Wasn't the Black Knight "None shall pass," though?
1
like
2 yrs ago
You ever realize that you haven't changed your status in months, go back to change it, and then wonder what the *fuck* your previous status was even talking about?
12
likes
3 yrs ago
No, no, they clearly are referring to Ohio -- which Georgia is geographically south of, so the theory is still sound.
Local Floof Back At It Again With The Trashy Romance RPs
Yuuuuuuuup. It's that time again, folks. Fey's been reading too much manga again. Villainesses, saintesses, princes, knights, arranged marriages, dark secrets, knowledge of past lives or getting stuck in a groundhog day loop of bad ends -- dig up all your favorite corny tropes, because that, my friends, is why we're all here.
Basically, just looking for a fun bit of casual slapdash melodrama since most of my other RPs are sorta stalled out at the moment, and wanted to have some fun with some guilty pleasures of mine. Last time I tried something like this, it got too overcomplicated and out of hand, so for this time around, I'd like to keep things simpler -- just 2-4 people (myself included) would be ideal, though I guess I could be talked up to as many as six if there's a lot of interest. And, while I would like to revisit some of my old concepts at some point, I think for this time around I'd rather do a simpler plot setup than the one I tried before.
That being said, I've come up with a few possible ideas for plots and premises, some more suited to small group RP and some more suited for 1x1s. I'll list them below, so if you're interested, please let me know which ideas appeal to you!
To Become a Knight: The most lighthearted and comedic of my concepts, inspired by a mix of RPG-mechanics novels and wacky, Twelfth Night-esque crossdressing hijinks. This story would be set in a JRPG-esque setting with elemental magic, roaming monsters and demons, and maybe even a full-on "Demon King" style plot with our unlikely heroes having to take up their swords to save the world! Not sure if there would be actual hard and fast levels or stats as an in-universe mechanic, or if it would be more like a martial arts novel with more vaguely defined "powerlevels" and shit, but basically it would be a comedy first, a romance second, and occasionally remember that it's supposed to be an action adventure once every now and again.
The "unlikely heroes" in question would start as a various collection of kid heroes, all in training to become knights for their own reasons. Could be nobles expected to take up the sword by their families, or commoners whose skills have given them the opportunity to climb the social ladder, or any number of other things. The only problem is... Well, one or more of these "boys" is anything but, disguising herself/themselves for whatever reason and trying to become a knight. Needless to say, regardless of whether this secret is kept under wraps or discovered by the other characters, hijinks ensue.
Ideally, this would mostly be a story of a bunch of goofy kid heroes growing up, coming to terms with each other and themselves, probably having a bunch of misunderstandings as they try and fail to keep their secrets hidden, and maybe having a few awkward crushes along the way. Maybe there'd be a timeskip after this first part and we could deal with them actually doing knightly things as young adults too, but honestly, I feel like it's pointless to plan that far ahead right now, so I won't!
I'd be favoring playing a disguised girl in this plot, and it could probably work equally well as either a 1x1 or a small group, whether that small group ends up with multiple crossdressers or as a one girl, three guys reverse harem setup, or, heck, just as a bunch of friends palling around without knowing or without caring about the whole gender reveal.
The Bastard Saintess: A more serious plot setup, better lending itself to more of a dramatic or angsty angle. This one's in a setting more inspired by Otome games and novels/manga about Otome games, with some kind of miasma or other existential threat that can only be purified/remedied by the powers of a chosen Saint/Saintess, who can influence the weather, heal the sick, bestow blessings, the whole shebang. And, in many cases, those chosen as "Saints" come from specific lineages favored by the gods, entrusted with the responsibility of protecting their countries.
A child is born into one such family out of wedlock, and has the misfortune of inheriting divine power. As such, she must be taken in by a family that really doesn't want her, and probably suffers a miserable childhood as a result. Ultimately, the story could go a lot of different ways from here, whether it's about her trying to escape from her abusive family and expose that the "Saints" really aren't all that saintly, or her getting forcibly engaged, banished, sold off, or otherwise thrown away and taken in elsewhere. Basically, a sympathetic heroine with a tragic life climbing her way slowly out of her miserable past and finding a new home.
