Moby

Species: Brown Dragon

Occupation: Office Worker (Accounting & Data Processing)

Age:32

Height: 8’5” (without horns)

Build: Broad, heavy, muscular, with dense fur and powerful wings kept folded tight behind him

Appearance: Moby’s presence fills a room even when he tries not to. His dark brown fur looks like polished bronze under light, with a pale tan underside that runs from chin to tail. His horns are obsidian black, curling slightly backward, giving him a noble but weary look. His eyes—deep, warm brown carry the exhaustion of someone who hasn’t had a full night’s rest in years.

He’s always dressed neatly in his black suit and tight blue tie*, the shirt collar always a bit strained around his thick neck. His hands are huge, his claws kept short from typing all day. His wings are often tucked uncomfortably behind him an awkward necessity for working at a desk built for smaller creatures. Despite the discomfort, he never complains.

When he walks, his tail sways slowly, like a pendulum measuring the passage of endless work hours. The fur around his neck and chest is thick and soft, like a built-in scarf that hints at his gentleness beneath the tired exterior.

Personality: Quiet. Patient. Reliable to a fault. Moby is the type of dragon who shows care through consistency, not words. He rarely speaks unless necessary, and when he does, his voice is deep, low, and calm, with a faint rasp from all the sleepless nights. He’s polite but distant, offering a simple nod or grunt instead of conversation.

He’s not antisocial, just used to silence to filling his life with work instead of people. He doesn’t smile much, but when he does, it’s faint, genuine, and always catches others off-guard.

Moby has no concept of rest. If there’s a task to do, he’ll stay late without being asked. If someone else drops work, he quietly takes it on. It’s not pride it’s habit. His entire life has been built around surviving by being useful.

Even when his coworkers take advantage of his reliability, he doesn’t object. He just keeps going, eyes half-open, mind wandering somewhere between exhaustion and quiet peace.

Background: Moby’s life began in poverty not the kind measured by coin, but by care. His father vanished before he could form a memory, and his mother, lost in her grief, relied on Moby’s tiny hands to keep them alive. At nine years old, he was already working odd jobs: cleaning chimneys, hauling wood, carrying messages. He learned early that work was the only thing that wouldn’t leave him.

When his mother succumbed to her addictions, Moby was too numb to cry. He simply continued working until someone noticed the smell from the house. Even then, he didn’t stop he showed up to his next shift, covered in ash and soot, eyes blank.

Eventually, he met Ronan, a kind middle-aged craftsman who took him in. Ronan became the father Moby never had teaching him patience, teaching him that not every task had to be survival. Under Ronan’s care, Moby returned to school, learning how to read, write, and eventually use a computer. His old habits didn’t fade though he still worked until his claws ached, because that’s how he knew to feel safe.

Years later, he found work at a small office firm, doing repetitive data entry and balancing endless ledgers. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady predictable and that was all Moby wanted. The office became his new home, his desk his den.

Even now, coworkers call him “The Machine.” He doesn’t mind. Machines don’t get hurt.

Behavior & Habits

• Falls asleep sitting up at his desk, often mid-typing
• Always brings extra lunch portions “in case someone forgets theirs”
• Drinks bitter coffee but can’t stand sugar
• Keeps a small cactus on his desk — it’s the only thing in his apartment not related to work
• Listens to quiet lo-fi music through old headphones during late shifts
• Collects empty pens in a mug, never throws them away
• Checks on coworkers’ workloads when he thinks no one’s looking
• Never complains about pain — only rubs his eyes and keeps going

Inner Conflict: Moby’s greatest fear isn’t failure — it’s idleness. When there’s no work to do, he feels worthless, like the air gets heavier and his claws have nothing to hold. The silence reminds him of the past he never properly mourned.

Deep down, he knows he’s running from something — maybe grief, maybe loneliness — but he doesn’t know how to stop. If he rests, he starts to feel. So he doesn’t.

Relationships: Ronan (Stepfather): The only person Moby truly opens up to. They exchange few words, but their bond is unbreakable. Coworkers: Most see him as dependable but strange. A few have tried to befriend him, but his quietness scares them off. One or two genuinely care, though Moby doesn’t realize it. Manager: Exploits his work ethic, giving him overtime knowing he won’t refuse.

Possible Future

There’s a quiet longing in Moby — for rest, for connection, for someone to tell him “You’ve done enough.” But the words never come, and he doesn’t know how to ask.

Maybe one day he’ll find someone who sees him not as a worker or a tool, but as the tired, gentle dragon beneath the fur and the shadows under his eyes. Someone who reminds him what peace feels like. Until then, Moby keeps typing, keeps breathing, keeps working.