Name: Epazote - a culinary herb sometimes used in medicinal contexts, though overdoses have also caused death. They aren't actually sure what message they were trying to send across when they chose it.
Nicknames: They don't like other people using nicknames, but in internal monologues and the like, they do sometimes call themselves "Paz". It's not even pronounced the same way as their full name, but they like it better.
Gender: Nonbinary (they/them; dmab)
Occupation: Alchemist - sells their potions for food and other materials. Alchemy's easier than it looks, but nobody's going to believe that, so they make a fair bit of money healing and cursing.
Personality: It's hard for most people to get a good grasp on Epazote's personality - they tend to stand stick-straight, never moving unless to do something, with a permanent semi-scowl imprinted on their features. Some might be able to interpret their body language or speech patterns to figure out what they're thinking, but in general it tends to be hard to guess at their feelings toward anything unless they actively want you to. It doesn't help that Epazote's just a private person in general. They hate the idea of other people knowing too much about them - of having their heart laid bare and letting others judge them as they wish. They might go a little too far on this end, hiding useless facts that nobody cares about ("wow!!! epazote thinks starflowers are pretty!!! let's all mock them for this stunning new revelation!!!!"), but they're adamant on it.
Those two things make it even worse that they're so... unstable. They avoid responsibility (not that it comes by often) like the plague, and for good reason; they crack like an egg under too much pressure, with a threshold lower than most Viscets. Pushed over the edge, they become significantly more expressive - their gestures become somewhat pronounced, their face morphing according to their feelings. Outside of that, though, it remains hard to guess their next action. They might be fierce and violent, picking fights with everyone in their way, or they might be a tearful sobbing wreck, or they might be laughing hysterically in a vain effort to mask their emotions.
That description does seem to paint a rather unflattering image of Epazote, doesn't it? A paranoid, dangerous stoic who might snap at any moment. Just like anyone else, of course, they do have their strengths. As long as they consider themselves safe, they're rather sensible, for one. Thinking several steps ahead, and capable of putting aside past grievances, their decision-making skills are undeniable. Their natural distrust of Viscets is healthy rather than overwhelming, so it's hard to trick them unless you're already someone they happen to know.
Even then, they're guarded. No matter how close you are to them, it's unlikely they'll place their life in your hands, because they know that people aren't omnipotent. Even if someone's pure of heart, incompetence or circumstance might cause someone to accidentally betray Paz - a risk they're not willing to take. They'll only trust someone if they really have reason to, or if it's with something small they could bear losing. This cautious attitude extends to the rest of their life. Epazote's the kind to look before they leap, and while they can make snap decisions if they
have to, they prefer to think things over for as long as possible beforehand.
Digging deeper, you'll find that they have a flair for the dramatic. Their lifestyle means they have plenty spare time, and a small but not insignificant chunk of it is spent hunting down cool-looking trinkets and thinking up epic one-liners to tell their visitors. They like the idea that they're viewed as a mystery in the village, similar to those edgy mysterious characters in the stories they love so much. Paz takes stories, sometimes, as payment for their potions on good days when they aren't worried about stocking up food or materials.
Skills:-Good at repairing stuff (like, carpenting.)
-Pretty great survival skills
-Very familiar with most herbs and etc
-Good with animals
-Quick learner
-They can sorta cook
Weaknesses:-Weaker than they want you to think
-very bad at expressing themself and reading people; bad at getting people to do what they want
-Their body is extremely stiff; sometimes they ache even bending over to pick things up. Don't even think about asking them to stretch.
-It's a pretty minor thing, but they're terrible at keeping track of time without reminders. They'll notice if the sky's going dark or something, but they'll spend an hour sitting around and assume it's been minutes, or the other way round.
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Home: Given it was mostly built by a fourteen-year-old Paz with little experience with building, it's very poorly structured/built. The roof is uneven, planks stacked carelessly over each other, and the door could be toppled over with a single strong kick. It's mostly kept together with magic, and it's located in the forest.
