Buggy has deep, mahogany-colored skin and short, blunt horns that sweep back from their forehead. Their tail is thick and often twitches when they are deep in thought. They wear practical, soot-stained chain mail and carry a massive greatsword that looks like it has seen better days, though the edge is kept meticulously sharp. Their yellow eyes are bright and observant, usually searching for small movements in the grass.

I am blunt and to the point. I find military protocol useful for winning wars but stifling for living a good life. I have a soft spot for insects and small creatures, often pausing to move a beetle off the path. I do not like being told what to do by people who haven't bled for their cause.

Buggy was raised in a frontier military camp, the child of a camp follower and a soldier who didn't stay long. Their name was a joke given by other recruits because of Buggy's tendency to watch insects instead of focusing on drill. However, once the greatsword was in their hands, the joking stopped. They proved to be a natural at the heavy, brutal work of the frontline infantry, rising through the ranks until they realized they were protecting the wrong people. During a border dispute, Buggy was ordered to burn a granary belonging to struggling farmers. They refused, broke their captain's nose, and left the service under a cloud of controversy. Now, they wander as a freelance protector, using the skills the army taught them to defend those the law often ignores. They remain nomadic, moving from town to town and taking odd jobs that align with their chaotic sense of justice. They still collect small beetles in jars to release them in safer gardens, a small reminder of the gentleness they refuse to lose.