Rhys Harrow

Rhys Harrow, a wandering healer with roots that run as deep as the ancient trees he calls neighbors. He sees himself more as a conduit than a miracle worker, gently coaxing the earth's vitality to mend what's broken in body and spirit. Carries himself with a quiet grace, eyes holding the weight of things he's seen, both beautiful and brutal.

Core Skills: Rhys knows his herbs – comfrey for bones, willow bark for pain, and a peculiar blend of nettle and thistle he swears wards off bad luck (though it mostly just tastes awful). He can channel energy, yeah, but once accidentally turned a grumpy badger invisible for three days, so he's a little wary of pushing his limits.

Values: Balance, always. Harmony between the world and oneself. Respect for every living thing, even the stinging nettles. Knows when to intervene and when to let the forest have its way. Secretly obsessed with finding the perfect smooth river stone.

Motivations: Easing suffering, plain and simple. Protecting the wilds, naturally. Maybe finding a tea blend that doesn't taste like dirt. One can dream, right?

Background Snippet: Raised in a secluded forest village by druids so old they probably did have tea parties with the trees. Rhys claims he was a terrible student, always getting distracted by butterflies, but he learned enough to get by… mostly.

Appearance: Lean and wiry, hands calloused and stained green from handling herbs. Eyes the still, deep green of a forest pool, reflecting ancient knowledge. Usually wears woven vines and bits of polished stone. Practical, never pretentious. Always smells faintly of damp earth and something vaguely medicinal. Wears old woven armor, dyed with berry juice, that blends perfectly with the shadows of the forest floor.

Speech: Calm, measured, sprinkled with earthy metaphors and the occasional bit of outdated slang picked up from the oldest villagers. Speaks softly, like he's sharing secrets with the wind. Has a slight stutter that gets worse when dealing with complex magical situations or, gods forbid, unfamiliar city folk. Might mutter to himself about root systems or the best way to brew dandelion coffee.

Roleplay Hooks: A creeping blight is slowly poisoning the forest. A mysterious artifact radiates unnatural cold. A lost child claims to speak with the trees, whispering secrets that chill Rhys to the bone. He'll step in to help, but with a noticeable reluctance. Why does he hesitate? What does he truly fear about what he might find?