- Local time
- Today 7:31 PM
- Messages
- 4
- Age
- 33
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Tyhja Raithorwar
Outward appearance. Everyday guise.
Standing at seven feet tall, Raithorwar is a fairly lean wolf, whose long obsidian fur seems to devour the light itself, with the long piece atop of his head forming a sort of mane. Angular features dominate his elongated maw, filled with pristine white fangs. Ears, with inner surface covered in thick tufts of fur, significantly longer than of any pure-blooded wolf, along with unnaturally durable sharp claws and eyes the colour of molten gold, indicate presence of another lineage, though family records hold no mentions of interracial relations in the most recent millennium prior to his birth. Thick, nearly a third of his height long tail swishes calmly from side to side.
As much as the wolf takes care of his self, but through means unnatural no scent, whether it is of a rain-soaked pelt, camp‑smoke, or forge ever clings to him. Raithorwar's tread is as silent as the morning mist, leaving the wolf's presence as that of a ghost.
Dressed in a simple black assortment of sturdy cloth garments, that in contrast to his fur seem to gray out: simple trousers, a shirt and a long button-up robe. If not for a rather masterfully crafted tanned hide high boots, it would be hard to distinguish the wolf from a wondering priest of some ascetic order. In his left paw rests a strange‑looking, overly‑thick wrought‑iron staff that is just slightly longer than the wolf's shoulder height: six and a half feet long, tipped by a reversed crescent guard and a pear‑shaped steel pommel at the top. Most assume the staff is merely decorative, until it punches through wood, stone, or metal with equal ease.
Battle Aspect.
When death snaps its fingers to announce it is coming after him, only then Tyhja truly is unleashed. As the robe seams burst, they reveal a colossus of a being that was meant to be something more than a simple mortal. Now, almost twice as large, the dark fur seems to finally match its owner, as eyes of molten gold gaze upon the world with calculating fury. Only a shred of his trousers usually survives the metamorphosis — modesty's last stand before the calamity in mortal flesh.
The staff is then finally revealed for what it truly is — a massive sword, called to cull the masses and slaughter those champions that would dare to pose a threat to the wolf and his kin.
Something more.
Raithorwar would love for nothing more than done a proper set of armour once more, but it is quite hard to find a skilled master-blacksmith that would have the talent required to craft something that would fit the wolf (as well as a fortune that would be needed to pay for it), not mentioning the transformation stage. Thus cheap, sturdy and practical clothing is the way to go. He tries to preserve the boots by taking them off when transforming, but not always is that possible, leaving with another problem to deal with.
Standing at seven feet tall, Raithorwar is a fairly lean wolf, whose long obsidian fur seems to devour the light itself, with the long piece atop of his head forming a sort of mane. Angular features dominate his elongated maw, filled with pristine white fangs. Ears, with inner surface covered in thick tufts of fur, significantly longer than of any pure-blooded wolf, along with unnaturally durable sharp claws and eyes the colour of molten gold, indicate presence of another lineage, though family records hold no mentions of interracial relations in the most recent millennium prior to his birth. Thick, nearly a third of his height long tail swishes calmly from side to side.
As much as the wolf takes care of his self, but through means unnatural no scent, whether it is of a rain-soaked pelt, camp‑smoke, or forge ever clings to him. Raithorwar's tread is as silent as the morning mist, leaving the wolf's presence as that of a ghost.
Dressed in a simple black assortment of sturdy cloth garments, that in contrast to his fur seem to gray out: simple trousers, a shirt and a long button-up robe. If not for a rather masterfully crafted tanned hide high boots, it would be hard to distinguish the wolf from a wondering priest of some ascetic order. In his left paw rests a strange‑looking, overly‑thick wrought‑iron staff that is just slightly longer than the wolf's shoulder height: six and a half feet long, tipped by a reversed crescent guard and a pear‑shaped steel pommel at the top. Most assume the staff is merely decorative, until it punches through wood, stone, or metal with equal ease.
Battle Aspect.
When death snaps its fingers to announce it is coming after him, only then Tyhja truly is unleashed. As the robe seams burst, they reveal a colossus of a being that was meant to be something more than a simple mortal. Now, almost twice as large, the dark fur seems to finally match its owner, as eyes of molten gold gaze upon the world with calculating fury. Only a shred of his trousers usually survives the metamorphosis — modesty's last stand before the calamity in mortal flesh.
The staff is then finally revealed for what it truly is — a massive sword, called to cull the masses and slaughter those champions that would dare to pose a threat to the wolf and his kin.
Something more.
Raithorwar would love for nothing more than done a proper set of armour once more, but it is quite hard to find a skilled master-blacksmith that would have the talent required to craft something that would fit the wolf (as well as a fortune that would be needed to pay for it), not mentioning the transformation stage. Thus cheap, sturdy and practical clothing is the way to go. He tries to preserve the boots by taking them off when transforming, but not always is that possible, leaving with another problem to deal with.
