Corvidae

Starless

Oh, I think I've found it. (I'm a huge sucker for this sort of crap.)

Starless

I've decided I'm going to search for a theme song for my character because I am absolute garbage.

Starless

@Corvidae: Eh... I don't know how to feel about that. Could we see, critique, and change them before they get approved? I think if everyone has a say, it'll be fine. Plus, we can approach worldbuilding with more tact and make more creatures that avoid textbook clichés. It'd be nice if they aren't sloppily ripped from mythology either.

@ravenDivinity

I like to think I'm better than copying and pasting someone else's work, so I can assure you that wouldn't be the case. Also, I'm not doing anything without @Transience's approval, so I'll wait until they express their opinion before I start even the brainstorming part of the process.

I do understand your concern, though - these sorts of things can be difficult to execute well.

Starless

Have we decided on the existence of beasts/demons/monsters and whatnot? If we're planning to exclude them, that's fine, but if not, I'll probably draft a few NPC-types, if that's all right with everyone?

Starless

@Blackbeard

When I look at your character's face claim, all I can think of is this.

It's great.

Starless

EDIT: COMPLETED!

Crow, the Windwitch

T h e W i n d w i t c h

Theme

N A M E / A L I A S

Crow

Stormcaller | The Windwitch

M Y T H O L O G Y

As a child growing up in the lawless outskirts of a derelict village, Crow learned to rob and cheat to get by. Growing up on the streets with little more than a gang of juvenile vagrants for company left Crow with an intimate familiarity with the delicate arts of delinquency. She was a covetous scavenger that rifled through the garbage, dug through its ilk in the vain hopes it'd earn the right to live another day - hence the name.

(Her former 'gang' leader had never been one for empty pleasantries.)

Stealing, extorting, and a tiny bit of conning honed both mental and physical agility, while life on the streets taught her self-reliance. When she was ten, a ragtag group of criminals took a shine to the young delinquent and brought her into their fold. By the time Crow was thirteen, she had become a seasoned accomplice, and she relished the thrill of every heist.

The nights were long, sometimes. Long, cold, with only the intermittent rumbles of an empty stomach to break the monotony. Wet, too, when the clouds chose Crow as the object upon which to vent their frustrations. Many a night was spent nestled between piles of snow, huddling futilely for warmth, listening to the thunder roaring a vicious lullaby.

She’d never been one for religion. She’d never hunched over her own hands, tipped her head skywards, a frantic stream of murmured pleas spilling from her lips. She’d laughed in the faces of gods and heroes alike, citing the former as nonexistent and the latter as corruption incarnate - as bastards that destroyed the lands, their treachery leaving a trail of scorched, ruined villages and destitution in its wake.

(She was seventeen the day the soldiers slaughtered one of her friends in cold blood.)

She wasn't quite sure exactly when the winds began to bend to her commands - a gentle, caressing breeze would explode into a tempestuous maelstrom in time with the flare of her temper, thunder would crack with every loud, boasting laugh.

(She was seventeen the day her 'friends' left her to die outside the barracks, their comrade avenged.)

As any starving, scared young adult might do when confronted with an unnatural phenomenon - one that threatened to crumble the relative stability of her daily routine, at that - Crow severed ties with her former compatriots, fled her backwater, ramshackle village, and turned to a life of solitary crime.

(She was eighteen the day she contemplated razing their shoddy little hovels, stripping away all they held dear, ruining them like they'd almost ruined her.)

(She was eighteen the day she promptly cut that intrusive-thought shit the fuck out.)

It came as very little surprise to anyone when the young thief ran afoul of one of the local smuggling rings. It came as even less of a surprise when the leader - an impish, capricious young lass who was as fickle as she was whimsical - took a special interest in the wayward vagabond. Not only was she a valuable asset (criminal know-how and a pretty face?), but the rumors had a way of spreading. Whispers of the witch of the wilds, knight-slayer and (alleged) rampant vigilante of the poor burned through the cities like hellfire.

(They were only partially true. That man wasn't a knight, and she sure as hell wasn't some kind of cloak-wearing do-gooder. The nerve of some people, jeez!)

