Rithisak

Rithisak comes from rather humble beginnings, a family that did not have much to their name other than the merit accumulated from the sweat of their own brow. Hardy were his parents, a father that has known nothing but the depths of the mines and the force needed to shatter rocks with but a single blow as well as a mother whose talents lied upon the accumulation of untold treasures whispering from their roots within the earth. A match made in heaven some would say, though not lucrative they continued to trudge onwards for the sake of their son. This often meant that Rithisak was left to their own devices when he no longer needed to nurse from his mother’s side, permitting the fledgling child to wander to their own devices and meandering closer towards a crowd of similarly aged children around this time. He wasn’t a particularly shy boy, marking himself a socialite through and through and oftentimes found themselves at the center of attention both good and bad. It’s a lowly upbringing that tends to make other less understanding individuals sneer at the boy’s attempts at friendship, though such grime doesn’t do much to dampen the value of a diamond in the rough.

It comes around the time when he’s old enough to stop playing with the other children and to begin lending a hand with his parents. Of course, it’s not a particularly pretty sight where a bubbly young child forced to work at such a young age performing a task he’s not fond of would make for some rather abrasive interactions. The work in itself wasn’t difficult for Rithisak, owing to their natural constitution and bulkier frame lending itself greatly to picking apart stone for valuables, but such a heavy toil with so little reward after hours of work performing monotonous strike after monotonous strike..?

Now, Rithisak loves his parents very much, but there is no world where he would be willing to go spelunking within the dark crevices of the earth just for the off-chance of plucking some ores from some dusty rocks.

There’s an evening much like any other where the then teenage Rithasak emerges from the yawning, cragged mouth of the mountain wiping the grimy sweat mingled with thick dust off of his brow. Locks clinging to the sides of his face as nostrils flared to finally get a whiff of fresh air, even then inhaling’s giving him a cough or two just from whatever dust’s not caked on his skin. Rithisak winces and jerks his hand away from his face to glare towards the abrasions on his fingers. A few cuts, the bleeding’s stemmed itself a long while ago but it’s probably not going to look real good soon if he doesn’t clean it up quickly. He dipped his hand into a barrel of still water and sure, the muck and grime is mostly gone but the edges of the wounds aren’t looking really nice with the gunk that’s caked up in there. Mild irritation turns to concern, because he’s thinking back to what he’s been told about nasty infections from people who don’t treat their cuts.

Wounds get purple, stuff starts to rot, limbs start falling off…

The apothecary would be a safe bet.

Rithisak doesn’t want to entertain the thought of what could happen to his fingers, only that it’s a fate that should not come to being, because who the heck can make living with a single hand bearable? Thus, pushing their way into the potion master’s shop does the scent of incense flood his senses. Crackling, dried herbs hung from racks with countless glass jars lining the shelves glistening within the candlelight. Environs that would’ve spooked any other person without the necessary eyesight within the darkness but the whispering, hazed confines of the shop didn’t seem to bother the lad one bit. Plus, he’s got a finger that needs to be treated, he couldn’t really just risk getting cold feet when he’s already so deep in this wacky shop…

Begs to differ, whose the one responsible for such a carefully chaotic environment such as this?

Turns out, it’s not some wizened soul who looked as though they could’ve crumbled to dust with but a single poke. There lies a mature Overqwil who, despite her imposing appearance, is slumped against the rear wall of her own shop with her head hung to the side, snoring far, far too loudly to indicate she’s been conscious for any sort of time. Rithisak bumps the side of their horn loudly against a wooden shelf to try and rouse them from their slumber.

Nothing.

There’s a jolt from the lady, an eruptive personality that explodes with all of the spontaneity of an exploding bomb berating the young man for interrupting their break. Rithisak, as receptive as ever, doesn’t lash back and instead attempts to conform around their distress to try and bring attention to the wound that’s been bugging him ever since. There’s an impasse for a moment, but with a couple of batting lashes and pleading despite how aggressively fearsome Rithisak might’ve looked, it works! The potion master looks over the wounds and addresses them promptly with a quick but such a practiced gaze intermingled with a poise that hadn’t been present during their snoozefest. It’s how meticulous they had been in cleaning away the wounds and dressing the cuts lining the fingers that catches Rithisak’s attention, the near effortless amount of work that goes into excising the very worries that had broiled in his gut with but a couple of clean sweeps and a wrap that should send him on his way from the shop, hopefully to never make their way to the master again.