I could go either way on characters for this one -- whether it's playing as the Saintess herself, or as whatever prince or love interest comes along to help her, or even as a side character -- an adoptive family member who helps take her in or whatever. Like with the first idea, this'd work just fine as a 1x1, and though it's slightly less well-suited for a group RP, it could still work for one. Regardless, the goal would be to have dark parts that are dark and depressing, as well as plenty of warm fuzzies to counterbalance them.
The Fake: This one's also on the darker side, and a bit more somber than just dark and angsty. It's also much better suited for a 1x1 than a group setup, so it's basically here in case interest is very minimal. The basic setup is as follows.
The daughter of an upper class noble meets a young knight of no significant estate or standing through coincidence, and the two of them fall in love, keeping their courtship a secret, and knowing that theirs is a love that can never be. The flower of high society, married off to a commoner in all but name? It is an unthinkable and unattainable dream -- one that slips even farther out of reach when the young man is sent off to war. He undergoes numerous trials and tribulations, surviving in the face of certain death, and earns himself a name as a hero and the favor of the the empire. Returning in glory to his homeland, he asks for but one thing as his reward: the right to marry the woman of his dreams. This wish is granted, and the two lovers are reunited...
...Except that's nothing but a lie. While he was off at war, his beloved died -- and has since been quietly replaced by a body double by a desperate, controlling father who has no other successors, and to whom the prospect of a marriage alliance is the only means of securing his ambitions. Now, the girl forced to play the role of his dead daughter is stuck in a marriage with a man who went through hell for the sake of the woman she claims to be, and he finds himself grieving for a person who is, in the eyes of the world, still alive and well. Whether they hate each other, or ultimately find comfort in this quiet tragedy? Well, that's all up to you.
Those are all the concepts I have write-ups for right now, but if none of them draws significant interest, I've got a few more things I can add later. Anyway, that's all for now, so thanks for reading, and, of course, let me know if any of these seem fun!
Full Name - Fianna Fray Age - 37 Gender - Female Vocation - Sentinel Nationality - Scila
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Stoic Fianna is, above all else, a woman of few words. She seldom speaks unless spoken to, and even when directly addressed, will often answer as bluntly as possible before resuming her silence. She's not necessarily hostile, standoffish, or confrontational about it -- and in fact could even be called polite -- but she's at best apathetic to most interactions and seems to be either unwilling or unable to really express herself beyond the bare minimum that is necessary.
Bloodthirsty Underneath her calm exterior, however, lies a darker side of her personality. Though she detests her masters, she still takes pride in the skills she has honed, and the power she wields. As such, devoid of any other purpose, it is only in battle that her soul can truly burn. In but a single masterful stroke of a sword, there is art. In slaying a fearsome foe, there is achievement. In enduring pain, in standing up and taking but a single step when one's body cannot go on, there is beauty. Though she has long since lost both the ability and the drive to pursue higher ideals, she yet clings to a vision that transcends good and evil. A sword, after all, does not choose who it slays -- its job is simply to cut all that stands before it. And so, Fianna the Bloody takes up her blade without reason -- no, without needing a reason. She fights because there is a battle to be fought, kills because there is an enemy to be slain, and with each step she takes grows closer to becoming one and the same as the sword she wields.
Wild For at least half of her unnatural life, Fianna has lived as a beast. First as a hungry, scavenging orphan, then as a Hunter forever seeking her prey. It was only for a brief time that she was shown kindness, and allowed to live as a human, as herself, and learned what it meant to care for others. Kindness, generosity, protectiveness, empathy -- with her humanity effectively long-since shattered, none of these things come naturally to her. And, likewise, should she be shown such warm emotions again, she wouldn't know how to respond to them, or to reciprocate. Yet, once one has learned how it feels to be loved, one cannot ever truly forget it. When people are kind to her, in some sense, she is grateful to them -- even if she can't show it. When people do great things for the sake of others, she admires them, because they remind her of her master and his sacrifice. In this sense, she can recognize goodness in others, and may even strive to emulate it, though she herself could not ever truly claim to be a good person. Yet, even so, she cannot truly move on from her past, and ultimately, the one powerful feeling she has left is her hatred for those who took her master and her comrades from her. If given the chance, with nothing to hold her back and without regard for the world as a whole, she might well cast aside what little remains of her humanity, if only it meant destroying the system that took her master's life.