Physique: Shorter than they'd like. Average in terms of fat.
Voice: It's hoarse from lack of use, but in the days when Epazote talked more often, it was soft, smooth, and deep.
Accessories: They love cloaks, and would probably wear masks if not for the fact that they already have a... bone shell thing on their head. They think it makes them look cool.
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Anyone would have been surprised to learn that the dark-furred Viscet strolling through the woods was a child. They were about the right size for one, and their gait was that of a Viscling - clumsy, unused to walking on their hind legs - but their stance was confident, for all that. Far more so than a child had any right to be in a place like this. They didn't falter as twigs snapped under their calloused paws; on the many occasions where they had to backtrack a few paces, they returned to their invisible path with no further ado.
The forest was regarded by many as ominous, with its looming trees and dark shadows. The Viscling knew better. Even with their size, there were few predators large enough to kill them, and even fewer that would try. It was still dangerous, but the risk was mostly mitigated by their familiarity with the land. There was plenty time left till night fell; the dawn had barely passed.
It was noon, though, when at last they stopped, reaching a clearing where stood a hut - or what, they imagined, must have been a hut at one point. At this point, it could barely even be called a building. The timber that had once made up the roof was littered on the ground, and the door was splintered and weak.
They trod carefully when they entered, lowering to walk as a quadruped. Aside from the wooden planks that they nudged out of the way, there were several shards of glass and puddles of unrecognizable, foul-smelling liquid that they had to step around. Even on all fours, though, they didn't have the finesse to dodge all of them, and they squeaked once in a while as something squelched underneath them. They were half expecting to burst into flames each time that happened, but the only noticeable effects were their now-wet paws.
There was a table (was it a table? It looked more like a hunk of wood) at the other end of the room, on which rested a book. They weaved their way through the room to approach it, leaning on their front paws on its surface. Slowly, as if a monster were waiting in its pages to spring out and attack, they opened it.
The cover was faded, but though the pages were yellowed, the words they contained were perfectly legible. Recipes, all written in neat print - not for the stews and jams they were familiar with, but potions. For healing, for cursing, for moving, for feeling. In between those were what looked to be diary entries, explaining the life of its author in florid detail. The Viscling read quickly and with rapt attention, trying to drink in as much information as they could. They probably wouldn't remember more than half of it by the end of the week - they couldn't remember a thing from their attempt just days ago - but they needed to try. Even if they could only make a single potion, the trip would be worth it.
Unnoticed to them, the sun began to sink. The further they read, the more entranced they became. The alchemist had penned down all his thoughts in between recipes, and they felt as if they'd known him themself; they might as well have, with how much they knew about him. His fears, his past, his quirks, his likes and dislikes - all of these were detailed in the diary entries, and they felt an absurd attachment for someone they'd never met.
Surprise filled them when they reached the end, where the penmanship devolved into a crude scrawl. They flicked forward by a few pages - nothing. Every page after that one was empty, not even a word or a dot of ink soiling the paper. Unfazed, they cocked their head and read it aloud:
"Ive made mistakes I still regret. Im dying and I dont have anything to remember me by. No legacy no memory no successor. All I have left is hope someonell read this and carry on the business. Tired tired tired. Just wanna- There was more after that, but it turned completely unintelligible, just a curvy line that vaguely resembled words.
***
The Viscet who ran the orphanage wasn't cruel, but it was hard to keep track of so many children, and the dark-furred Viscling found it all too easy to sneak in and out far after curfew. These days, it was an ability they were glad for.
They'd taken on the dilapidated hut as a personal project, and it was unsurprisingly slow work. All they had to go off was intuition, and the information they'd gotten from the construction workers they occasionally came across. The tools they had were cheap, too - they got an allowance, but even after having saved for years, it wasn't enough for the good quality stuff.
The
and then they started rebuilding the hut and eventually moved in, taking up the mantle of the new alchemist. They lived in solitude at first but eventually someone (probably my ancreta) wandered in, got a potion, and later spread the owrd.
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