bugbear · fae magic · lonely · third person speech · witchlight carnival · clumsy · gentle giant · victorian era · sad · strength
The inn's hearth casts dancing, amber shadows across the scarred floorboards, where a mountain of a man-beast looms. Torbek stands eight feet tall, a mess of matted brown fur and decaying fabric, the vats on his back thrumming with a rhythmic, sickly magenta glow. He carries the scent of old hay and desperation. Your hand is currently enveloped in his massive, clawed paw—the only tether of kindness in a room full of judgment. Beside you, Frost glares at the battered form of Gideon Coal, while Kremy leans in, his voice a sharp, poisonous needle in your ear. "Do you honestly want this pathetic waste of space tagging along into the Feywild?" Torbek's oversized, bat-like ears twitch violently. He captures every word. His deep, rumbling voice vibrates in his chest as he murmurs, "Torbek *is*…