E Q U I P M E N T
The Wolf's Fang, Amaryllis Midnos' ancient history has never been pretty. Long before the void ever reared its ugly head, the land was a hotbed of various sorcerer-kings and queens all vying for dominance. Though the orthodox faith and the Pyromancer Kings and Queens eventually unified the land and established the great empire known today, there were many other contenders for that throne... and many artifacts they left behind as vessels for their unnatural powers.
Amaryllis is one such relic, though it was not originally called by that name, but rather by several others. An ancient sword, it was forged who knows how many centuries ago by a maker whose very name has been scrubbed from the annals of history -- but who was, judging by his handiwork, a master of the dark art of necromancy. Even this small fragment of his craft is still just as sharp as the day its massive edge was first set, and still just as insatiable. It has been rediscovered many times throughout Midnos' unification and early history, and each time has left slaughter and death in its wake before disappearing along with its wielder. At last, it was reclaimed by the Kingdom, and sealed away to prevent its dark power from ever being used again. But, as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures, and with the coming of the void, the vault was opened, that the then-nameless accursed sword might see use once again.
Though on its own, it seems unremarkable, the weapon's unnatural nature becomes quite apparent the moment any would-be wielder -- unsuspecting or not -- lays hand upon it. Its handle grafts itself into their flesh, and it changes its form to best suit the capabilities of its new wielder -- no, its new host. And, should that not be enough, then it changes its new host body to better handle its power.
Foreign muscles begin to grow and shift, writhing like worms, uncoiling like snakes beneath the user's skin. The changes begin slowly, creeping up the arm that first took hold of the sword, then expanding to the rest of the body. To sustain the new muscle mass that it cultivates upon them, new bones, new nerves, new organs are all required. Lungs to gather and store more air, hearts to pump the blood, an ossified exoskeleton to protect this fragile new flesh beneath... and, of course, a source of sustenance to fuel this explosive growth. The sword's favored diet is, unsurprisingly, the flesh, blood, and bones of its victims, all of which swiftly disappear into the blade's expanding bulk -- but failing that, it will not hesitate to cannibalize its own host body in order to fuel this unholy transformation. It seeks nothing short of ever greater and greater heights of strength, its shape evolving with its wielder's ever more and more twisted form, never stopping until the body it has inhabited can take no more and perishes. Then, the sword slumbers, storing up the power it has cultivated until it is needed again. Every single individual who has wielded this unsightly blade has thus met a similar end, devoured completely by the cursed sword.
But, the scholars of Midnos wondered -- what would the sword do if it were provided a body that could never truly die? And so, it was given to a quite expendable Hunter -- a sick "gift" for one who possessed no other power.
G I F T
Awaken, And Hunt Again Fianna has never possessed any affinity for the magical arts. Even when she became a Hunter, that fact never changed. All she had was her master's teachings, and the determination to hone them to their utmost limits. Yet, despite this, the sword she christened with the name it bears today reacts entirely differently in her hands than it does when held by any other wielder. Namely, she possesses the unique ability to draw and sheathe it at will, in so doing reverting all the changes and unnatural growths brought on by its evolution. Whereas a normal user would be slowly overtaken until their body was nothing but a vessel for the sword, it instead appears entirely willing to relinquish control and reconstruct her body after the fighting is done.
Functionally speaking, in addition to not forcing her to kill herself every time she draws her weapon, this unique bond gives her phenomenal regenerative faculties above and beyond even a normal Hunter, so long as she can keep feeding her sword. If her limbs are severed, Amaryllis will just grab hold of them and shove them back into their sockets, knitting her muscles and nerve endings back together to allow her to keep fighting. Even if her vital organs are destroyed, chances are that the sword may well have created redundant backups that will keep her blood pumping and her lungs breathing until it can rebuild her. Unless her body is completely ripped to shreds, her brain destroyed, or the sword itself forcibly severed from her flesh, then Amaryllis will do its best to put her back together again.
In practice though, this process can be... somewhat unreliable. Forcing her body to regrow rapidly or frequently has a tendency to cause errors to crop up -- a fact to which her perpetually misshapen and scarred hands stand as an unfortunate testament -- and uses up a great deal of energy, requiring her to keep feeding Amaryllis and potentially forgo further growth and evolution in order to fuel her regeneration instead.
