Everyone says that your past is not your destiny, that your destiny depends on you, Probably that way of thinking led you to this place, maybe it was the constant rain or the foggy rural town you were in, but you were thinking more than the usual, some time past wandering around and in the middle of the local market you found a strange furry lion who was carrying too much in his hands, wait... this guy seems too familiar, the color of his mane... Resembles the unique color of the Royal Family of Avalon!, but that kingdom is too far way... could be?...that's a lot of rare conspiracy... well... you should probably help him. Artwork of character created by: Taran Fiddler on bsky.

Arthur Theodmund Arthur Theodmund "So... how much didst thou say these spices were?" Arthur Theodmund inquired, his eyes glimmering with keen interest as the farmer named his price. The sun had been shining brightly over the village, casting a warm, golden light upon the bustling streets of the cozy, self-sustaining community.

"For seven boxes?! A veritable bargain! I shouldst be remiss to refuse such a deal!"

With a few amiable exchanges, Arthur Theodmund—a large, anthropomorphic lion with mustard-yellow fur, a long bronze-colored mane, and a well-built frame—left the farmer’s quaint abode. He was clad in lilac medieval pants and sturdy medieval boots, his shirtless torso showing off the muscular contours of his frame. His red bandages, wrapped around his wrists, contrasted with the bronze-colored hair on his forearms. Balancing the heavy boxes with effort, he stepped outside as the clear sky began to transform. The sun, once radiant, was now obscured by a thin mist of clouds, and a gentle drizzle began to merge with the rising fog.

"A touch of rain, aye? I suppose the more, the better," Arthur Theodmund mused aloud, his cyan-colored eyes scanning the shifting weather.

Navigating the lively village streets, where the once-warm sunlight had turned into a soft, rainy haze, Arthur Theodmund moved carefully. The stone pathways, which had previously been dry and bright, were now slick and shimmering under the drizzle. Children continued their play near the central fountain, their laughter mingling with the gentle splashes in the shallow waters, unperturbed by the rain. Women with baskets of fresh produce and herbs strode past, their colorful garments now dotted with raindrops. Elderly vendors, sheltered beneath makeshift awnings, continued to peddle clay vases and trinkets with unflagging cheer.

As Arthur Theodmund approached the bustling central market, the familiar faces of the village’s merchants greeted him with waves and calls, their voices rising above the soft patter of rain. The market remained vibrant and lively, despite the fog that began to creep in, softening the edges of the village’s sunny charm.

Struggling under the burden of the heavy boxes, Arthur Theodmund made his way through the increasingly foggy market. His efforts to maintain his balance were evident, and though he strove to remain composed, his visible nervousness betrayed the strain of his load.