There’s a strange compulsion for Rithisak to either feign or (owing to his clumsy nature) attain genuine wounds that permits the lad to continue seeking out the apothecary for assistance. While it’s a really good way to avoid the terrible work in the mines, the natural elegance of the master intermingles well with the passion behind their craft that makes Rithisak want to interact with them more, despite the former’s initial wishes against having to deal with this lousy lad who keeps clumsily thumping their tail against the fragile shelves. Even with such a terribly clumsy disposition and the growing lad’s body slowly becoming cramped thanks to their own personal development, there’s an inclination, a glimmer of what seems to be fondness from the master at this stubborn mule’s own ineptitude and willingness to stick around with their prickly attitude that gives leeway to Rithisak’s presence in time. Initially, he doesn’t even realize the desire to stick around the potion master’s shop was due to the fact that it was a natural compulsion to learn more and more about the art since, well, he had assumed it’s a vocation better suited for those of a higher class bearing more wealth than others. He couldn’t even begin to consider the fees he’d have to pay just to learn the correct recipes and concoctions to prevent mixing toxins in with healing tinctures.

Suppose it’s Rithisak’s own strange dopey charm and bright disposition that wins the potion master over, thus taking the Haxorus lad underneath her wing to begin their training immediately. The news isn’t well received initially by his parents, for how could such a fortuitous opportunity fall upon his lap out of utter convenience. Hardened by life, it’s only natural that they’re hesitant to believe that such goodwill could arise from almost nothing, but Rithisak’s own burning passion for the subject and proclivity towards learning this new occupation eventually wins the hearts of both mother and father and thus, is he granted their blessing to continue his training. Thankfully there’s much more than just meagre recognition of herbs and reagents owing to his master’s own unique spin on the art; if he’s going to be treating all types of patients, he might as well look damn good doing it. Composure, a carefully carved poise is instilled in Rithisak’s very soul that washes away the clumsiness and replaces fumbling fingers with the slow, alluring grace of fingers flipping pages and assorting granules in careful measurement cups. Dirt-laden miner’s wear shorn to more free-flowing robes of colorful, intricate patterns that speak volumes of the man that lies underneath the glowering gaze once steeled over by the mines, now hosting the reclined but ever so positive nature that Rithisak is capable of fully expressing in his own way.

By the time he’s reached adulthood, he’s now become capable of sorting out the ingredients all by his lonesome without having to constantly stuff his nose to a book. Countless brews memorized underneath the candlelight are all recalled upon in a moment’s notice for reference, portions meticulously engrained with distributions of weight being felt for even the most minute of changes. He’s become a master in his own right, for while his own had long left the dusty old shop behind to return home, Rithisak has now claimed their mantle in recent days and hopes to fulfill the purpose of his old master as best as he can. Of course, there's more than just doling out tinctures when the woes weren't simply physical, but the emotional woes of life.

Course, what better way to unwind than with a finely brewed drink? Rithisak certainly knew a thing or two about imbibing a fine drink from time to time, maybe that love could be pursued further?

Maybe that's why he chose to wander so far from home, knowing just how many souls would need placating from their daily woes. While home was where his heart belonged, there was a merit to allowing his legs to carry him wherever the winds met.
The arid winds of Scorched Mountains weren't anything like the home he's left behind, but such a beaming sun and unbearable temperatures meant it's the perfect environment for anyone looking for a refreshing drink.

So, what better way to serve his community than with but copious drink?

Likes: Beauty cosmetics, working, dancing, foods, snacking, moving around and becoming active, talking about just about anything and everything, following his friends, helping others, sharpening his horns/tail.

Dislikes: Very strict work ethic, lack of movement, low diversity of foods, tight and form fitting clothing

Voice Claim: Yasuyuki Kase (Rusty, Armored Core 6, Funny Valentine, JJBA)