Born of hooves yet raised by hands, Brazen Barry Tlachtga walks a path as split as his own form—half-man, half-beast, and wholly unsure of which is the truth. To the world, he is a Kutauri, one of the centaur-like beastkin who roam the green wilds of Kallonia. Yet in his mind, he is something else entirely—a human cursed mid-transformation by a cruel druid’s spell, his true self suspended in limbo.

His earliest memory is not of blood or birth, but of barley fields swaying in the wind. His Kutauri parents—unknown to him—fell beneath the blades of brigands near a remote human village. But the gods or the earth or chance saw fit to spare the babe, and a humble farmer took him in. He named the strange-legged child Barry, fed him oats and porridge, and told him a tale as twisted as a dryad's roots: that young Barry had been caught in a druid’s spell-gone-wrong, a cruel joke that left him stuck between species. And Barry, gods help him, believed it.

He grew into his frame with a heavy gait and a heavier heart. When they walked to town, his little sister would giggle as she mimicked the sound of his hooves: “Klippity-kloppity, klippity-kloppity!” She would ride on his back, laughing like spring rain. But joy is a brittle thing. One day, Barry returned from the woods with joyous news—he’d found a druid who would train him, a Kutauri mystic who saw the potential coiled in his uncertain limbs. Yet joy curdled into ash: the farmhouse was ablaze, his adoptive family lifeless within.

That sound—klippity-kloppity—it remains with him now, echoing beneath every footfall on stone. A subconscious dirge, a ghost in rhythm. And should anyone try to mount him, as once his sister did in play, he buckles beneath them, his body remembering what his heart cannot forget.

He returned to the druid, a creature half-mad with grief, and was given a name to mark the turning of his fate. “Brazen,” a name to echo Barry, so that the past might walk beside him. And “Tlachtga,” the sound of the earth, drawn from farming roots and druidic depth. Now, he wanders not only in search of druidic truths and the secret of his dual form, but also in pursuit of the murderers who razed his peace.

He has joined the Harrat Wing, the militant order of the Banewood Asylum, under the guise of seeking martial glory for his tribe. But in truth, his hoofbeats are hounded by more personal ghosts. He wishes to uncover a magic strong enough to make him whole—whether that means becoming fully human or fully beast, he does not yet know. Perhaps neither path holds peace. Perhaps wholeness lies not in shape but in spirit.