T’Wunk (TUH-wunk)
A Resident
T'Wunk
T’Wunk’s presence is solid—like stone warmed in sunlight—but his heart beats to a rhythm no one else quite hears. He is precise to a fault, shaping pots with measured breath, steady pulse, and eyes narrowed in thoughtful alignment. His workspace is immaculate, with each tool hung like an honored relic, and yet every piece he makes feels organic, as though it grew from the earth without human touch.
He is known for creating **sealed vessels**—jars that contain perfumes, powders, secrets. Some are never opened. Others seem to open themselves only for the right hands. He collects forgotten languages and carves fragments of them into the surface of his work, often in spiraling scripts that wind endlessly toward the center. He does not translate them; he says they are “meant to be felt, not understood.”
Despite his discipline, T’Wunk has a whimsical (and sometimes lascivious) streak. He creates miniature pottery—thimble-sized amphorae, acorn-lid urns, impossibly tiny bowls—and hides them in the crooks of trees, under moss, or inside hollowed stones. He calls them “gifts for those who look closely.” No one knows how many exist, but others whisper of finding one and being granted a moment of perfect stillness.
To his fellow potters, T’Wunk is both a mystery and a grounding force. He rarely speaks of himself, but when he touches clay, something ancient moves. He claims the first pot was shaped before time was counted, and each one since is simply a memory of that beginning, softened by the hands of those who dare to remember.
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Male
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Omnephilic
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