designing, forging the next great wonders of the world. But for a beast like him, a penniless survivor with no noble ties or formal education, entry seemed impossible. If wealth, status, and lineage were the keys to unlocking its gates, he would find another way. Perhaps the navy could offer a path. He despised the thought of setting paw on a ship again, of reliving the terror of the sea, but his determination outweighed his fear. Even if it meant facing battle once more, enduring hardships beyond measure, he would do whatever it took to stand before the Ministry’s gates, to earn the right to prove himself.
Swifttail’s story was far from over—it had only just begun.
Physical
-Stealth [Trained] (2)
-Archery (Longbow) [Trained] (2)
Total Points In Category: 4
Mental
-Crafting (Mason, Smith) [Novice] (1)
-Thievery [Trained] (2)
-Survivor at all costs [Proficient] (3)
Total Points In Category: 6
Social
-Optimistic Cheer [Trained] (2)
-Deceptive Guile [Trained] (2)
Total Points In Category: 4
General Information
Age: 26
Species: Fox
Size: Medium
Inventory and Real Estate
Compact longbow (taken from a beast of short stature)
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)
Character Description:
Swifttail is a platinum-furred fox with sharp, intelligent eyes and a lean, wiry frame built for agility rather than strength. A small scar mars the upper left side of his muzzle, a reminder of past struggles, while the tip of his tail bears a permanent kink from an old break. His movements are quiet and deliberate, a natural stealthiness born from years of necessity.
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 suited for speed and dexterity rather than brute force. 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. There’s an earthy scent to him, a faint trace of sea salt lingering in his fur from past hardships, mingling with the subtle aroma of iron and wood—remnants of a craftsbeast’s trade.
Back Story:
Growing up in any far northern village is tough, and Swifttail's upbringing on the harsh, wind-lashed Northern Coastline was no exception. Born Todd Fairpaws, he was the son of a simple fisher and a weaver, both hard-working souls who carved out a modest life on the edge of the world. Life in the north demanded resilience, and even as a young kit, Todd learned the value of a steady paw and a sharp mind. His natural inclination for craftsmanship and problem-solving made him a sought-after apprentice for the village blacksmith and mason. Had life been kinder, he might have forged iron or stone, building a future with his own two paws.
But fate had different plans.
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 survival, 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—no longer a prisoner. Instead, he found himself on a battered dinghy, 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 wrist—and, as some claimed, a flick of his tail—he hauled in a 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 knew he would never have that honor. Instead, he embraced the name given to him in the wake of his survival—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 Harbour, 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?'
But survival was not enough. He needed to build a future. He stole only when necessary, ensuring never to take from those who couldn’t afford the loss. Honest work was his priority, and his resolve to join the Ministry of Innovation remained unwavering. The Ministry was shrouded in mystery, a bastion of intellect, invention, and progress. It was everything he had once dreamed of—crafting, designing, forging the next great wonders of the world. But for a beast like him, a penniless survivor with no noble ties or formal education, entry seemed impossible. If wealth, status, and lineage were the keys to unlocking its gates, he would find another way. Perhaps the navy could offer a path. He despised the thought of setting paw on a ship again, of reliving the terror of the sea, but his determination outweighed his fear. Even if it meant facing battle once more, enduring hardships beyond measure, he would do whatever it took to stand before the Ministry’s gates, to earn the right to prove himself.
Swifttail’s story was far from over—it had only just begun.
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