Orla “Ratleaf” Vetch

Race: Human
Age: 15
Affiliation: Mossbite Rats
Known For: Street savvy, sharp tongue, and unmatched knowledge of Mosstone’s alleyways

Orla appeared in Wolfgang Dranthur’s life five winters ago — a half-starved ten-year-old who tried to steal coin from the Green Rest Inn’s tip jar. Rather than turn her in, Wolfgang handed her a roll and muttered something about stealing “with more style next time.” She showed up again the next night. And the night after that.

Though she never called the Green Rest home, Orla became a fixture in Wolfgang’s life — always nearby, always just out of reach. He treated her like a daughter without expecting her to act like one. She, in turn, kept her independence but never strayed too far.

Now fifteen, Orla is a respected member of the Mossbite Rats, a loose network of street urchins who trade in secrets, stolen goods, and favors. Known among the Rats as “Ratleaf”, she acts as both runner and broker — able to slip into places grown-ups overlook and emerge with truths no one wants found.

Clever, cautious, and fiercely self-reliant, Orla doesn’t trust easily. She sees what most don’t: the cracks in Mosstone’s walls and the rot in its heart. And if you pay her price, she just might tell you where to dig.

A wiry, street-hardened teenager with sharp green eyes that miss nothing. Her skin is pale and smudged with soot and city dust, her cheeks dotted with faded freckles and a faint scar across the bridge of her nose. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a fraying braid tied with mismatched bits of ribbon and string — one of them braided with a rusted coin.

She wears a patchy gray-green cloak stitched together from scrap fabrics and lined with hidden pockets. A small rat skull hangs from a cord around her neck, nestled just below her collarbone. Beneath the cloak, she wears simple leathers: practical, worn, and clearly adapted for climbing, sneaking, and running.

One of her hands is wrapped in bandages from an old burn or recent scrape. Her boots are mismatched — one clearly stolen, the other repaired with twine and waxed cloth. Despite her ragged appearance, there's a proud set to her shoulders, and her eyes hold the cold, calculating confidence of someone who's learned to survive first — and trust second.

When she smiles (rarely), it’s crooked — a mix of challenge and charm. When she frowns (often), it’s the kind of look that could silence a room full of adults.

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