Likewise, the process of undoing the changes the sword has already made is an arduous one, even for an immortal. Ejecting new organs, bending her skeleton back into its original shape, compressing her muscles so that they fit back inside her skin, and rewiring her nervous system accordingly all cause a variety of pain that is barely even comprehensible to the human mind -- and though Amaryllis has tried to reduce the side effects by dampening her sense of feeling so much that she's almost perpetually numb, it's still all she can do to avoid blacking out when she reverts. As such, though she doesn't need to constantly feed Amaryllis even when outside of combat, once she's out of battle, she tends to stay that way for a long, long time.
But, though her partnership with the accursed sword comes with a tremendous backlash upon her own flesh, it also comes with its benefits. When she allows Amaryllis to fully merge with her, she is capable of adapting rapidly to match the unnatural abilities of the voidspawn she hunts. And by sharing her senses with the sword, she can draw upon its past experience, and the experiences of its prior wielders to augment her own not-inconsiderable talents with a blade, and to help her adapt to the rather... unique fighting style required by such an obscene weapon.
When it was first placed within Fianna's grasp, the sword took on a wicked curved shape, like the fang of a wolf. Its edge became dyed in crimson red, rippling outward along the blade like the petals of a flower. Its pommel spiraled and unfolded, becoming like vines that coiled up her arm and joined with her flesh. These aesthetic considerations seem entirely unrelated to the sword's usual functions, however, begging the question of just why it bothered taking on such a form.
The scholars had thought that the sword might be overcome -- harnessed -- controlled -- brought to heel and forced to obey. If met with the power of a hunter, surely its curse could be broken and its power put to use. But ultimately, when she first held the blade and it became one with her, it was not her undying body, nor the flame she bore within her, nor even her force of will that triumphed over it - a fact to which its form stands as testament.
Perhaps it was because the sword simply recognized in her the possibility to sustain itself forever. Perhaps it was because it sought to improve itself even further by devouring the void which even its fearsome fangs could not sunder without her help. Or perhaps it was because when its hideous intelligence looked within her... it realized that the thing they both wished for was the same.
Together, they sought strength for its own sake, both searching for the same answer, both testing and pushing their limits wherever they might lie. Everything else was a burden to be discarded or a tool to be used, that they might climb a little higher. That was the only purpose the sword had ever known -- and it was the only purpose Fianna had left.
But no matter how much she lost, or how much she forgot -- no matter how much the past she had cherished withered and scattered into nothing, that woman still held on tightly to the name of the flowers she had seen so long ago, and to the very first order she had been given.
The smith forges. The Hunter seeks. The blade cuts. The enemy dies. The wolf eats. The flower blooms. The sun sets. The memory fades. She awakens, and hunts again. And that, in and of itself, is a kind of answer. This is her -- no, this is their Gift.
Physical Description
A tall, gaunt woman with a somewhat ragged and unsettling aspect to her, Fianna somehow manages to be both younger and older than she looks. Though she's now in her late 30s, her body stopped aging half a decade ago when she first became a Hunter, leaving her mostly unmarred by the ravages of time. The ravages of duty, on the other hand, are a different story. Her sleepless crimson eyes are often bloodshot and rimmed in red, with heavy eyelids that never seem to fully open like those of a tired old woman twice her true age, while her resting expression could perhaps best be described as a thousand-yard stare. Her hair is wild, matted, and uneven like the mane of some great beast, as though she simply stopped caring to cut or straighten it and simply lets it trail behind her as it may. And most unsettling of all, her pale skin is almost imperceptibly marked by countless faint crisscrossing white lines too numerous to be battle scars, as though every inch of her has been ripped apart over and over again, then pasted back together almost but not quite right each time.
It's not particularly difficult to guess at what she is, as unlike other Hunters, she exerts essentially no effort to hide her nature. She is most often seen dressed light, in flimsy dresses and tabards that only provide enough cover to preserve her modesty, despite the chill of the perpetual night in which she prowls. The fire within is more than enough to keep her warm, and anything more would be a waste anyway -- as the destructive way in which her powers as a Hunter and her weapon of choice tend to warp her body would shred any more comprehensive garment. The only exception to this general rule is that she tends to favor long, flowing sleeves which cover her hands completely... meaning that most people never get to see the hideous scars covering the limbs hidden beneath.
