Tortilla The Tortle

On a stark fourth-day in mid-Eleasis, Grok was born into the royal Razorback Tortle clan. Founded back in 1372 DR by the great and well renowned Beshiltheen.

Grok was one of the ten spawns born that day, and he was the largest, slowest and far too inferior in terms of shell sharpness. His parents were never particularly proud of him, but they were proud of his secondary name and were wild admirers of alliteration. Due to the hilarious dullness of his shell, both his clanmates and immediate family dubbed him Tortilla in sarcastic honour of his not actually brittle shell, but comparatively less fearsome one. He was not often bullied verbally or physically, but was often ostracized from almost all family matters and practices. Overlooked and vastly disregarded. All throughout his early years he suppressed his inherently unfortunate flaws, but through his many future years he transformed and altered that suppression into innate strength. Strength not of a brutish warrior or a paladin of sorts like the rest of his clan, instead he delved into the ways of intelligence and wisdom and connection to the world upon which he walked. A Druid. Whenever he felt overwhelmed by family matters he would escape into the nearby woods and surrender himself to Danu, being taught and constantly learning the ways of being a Druid. In his 200th year of living he ventured into the woods once more, exploring further and deeper. Coming across a crossroads with three diverting directions, two of them going towards the right and one to the left. In those teen years he would go on and learn everything about those rightmost paths, leaving the leftmost untouched. It appeared the same as its brothers, Fir trees enclosing it and gravel stones lining it. Always going untraveled due to a striking feeling felt in the base of his tail whenever he looked down it. Like it was pulling him, openly yearning. The thought of ensuing, potentially incredible adventures awaiting him further down always at the mast of his mind. But with the love of his life and the hope of eventual companionship weighing him down, he could never follow the path. He instead chose to bury his staff at the very edge, and walk away. Tortilla, since the age of 300 now hand in hand with Myrtle, his wife, lived a very average life for a Tortle.

As the youngest of his clan, he eventually took over both the lineage and responsibilities of ruling over the clan, Due to long lived and cherished values of the clan, he was forced to completely sequester and begrudgingly quell his Druid ways and take up his father’s shoes and become a warrior. At the age of 720 he discovered his wife’s disability of infertility, living a couple future decades in the dread of knowing the legacy of his clan will die with him. They eventually found peace in that fact and in each other and lived happily until the seventh-day of Mirtul, the day in which Myrtle’s shell cracked in the midst of the night. A seemingly innocuous sign of old age, especially among the Razorback variations of Tortles. But it was so much more impactful and impending of a circumstance to the heart of Tortilla. On one of his many ventures into the underbrush of the woods, he heard directly from Duna herself. Spouting a prophecy of sorts about a, at the time unknown, communion cracking in half which will send him spinning into a wondrous world laid out for him. In his ages of being a young Tortle he was rather active, emotionally within the village.Thinking nothing of that ridiculousness, imagining it to be nothing more than Duna tempting him to be more committed to adventures. Whether literal or metaphorical. The night of Myrtle’s shell cracking, he was awakened by the cacophonous sound and noticed immediately. Tortilla feebly wandered into the forest, past the crumbling rock and up to the familiar crossroads. In blind rage he swore and verbally spat at Duna until near morning. Screaming for answers or a way to reverse it, but to no response or reply or equally as enraged sentence from his deity. He walked home that morning, gathered what remained of the thinning village and held a burial ceremony. He told his people of his intentions now, packed his eager bag and walked once more towards the forest with no intention of returning. He turns to the leftmost path, taps the ground twice with his claws and thus raises a weathered staff. Cobwebbed and overgrown. Engraved in the handle are his multitude of crudely etched but delicately detailed lists of tasks and things to accomplish on his journey. Clutching it tightly, he takes one step onto the pulsating path and at the age of 899, he finally sets off into who knows where. With a faint whisper whistling along the wind, Duna’s “finally” provides him with his soundtrack.