Oren - Loner

[Mokobo]

Gender - Male
Age - 6 Human Years
Race - Wolf
Breed - Druin/Demon Hybrid
Pack - None
Rank - None
Kin - Father: Deathblood (deceased) Mother: Unknown (deceased)

Appearance - Despite the impurity of his heritage, Oren has many of the traits common in druins. His frame is longer and slightly taller than an average wolf's. Gangling legs and over-sized paws indicate that the youth still has yet to fill into his own body. A silvery grey color splotches onto each paw and the tip of his tail, which is short for a druin yet still slightly elongated. However fur of a deep, rusty brown covers most of his figure, a short, lustrous coat due to his desert homelands. Black scales flow down his front, starting around his collar before running his entire underside to the tip of his tail. The lower, rear-facing portions of his legs are covered in similar scales. His snout is flecked with the same silver color, as are the tips of his ears, the color fading as it travels to his cranium. Bright orange eyes gaze at the world with the wonder befitting a youth. Between his brow and each ear sprouts a short silvery horn curving to his back, and a similar, shorter one points from his chin toward his chest. The most curious aspect about Oren is not due to his druin heritage however. Secured loosely to his torso with old leather straps is a long sword, his father's blade. The straps are too large for him and the sheathed blade often slides off his back to his side, tripping him occasionally. Still he carries it with pride and sorrow all the same. Between the pommel with a large ruby set into it and the broad, tapered cross-guard is a handle of scorched leather desperately in need of repair. The sheath is made of the wood of some ancient tree of the desert, warped and dense. A golden mark of a serpent curled about a dagger is set into the wood, black char surrounding it.

Personality - Caution and shyness weigh heavily in this youth's demeanor. This is partially due to his isolated upbringing and equally due to the treatment of what few creatures he's known. Even though he is shy, Oren is trusting as well. While it may take time for him to fully open to a new acquaintance he has an eagerness to make new friends. Having never known another of his kind, other than his father, he has grown up with accusations that have made the youth uncertain of himself. Despite these insecurities, Oren displays an endearing amount of energy. Whether hunting for food or simply enjoying a swim he performs everything with an infectious fervor and excitement. Since leaving his desert homeland his wonder at all the world holds has only grown. However his smiles and laughs, while often, come with occasional spells of sorrow. The losses of his past weigh heavily upon his shoulders, but the clouds always eventually pull away.

Magic - Fire
Spells - Oren has not mastered the fire spirit he has bonded with, as such he has no direct control of his magic as of yet.

Skills - While his father passed before Oren became proficient, he has some training in the use of his father's blade. He was taught how to use his tail to balance on his hind legs and the stances to protect himself in the immobile state. His form is raw and unrefined however, but he practices the routines he was taught diligently.
- Oren can not be burned by ordinary fires. He first discovered this after his father's death. While he does not know it yet, his body is susceptible to the cold, unable to retain its own heat in icy climates.

