Appearance: Loraile is an impressively bulky female Tauren, ruggedly built from years of hard labour and fur overgrown from a carefree approach to personal hygiene. She is nearly always clad in the simplest of leather with a small gathering satchel on her left side. Often she has a winterblossom flower in her mane; whether it is from frequent slipping over while foraging or deliberately placed is unclear.
Alignment: Lawful/Neutral Good: Prone to kindness. She acts according to her spirituality toward nature and her personal code of honour.
Psychology: Loraile values simplicity and it shows. Easily amused and just as easily distracted, she would be one of the mentally slower types of her species. She does not usually express negative emotions, often seeming confused by shows of hostility – with some obvious exceptions. She can be prone to being bizarre as a result of an affinity for inhaling certain herbal incenses. She has an almost motherly attitude to kodos.
Loraile was raised on the plains; a small group of constantly-migrating Tauren carried her on an extensive journey throughout the endless barrens. Where many stuck together to fight the centaur; this small group of families kept moving with easily replaceable shelters and a veritable herd of kodos. By learning through experience, the basics of survival in the heart of the savannah were imparted to her, as well as an acute knowledge of certain herbs and the strength of the local plant life. As if by sacrifice however, she had no access to the wisdom of the eldest of the Tauren and even sought little out of her own family’s; the young Loraile had been enchanted by nature’s own teaching and motherhood more than theirs.
Growing up was hardly harrowing, the constant cycle of travelling, camping, foraging and repeating was a steady routine that rarely pushed the growing Tauren out of her comfort zones. Developing a simple affinity for flowers and herbs was accompanied by a growing muscular structure as she increasingly took to the chopping of wood and then to trees themselves; although she saw it as a shame to injure Nature’s own creations, she ensured she gave back with a seed or fertile soil that she often carried. Never knowing violence, Loraile would often abstain from hunting and frequently avoid the subject of the Centaur; she felt that the grudge she bore against them was uninformed and this was discomforting to the increasingly pacifist labourer.
Although well in tune with nature and what it offered to her, her eventual separation from her travelling community thrust her into a whole new world, and one that she knew very little about – especially considering it was wrought with war around every corner. After straying too far in a slightly overzealous foraging outing, a marauding band of centaur would block her way; she was left with the option to flee before they spotted her, or head back and risk not making it at all. Though simple and open to discuss the issue with the centaur, she accurately assessed that they would not concur. She turned tail and fled toward Ashenvale.
All of the plant life was different. The soil was fertile and entirely different in consistency. Even the trees were so unfamiliar, as if they were so much older than the ones she knew. The vast wealth of vibrant colours helped to soften the blow, leading the now-curious and less fearful Tauren to meander through the trees. As though it had happened in seconds, however, a gradual change seemed to take hold of the forest. It wilted and the bark twisted; unbeknownst to her she had wandered into Felwood. Here nature seemed to suffer rather than dominate, and the fearful Loraile scurried forward, perhaps foolishly as she could have headed backward to find greener pastures.
By chance she happened upon a Cenarion druid; to her a leather-clad gardener-lookalike with purple pointed ears that matched the awkwardly overheard tales of fabled healers of nature; whom was tending to a corrupted flower. This was comfort enough, until her gaze rested on a befouled red boar's corpse; or at least that’s what it seemed to be. Its hair grew out in almost insect like tendrils, and to all intents and purposes she could not find any eyes on it. The druid explained to the somewhat naive Loraile that it was a felhound; a demon, further qualifying it as a corrupter of nature.
Once again unnerved, she accepted some food and a small axe and moved on; but now she felt an unfamiliar – and uncomfortable – emotion. Loathing. She found herself hating the felhound and all that was like it for defiling the Earthmother’s designs. With what could be considered superior strength she found herself coming to blows with some of the scurrying creatures of fel when she strayed too far from the beaten path, narrowly avoiding much more unpleasant encounters. Eventually, after a fevered walk through furbolg-infested tunnels (all of which regarded her with close suspicion and some hostility) she reached the end of the line; Winterspring.
This cold expanse littered with snow-capped trees and hot springs was, much to her own surprise, a welcome thing to find. There was little trace of corruption – perhaps excepting the simmering greed and disturbing grins of the resident goblins – as far as she could see (but would learn to the contrary). As the meandering, one might say lost, Loraile trudged her way North, she encountered Tauren; her own kind. This was a turning point. She had missed her family and more-so having a family to speak of at all. Hoping to find closure, she went to these Tauren – the Moonwater Tauren – for it.
Her role in life was always clear – to labour, to gather food and wood. Now she would have to learn to do it in a whole new theatre, away from dusty famine lands and in to snow-covered plateaus and hills.
Nature thrived all the same, and where nature thrived – Loraile could learn and thrive herself. She would do as she always did. Learn what nature offered, and how best to use it. Only now, she knew she was a part of a bigger picture; it would be used for conflict, indirectly or directly so. And for once, she was happy for it. No creature alike the demon dogs she had bludgeoned through had a justified existence to her – not if it defiled the Earthmother’s creations.