Supilu, last member of his tribe.

Name: Supilu.

Sex: Male.

Age: Around 22 years old.

Stats: Vigor (+2), Dexterity (+1), Wits (0), Knowledge (-2), Virility (+1).

Background summary: Supilu was raised by his grandmother in an isolated valley in the highlands. Due to tragic events, they were the last two members of their tribe. Now that his grandmother has died, however, Supilu is the one last member of said tribe. Nonetheless, he isn't willing to let his lineage die. He starts a journey to rebuild the Strongwolves tribe all over again, from square one.

You have, at long last, finished digging Grandma's grave. It is wide and deep, ample enough to hold her lifeless body. Her passing was no sudden blow; you had known for weeks that the end was near. The only question, truly, was when the inevitable would claim her. You discovered the answer just a few hours ago, when you awoke, prepared breakfast for the two of you, and went to check on her. It was then you noticed: she was no longer breathing. The wood spirits had taken her, carried her away to rest, perhaps now reborn as some delicate flower hidden in the depths of the jungle.

Now, with the grave ready, you lift her body with care, laying her gently at the bottom of the pit. Before you begin to fill the earth over her, you bend down and place a final, tender kiss upon her brow. Then, as the soft breeze stirs, you start to hum the lullaby she used to sing you each night, back when you were but a small, **** child. The air whispers around you. Could that be Grandma's spirit? Watching over you still, concerned perhaps by the single tear slipping down your cheek?

Your grief for her is deep, but there is something darker still that gnaws at you. With her ****, you are truly alone. It leaves you as the last man of the Happilu tribe, known once as the Strongwolves, now all but extinct save for one. Grandma told you the story countless times. Harsh winters and short, hungry summers had slowly weakened the tribe. Then came the Greensnakes, with one brutal strike, seizing their chance. The ambush fell in the dead of night. They spared no one, not even the children, fearing **** when they grew. But you—just an infant then—had been out with Grandma, searching the woods for a stray hen.

You returned only to find the massacre still underway. Seeing the devastation, Grandma scooped you up and fled, running until her legs could carry her no more.

"It was the wood spirits!" she used to say. "They spared us, led that hen astray, so we might survive."

For twenty long years, she raised you here in this hidden valley among the highlands. What else could she do? A lone old woman with a child to care for, enemies and dangers lurking all around. And yet, despite everything, she succeeded. She raised you well, until the weight of her years brought her to rest.

“What now?” you murmur, lost in thought. “I won’t be the last,” you vow, determination swelling within you. “The Strongwolf blood will persist.”

You hurry to the hut and take inventory. The stone spear, the bow and its twenty arrows you crafted together, and the old stone axe, a relic of Strongwolf craftsmanship that Grandma always kept at her side. There’s enough food for three days, and since it’s the rainy season, more can be found in the jungle. You have a large fur pouch, a waterskin, and the only clothing on your back: a skirt of layered grasses and leaves fastened at your waist, a fur cloak, and sandals woven from sparto grass.

With all your belongings in hand, you prepare to leave. A wolf pack requires both a he-wolf and a she-wolf—and there are no women here, only you. The journey must begin, and with it, the first crucial decision: which way to go?

Southward lies the Orange River, the swiftest path to other people, but that way leads through Greensnake territory. Westward, the edge of the mountains offers fewer dangers but fewer opportunities to meet anyone. To the north, Grandma spoke about something called a “Sea,” it is like a lake but really, really big, she once told you. The thought pulls at you, though the crossing would be perilous. Eastward stretch the shrublands, home to some people and some risks, though not nearly as many as the treacherous south.

The choice is yours.