At a first glance, Tristanya stands at an unimposing height perhaps a head and a half shorter than many of the large and battle-scarred soldiers of the legion. She consistently dresses in cloaks of midnight black and moon silver that emphasize her flawless, lightly tanned skin that strangely never pales or burns.

Tristanya exudes seductive temptation; wrapped within the shroud of mystery. The first thing that always draws a curious onlooker is her hair, hair like the falling winter. Much like her silver mane, it is her curiously colored eyes that capture intrigue and imagination. Alluring as she may be, her ice-white gaze cuts with biting frost.

She veils herself behind an expression of calm imperiousness that seems cold and unfriendly. Tristanya carries herself with feminine grace; not gaudy or overtly sexual, but reserved and elusive, like a whisper on the wind slipping between futilely grasping fingers.

When one man recalled his first experience with Tristanya he described it in two parts. First, it was like being lured by the smell of sweet perfume and the thrill of mystery circling down corridors haunted with yearning; one cannot help but follow the trail. Then in a sudden shifting of place, there was no foothold to keep still. It was like hanging, chained in the middle of a blizzard whose icy gales rent flesh with a numbing flurry. He said it was no ordinary storm. No, this storm had a mind of its own. All a man could do was ponder whether the cold would relinquish its grip, or chill his entire being from bones to the heart leaving him nothing more than a frozen husk of a soul. Bereft of hope; filled with naught but despair, eternally doomed to a cold and lonely existence where hope's sole appearance glimmered within the merciful freedom of death’s dagger.

Her job is to serve, so serve she must. Yet, service does not compel her toward friendship or any form of bonding with fellow members of the legion. Tristanya holds a purposeful distance between herself and any member of the legion no matter their personality. She operates under practical efficiency and the simple matter-of-fact conditions binding her duty to the Endless.

Despite being a blood mage, Tristanya's thoughts and philosophies of the magic are rarely, if ever shared. One of the stranger of her observed magical tendencies is that once she's nearly finished using the blood of a felled enemy, Tristanya refuses to burn it away to nothingness. Instead, the last of the blood alters in color from bright crimson to a radiant, ethereal silver, turning into a collection of glowing dust that looks much like falling snow. This dust floats to the sky and fades away, winking out of the mortal realm.

If asked about her aspirations, she keeps things simple and clean with a twofold plan: serve and survive.

There is something behind her eyes. Something more.

A curious woman born of curiouser circumstances.

Two decades past, peculiar stirrings rippled around a mountainside keep; Ravenwood. An unusual presence concealed itself within the dark that settled over its iron-colored stone. Black clouds veiled starlight. A bone-chilling breath swam through the air, even on a midsummer's night. All that was warmth and light burned from torches hanging inside the keep's great hall. Men cheered, men drank, and men laughed.

It was a joyous evening. The Lord and Lady of House Raven hosted the closing celebrations of an annual festival belonging to the House's long held traditions. However, tradition was interrupted. Window shutters slammed closed, and torch light was extinguished. Lord and Lady, guests and soldiers, all of their voices joined together in fearful surprise. Absolute darkness cloaked them until the fires burned, glowing differently. A soft light, a cold light, a light of white-fire that kissed not with heat but with ice that stole even the bravest of men's hearts.

On the long table, a figure shrouded in black robes walked steadily forward; slowly. The figure's face remained hidden beneath their hood, and that face has remained unknown. In the stranger's arms was a child with white hair and white eyes. This visitor, this outsider, this being of terrible power had but a simple request.

"Take this child as your own." A ghostly voice, barely but a whisper but a whisper that echoed a thousand times over against the walls. "Raise her, and love her, like a daughter of your blood. Eyes beyond you shall be watching... should you spurn this request."

No one ever spoke of the incident outside the castle, and none dared defy the voice of the visitor. Lord and Lady Ravenwood raised the girl as their own, feathering her with love, respect, and no small amount of thinly-veiled fear. It was an odd childhood for the girl, being raised as the Young Lady Ravenwood. She learned matters of the court and manners befitting ladies. But, the girl refused the names they tried to give. She had no memory of her original home yet somehow understood that her name was Tristanya Aurelain. Tristanya was wild; free of heart, and a wanderer. Motherly protests could not keep her from trying to scale the castle's walls, nor prevent her from traversing the mountain path.

One talent changed it all. Magic. Tristanya could do strange things, and strange events surrounded her early years. Lord Ravenwood had her trained in the arts of blood magic, changing his mind about marrying her off for political power. Instead, she could be a court advisor, a spy, a useful weapon.

Plans change. Certain circumstances ended up binding Tristanya in service to the Endless. At some point, the wildly expressive child died and gave way to cold chill, the White Raven was born.

A good father does not leave his daughter defenseless. Tristanya learned and practiced the basics of daggers, swords, and bows to a level she's adequate defending herself from a common criminal. Her greatest martial skill revolves around staff fighting. When Trist turned ten years old, a mysterious package addressed to her carried a wooden staff pale as the night's luminous guide. With the staff, she's capable of fending off soldiers of greater skill for a short period of time and those valuable seconds are all she needs to cast a blood spell. An odd quality of her staff is that blades cannot cleave it.

Tristanya is an adept blood mage that shows signs of potentially prodigious skill. Many Ravenwood mage scholars wondered if her innate talents had to do with her blood linage. It was they that learned it unwise to try and examine her blood heritage. Three men tried to penetrate the mysteries of Tristanya and triggered a powerful spell of protection so strong it left them bereft of all emotion other than despair. The three strung themselves from a tree to escape their suffering.

One might believe Tristanya's conjuring would appear rigid in form and motion; calculated, efficient. But, this is a misunderstanding. When Tristanya moves with the flow of blood, it is purposeful but not without emotion. Not a dance or a fight, but a simplistic ethereal state of being that inexplicably, just is.