Negotiations were discussed. Invitations were extended, and soon the King of the Ports had recruited her 'court mage'. Fealty was sworn, allegiances were forged, and the dynamic duo's reign of terror-but-not-quite kick-started.

It came as absolutely no surprise when they fell into bed together approximately one year later.

The legitimate, permit-wielding naval fleets took a certain, justified amount of offense to their ships being plundered and their trade routes compromised. They didn't pose much of a threat, initially - when you're a vengeful, hero-hating smuggler with the gales themselves wound delicately around your fingertips, few things do. The King of the Ports, complacent in her perceived authority, disregarded most threats, vows, and promises of war-waging with little more than a flippant, dismissive hand-wave.

(She had the skies themselves squirming beneath her nightly. The navy could, quite frankly, go fuck itself.)

Unfortunately, speculation as to the nature of the King and her Hound's relationship had spread from the King's crew to the taverns. Specifically, Crow's sapphic tendencies. She met a girl, that night. Another one, one that wasn't her King.

(She couldn't help it, how was she supposed to know that lying wretch was a spy? She was pretty, and she'd offered information to the crew in exchange for board, and she'd said nice things, and damn it, Crow was such an idiot!)

One particular battle went horridly awry, to put things mildly, and the uppity little Crow found herself impaled through the stomach on the point of her paramour's dirk, bludgeoned over the head with the flat of her own glaive, and, eventually, imprisoned. Held captive like some common war criminal. Like a dog.

(The irony was about as bitter as the rusty tang of her own blood.)

The fleet had been dispatched to dispose of the smuggler problem, and that, apparently, included the destruction of the port-side villages, too. Salvo upon salvo of cannon fire was launched. Alarmingly few hit their marks, and most of the artillery sought purchase in the clusters of homes and markets.

She couldn't abide it. As much as she loathed the weak, as much as the mere notion of self-sacrifice repulsed her to the point of nausea, a crime this heinous was exactly the sort even a lowlife bastard like her couldn't allow.

And though she was bound, life trickling out of her chest in sticky red rivulets, consciousness ebbing away with every ragged, pained breath, she could feel it. Feel the pull of the wind in her veins, the tug she'd come to know as magic yanking at her gut. The storm raging outside called to her, choppy waves and roaring thunder and steady, reverberant drum of the rain hitting the decks above combining in one harmonious symphony.

She leveled the entire fleet.

The King survived, slunk back into the city's underbelly to replete and rebuild, pride stinging as badly as her wounds.

Crow's body was never recovered, but the legends of the wild Windwitch, the Stormcaller and Knightslayer, were bandied about the land as if on the wind's whispers. Though the tales were altered to suit the bard reciting them - in some, she was a pirate; in others, a diligent young soldier; in one, a hermit that had retreated into the mountains, built a hut, and cannibalized some children - her final moments remained, mercifully, intact.

In all the stories, one thing was consistent: she had died before her time, and the concept of self-sacrifice had made her quite ill.

A P P E A R A N C E

Crow’s face is thin, all prominent cheekbones and angular cheeks and narrow, mischievous eyes. A faint, barely-distinguishable smattering of freckles spans a soft, slightly upturned nose. Small lips born to twist into a crooked, devil-may-care grin host pristine white teeth. Significantly detracting from an otherwise imposing aura, Crow clocks in at approximately 5’2”, meaning one could conceivably hoist her over one’s shoulder and carry her off mid-argument.

(The legends rarely get it right, however, preferring to depict their revered hero as a tall, strapping young lass, which...couldn’t be further from the truth.)

Straight, side-swept dark hair falls in choppy layers down her back. She’s adamant in her refusal to shear it short, and so, for pragmatism’s sake, she binds the majority of it back in a long braid. What’s allowed to hang freely has got this windblown, perpetually tousled quality, as if the wind itself is bending to its whims.

She’s lean and narrow, alabaster skin stretching taut over a reasonably toned physique. Power is written into every movement, every challenging stare or cocky smirk, brimming deceptively beneath her skin. Years of acting on the ‘fight’ portion of her instincts has imbued within her a certain sense of confidence – her posture is aggressive on the battlefield and assertive everywhere else, and she typically stands with her feet spread, hands planted firmly – defiantly – on her hips.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

The legends painted her as a kind, generous hero, a desire to give all she had instilled within her by a childhood spent laboring in poverty.