Biography - Born in an arid land far to the south of the Imperii, Oren was raised by his father. His mother was a desert demon who died in childbirth, the most beautiful of the desert flowers. Such what what his father told him at least. Growing up Oren had no friends and saw very few souls other than his father. Deathblood, who had the ability to take the appearance of a common wolf, had initially been accepted by the pack native to the sands. When his father met his mother all of that changed. The natives feared the demons of the desert and shunned Oren's father for his growing fondness of such a creature. Despite all that Deathblood sheltered his new found beloved, and soon she whelped a single pup, perishing in the process. Grief took over Oren's father who in his sorrow held a funeral for mate where all could see. At first the pack of the sands shared Deathblood's sorrow, thinking it was for the best that the demon was dead and their new member free from her spells. However at the mention of a son the natives grew angry. They demanded the child be sacrificed to their god, that if it lived it would bring death to them all. Mourning turned to rage and Oren's father had slain the alpha then and there. After spitting upon the pack's superstitions and threatening any who dared to harm his son, Deathblood took Oren into exile across the river that bordered the native's lands.
This his father told him as well. All Oren can remember is their little den by the riverside. The natives avoided the river, choosing to take their water at a nearby oasis. Most of this time was spent learning the ways of the world and the martial art from Deathblood. His father was never cruel, but did tend to grow distant at times that would last for days. When Oren asked what troubled him so the only answer he ever received was always the same. "Never taste revenge son, it's poison." The answer was so enigmatic and repeated that eventually Oren learned to leave his father be during these times. Instead he explored the dunes and arid terrain that surrounded their home. For years he explored the sand and never did he run into another wolf. The warning his father had made to the natives had been sufficient to keep them away, and no one seemed to wander the sands. Often while Oren wandered did he wish he would see movement somewhere on the horizon. He never did, not until one ill-fated day.
While wandering one particularly hot day Oren had his wish. Through the wavering air he saw what he thought was a mirage at first. Experience had taught him that if you walk enough through the heat of the desert wishing for something and you will see it. Yet as he grew closer the mirage solidified into a wolf, a normal wolf whom by now he was the size of. Oren knew he would grow, having seen his father in his natural form. Even so he was glad he would not scare away his first chance of making a friend. Before he could rush forward to introduce himself, the stranger collapsed on the ground. When Oren examined the other canine he saw how ragged and thin they looked, and their brow burned fiercely hot. The stranger mumbled the same word over and over, rage. Attributing the others condition to having spent too much time on the sands, the young druin dragged the other back to the river. However water did not cool the stranger's fever and would not wake them from their sleep. By evening the stranger passed away and Oren watched with wonder and grief as his father built the fire and performed the funeral.
Over the next few days Oren's father developed his own terrible fever. At first Deathblood hid his sickness. After he stumbled while hunting with Oren, the elder druin insisted it was a minor cold. The next day when he didn't have the energy to rise from bed he insisted tomorrow would be better. Oren's grief at having lost a chance at a friend turned to despair as he watched his father fade away. After only a couple more days as he brought his father some water and mud to cool his fever, Deathblood beckoned his son to come closer. Oren shed many tears as his father told him he was dying, that he only had a few moments left. He listened through his sobs as he was told to be strong and kind and to never, ever seek vengeance. A few more tips of sword-skill were whispered in between feverish fits. Near the end Oren's father cried a name he could only assume was his mother's before falling into a deep sleep. By the morning Oren was an orphan.
He built the funeral pyre much as he had seen his father do before. It took him some time to find enough wood for the fire, partly because of the sparse fauna and partly because he viewed the world through a teary haze. Striking the stone to the steel blade seemed impossible at first, but soon the youth managed to get a few sparks. The dry tinder took quickly and soon he watched his father, his only friend be taken by the flames. However as he watched the fire consume, he noticed a golden glow from his father's leg. The golden mark he had seen so many times seemed untouched by the flames, the ruby eyes of the serpent blazing brightly. Even hours later when all that remained was ash Oren continued to stare into those eyes, his own no longer wet. On an impulse he reached into the embers and grasped the golden symbol. To his surprise it did not burn him, nor did the coals the metal was nestled in. Continuing on the odd impulse the youth placed the gold on the sheath of his father's blade, pressing it into the fibers. Miraculously the gold did not warp, but instead sank into the gnarled wood as if it always belonged there. This way Oren could always have his father close to him and he felt a bit of his sorrow ebb away.
For almost a year Oren lived by the edge of the river in peace. He survived storms and drought and even found a new root to eat when the river ran so low there was no fish. While foraging for his new morsel one day he ran into yet another wolf. At first Oren was skeptical, fearing that perhaps this creature had the illness that took his father as well. His apprehension faded quickly however as he noticed the other seemed as young as he was. They even joked with him about his gangling appearance, asking how big he planned on growing. For hours Oren chatted with his new friend and soon the subject fell to his father. With a voice full of sorrow he told the other how he was an orphan now, but quickly changed the subject to the new food he had discovered. That evening when he returned to his home it was with the first feeling of happiness that he had in recent memory. Cheerfully he fell asleep in the same bed he'd rested his entire life.
Some time during the night loud shouts and the smell of smoke awoke the young druin. The native pack had come to his home and were demanding he show himself. Fear crept into the youth and something told him to grab his father's sword. When he emerged into the night it was to see the shrubs and trees that surrounded his home ablaze and a mob of wolves at his doorstep. One who was the apparent new alpha tried to maintain some sense of order despite the cries of abomination and demon. He told Oren that he was no longer welcome in these lands. Tears filled the youth's eyes as he was told they were going to burn and bury his home to rid the land of his blight. Somewhere from the mob a rock flew and his the young druin upon the face, bringing more tears. This show of weakness brought the mob to a roil and more objects were thrown at a quickly retreating Oren. It was some time before the jeers and insults faded into the sands behind him.
For days he wandered through the desert, an orphan and an outcast. If not for his knowledge of the few sustaining plants and roots he would surely have perished. Grief and depression almost made him wish he would, and as he wandered aimlessly he often contemplating just lying down on the sand and letting the buzzards that circled above have their feast. Yet he never did, and he continued his steady march day after day. Something seemed to be pulling to him, driving him along. While he walked he noticed he always seemed to turn to the north, almost as if it was a reflex that took over whenever his mind wandered. At first he denied it, fearful of what the implications were. Soon the struggle seemed pointless, and he succumbed to urge. Little did he know that this path was destined to bring him to the lands of Noctre Imperii and its outlying territories.