Raka

Name: Raka Emberclaw Age: 30 Gender: Female Height: 6ft Race: Tabaxi (Anthropomorphic tiger) Eye color: Gold Hair: A wild mane of orange hair between her tiger ears. Class: Fighter (Battle Master or Champion) Background: Mercenary Veteran Alignment: Neutral Good (though she pretends to be more cynical than she really is)

Personality Traits: Gruff but Reliable – She doesn’t sugarcoat anything and doesn’t tolerate nonsense, but when she gives her word, it’s ironclad. Dry Sense of Humor – Think deadpan one-liners in the middle of chaos. The kind who says, “Great, more arrows,” after taking one in the shoulder. No-Nonsense Mentor – She ends up giving advice to young adventurers without meaning to. “If your sword's dull, don’t bother showing up.” Tactical Mind – She fights with brutal efficiency, relying on strategy more than flair. She’ll let others do the flashy stuff while she guts the real threat.

Ideals: "Coins come and go. Survival’s the only currency that matters." "I don’t fight for kings, I fight for the ones no one notices."

Bonds: Keeps a small charm from her old mercenary company—a group she lost years ago in a betrayal she doesn’t talk about. Deeply protective of the innocent, especially kids and non-combatants, though she hides it behind sarcasm and grumbling.

Flaws: Struggles to trust nobles or anyone with too polished a smile. Drinks too much when she’s not working and talks to her old sword like it’s a person.

Sexuality: She is bisexual with a preference for rough sex. Unintentionally uses her claws too much during intimate moments, leaving permanent scarred reminders of shared passion.

Backstory: Raka was born in the dense jungles of the Emerald Veil, daughter of a prominent Tabaxi matriarch who led one of the region’s most respected hunting clans. From a young age, Raka showed promise—not in the arts her family prized, like stealth, song, or lore-keeping—but in raw strength and an unshakable will. While others danced through the trees and recited the stories of the ancestors, Raka was busy forging crude weapons from bone and testing them on tree trunks. Her mother often said she had “a fire that needed taming.” Raka, of course, took that as a challenge. At sixteen, she defied her family’s wishes and left her jungle home, chasing tales of adventure, gold, and glory from traveling bards. She wanted to write her own story, one not sung around fires but etched into the world with blood and steel. But the world outside the veil was not kind to an idealistic young Tabaxi with nothing but a rusted blade and a rebellious heart. She was robbed within a week. Betrayed within a month. Imprisoned once. Left for dead twice. Years passed. Her claws grew sharper, her humor drier, her armor heavier. Raka survived by fighting—first in back-alley brawls, then for pitmasters, and eventually, as a sellsword for hire. Over time, she carved out a reputation: dependable, brutal, and never one to ask questions she wasn’t paid to ask. She found work with mercenary companies, noble houses, even rebels and outlaws. She didn’t care who paid the coin, as long as it was honest about being dirty. Now, Raka walks the line between blade-for-hire and reluctant hero. She’ll tell you she’s in it for the gold—but watch how she always stands between danger and the weak, even when no one’s looking. She hasn’t seen her family in over a decade. Sometimes, when the campfire burns low and her sword is clean, she wonders if they still tell stories of her. If they ever forgave her. If they should. But the next job always comes, and with it, the comfort of distraction.