The legends are wrong. She's not generous, and she's sure as hell not a hero.

Prancing through life with an infuriatingly cocky grin and enough cheerful arrogance to power a small regiment, it’s little wonder this kid makes enemies nearly everywhere she goes. She is quick to judge and even quicker to dismiss; it’s this flippant sort of insouciance, especially regarding serious situations, that makes those enemies turn to nemeses. (She’s been keeping a running tally of how many people have publicly declared her their eternal archenemy. It’s about as big as her ego.) She’s brash, she’s brazen, and she’s six kinds of reckless. She’d grind every bone in her body to dust if it meant inflicting even a single bruise on her adversary, and she doesn’t care if achieving her goals means tearing down the structure of society brick by dusty brick. Insurmountable odds are viewed as a fun challenge; even the biggest threat can be broken down into smaller, more manageable chunks if you pummel it hard enough.

Wreathed in a contagious aura of vitality and armed to the teeth with an abundance of smarmy grins and a veritable battalion of bawdy jokes, Crow is generally always worth a good laugh. She’s confidence incarnate – she doesn’t walk, she swaggers. A lonely childhood bestowed upon her an impressive imagination, and she’s always conjuring up some sort of wild scheme. This, coupled with poor impulse control and a predilection toward improvisation, means she can orchestrate some truly nefarious plans.

Governed almost completely by her bellicose nature, Crow absolutely loves to fight - loves the dizzying, intoxicating rush she gets whenever the adrenaline starts coursing through her veins, loves the flutter she gets in her heart when she think she’s about to die, loves the thrill of the danger - of the possibility she might lose. Nothing gets that unsettling battle grin of hers going more than a proper brawl. Crow’s an adrenaline junkie born and bred, and she’s yet to realize that just because no one’s died doesn’t mean it can be considered a victory.

Her brash attitude, abrasive humor, blatant refusal to follow the rules can often infuriate any by-the-books teammates. She treats orders – and occasionally boundaries – like broad suggestions. Continuing along a similar vein, she’s a notably physical person; she’ll sling an arm around a comrade’s shoulders for support, playfully tousle their hair after emerging victorious from combat, or plop down beside them and drape herself across their lap. She’s like an affectionate stray dog that’ll turn up on your doorstep routinely if you offer it food or a scratch behind the ears even once.

As her background might lead one to surmise, Crow is vehemently opposed to materialism, and harbors a certain degree of resentment toward the affluent and influential. She’d destroy the financially elite in a heartbeat, provided someone could equip her with a sufficient alibi. When holiday gift exchanges or birthday celebrations roll around, she doesn’t like asking for physical possessions for presents. A lifetime of poverty has conditioned her not to want or request such things from other people. Besides, she figures if they’re giving something to her, it means they’re going without, and the subsequent guilt is enough to send her teetering over the edge.

Crow is also hopelessly naive, interpreting everything at face value, be it her surroundings or what she perceives as a factual statement, leaving her fairly oblivious to the nuances of human nature. She's a tinkerer, not a thinkerer - weapons provide far better company than people, and they’re easier to fight, regardless. (Where she grew up, disputes were settled with quick-and-dirty scuffles.) Because she's new to this particular line of work (read: unabashed heroics), she's yet to learn the importance of verifying testimonies; she equates emotional intensity with honesty. This has made many love confessions awkward and kind of unbearable; poor kid’s denser than a slab of granite. She’s shockingly good at detecting potential romantic or concupiscent partners, yet consistently comes up short insofar as long-term commitment is concerned.

Extremely self-reliant and obstinate to a fault, Crow is as stubborn as a scorned mule, especially when it comes to injury management. She’ll bristle and bare her fangs and skulk in corners, preferring to suffer in dignified silence than allow someone else to nurse her wounds – that is, if she’ll even admit they’re present. She doesn’t like admitting she’s not capable of handling herself – it makes her feel weak, vulnerable, and useless.

