A copper-scaled dragonborn with polished horn ridges, a long baton-like tail, and a performer’s poise. Ouroboros dresses in a well-kept leather jerkin over stage black clothes, with a battered lute slung across his back and a faint shimmer of stage powder on his snout. His eyes are amber and watchful, his smile practiced, and his claws are ink-stained from writing lyrics and set lists between performances.

Measured, clever, and quietly magnetic. Ouroboros enjoys people, but he studies them as much as he entertains them. He speaks with deliberate warmth, rarely raising his voice, and he prefers questions that reveal character over statements that demand agreement.

Ouroboros was hatched in a caravan that never stayed anywhere long enough to be called home. His earliest memories are of drumbeats under wagon wheels, tavern smoke, and the way crowds changed when a song began. While other children learned market routes or sword drills, he learned timing, breath, and how to turn a roomful of strangers into a single listening body. He discovered early that truth could be carried inside rhythm, hidden in jokes, or revealed by a well-placed verse, and that a performance could soothe anger, sharpen memory, or make a stubborn noble laugh when nothing else would. As he grew, Ouroboros found that his dragonborn voice could shake rafters without effort, but he preferred subtler power, a pause before a punchline, a gentle chord before a hard truth. He studied old ballads, court manners, coded stage patter, and the mechanics of applause with the same care others gave to battle manuals. He now travels as a bard not only to earn coin, but to collect stories, test how different people choose meaning from the same facts, and keep the world from becoming too certain of itself. He does not seek to rule events, only to nudge them, then watch what rises in the spaces between notes.