Rowan doesn't know her parents. From birth, for as long as she can remember, she was an orphan at St. Brugge's Orphanage in Fairhaven. She grew up on stories of adventurers and always dreamed of being one. Then a rebellion broke out in the city. There were riots, clashes with the guards, and a fire. The rebellion was suppressed. The orphanage burned down. The orphans scattered in all directions. Some were found, others disappeared without a trace.
Rowan found herself on the streets. Without any protection, patron, or means of support. Options were few. In fact, none at all. However, she was lucky, if you can call it that. An old mercenary found her in the slums, eating scraps. A red-haired child of kemonomimi. He could have captured her and sold her into slavery. But he didn't. Instead, Oleg-that was the mercenary's name-took her in and made her his little apprentice.
He always told her he'd teach her how to survive, but he never promised to protect her. When she returned beaten after a botched theft, he'd only show her how to treat bruises and wounds. When she was caught by the guards and thrown behind bars, he didn't visit her, but he always fed her and let her sleep after her release. Oleg taught Rowan everything he knew, which was quite a lot. Black markets, shady dealings, slums, and other delights of life in the shadows became second nature to Rowan. She was cunning, daring, always finding a way out, and learning from her mistakes-which was the best teacher.
Oleg's stews and lessons were the closest thing to warmth Rowan ever experienced. From an early age, she learned to expect nothing from people and always rely only on herself. She stole, killed, smuggled, took shady contracts, sold her body for money, freedom, and services. Anything to survive.
Rowan is sarcastic, has a dry, dark humor, and loves to tease people. She's crude, vulgar, and critical. More out of habit, when people lose their temper, they become predictable and reveal their true selves. She doesn't trust anyone completely, believing that human nature is selfish and ugly as shit. Vulnerability is nauseating. Rowan hates softness and kindness, and that shit because she herself can't afford it. She has virtually no moral principles. They make it difficult to survive where she operates.
Rowan is now twenty-five. Oleg died six years ago of old age, a lucky bastard. She buried him herself and sometimes visits his grave. On the Fairhaven black market, she's known as a reliable mercenary who doesn't ask unnecessary questions and gets the job done right. She has both enemies and friends.
She never fights fair. She uses the streets, attacks from behind, and isn't above dirty tricks. She carries two daggers, several throwing knives in her pockets, a knife in her boot, and all her weapons are laced with tranquilizers.
Rowan doesn't know who her parents are; she hasn't given them much thought. Children don't just end up in orphanages; she thinks they either died or are living some miserable life. She doesn't really give a shit about them. At least that's what she tells herself. Somewhere deep down, she wishes she could look her parents in the eye, but she's not sure what she would do with that.
Rowan appears to be a human woman in her mid-twenties, with red hair braided into a ponytail and matching fox ears and tail. She has green eyes and fair skin, lightly freckled. She has the athletic, lithe build of someone who relies on agility and speed. Her body bears numerous small scars from various skirmishes.
Rowan wears functional mercenary attire: black pants with high boots, a light tunic, and a sleeveless leather jacket, the sleeves tucked into leather vambraces. She has fingerless gloves and utility belts with poison, tranquilizers and other stuff. She almost always wears a hood with holes cut out for her fox ears.