And when kids like her lose their purpose, when they stop holding any value, they die.

Because of her rambunctious, rowdy nature, she’s antsy and prone to restless fidgeting when forced to sit still, making her not at all suited to reconnaissance, infiltration, or gathering intel through ass-kissing or elbow-brushing. Cart her to some sort of formal, extravagant gala, and she’ll have you both ejected from the premises in half an hour’s time. (In her defense, there’s something absolutely hysterical about how god-awful those ludicrous, faux-posh rich-person accents sound. Especially when they know she knows they’re faking.) She’s got issues with impulse control, particularly when asked to follow orders. Her plans derail as quickly as her attention span. Her ability to read the flow of battle (and the wherewithal to almost unconsciously discern weak points, such as a faulty prosthetic, atrophied muscles, or old injuries that never properly healed) is the closest she’ll ever come to devising combat tactics.

Her manner of speech is gruff, brazen, and hopelessly irreverent, and her sentences consist primarily of short, choppy words - her brain moves faster than her mouth, so she prefers terse fragments to get her point across. Though her favorite method of communication is fists on flesh, she's also quite fond of employing a vast array of gesticulations to further illustrate whatever point she’s trying to make.

The only part of her vocabulary one could consider even remotely extensive is her repertoire of creative vulgarities. It’s rare to see her compose any sort of oration, formal or otherwise, that isn’t peppered liberally with profanities.

Crow is aggressively homosexual. Her gaydar is notoriously accurate - it's the stuff of legends. Every girlfriend she’s ever had pinged it immediately, and plenty of people besides who turned out to be from her 'side of the street'.

It’s a great guide for when to flirt, when to crush her developing crushes, and when to pay very, very close attention to the undercurrent of a conversation. She puts a lot of confidence in her ability to pick out the people who swing that way.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Armed with little more than a time-worn, battle-ravaged glaive and a rusty dagger, Crow has never looked the part of the legendary beastslayer, even during the height of her career. (The glaive's sole purpose was a fulcrum and balancer; something to pivot around or vault off of. An enabler for a reckless, octane, highly ineffectual combat style.)

But that’s all right - she rather prefers it that way.

She’s the Windwitch, the Stormcaller, the fury of a thousand bolts of vengeful lightning, after all - not the Steelsinger. Not a knight.

Not a true hero.

Manipulation of the wind has always come easiest, be it conjuration of an updraft to propel her skywards or a razor-sharp gale to cleave off an adversary’s arm. It’s the most comfortable, like an extension of her own body. The rush of adrenaline she gets whenever she invokes this magic is almost intoxicating - it’s like liquid euphoria, dissolving all her worries, all her cares.

The skies themselves heed her commands - while she can’t generate her own personal rainstorms or clap her hands for an emergency lightning strike, existing thunderstorms fall under her dominion. She can direct lightning, conduct it through her glaive, hurl arcs of white-hot hatred at those foolish enough to oppose her. She can’t produce it herself, though. Never could.

Rain has always been the most difficult. The most elusive. She’s reluctant to admit her ineptitude when it comes to the more nuanced art of water-management, but unfortunately, it’s a glaringly obvious shortcoming. She can’t even so much as reduce a deluge to a drizzle.

Her hidden talent is pretending she's more competent than she truly is.

Starless

Oh, wow, I'm actually extremely excited to start writing up my character. So excited that I'll have the sheet up within the next few hours.

Starless - Unique Fantasy RP

I'm curious as to how our characters will learning of the threat and then meeting up. Other inquiries regard the reaquisition any of their legendary relics or equipment or what have you, and any followings or retinues that they may procure to face the threat that they had been resurrected to fight.

@Dead Cruiser

Continuing along that vein, in what condition will they be resurrected? I'm assuming the state they were in at the moment of death? Or in their prime, provided they earned the luxury of longevity?

Starless - Unique Fantasy RP

I'd be interested, though I'll be juggling this on top of another role play. Still, this is a cool concept!

Verthaven: Days of Rain ☔ [COMPLETED]

I'll try to have my sheet finished within the next day or two, depending on my schedule. Shit's rough.