_{A very tall Drakkan woman with a wild air about her, with rusty russet locks falling to her shoulders in disarray and a scowling tan (though somewhat ashen) face, with deep-set amber eyes thickly lined in kohl. Most notable about her appearance is her peculiar doubled ram horns, with one curl on either side extending to the sides of her face, gently sloping down, and the lower curl wrapping around behind her ears and extending past her jawline.}


Race:
Drakkan
Age:
One hundred and eighty-nine
Element(s):
Fire and Air
Height:
Seven feet, four inches

Bio: pending negotiations with tracy, we’ve been remarkably bad at communication
The daughter of a proud warlord, and the fourth of seven children, Scyrvensrel Talyrrth grew up entirely in her elder brothers’ shadow. Her father a veteran of the Anathos War, one who held many, many Gemmenite brides for his heroism. Her brothers, most years and years older, were off to wage war in her father’s army for most of her childhood.

At the age of 55, when she was still a child by most regards, she snuck off from her life (which had been mostly learning to manage an estate from her mother, though naturally she was trained into peak physical condition) to join her brothers’ forces. First refused from the fight, then put in as a grunt soldier – after all, her brother claimed, if she was stupid enough to get killed she deserved to die – and eventually working her way to the top and unseating him as captain of their house’s force.

For years she remained in the skirmish in the northern reaches of Drakka, earning notoriety for her ferocity and skill. Her father’s forces as a whole rose to prominence under her guidance. Finally, as she approached her eightieth birthday, she was at last summoned home by her father. Hoping it was some sort of military distinction, laurels for her successes, she was instead afforded what was arguably the worst punishment known to Drakkenkind: a season at the king’s court. A season of being stuffed into silk gowns painfully tight and ill-fit to her frame (her father had sent her measurements specially to a tailor in Gemmenia, but something was seemingly lost in translation, as they did nothing but constrict her broad shoulders and muscled thighs) and courted by “gentlemanly” older males – who thought the best way to prove their worth as a husband was to drag her to their bedchambers. Multiple gowns were torn and “gentlemen” nearly gelded to ensure she maintained her virtue.

After the disastrous season she was eager to don her armor and get back onto the battlefield, but she was scarcely away from home a few seasons before she was called back, this time for an “arranged engagement.” One of her father’s old comrades of the Anathos War had proposed a union of their houses – he had a son only a few seasons younger than Scyrven herself, and proposed that they be wed.

She met young Gwillim Gunnvaldr only shortly before they were to be married. She held utmost respect for his person and his achievements, though little love came between them. As she would later come to reckoning, she much… preferred the female form to the male for pleasure, though of course procreation – as her duty required – called for a mate of the opposite gender.

She shared her husband’s bed, eager to bear fruit for the union (their familial honor was at stake, after all) but struggled for many years to conceive a child. A few times she had dared to hope – only to have those hopes dashed on the rocks after miscarriage. It was with bated breath that she waited, and beyond all odds bore a beautiful daughter Alfhildr twenty-one summers ago.

She had wept, for the expectation was for her to have a son, but nonetheless treasured the rarity that was her daughter and sheltered her so much as the environment of Drakka would allow. After twenty-one summers, their daughter is strong, athletic, and growing so well. It was more than Scyrven dared to hope for.

With this being said, her husband needs a second child, and attempts to conceive since Alfhi’s birth have been fruitless. At last she and her husband come to Shadow Worth together to choose another… brood mother to ensure the longevity of their dynasty.
Other:
Married to @tracyarmav’s Gwillim. They’re taking Brides as a unit, I think.
Adult Content Preference:
Fade to Black please!

_{An exceptionally diminutive young woman, standing less than four and a half feet tall. Though altogether rather plain in appearance, she carries herself with composure and dignity, a light of wisdom and confidence sparking in her blue-violet eyes. Her mousey blonde hair is combed into a glossy, smooth sheet, lightly curling down to the base of her shoulder blades. She dresses plainly, though her clothes are of quality.}



Race:
Gemmenite
Age:
Nineteen
Element(s):
Water
Height:
Four feet, five inches

Bio:
Oh, how times have changed. Aymiria Unalim, born Aymiria Cassiell, was once a servant’s daughter, a servant herself – minstrel and eventually handmaiden for the third-in-line princess of a realm.

A year ago today she was taken in a reaping, barely eighteen. Her twin sister, an artist and painter, was too. She watched her sister die. And her sister-bride, all for a man’s greed. Not even the greed of the man who was to be her husband, for some – cruel, horrible plan of crowns and kings and so on and so forth.

Such massive affairs should not have involved her. She wept, even as her future husband tried to comfort her and reassure her it was going to be okay – in a manner most unbecoming of a Drakken, she would realize. He had not forced her into his bed, nor any of the horrible rumors that surrounded the alliance.

But she’d seen her sisters scars, the burn branded deep into her abdomen. She’d gotten lucky, somehow. Most of the other girls would not have.

Living in her husband’s keep, free to pursue whatever she wanted – she was a lady, at least, sort of, and she didn’t have daily chores and errands to run – she educated herself about his people and his languages, and he was nothing but courteous and kind, if distant. His ruling grandfather, though less kind, did nothing to directly harm her. She did ultimately grow to appreciate her place, and to consider the implications of her presence. The grandfather quickly grew irate that she’d not shared her husband’s bed, not presented him an heir.