Character Conceptualization
Fianna remembers the sunset.
It was a long time ago, now -- so long that her childhood seems like a distant dream, one which grows less real to her with each awakening. And yet, the hand that was outstretched to her that day is burned into her memories. Though she can no longer even recall the names or faces of her birth parents, that man and the lessons he taught her -- that old house overgrown with crimson vines -- the sunset they watched together on that day will never fade.
She remembers the smell of soot and ash, the chill of the rain running down her back as she dug amongst the dead and the dying for any small scraps that might earn her next meal. There was no joy, even when she found an unbroken sword or some precious brooch to bring back to her masters -- merely the objective knowledge that she would live another day. Hers wasn't the loyalty of a dog, proud to be of use, willing to die for the praise of its owner -- it was the hunger of the wolf that drove her. Live. Take what you can. Eat. Preserve your wavering heartbeat. Don't become like the bodies that surround you. Sleep. Awaken, and hunt again. Those lessons serve her well now.
Yet she also remembers a kinder teacher -- one who pulled her from that life, wrapped her in warm clothes, and gave her a place to call home. He taught her to write her name, praised her when she got it right. For the first time, she raised her head out of the mud and the dirt and looked at the sky, and realized that somewhere under it could lay freedom -- a future -- something more to live for. She wanted to give that gift to others, too. There were other children like her -- others who had, like her, been saved. But they came and went, guided by his hands back to the land he fought for. Yet she never left. Even when the sun went out, even when the war ended -- she stayed by his side.
She cared for the sick and the weary, took up the sword that she might protect them together with him. Her dear Master Fray, her second father, always on the move, always rallying the oppressed to break their chains, scale the walls, and cross over to the land of opportunity that awaited them on the other side. Scila, her new homeland, its cause her own, its people her cherished protectorate -- even if Scila itself officially denied their actions.
The war had ended suddenly with the advent of the void. A hundred lords arose to proclaim themselves the rulers of the lands no one else had been able to claim, and the people starved and suffered under their rule. Scila couldn't fight them, no matter how many had already died to free those who were now enslaved. Not without starting another war. But Master Fray was not Scila. He and those who followed him could continue to fight for those who had already perished in the name of freedom, and those to whom the gift of freedom could yet be bestowed. They struggled. They won. They liberated. And then...
A band of refugees, so close to the border, so close to freedom. They had to hold the line -- just long enough to get them out. But Midnos would not so easily give up its people -- its property. There was a battle, and they...
She remembers the pain of the lash -- her teacher's warmth stripped away. She remembers watching her comrades fall one by one around her, consumed by the fire within. She remembers the blazing agony that coursed through her being, and the questions with which she was left alone to remain.
Why? What was it all for? What purpose do I have left to fulfill?
Live. Take what you can. Eat. Preserve your wavering heartbeat. Don't become like the bodies that surround you. Sleep. Awaken, and hunt again.
The wolf bared its fangs again, and the old lessons, once forgotten, were remembered. Fianna lived. She ate. She stepped over countless bodies. She awakened, and she hunted once more. That was all that remained to her, a tool to which even death was denied, bearing two voices within her -- a beast that lived only for destruction, and a child who yet dreamed of what lay beyond the sky...
Other Information
Fianna was orphaned during the Great War, and was eventually picked off a battlefield to become first the student, then the adoptive daughter of a former Scilari general. This general, known as Master Fray, left his nation behind after the war's end to continue fighting as a revolutionary on the Midnosian border, leading a band of guerrilla fighters known as the Red Branch. They occupied themselves in liberating contested regions and allowing their people to flee to Scila to escape oppression in their homeland. She remembers well the lessons he taught her in those days, residing in secrecy along with the other orphans he had taken under his protection. A small cottage in the woods, overgrown with the crimson flowers that became the revolution's symbol functioned as their shelter, hideaway, and school for all of them.
He taught them to read and write, and read them books and stories of heroes of old. He taught them that they were valuable and precious, and that everyone deserved the right to strive for their own happiness. When the war drew closer, he did his best to smuggle them to safety in the homeland that awaited them, teaching them the secret code his men used to differentiate friend from foe. Every one of the flowers in that wood dipped in crimson had a meaning -- and the flower he gave to them as a sign of protection was no different. The Amaryllis -- a symbol of love, and of endurance, containing all of his wishes that they survive at any cost.
