SCAVERIN

Shadow-born and dust-bound, the Scaverin live between the lines of civilization. Seldom seen, often underestimated, they endure in the forgotten cracks of Scorrachai—where darkness is a shield, and silence a strategy.

Born in the heat-cracked tunnels of old Scorrachai, the Scaverin have always relied on cunning, speed, and community. Rat-like in form but sharp in mind, they move through sand and ruin with ghostly ease—hoarding scraps, secrets, and stories.

Their mantra: stay low, stay hidden, stay alive.

They build tight, interwoven families beneath the dunes—nests of loyalty stronger than any stone. Above ground, their kind are seen as vermin by some—but the wise know: if the Scaverin want to be found, you’ll notice them. If they don’t, you’ll never know they were ever there.

In the early days of desert migration, tensions brewed between the Scaverin and the Nyrvani. The feline clans—territorial and proud—viewed the nomadic Scaverin as shadows that crept too close. The Scaverin, in turn, saw the Nyrvani as lords of lands they neither built nor needed. For years, the air was thick with silent warnings: trails wiped clean, supplies mysteriously vanished, pawprints beside claw-marks.

One tale passed through Scaverin tunnels with a reverence usually reserved for ancestors.

A starving Scaverin, worn thin by drought, dared to sneak into a Nyrvani settlement cloaked by moonlight. He darted between clay walls, climbed rafters like vines, and finally filled a sack with water gourds, dried fruit, an old decorative rug and bread hard as stone—but nourishing. As he ventured back home, another figure emerged from shadow.

A Nyrvani thief, sack in hand.

They stared at one another, breath held, claws flexed.

"What’s in your bag?" asked the Scaverin.

"What’s in yours?" replied the Nyrvani.

Then came the scuffle—brief, silent, desperate. Their sacks split mid-struggle, scattering stolen goods into the dust. In that frozen moment, they realized: both had stolen. Both were trying to feed someone else.

The Scaverin fled, weaving through alleyways and stone bridges, the Nyrvani hot on his heels. It was a chase of instinct and skill—vaulting over awnings, slipping under market stalls—a dance of predator and prey where neither knew which was which.

The Scaverin barely escaped, bruised and breathless, returning to where he'd stashed his sack. But it was gone. In its place was the Nyrvani’s—and a note, elegantly scratched into dried bark:

"Quick paws, quick mind. You won the chase. But if you want your prize back... look up."

Dangling 70 feet above him, tied to the top of a lone desert palm, was his stolen sack. Deep claw-gouges trailed down the trunk—proof of the Nyrvani’s smooth descent.

He cursed aloud, but began the climb. With hands scraped raw and limbs shaking, he reached the top and unhooked the sack. The descent didn’t go as smoothly—he slipped midway, landing with a bone-rattling thud atop his own bag.

Inside, nestled among the rations, was something odd: a worn, sun-bleached teddy bear.

He limped home on a fractured leg, wincing through every dune. But when he placed the bear in the arms of the child who had lost it—her tears stopped. She held it tight. And he understood.

The Nyrvani had only taken back what belonged to his people. But he had left something more behind.

From that day on, while border tensions remained, something unspoken passed between the clans. Not forgiveness—but a nod in the dark. A recognition that even among thieves, there is honor.

And sometimes, mercy wears claws.

Among the strange and sacred beliefs of the Scaverin, none is spoken with more rat-like wonder than their devotion to the moon—what they call The Cheese Wheel in the Sky. They believe it is made of actual cheese, and that one day, when their people are truly free and bold enough, they will fly there and eat forever under silver starlight.

This dream, long thought a jest, took a sharper turn after the War of Scorrachai, when rumors echoed across the dunes of a place called Olharion City—a beacon of wealth and wild invention in North Rojour, where Solians and Eldrin spoke openly of reaching the stars.

It was said that in Olharion, anything was possible.

And so, a plan was hatched by a Scaverin named Don Provolone—a smooth-talking schemer with big ears and even bigger ambition. He riled up his kin, promising glory and good fortune across the sea. He left out the details. Left out the name Olharion. Left out the cost.

They sailed through storm and sabotage, through pirate raids and sand-sickness. From dozens, they dwindled to three. But they made it.