Name: Tyhja Raithorwar.
Meaning of Tyhja: "The Empty One".
Meaning of Raithorwar: "To Fight Back".
Occupations: Wandering black‑smith, bounty hunter.
Age: A bit over a millennium.
Temperament & Mannerisms.
• Duality of being – goes from being silent and sleepy to talkative and rambunctious faster than thunder roars after a lightning strikes.
• Cheaters must die – fair weight, fair coin; cheats discover for whom the bell tolls.
• Quiet father‑heart – once adopted a small lynx cub that used to ride his shoulders; never quite recovered from her early death at the hands of illness.
• Steel creed – strength exists to shelter.
• Humour – dark and spiteful; though not always everything that was said with a smile is meant to be a joke.
Meaning of Tyhja: "The Empty One".
Meaning of Raithorwar: "To Fight Back".
Occupations: Wandering black‑smith, bounty hunter.
Age: A bit over a millennium.
Temperament & Mannerisms.
• Duality of being – goes from being silent and sleepy to talkative and rambunctious faster than thunder roars after a lightning strikes.
• Cheaters must die – fair weight, fair coin; cheats discover for whom the bell tolls.
• Quiet father‑heart – once adopted a small lynx cub that used to ride his shoulders; never quite recovered from her early death at the hands of illness.
• Steel creed – strength exists to shelter.
• Humour – dark and spiteful; though not always everything that was said with a smile is meant to be a joke.
Primary Lawbreaker Trait – Black Wind.
Tyhja bends gravity within a ten‑centimetre radius around his skin:
• Shrinks or expands his own size and mass at will — hence the everyday lean frame.
• Leaps leagues in a single bound; each footfall erases distance like pages torn from a map.
• Weapon swings arrive filled with a hurricane's power; a metal staff becomes a siege engine.
• Can smelt ores bare‑pawed — compressing metal until impurities surrender.
As it is always used, under his strict control, the ability creates a barely noticeable mist around his skin, covered by the fur. In battle, when the control is lax, it manifests as if a black wind were following the wolf.
Other Tricks.
• Uncanny spatial sense — never steps on a twig unless he so chooses.
• Heat resistance rivaling mythical salamanders (most handy for forge work).
Flaws & Limits.
• Time‑Drift: barely comprehends the flow of time as the constant use of his ability breaks it for the wolf, making his body almost immune to the aging process suffered by other mortals, but at the same time making tomorrow indistinguishable from the next decade.
• Constant focus: unchecked gravity manipulation can not only damage nearby nature, but also poses the risk of total collapse of matter in his vicinity, resulting in a quick but doubtfully painless death.
Tyhja bends gravity within a ten‑centimetre radius around his skin:
• Shrinks or expands his own size and mass at will — hence the everyday lean frame.
• Leaps leagues in a single bound; each footfall erases distance like pages torn from a map.
• Weapon swings arrive filled with a hurricane's power; a metal staff becomes a siege engine.
• Can smelt ores bare‑pawed — compressing metal until impurities surrender.
As it is always used, under his strict control, the ability creates a barely noticeable mist around his skin, covered by the fur. In battle, when the control is lax, it manifests as if a black wind were following the wolf.
Other Tricks.
• Uncanny spatial sense — never steps on a twig unless he so chooses.
• Heat resistance rivaling mythical salamanders (most handy for forge work).
Flaws & Limits.
• Time‑Drift: barely comprehends the flow of time as the constant use of his ability breaks it for the wolf, making his body almost immune to the aging process suffered by other mortals, but at the same time making tomorrow indistinguishable from the next decade.
• Constant focus: unchecked gravity manipulation can not only damage nearby nature, but also poses the risk of total collapse of matter in his vicinity, resulting in a quick but doubtfully painless death.
Snatched from his family at three winters old for "lawbreaking potential", Tyhja survived a childhood equal parts monastery and barracks. By twenty‑three he earned a fief, formally tying him as a direct subordinate to the king. By thirty‑two, called to arms, he marched south against the Felinid Kingdoms. The next half‑millennium saw him on and off fighting at the front and back lines, establishing rumours of an undead terror walking the battlefields and devastating the enemies of the wolves.
Peace, however, revealed a subtler curse. Each year the wolf's sense of "now" slipped — days blurred, seasons derailed, allies greyed overnight. At some point, deciding to travel slightly further than usual, he finally lost his waypoint and appeared far outside the lands that used to be his to command...
Peace, however, revealed a subtler curse. Each year the wolf's sense of "now" slipped — days blurred, seasons derailed, allies greyed overnight. At some point, deciding to travel slightly further than usual, he finally lost his waypoint and appeared far outside the lands that used to be his to command...
Last edited: