OOC
Minecraft Username: Malumince
Are you at least 18 years old?: Yes
Have you read the rules?: Yes
(Optional) Were you referred by someone? If so, who: canadianbirb/BirbRP
(Optional) Introduce yourself if you’d like, as well as any creations you want to share (e.g. art, builds, skins): I’m Malumince, or just Malum. I’ve been part of RP communities of all sizes and kinds since around 2013, from regular run of the mill participant all the way to guild officer/moderator/head writer/server owner over various groups and numerous years.
—
In-Character
The rhythmic lull of hoofbeats are a marching drum to the small group of pioneers and variety of folk you have found yourself amongst, packed into a wobbling wagon. The rolling plains of the Southern Reach and a clear sky stretch out all around you, the buzz of excited chatter a dull wash in your ears as your mind strays to your former life and what has led you here to new lands.
“Nervous?”
You blink, returning to the present moment. A kindly older woman sat near you is smiling warmly with a crinkle to her eyes.
“I can tell it’s your first time. Still remember mine,” she flashes a grin and leans in.
“Tell me my dear, why have you come to the Reach?”
How do you respond (in character)?:
“No’ really nervous, ma’am.”
The voice that rasps back at the woman is quiet, bearing a lilting Mistan accent, though its natural musicality is dulled by a hoarse tone that suggests habitual disuse. Well looks up at the woman, and when his head tilts there’s just enough of a parting of overgrown pale hair to reveal a tentative smile on cracked lips.
“I try t’think of it as a new opportunity.” Long fingers pick at the cuffs of his own sleeves, and after a pause his head angles down and away as if breaking any stray chance of eye contact despite the hair obscuring his expression. “Anything new is bound t’be scary a’first. I try not t’let it linger.”
Her latter question sets his fingers pausing against his sleeve, chipped fingernails faltering in their picking as he thinks.
“... Why does anyone come t’the Reach? A fresh start, something… new.” It hadn’t always been his preference; he recalled his choice to depart from the lighthouse of his youth and make the stumbling trek up the hillside to declare his place among the Isles, his intentions spoken louder than his voice could ever carry them- this was his home, and here he would stay. The rickety back end of this caravan feels as far from those simple comforts as he can possibly think, but it will have to do for now.
“There’s something nice abou’ it. The Spire, the ruins. All of the… making the old into something new again. Something t’aspire t’be. Or, er… do.” A cough, slightly awkward, stumbling over his own uncertainty. How much did she expect him to share? “My da’, he told me it’d be best if I saw more of the world than home could offer. Didn’t see what he meant, no’ with all the ships- they always seemed t’bring the world t’us, but he insisted. It’s been nice. Busy.” All at once he gets the distinct impression he’s rambling, shutting himself up and trailing off with a grimace. It’s more than he thinks he’s spoken in weeks and the words settle awkwardly on his tongue as he folds his hands in his lap.
“... When did you first come here?”
He won’t ask why, even though she had first. It feels… intrusive.
—
Character Name: Well an Folláin
Character Race: Half Arsa Sidhe, Half Fey-Touched
Character Age: 26
Brief Physical Description: Standing a thin-framed 6’3” but often slouched and curled into a much more approachable size, Well presents a striking figure upon first glance; born with albinism, he possesses skin pale enough to be near translucent, hair the colour of bleached wheat stalks hanging down to his chest in thin, unruly tangles that obscure his face from view. Parting the hair reveals the single hued eyes typical of a Fey-Touched that lack pigment entirely, leaving only the pale, slightly off-pink colour of the sclera. The marks of his mountain fey heritage manifest in two small but distinct ways upon close examination- his ears, though long and thin skinned like that of a conventional Arsa Sidhe, are lightly fluffy along their exterior in a downy covering, and he bears visible scarring along the base of his ears just below the line of his hair, while his fingernails, kept meticulously short, are a coarse black colour- the same dense keratin as hooves. He conventionally dresses in long, loose clothing which covers as much skin as possible, often wrapping whatever his clothes do not conceal in an effort to protect himself from the sun now that he no longer has the benefit of the Mist Isle’s namesake fog to keep him from the intensity of the light. 