But even when his other students fled, Fianna stayed, and learned new lessons. She learned how to hold a sword, and how to fight. She proudly became her father's right hand, serving the Red Branch first as an aide, then eventually as a fellow warrior fighting by his side, despite his wishes to keep her away from the battlefield.
When the revolution was eventually quashed by Midnosian peacekeeping forces, however, she and her comrades were submitted to the pyromancers as sacrificial candidates for the Hunter project, in lieu of a public execution. Master Fray and all those who were captured with him did not survive the transformation -- all those, that is, save for one, who not only lived to become a Hunter, but somehow kept her burning will to survive intact for the five long years that followed, becoming one of the oldest Hunters still on active duty fighting the void, unbroken and uncorrupted.
She is, however, by no means well-regarded. As a tool of Midnos, the missions she has been forced to undertake have been perilous -- suicidal, even. She's died many times, but each and every time her fire has brought her back to life. Her mere appearance is now regarded among other Hunters as a sign of an ill omen, since wherever Fianna the Bloody goes, disaster tends to follow...
Though she is known as something of a cryptid to the locals still inhabiting the area around the ruins of Ardenfeld, the so-called "Witch of the Argent Vale" really... doesn't live up to the hype. Spoken of in hushed tones, she is reputed to be a horned demoness who preys upon those who go too close to the old village, searing them to the bone with hellfire. In some tellings, she is a vengeful spirit -- a village maiden who gave herself over to the dark powers to survive the disaster, now driven mad with agony by the very flame she bears within her. In others, she is simply a fiend called forth by death and destruction that needs to be cut down. Still others claim she's nothing but an old wives' tale, while others claim to have caught glimpses of her with their own eyes; a fleeting horned shadow in a black cloak seen watching from afar, her eyes burning like embers amidst the shadows of the forest.
Despite these fanciful stories and poetic descriptions, however, the truth of the matter is significantly more mundane. Aethra is simply a sheltered, reclusive individual who, seeing how feared she is, withdraws from any and all human contact. And, sure, perhaps she might have used her powers to create eerie, flickering fires to scare off people who got too close to her camp, but she never actually attacked anyone!
In any case, she is painfully shy, and though she hides it well, dislikes being looked at and doesn't really know how to talk to anyone with two legs. She doesn't become a blushing, stammering mess when forced to interact with others, mind you -- but even if she keeps her composure, she seldom says more than a couple words unless they're practically forced out of her. This may give the impression that rather than being shy, she's simply without feeling, or actively hateful of others. But though she never forgets an insult -- a scornful glance, or a derisive remark about her horns -- she does not hate people for acting this way. Rather, interacting with them simply makes her sad, and so she'd just rather not bother. Needless to say, this also makes her somewhat neurotic about her appearance, to the point that she usually wraps her forked tail around one of her legs and hides it under her skirt, and keeps her head down in dark places to avoid having the fiery glow of her eyes seen. Only her horns are too large to adequately hide, but even then, she does the best she can, draping a hood over her head at all times to hide the point where they actually connect to her scalp. Maybe she hopes they'll be taken for some form of decoration or garish accessory, rather than an intrinsic part of her person?
She's much more comfortable with animals, however -- especially when she thinks she's alone -- and can often be seen conversing quite cheerfully with various creatures she encounters, using the magic taught her by the spirits to communicate with and befriend anything she thinks won't judge her too harshly for being different. While her unnatural heritage does sometimes thwart these attempts too, most animals don't think twice about her horns, tail, or gleaming eyes -- after all, in this sense, she's quite similar to them.
Despite her cold exterior, she's also quite childish, displaying no small measure of awe or even fear in the face of very simple things. Big cities are utterly foreign to her, having lived first as a country girl, then as a hermit. Fanciful baubles and trinkets catch her eye quite readily, and she has a tendency to fiddle with almost any unusual or interesting thing she encounters, displaying an almost magpie-like attraction to shiny objects. And, thanks to her deprived upbringing, her standoffish attitude can oftentimes be defeated with the help of tasty food, especially sweets. Wild berries, roasted fish, and the occasional morsel of meat are all well and good, but given her insatiable curiosity and voracious appetite, she just can't resist.
