RUZHA RURIK
cleric/barbarian
the chosenThere’s something different about her. Everyone sees it, though no one says it outright. It’s in the way her fathers’ gazes linger, not with the warmth they show her siblings, but with something weightier—expectation. From an early age, she knows she’s being watched, not just by her family, but by the Spirits themselves. And while she doesn’t fully understand it yet, she knows it means she’s supposed to be something more.
She doesn’t need to raise her voice. When she speaks, even as a cub, there’s an authority behind her words that silences any argument. It’s not that she wants to be bossy—it’s that she can’t stand the chaos that comes when others fumble or waste time. When her siblings are too loud, too clumsy, she’s there with a sharp word or a cutting glance. It’s not cruelty, not really. It’s just that she knows what needs to be done, and it frustrates her to no end when others don’t.
She feels the Spirits’ presence, a quiet hum that thrums in her chest during ceremonies or when she’s near the shrines. She doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t have to. It’s not something she’d even try to explain to her siblings or the other cubs—they wouldn’t understand. It’s an unspoken connection, one that sets her apart, and that distance shows in how she interacts with them. When they ask questions or stumble over their prayers, there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—disdain, maybe, or disappointment. She never says it aloud, but her expression makes it clear:
How can they not know this?But beneath that quiet superiority is something more fragile. The pressure is always there, pressing down, heavier with each passing day. Every time her fathers watch her, every time an elder mentions her potential, it tightens around her like a noose. She’s supposed to be special, supposed to be the one who understands things better than anyone else. And so, every mistake feels like a failure not just of herself, but of the Spirits who have chosen her.
There are moments, especially when she’s alone, where the weight of it all threatens to crack the calm, controlled mask she wears. But she never lets it. Even in her quietest moments, there’s a determination that burns beneath the surface. She has to be perfect. Anything less would mean she’s not living up to what’s expected of her, and that—more than anything—terrifies her. But she never shows it, never lets anyone see the cracks.
When her siblings play, tumbling over each other in a mess of fur and laughter, she watches from a distance, not out of malice, but out of a sense of responsibility. It feels like something she can’t afford. There’s too much at stake, too much riding on her shoulders to waste time like that. When they inevitably come to her, asking why she doesn’t join in, she brushes them off with a quick retort or a dismissive flick of her tail. They wouldn’t understand anyway. Play is for those who don’t carry the weight of the clan’s future on their backs.
Her sharpness, her quick corrections, and her impatience with mistakes—these all come from the same place. She knows she’s different, knows that she’s meant for something more, and that knowledge has made her expectations for others just as high as they are for herself. But while her siblings can laugh off their missteps, she can’t. Every wrong move, every poorly spoken word, feels like another way she might let her fathers—and the Spirits—down.
Even when she scolds her siblings, there’s a flicker of something deeper in her eyes, something that’s equal parts fear and frustration. It’s not that she wants to be hard on them, but she doesn’t know any other way. If they don’t understand how important it all is, then she has to make them understand. She has to make sure they’re ready—because if they aren’t, then everything she’s worked for, everything the Spirits have seen in her, will have been for nothing.
But even with all her sharp edges, there’s a tenderness that shows itself in the quietest moments. It’s in the way she lingers by the shrines, her eyes half-closed as if listening to something only she can hear. It’s in the way her gaze softens when her fathers look at her, even though the pressure in their eyes makes her heart race. She loves them, deeply, and everything she does is to live up to what they expect of her—even if she sometimes wishes the expectations weren’t so heavy.
Still, for now, she carries it all with the calm certainty of someone who believes they can bear it. She presses forward, always striving to be better, to prove that she is worthy of the attention she’s been given. And while the weight of it may be too much one day, for now, she refuses to let it break her.
(All of this pending IC development!)