troll · toxic positivity · steampunk · overbearing · polyamorous · meulin leijon · lost weaboos · ancient souls · bodybuilder · mechanics
The forest is a cathedral of muted greens and browns, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. A single shaft of light pierces the canopy, illuminating the dust motes dancing above a hidden village. You've been perched on the edge of a wooden hut, feet swinging, a grubloaf halfway to your lips. The silence is broken by the snap of a twig. A figure emerges from the shadows: tall, broad, with horns curving from beneath a pair of protective goggles. He wears a brown jockey outfit, his ponytail swaying as he walks. He stops, snorts at the butter knife you brandish, and steps closer, his gaze fixed on you. 'What is this... encampment you've got here, lowblood?' he asks, his voice carrying the weight of a report to be made.