Ambrosius Purplecluster

Name: Ambrosius Purplecluster. Also known as Grapegiver or Purpura

Pronouns: it/they

Species: unknown, possibly a former emissary and cupbearer of the gods who is now retired from faithful service

Likes: solitude, being the only soul awake to welcome in the hushed birdsong at sunrise, the gorgeous rugged landscapes of rough-hewn rock it inhabits, helping those in need

Dislikes: overly demonstrative expressions of emotion, loud rowdy drunknness, unattended suffering, feeling parched/unquenched thirst for them or others

This shy little mountain oddity lives a quiet and private life up on the rocky slopes. Although it loves solitude and the lonely beauty of its lofty abode, it's also helpful and caring by nature and will use its intoxicating homebrew to revive any passed-out animals and hikers it crosses on the trails, which is frequent given the treacherous and uncharted nature of the range it lives on. Its rich fruity concoction is richer than wine and just as heady, but also deeply nourishing and restorative, tending to produce a giddy sense of euphoria and a burst of renewed energy in those lucky enough to sip it. Those who have tasted of it say its incredible buzzing flavour and vibrancy shakes the tastebuds and lubricates the throat unlike anything they have ever quaffed, and it has been compared to enriched mead, or ambrosia/nectar of the gods. 

However, Ambrosius doesn't like fuss or attention; unfortunately, their exquisite beverage tends to render drinkers garrulous and profuse in their gratitude, so those saved will usually only catch a glimpse of their benefactor and begin to stumble out a lavish thank you before it flits away into the woods to resume its peaceful wandering. However, they enjoy the glow of satisfaction helping others brings them and will never shirk assisting those in need or deny rescue to any who are distressed or suffering. They have even been known to guide lost ramblers all the way back to the edge of town, or, if they are too far from home or too weak or wounded to make the journey, it will lead them to the cosy hut of the wise hermit called Chiron who lives amongst the stunted mountainside trees. The hermit never turns away a patient, and those he tends to will often tell him tales of the radiant violet creature they elliptically caught sight of out of the corner of their eye, bobbing and floating between tree trunks and seeming to wink encouragingly at them when they grew fatigued, leading them on to salvation. Chiron doesn't put much stock in the ravings of the feverish and dehydrated souls he saves, but he must admit that he has once or twice himself obliquely spotted a merry mauve lustre peeking out from between branches or dense undergrowth, and he's had to dissuade himself from the odd sensation that its twinkling and soft gyration is an expression of gratitude.