WAY OF THE WANDERED | YORIN

Name: Yorin Holt Gender: Male

Appearance: His androgyny isn’t something he hides—it’s the core of his allure. The angles of his face are fine but not fragile.

Voice: his voice, rather young and can be considered feminime for a man. His manner of speech is rather direct, but not unkind.

Height: 5'5

Clothings: A rusty knight armor, with tattered red capes.

Eyes: His eyes, a muted amber that shifts to green in certain light, hold a quiet sharpness, the kind that sees through illusions and small talk alike.

Hair: ---His hair, a vivid cascade of molten copper, falls in uneven layers to his shoulders, the ends kissed by gold where the sun has touched them too long. Backstory:

PROLOGUE Yorin Holt was born in the mud of a forgotten village — one of countless peasants who lived and died under the shadow of lords who never learned their names. His life was small but honest: mornings in the fields, evenings at the hearth, and dreams no bigger than next year’s harvest.

TENSION Then came the drought — and the lord’s taxes didn’t stop. When the villagers couldn’t pay, Lord Marrec of Westvale sent his men to “collect.” Yorin’s father resisted. The soldiers made sure no one else would. By nightfall, the Holt farm was nothing but ash and smoke.

Yorin didn’t stay to bury what was left. He left with his father’s old knife, the clothes on his back, and hatred that burned hotter than the embers he walked away from town.

CLIMAX Months later, he tracked the lord’s convoy on a forest road. He waited for the rain — the kind that turns dirt to silence — and struck. It wasn’t clean, or glorious. Just fast, brutal, and desperate. When it was over, Lord Marrec was bleeding out in the mud, staring up at the peasant he’d ruined.

Yorin didn’t linger. He took the lord’s armor and, from the wrecked convoy, a horse — a young bay mare named Lark, sleek and restless, terrified by the blood and thunder. He didn’t choose her; she followed when he fled, too frightened to stay.

He kept her because he couldn’t bear to walk anymore — and maybe because she was the only living thing that hadn’t turned on him. Over time, she grew used to him: his quiet voice, his slow movements, the way he always shared his last bit of bread.

EPILOGUE Now, Yorin wanders the backroads astride that same horse. The armor he wears is scarred and dulled, the sigil of Westvale scraped away with a river stone. He travels from one nameless settlement to another, working as a guard, a courier, or just another tired man passing through.

Some say he’s running from the gallows. Others whisper he’s hunting for redemption. He says nothing — just brushes down Lark at dusk, stares into the fire, and listens to the wind move through the trees.

The road is long, but at least he doesn’t walk it alone anymore.