My Story
Born as a peasant girl, the girl now christened with the fanciful appellation "Aethra" originally bore the much simpler name of "Mary." Her father was one of the village of Ardenfeld's foremost hunters, and was a gruff-but-gentle man who doted upon his daughter extensively. Her mother, on the other hand, was a wanderer from elsewhere -- a gypsy of sorts of unknown heritage who had ended up in Ardenfeld on her travels and cared for her father when he was, coincidentally, injured during a boar hunt. Ultimately, she decided to settle down there and marry him, and though her origins were originally regarded with some measure of suspicion at first, the other villagers quickly stopped caring. The family didn't have any outlandish customs, nor did the foreign lady have any particularly alarming physical traits. They got along well with the community and all did their part, and so quickly became just as ordinary a sight as anyone else.
Her parents loved her very much, and she would often help her mother around the house with chores or errands. She learned to cook, the basics of mending clothing, and other common household skills -- as well as a few small tricks her father taught her, such as how to carve and play a reed flute. They would wile away the hours sitting on their back step, with Mary clumsily tooting away on a small, shabby instrument of her own creation, and her mother singing along from inside. The memories are bright and warm, like a flame -- but they have since flickered and faded as the years drag on, until only embers of those warm, happy days remain. Aethra remembers little of that time now, for her peaceful childhood ended when she was only eight years old -- and after that, she tried her hardest to forget.
Her father's voice, telling them to run.
His hand, clutching an old sword.
His back as he rushed out of the house.
Her mother's grip on her hand.
A stifled cry as that grip went slack.
The fire, all around her.
The pain, the heat, the choking smoke -- and then suddenly, nothing at all.
Someone had pulled her from the flames and carried her to where the other children were hiding. Miraculously, she was mostly unharmed. Her skin was burned in places, leaving scars upon her back that persist to this day -- but she survived. Initially, this was seen as simple good fortune; but when a fire mysteriously broke out in her room at the orphanage, too -- from which she also emerged almost entirely unscathed -- people began to grow worried.
It was around this point when the dreams began. Nightmares, visions of fire and death and bloodshed -- landscapes left barren and lifeless by war. Whether it was the trauma of the attack or some kind of vision of things to come hardly mattered to her at the time, however -- because the more immediate concern was that the flames in her dreams persisted when she awoke. Opening her eyes to find fire in the palm of her hand would set her screaming, only for it to disappear when people came rushing in to check on her. She thought she was losing her mind... and others thought she was possessed. These fears only became more founded when one morning, after a particularly bad nightmare, she awoke to find that her hair had become white like an old woman's, her ears pointed, her teeth sharp, her eyes like blazing embers, and, worst of all -- horns and a forked tail had grown upon her during the night. She panicked, and this in turn once more drew people to come running to her room -- only this time, the evidence didn't just go away.
She was locked in her room, priests were called to conduct an exorcism, and Mary, not unfamiliar with what happened to monsters in fairy tales and already quite aware that she was feared by those around her, was certain that she was going to be killed. In her panic, she broke out of her room and made a run for her life. Though several people caught sight of a horned girl fleeing the city, the search parties that followed lost her trail in the deep woods, as she instinctively began to follow old hunting paths that led her back to her old home.
Arriving amidst the ruins of Ardenfeld, she found an unexpected sight. The fallen houses, the charred landscape, and the ravaged ruins that had haunted her dreams had long since given way to verdant greenery. Vines, flowers, trees, and shrubs had completely overtaken the former town, leaving nary a trace of the hell she remembered from her nightmares. There was a certain tragic beauty to it -- one that burned itself into her memories even more strongly than the trauma of that fateful night.
She wandered aimlessly through the ruins for longer than she can really remember. For a while, she occupied herself with searching for familiar places or items -- old, burnt dolls pulls from the wreckage of her house, a broken reed flute found trampled in the village lane, or a book of fairy tales she couldn't read that the headman's wife had once read aloud to the village children during the harvest festival. She gathered all these mementos in one place, and then, not knowing what else to do with them, with her tiny hands she set about burying them as a kind of memorial to what once had been.
