Personality

Despite it all, Ioriel is immature.

But there's nothing wrong with that, right? He is young, and his family had means enough to ensure he wanted for nothing growing up. It gives him a positive outlook, and sometimes that's all you need to make it to the other side! Quick to trust, cheerful, and possessed of a significant quantity of hubris (everything has worked out for him so far, after all!), Ioriel has all the makings of a hero in one of the stories he loves so much. He has yet to develop the judgement necessary to ensure he actually does good in the world, though, and while he'll help someone obviously in need, he doesn't seek out righteousness on its own. He's oblivious, too, to the horrors that can happen outside of his ivory tower, outside of the obvious in the form of monsters. 

It'd be wrong to call him entirely ignorant, though. He has the patience and meticulousness necessary to succeed in the academic world, and he had been doing just that before his latest mishaps with his magic. His eloquence means he does have something to fall back on when he blunders his way into a sticky situation, and he does have it in him (somewhere) to learn from his mistakes. And though he doesn't know anything about the world at large, he has a near encyclopedic memory for the parts of history he's studied (monsters, mostly, and the heroes who defeated them). His friends say he's obsessed.

He's perhaps a little too obsessed - after all, the monsters he knows about have been long since vanquished. He learns their stories from the heroes who survived them, and not the ones who perished in the struggle. Ioriel desperately wants a story of his own that's just as thrilling. He's never voiced this desire, though, for fear of sounding self-centered. He has a great life already, doesn't he? But it's a big part of why he's decided to rush off on a journey with just a few friends instead of sending letters to request help like any other respectable academic might.

But hey - a cervine can dream, right? No one knows how his story will turn out. (WC: 368)

History

When Ioriel was but a fawn everything was easy. Sixth of seven siblings born to a duchy, he had all the luxuries he could've wanted, a comprehensive education provided by the finest Falein tutors money could hire, acres of land on which to run about, and even companionship by way of his siblings. And that was fine.

But every young child grows up. A noble family with a glut of offspring is obligated to do something to diversify its portfolio. The firstborn is the heir, of course. The second can go to court and jostle for a position there. The third and fourth can be assets - marriage nets the family powerful alliances, and ensures they'll stay ensconced in safety and luxury as befits their station. The fifth might be shuttled off to perform some nebulous Religious Good - image matters, after all. And the sixth...by the time Ioriel hit puberty, his parents had already determined his life path for him. He had a bright imagination and a rich memory for history, the sort of aptitudes that might net him a position as someone's advisor if he studied the right things and knew the right people. He was mailed off to learn in Faline, situating himself at a newfangled university serving the brightest of Ivras' noble-blooded minds.

Away from his family, he blossomed. He felt something spark inside of him when he listened to his tutors' history lectures, and learned to spend countless hours poring over records and exchanging stories with the sharp minds who made their home there. The easy access to politicians - noble-born and certainly non-magical as Ioriel was, he was a welcome sight - and important people meant he learned about plenty of key figures. He was most fascinated - and terrified - by monsters, though. Large and real and terrifying, they always served as testament that Ivras could make its way through anything. He began to study their histories in earnest, setting off to travel and collect stories of monsters in rural locales.

He didn't notice his coat changing, at first. The smooth grey-browns of his adolescence giving way to an almost slate-purple...it all happened so slowly. He hadn't brought mirrors, and his travel companions hardly saw the difference, from day to day. Anyway, the change came over him in a tavern, of all places. He'd been exchanging tales with an old fisherman, and as Ioriel's own story reached its climax, suddenly giant wings unfolded upon his withers, and a halo lit behind his ears and between his antlers.

Magic.

It was useless magic, though, as far as he could tell. He and his companions tested it extensively, in the coming days. They were close as anything, and though Ioriel's newfound status was strange to them all - most in their class avoided mages - he hadn't changed. He was no heroic Mage-Protector: his magic could hardly do more than enhance the imagery of his stories. It was a parlor trick. Surely he didn't need to head to the Order for that! And he was old, and already engaged in study. It'd be fine.

He made a strange sight in the halls of his university once he'd made his way back. Once he'd shown his mentors the effects of his magic, though, it was deemed harmless enough. It was academic enough magic, and none of them knew any better about developing it further. He'd needed to learn how to will away his wings and his halo (his color couldn't change, apparently), but otherwise everything seemed aboveboard. So he was cleared to continue as he was doing: collecting stories. Mages were strange sights in a small town, but that he was always accompanied by clearly wealthy nonmages helped his case a lot. A demonstration of his magic was even more convincing: he was good at holding the attention of children, and sometimes goodwill from that earned him new stories in exchange, which he practiced until they, too, became perfect. His book was coming along amazingly.

Of course, he'd never been an illusionist in the first place. His magic began to do what it'd always been meant to do, even before he'd made his way into the world as a small brown fawn. It used the power of his stories to summon strange phenomena. They seemed illusory enough at first - perhaps his descriptions of the scent of that sumptuous feast were simply powerful, enough that any one listener could smell what he was talking about. In the past year, though, Ioriel has quickly realized that this isn't the case.

Most unfortunately, two months ago Ioriel accidentally...perhaps...stole someone's signet ring. With his magic. He's not quite sure whose: between he and his friends, they can recognize most of the modern noble crests of Ivras. And yet it seems unwise to simply leave it on the floor someone: it's got to be important, right? Whether or not they have multiple copies is irrelevant: they probably don't want Ioriel to have it.

Clearly then it's his sacred duty to seek out whose it might be, and then to return it as discreetly as possible. He's set off, now, with three of his closest friends to accomplish exactly that. And then it may be time to finally check in with the Mage Academy. But he certainly must wrap up his unfinished business first! (WC: 884)

Traveling Party

These three friends specifically have been accompanying Ioriel to resolve the mystery of the signet ring he's accidentally stolen, as well as seek out people who might be able to help him with his magic. Other than Gilac, a childhood friend, he met them over the course of his career as an academic.

Gilac (she/her) is Ioriel's very best friend, an ultra hot camelid singer who sleeps around a lot. She's personable and patient, but most importantly, neither she nor Ioriel could imagine this journey without the other.

Unna (they/them) is a sullen bovine scholar, who has nonetheless been proclaimed a genius by the wider academic world. They don't sleep enough and rarely open up outside of their friend circle, but they're the best at research.

Eshku (she/her) is a very muscular suid with a passion for botany. She's by far the most experienced in the group when it comes to travel, and she can definitely take care of herself in a fight. Unlike the others.