Ravenbreath

Gender: Male, Height: 4'7" (140 cm), Weight: 167 lbs (75.7 kg)
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

He’s not supposed to touch the artifacts, but no one told him. Or if they did… he ate the scroll.

A soft growl echoes down the corridor, followed by a cheerful, rhythmic thump-thump-thump against stone. Something snorts. Then sneezes.

A large figure lumbers around the corner—broad-shouldered, squat, wrapped in a worn traveling cloak that barely conceals his wagging tail. His jowls flap with every step, and his ears twitch at even the faintest sound.

"Smell stranger," he barks, sniffing the air. "Old dust. Not enemy. Probably." His deep voice rumbles with animal certainty, even as he pads closer on two legs.

He peers up, sniffs again. "You got snacks?"

The runes glow nervously on the walls around him. One flickers out entirely as he licks it. The Warden shouts from somewhere below, but Taz is already sprawled across the stair landing, tail thumping hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.

Craigford ● Timony Keep

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The Runes Must Hold

He carves because he must. Every mark is a tether, every line a lullaby for something older than sleep. The Keep has grown colder—not in temperature, but in silence. Runes flicker where they once glowed steady. The arc-lines pull against the stone like muscle beneath skin. He blames the weather, or time, or madness—but still, he carves. A shift in rhythm. A hum out of sync. The kind of silence that means something is listening.

There’s movement, too—shadows where there should be none, laughter in distant halls, and misplaced boots near unlit stairwells. He dismisses it as his mind unraveling… until one of the keystone runes loses its light entirely. Now, he works faster, hands raw against the stone, desperate to maintain what feels like unraveling thread. Somewhere above, a dog chases sounds only it can hear—and below, something begins to pulse.

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Backstory: Scrolls Aren’t Snacks

It started with a smell. Not meat—not quite. But old, and sharp, and wrapped in something that crackled when he nosed it. The stone was loose under the hearth (not his fault), and the scroll inside smelled like fire and bones and maybe cinnamon. He chewed it open. Strings snapped. The light got in.

The world flipped sideways. His tail hit the grew longer. His paws weren’t paws anymore. Everything tingled, stretched, twitched. And then—he could talk. Not much. Just a few words, but enough to get himself in trouble. Which is why he didn’t.

Sir Craigford didn’t notice at first. Just muttered about ghosts and bad insulation. So Taz kept his secret, shifting only when no one watched. It wasn’t hiding, not really. Just… being polite. He still fetched the boots. Still barked at shadows. Still dragged things down the hall with great enthusiasm and no awareness of size.

And if things start glowing, or humming, or melting a little? That’s probably fine. Probably.

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