Fueled by Ash of Paprika
When the hills breathe out smoke and the air tastes like memory, a Trossil may be passing. These war-torn wanderers walk without end, trailing the scent of scorched spice and stories no one wants to hear.
| Height: | Roughly 6 feet, though their shape bends with smoke |
| Temperament: | Stern, soot-stained, quietly bitter |
| Delights: | Ashes, burnt spices, unfinished marches, dry leaves in wind |
| Detests: | Sweetness, rain on embers, wind chimes, being followed |
| Botanical Link: | Ash of Paprika |
The Trossils are not bound to any one region. They appear where battles once smoldered, where paths go unfinished, or where fires were lit for purpose and never fed again. First recorded in Hungarian field journals and nomadic cookfires, these beings are thought to be former scouts, lost to war and preserved by spice and smoke.
With bodies armored in scalded leather and mouths shaped like cracked trumpets, they march along invisible trails carrying twisted banners and hollow instruments. Their presence signals endings that never settled and courage left unresolved.
Trossils travel. That is all they do. They do not rest, nor do they speak unless cornered by smoke. They follow heat trails and wind-carved canyons, often walking alongside campfires, woodstoves, or barbecues without being seen. When they pause, they leave behind a dusty residue that tastes like scorched paprika and black pepper.
| Behavior | Likelihood | Notes |
| Marching through smoke columns | ★★★★★ | Often mistaken for shifting shadows. |
| Leaving ash rings around extinguished fires | ★★★★☆ | May mark waypoints for others. |
| Appearing in dreams after smoky meals | ★★★☆☆ | Often bring wordless messages or quiet warnings. |
Hint: Trossils do not stop for long. You must notice them while moving—or not at all.
Look for silhouettes in the smoke. Not just any smoke, but thick, orange-red haze that hangs after something burns just long enough. Their faces appear as mask-like distortions, their gait slow and rhythmic, like a memory trying to replay. Their instruments may be broken or filled with ash—they never play them.
They do not speak, but you may hear the rhythmic scrape of boots on stone or the dry rattle of a flagpole dragging behind them. Their presence stills all other sound—birds pause, insects fall silent, even fire seems to flicker in reverence.
A pungent blend of smoke, char, and spice—paprika, mostly, but with bitter undertones. This scent lingers near burned-out lanterns, used cast iron pans, and anywhere woodsmoke has settled into fabric. Some report dreams of red dust after breathing it in.
Ingredients: Ash of Paprika, one charcoal disk, a flat stone
Method:
Outcome: The Trossil may take your weight with them, or offer their silent understanding through dreams or scent.
| Metric | Score |
| Global Population | ★★★☆☆ |
| Human Encounters | ★★☆☆☆ |
| Conservation Status | Steady, but dissolves near sweetness and still water |
Ash of Paprika is not just a spice—it is a path marker, a dream ward, a whisper to the wandering. Our blend is smoked low, cooled carefully, and sealed in wax to preserve the power of fire remembered. Use with intention, or offer to the wind.
