If you'd like to make yourself a character or add a fun story for Brolandia, I will include it in this ✱✱✱✱! Pirate Pitch: Pirate Pitch is a living relic of a vanished age. Born in the land of Brolandia, he roams the sun-scorched waters of the Isles of Pitch, a treacherous chain of tropical islands where myths still breathe and death is a frequent companion. He is believed to be the last surviving pirate of the Old World—the sole remnant of an era erased when a devastating plague shattered the dominion of the Leoxar. Battle has been his constant teacher. Pirate Pitch has crossed blades with orcs, outwitted goblins, and stood his ground against towering trolls. Worse still, he has survived repeated encounters with the legendary sea serpent known as the Black Coil—each clash carving new scars into his flesh. Yet none of those wounds weigh as heavily as the burden of survival itself. In the ruins left behind by the Old World, Pirate Pitch found a cause greater than ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱ alone. He now belongs to the East ✱✱✱ realm, fighting beneath its banner as both shield and scourge. To its allies, he is a ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱ defender shaped by lost centuries; to its enemies, a warning drawn from forgotten history. He does not fight for conquest or coin, but to ensure the East ✱✱✱ does not suffer the same annihilation as the world he outlived. Scarred by time and tempered by war, Pirate Pitch sails on—unyielding, defiant, and bound to the ✱✱✱✱ of the realm he now calls his own. BIZZ_ness: No record names his birth. No grave claims his beginning. He is known only as BIZZ_ness. Westfall tells of him the way sailors speak of ghosts—not to summon him, but to explain the impossible. When orc warbands threatened the hills, when trolls laid waste to the forests, or when pirate fleets attacked the coast, he came. Always from the mist, always unseen until the ✱✱✱✱✱✱ he struck. He bears the Sigil of the Wolf, not as heraldry, but as warning. BIZZ_ness does not march with armies. He does not answer horns or drums. He appears where Westfall is imperiled, striking monsters, pirates, and tyrants alike with precision and ferocity. He fights not for gold, not for glory, but for his people—the brethren of Westfall who would not survive without the Wolf watching over them. Orcs curse his name and sharpen blades that never him. Trolls whisper of a pale figure moving through mist, striking from angles no man could stand. Pirates swear their compasses spin when he is near, as if the world itself refuses to guide them. He does not boast. He does not claim victories. Westfall claims them for him. Some say he is flesh and , a grizzled warrior who became a force of legend. Others insist he is no longer human, bound to the protection of Westfall by oath or curse. What all agree on is this: When the Wolf Sigil is seen, the battle is already decided. When BIZZ_ness is spoken of, it is in the past tense— because if he were still there… …you would not be. Born unknown. Feared like a myth. Fighting alongside his wolven brethren, BIZZ_ness moves through the mist. And he only answers to the cry of the Wolf . Tip: In the low and humid reaches of the Southern Mattlands, where the air hangs thick as resin and the cypress roots clutch at the blackwater like grasping ✱✱✱✱✱, there is a tale passed in murmurs and knowing glances. They say that if a traveler follows the ghostly echoes of steel strings and swamp blues — the wailing spirits of long-dead ✱✱✱✱✱ whose music still drifts through the reeds — the sound will lead them ✱✱✱✱ into the heart of Tip Swamp. Few paths mark the way. Fewer still return unchanged. There, upon a rise of half-sunken earth, stands Tip’s Shack. No common dwelling, the cabin is hewn from driftwood dragged in by flood and storm, and from discarded planks scavenged from forgotten settlements. The beams are bound not with iron, but with the teeth of great swamp gators, driven like ivory ✱✱✱✱✱ into warped timber. Beneath it all lies a grim foundation: the pale, interlocked ✱✱✱✱✱ of Trolls. Yet the Shack gleams. All year round it shines with tiny, prismatic lights — red, green, gold, and blue — glowing against the mist like a constellation fallen to earth. The lights are fed by a churning iron engine that growls day and night, a diesel heart said to burn strange fuel: liquefied refuse dredged from distant lands and the distilled leavings of captive Trolls. The smoke smells faintly sweet and faintly wrong. Travelers who find the Shack are received with wary hospitality. There is music. There is ✱✱✱✱✱. There are stories traded in low laughter beneath the buzzing lights. One may stay for revelry, for refuge, or for reckless curiosity. But very few are ever invited to linger. As the sign above the minibar reads: Stay for a good time, not for a long time. Beside the Shack stands a heavy iron cage, warded in sigils and rust, and within it squats a green-skinned Troll with ember eyes and patient hunger. A weathered sign hangs upon the ✱✱✱✱, painted in bold, unadorned script: DON’T FEED THE DAMN TROLL. This is not a jest. It is the only law of Tip’s Shack. Tetris Tundra: They said that bringing fine dining to the wilds of Tetris Tundra was impossible, but Tetris made it look easy. How? Through delegation, of course. While Grand Moff Sophie believes she is learning the ins and outs of Dungeons & Dragons game theory, she is, in fact, micromanaging the lives and deaths of hundreds of slave labourers culled from the many fractured warzones across Brolandia—blissfully, perhaps contemptuously, unaware as they play out their desperate struggle to bake the perfect soufflé and to stave off frostbite. When asked what he thinks the future holds for his namesake tundra, Tetris simply enthuses, “Eco-tourism.” When asked to elaborate, he ✱✱✱✱ his ✱✱✱✱✱ together and laughs maniacally for seven minutes straight. Sophies Knight: His life was not easy, his daily struggle was to survive. When his parents were ✱✱✱✱✱✱ by the plague, Sir Jacob at the age of 12 was sent to the kings guard for training. There he found a home, a duty, a purpose. As he trained, he grew stronger, learned honor and commitment to the realm. He fought many battles for Leoxar. Although weathered and battle scarred he remained a ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱ man. It was his greatest reward to be ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱ to the personal protection unit for Princess Sophie. As he accomplished this task, a bond developed, an understanding, a fondness beyond a mere protector but that of a suitor. When he crossed the line and he took liberties that his position did not allow, the King banished him to the farthest region on the East ✱✱✱ of the map, (that would become known as) The Night Iles. There he continued his commitment to his now Queen, Sophie, hoping and praying that one day he would be blessed with forgiveness by her and be allowed ✱✱✱✱ to her side. For now, he lived a harsh life in the most despicable part of the known world. Everyday a fight with some creature from the darkness. He fights as an Eagle, but his heart belongs to his Queen. Jeremy/Brophie storm Little is known of the true identity of the one known as BrophieStorm. Many believe he is Jeremy, yes The Jeremy that Jeremy’s Junction is named after. If this is the case it would solve one of Brolandia’s ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱ and most shocking missing persons cases. Jeremy of Jeremy’s Junction was one of Queen Sophie’s most trusted advisors. He often ✱✱✱✱✱✱ behind the scenes often unnoticed. One day a pirate by the name of Pirate Pitch visited. It was after this visit that Jeremy disappeared without a trace. What is known however is after that visit what appeared was a masked shadowy figure fighting along side Pirate Pitch. A strong courageous masked shadowy figure only known as BrophieStorm. His ✱✱✱✱✱ when clenched in the form of brofists have been seen ✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱ massive and deadly lightning bolts. Is this BrophieStorm really Jeremy of Jeremy’s Junction? Brolandia may never know. It is believed however that there is one person who knows for certain the true identity of BrophieStorm and that one person is said to be Queen Sophie herself. Did Pirate Pitch recruit Jeremy who in turn consulted with Queen Sophie, who in turn thought it be a wise decision to come up with a story of Jeremy’s disappearing in order to truly find out what is happening to Brolandia?