She's extremely valuable as an ally; able to heal would-be fatal wounds, a talented blood manipulator (though she never does this), and a lethal force who can suddenly immolate multiple men where they stand. Or, she could rob them of their feelings and leave numb, harmless husks behind. With enough blood, Tristanya can reign fiery devastation from the sky or cover a city in a day-long winter that sucks the fighting spirit out of an opposing army. But these kinds of incantations take great time (not to mention the battle of wills between an opposing powerful mage) and leave Tristanya utterly exhausted, almost to the point of death. Mostly, Trist transfers a spiritual boost of morale through blood to keep her allies calm and motivated.

Trist can see visual manifestations of aura within those around her. She can see the state of someone's soul, and it is this ability that fuels her more secretive studies of magic.

As a last resort, she equips herself with a hidden dagger.

Lastly, the reason for her nickname is the unusual ability to shape shift. Her shifted form is that of a raven with pale white feathers.

@Hexaflexagon Verse: Many noblewomen would look at Verse with contempt and hateful disgust for being what she was. Trist is not one of those women. Verse is who she is simply by the nature of a series of decisions outside the reach of her own will. There is nothing more, and nothing less to such a story; or, that’s what Trist likes to think. Be that as it may, Trist is no fool, and only fools harbor no fears for the things that can shred them to pieces. She has known thugs, thieves, spies, killers, and soldiers; their hardened ilk is often best left alone.

@Drunken Conquistador Saga-Hanir: Of all the curiously assorted members of their little legionary band, Hanir reminds Trist the most of the noblemen of Ravenwood and Ravenwood itself. He’s the only one who, thus far, has gotten anything closely resembling a friendly conversation. She can touch the surface of a refined discussion revolving around the finer arts: poetry, art, music, and more. Trist isn’t all that thrilled about his superior noble mentality, but at the same time finds it difficult to admit that Hanir’s out-of-place attitudes among the soldiers amuse her, and even make her crack the lightest of smiles.

@Iuniper Aeudla Vesnat: Like an unopened crate that shakes with life; it might be a cute puppy, or a ravenous blood sucking beast. A fractured soul divided in many places. There’s a beauty in Aeudla’s blood magic that Trist does not ignore, but the elf’s apparent addiction to her abilities are concerning. Unlike Aeudla, Trist does not connect herself to her blood magic and is quite capable of going days, weeks, and months without having to use it if it weren’t for the war she’d been fighting. Such raw and natural skill with blood cannot, however, go unnoticed. And, the elf is the only one among them who makes Trist feel unease so strong she forces herself to become impenetrable.

@neogreggory Arthur Wick: Arthur is like old stone. He stands tall and hard, proud in the face of weathering time. Few noblemen that Trist has known still hold to the ideals of honor Arthur binds himself to. For that, he has her silent respect. But, Trist recognizes his worn and ragged face to be an outward reflection of the his state of being; a stone, battered by the unceasing forces of time. How much longer before he breaks, or will he simply wither away into cold apathetic nothingness?

@Virgil Myaenthar’Sul: Not a single word has been uttered from her to the Kobold. Their single exchange was likely a cold glance, and nothing more. Most simply believe Trist gives him the usual unfriendly demeanor everyone else confronts. However, Trist does not look down upon him nor does she bully him around like many higher races are apt to do when goblins or kobolds are around. Sul should not worry about her icy disposition, after all the soldiers are positively immaculate in their scholarly founded assessment of her: “She’s a right proper cunt.”

@Tancuras Reika: Cursed warriors and their stupid honor. Must every man measure the size of their cock with another? It’s for men like Reika that Trist momentarily revels in the existence of Andrea to temper the extensive vices attached to male ego. Luckily, and hopefully, these opinionated outbursts remain within the white haired sorcerer’s mind. Though, perhaps Trist ought to tell Reika to his face that he is a dull brute with a brain the size of a single sand grain. Then, maybe her frustrations with his contrasting nature would burn out.

@Lexicon Magatha Toil: Mags’ skillful evasion of mages evokes Trist’s memories of a wandering magician entertaining the Ravenwood court with dazzling tricks. Poof, the bird disappears, and Mags was much like that bird; if Trist appeared, the Godling vanished. Trist should be offended, but she’s grown numb to the daunting list of names and insults the countless hurled her way for the severe crime of her appearance, and being a blood mage too. Even if she were to try and be friends with the girl, what would she say? “You kill mages wonderfully.” Nope, the ability to make female friends is ever elusive for Tristanya. Handling a man was quite simple, that’s why whorehouses existed (though Trist was far more refined than that), but dealing with a woman was akin to putting together a puzzle where at least five of the pieces do not fit but are actively screaming that they do.

@Athinar Andrea Albane: Above the neck, Andrea reminds Trist of the ladies at court. That thought amuses her, because Andrea seems more likely to decapitate a woman for stepping on her foot during a dance than actually try on a dress. This idea eliminates Andrea as a potential woman chosen to comb or cut her hair. Tristanya quite likes her throat to remain un-sheared. Other than Trist’s theoretical musings, she’s keenly aware of Andrea’s disdain for her being. It’s not new to her, and it’s better kept that way. Did Trist truly require a sword-swinging lunatic raving about “the good fight” hanging about everywhere she turns? By the Old Gods, she’d be ducking her head every five seconds.

@Dogematix Marcus Vantiri: Finally, a breath of originality amongst hardened killers. She suspects Marcus doesn’t like her very much, men like him often don’t. He’s more like the common man than high-handed knights of esteemed nobility, and for that she feels relief. It probably came as a great shock when he cracked a comment at her expense in front of the men, only for the supposedly indifferent, noble, haughty white witch to respond in kind.