Tarles

The half-orc sat by the smouldering fire, studying his books as the night air cooled in the absence of the sun. Tarles had finished his physical workout to keep his body in peak condition - now it was time to exercise his mind.

"Excuse me, warrior," a voice piped up from across the cook fire. A merchant wearing fine clothing, the one who'd hired him to protect the caravan. "You've, uh, worked up quite a stench after all those push ups and stomach crunches..."

The accusation hung in the air and Tarles felt his face redden. He mumbled an apology to his employer before reaching into his satchel and pulling out an orange rind and shaving off a small portion. The piece sat in his huge palm, the umber contrasting against the green, before igniting and perfuming the campsite with the smell of citrus.

"You're an unusual sort," the merchant said as he returned to his meal. "I wasn't sure about you at the start, if I'm being honest. You dress like a scholar. But seeing you drill your weapons and exercise your body has changed my mind."

Tarles shifted, still self conscious about any lingering body odours.

"There shouldn't be any discrepancies between my body and my mind, sir," Tarles said. "The body is the vessel for arcane might, but magic can best be wielded by those who are fit of body."