Don and his two surviving kin limped into Olharion with nothing but bruises, broken dreams, and a pouch of coppers. They gambled in a casino that glowed like a false dawn. One Scaverin lost everything in a single hand. Another clawed back silver, only to watch it trickle away again.

But Don? Don bet it all. On red. Again and again. And red answered.

He walked out rich. A king of coin.

When asked if it was worth it—the pain, the loss, the bones buried along the way—Don only smiled and said:

“I got what I came for.”

He never looked back.

The Cheese Moon was forgotten. The dream became dust. A mouse would rule the house.

Among Scaverin, his name is legend. Not for his wealth, but for his fall. A symbol of what happens when the climb is for gold, not for kin.

And so they say:

“From rags to riches to nothing at all. The moon has no taste for traitors.”

The tale begins with a thunderous crash.

A ship—a massive, elegant vessel of Solian make—came plummeting from the dunes and landed smack in the center of a Scaverin village, flattening homes and obliterating their prized cheese market.

At first, the Scaverin believed it to be an attack. But as dust settled and shocked whiskers twitched, they uncovered the truth:

A lone, unconscious Dukeling lay sprawled atop the helm.

Duklings, as the Scaverin knew, were pint-sized duckfolk with egos larger than their shadows. Born in ponds, spoiled by Solians, and armed with wit sharper than their beaks, they strutted like emperors and argued like critics.

This one, apparently, had stolen the ship from North Rojour while blackout drunk.

The Scaverin pulled him from the wreck, tried to wake him, and asked if he was alright. No response. So they left him in the shade and inspected the damage.

When they returned, he was gone. All that remained were duck-foot prints trailing off into the endless desert.

No note. No apology. Just feathers and questions.

So they did what Scaverin do best: They adapted.

The ship was far too large to move. So they left it where it lay, wedged into their village like a forgotten god.

After decades of tradition, one problem arose:

The Scaverin were tired of it.

Every month, like sand-choked clockwork, the Nyrvani would gather outside and begin their sacred rug flapping—and every month, the poor Scaverin were jolted awake from their cozy tunnels by thunderous thuds echoing through the rock.

At first, they grumbled. Then, they knocked. Finally, they asked:

“Would you mind flapping your rugs... a little quieter?”

This broke into a small but heated debate—not with weapons, but with words. The Nyrvani defended their sacred rite. The Scaverin defended their right to sleep.

They yelled. They vented. They paced. They flapped for emphasis.

Until one clever Scaverin finally sighed and said:

“Alright. We’ve got this shipwreck buried in our land that we’ve been wanting to get rid of. How about you help us haul it out, and in return—we help you rebuild it. You take the ship, take your rugs, and go flap them out at sea. Make it a vacation.”

At first, the Nyrvani scoffed. A cruise ship? Powered by rug flapping?

Then someone whispered: “...Could work.”

And just like that—

Deal.

The two peoples came together, hauling ancient timbers from the sand and reforging the wreck into something grander. The Nyrvani decorated it with sails of tapestry. The Scaverin installed fans, pulleys, and compartments for cheese.

By month’s end, the vessel was ready. And so, with rugs in paw and wind in fur, the first ever Rug Flapping Voyage set sail.

The cruise lasted a week. It was glorious.

Some Scaverin joined the flapping. Some simply sunned themselves on deck. Others just slept peacefully below.

Either way, the tradition was preserved. The neighbors were pleased. And the dunes, for once, were bliss.

Don Provolone – Gambler, traitor, legend. Known for betting everything and winning riches in Olharion, only to lose his kin and legacy. His name now serves as a cautionary tale.

Whisker Hex – A tunnel-born conjurer who enchants traps and lights tunnels with whispered spells. Said to have crafted a cheese mimic that ate an entire thief guild.

Velbit Nibblefuse – A master tinkerer and mechanic who helped redesign the cruise ship’s flapping mechanism. Now runs a cheese bar on Deck 3, famous for his Gouda.

Zella “Quick-To-Chew” – Oldest Scaverin matron alive. Once bit a Draetherin envoy so hard he called her “Mother Fang.”

Tinnle & Bragg – Twin rogue-runners who map cursed ruins and race back to sell their maps before anyone else makes it out alive.

Together, their tales form a patchwork of the Scaverin spirit—equal parts chaos, cleverness, and chewable legend.