He never pressured her, but as she grew to spend more time with him – learning the language, for her tongue was clumsy and most unbecoming of a future duchess, learning the literature and history of the fallen empire, all of the intricacies of his people’s culture and religion – at some point during all of that she did fall for him, badly, and of her own volition began to share his bed at night and stay by his side during the day.

This decision was made three moons ago. Now she stays with him always, hoping to someday be properly married to him in his people’s custom, rendering her as his equal and his wife, not his bride (an important distinction.) Recently she’s felt quite… unwell, and is uncertain - both afraid and daring to hope that perhaps her husband’s seed has taken root and she’ll be able to bear him a son, and fearing what may come of it.

Today, they move towards the Drakken capital once more, Zakroti being under orders from his grandfather to choose a second bride. Riding beside him, in the column of black-clad soldiers as she has grown accustomed to, Miry can't shake the crushing feeling that she's been a disappointment. In her heart she knows Zak would never leave her, but she cannot shake the thought that perhaps she'll be left behind for better, more traditionally beautiful brides. Even if she's not, she's convinced she will be relegated once more to the task of servitude, being turned into a handmaiden for her new sister-bride and being expected to kiss all notions of her love goodbye.

A pit of jealousy turns in her stomach. She won't let that happen.

Other:
((take her out of the pairing rotation, as seen above she’s been happily a bride for the last year))
Adult Content Preference:
Uhhh….

_{A slender young bride with pale olive skin, shoulder-length light brown whisps of hair, and striking gold-green eyes. Her clothes are very simple, clearly crafted by hand, and she carries herself confidently. She has a very serious depth in her face, a vaguely haunted look always in her eyes.}


Race:
Gemmenite
Age:
Eighteen
Element(s):
Earth
Height:
5’3”

Bio:
A quiet, motherly young Gem, Nenra spent her early childhood in part of a large, happy family, working a farm with her eight siblings and few dozen cousins. The town they lived in was mostly comprised of their extended family and two others – trading was a simple affair, the inn was managed by one of the grandmothers, as were the shops, and everyone else stayed in the fields or the farmhouses. Subsistence and self-reliance was the way of life.

That all changed when Nenra was fourteen. One of her younger cousins contracted a mysterious illness – the poor girl’s whole body was covered by a multitude of small white, oozing boils, and she quickly grew weak, feverish and delirious, and expired a mere two weeks later. No one else had seemed to have caught it, and amid the mourning there was a spark of hope that no one else would die.

The day after poor Liilin was buried, four of her other cousins started sprouting boils and coughing. It spread likewise throughout the entire town until all but a handful of the residents were sick. Nenra was diligent about scrubbing herself, washing her hands almost until they bled whenever she had to be around her family, and doing everything in her power to keep the farm running in between taking care of them. One of her younger brothers left the town on the fastest horse to track down an herbalist from a better city – there must have been something to be done.

But there was nothing. When he returned with a doctor, the doctor grimly informed them that it was the weeping pox. Nothing could be done about it except keeping the victims comfortable and well-hydrated – if they were strong, they would survive. If not, they would perish. The doctor left the town, advising they raze it to the ground, for the illness could linger in wood and earth for years after it had faded, waiting to strike again.

By the time the plague left the town, it was absolutely decimated. Her mother and father were dead, many of her aunts and uncles as well. Not an adult in the village had escaped the illness, and those that remained alive were so weakened by it that they were scarcely able to take care of themselves, nevermind the farms and gardens. Of the children and teens, many had perished as well, but those that didn’t soon bounced back to full functionality, if an exceptionally scarred, disfigured functionality.

Word spread along the road that the town was to be avoided like… well, like the plague. Nenra was fine with that. There was a harvest to be brought in – with not a working soul above the age of twenty – and … too many dead to bury. The words the physician had spoken haunted her. “burn this place, or it will be everyone’s grave.”

They couldn’t bury the bodies, so they burned them. The earth elementalists among the group stirred the ash into the earth, tilling the soil and sprouting a forest of massive rosebushes from it. Mother’s roses, as later visitors to the town would identify them as.

Then they went about their lives, as best they could. Nenra and a few of the other girls wound up as caretakers of the orphaned children, and taking care of the elderly. Everyone with Earth magic quickly became adept at control of it – they had to be, with twenty sets of hands doing the work previously done by a hundred. Farms had to be kept, linen spun and woven, cows milked, goats herded. Life continued on.

They all knew of the drakken, of course. One of their cousins had been taken when they were younger, but they’d imagined word had gotten out about the pox and that the village no longer had young, desirable girls. So it was to shock and horror when the Drakken reaping caravan rolled through their village. They took one look around and decided that this was a stop for supplies only, and raided the storehouses and didn’t bother to pay the few shopkeepers for their trouble.

As they were getting ready to leave one of them noticed Nenra. Though she was hardly a specimen of beauty, she was the most beautiful eligible girl in town (by simple virtue of not having the deep pockmarks and raised scarring from the pox) and eventually, after some discussion, ordered to come along.

She would have resisted, but they threatened violence. She took one look at her scared, heartbroken family, set her jaw, and stepped into the carriage. No more lives would be lost on her watch. Even without her to take care of them, the little ones were getting older and were now able to help in the fields and take care of their own mothers and grandmothers. The younger teens had mastered the element enough that they could continue to bring in the harvest, to till the fields and plant them.

They would survive. Sure as the soil beneath her feet and the sun on her shoulders, they would endure. Whether she would or not, she was not so sure.

Other:
N/A

Adult Content Preference:
Fade to black please!