The final trinket she found, however, she couldn't bring herself to bury. It was the broken-off handle of a shattered sword -- an heirloom that had never been meant to see combat. It must have failed its user in his hour of direst need, or surely -- surely, he would have been able to save them all. If only the blade hadn't broken, her father never would have lost his noble fight. Yet, even though he must surely have been defeated without a weapon, she couldn't find any signs of his body. Perhaps it had just burned to ash along with the others, but maybe... just maybe. Hope rekindled itself in her heart, not because she truly believed it to be possible, but quite simply because she needed something to believe in. So, she held on to this ruined keepsake, promising that she wouldn't bury it until she was certain her father was dead.
It was in this state, however, that someone -- or rather, something -- found her. On the first night, it came as a great wolf, from which the young girl hid in terror. Since it could not find her, it left -- but returned upon the second night in the guise of an owl, circling high overhead to search her out. When it found her hiding place, it left, and then returned upon the third night as a white deer -- a doe, but bearing horns like a stag. It came to her hiding place and asked of her...
"Why do you linger here, mortal? This land has already been lost to your kind, and none here yet live."
She, unsure of how to respond, answered only that she had nowhere else to go.
"Why do you not go among the living? Among your own people?"
She shook her head and said that she could not go back, for she was not welcome among them.
"And why is that?"
Because she was a monster. A bringer of fire and destruction -- and so, she only belonged in a place like this, where there was nothing left for her to destroy.
"Tell me, Little Flame, what do you see around you?"
A graveyard.
"Nay. I prithee look again, for you will find not a graveyard, but a garden. The end of your people need not be the end of this place. For the birds will build their nests among your fallen homes, and their songs shall be a lullaby to those who sleep beneath the soil. Look, Little Flame. Look and see. Even atop these graves you have dug, flowers will one day bloom."
It was beautiful, yes... but she wasn't any less lonely for knowing that. And, if that was truly the case, then she had no place here, either -- for she would only serve to destroy what nature hoped to build.
"Then, what if there were another like yourself here? Another with no place and no purpose, save to wait for and tend to what comes after the flames?"
If there was such a person, then she wouldn't want to hurt them. It would be better for her to stay alone.
"Ah, but that person needs you more than you know, Little Flame. There is a place not far from here where few tread -- a blighted, sorrowful land where the trees can no more grow, where the grass withers and fails, and from which all creatures shy away. That place was once her home, as this was once yours. And if you were to burn the rot away, then that place, too, might become a beautiful garden. I'm sure that she, and all those who once shared that home with her, would be happy."
It beggared belief that the strange power she had been granted might be used for such a purpose... but ultimately, she accepted. If that person showed herself, and could accept her as she was, then maybe she could do some good for someone who shared a similar sorrow to her own.
And so, on the fourth night, the one who came to visit her was not a wolf, or an owl, or a deer -- but rather, an old woman with a kindly smile, who introduced herself as Mithra. The girl said that she had been named Mary, but all those who knew her by that name probably hated her by now. And so, the woman gave her a new name: Aethra. A little flame, but one which could offer much to the world by burning brightly, be it in the seclusion of the wilderness or for all mankind to see. It was a name weighted with expectation, but made light by hope and joy -- for finally, there was someone who would walk with her and talk with her, and tell her that she wasn't mad and that neither the world nor her place in it had yet come to an end.
In the years that followed, she learned much under Mithra's tutelage. They lived together amidst the wild, with Aethra tending to the chores that were appointed her by her new mentor, and Mithra teaching the young Tiefling to control the flames within her, and to suppress them if need be. She learned that her powers could be used to heal and to create life in addition to simply destroying it... but also that there was a place for destruction, just as there was a place for new life to take the place of the old. Within an ever-snowy northern forest of rotted, whitened trees, hidden in a secluded valley unknown to mortal men, she worked tirelessly to perfect her craft, so that she could at last fulfill her promise to Mithra, and create for her a garden amidst this wasteland.
But there was another promise that weighed heavily upon her mind -- and as the time came to fulfill it, Mithra ordered her not to break her word, reluctant though she was to leave. And so, her two tasks became one. She would go back to the home she had left behind once more, and tend to the garden there. She would make good on her promise to speak once more with her old friends, even if they hated her or didn't recognize her after all the changes she had gone through. She would travel the world outside the Argent Vale once more, and once she had learned everything she could learn from seeing all the hopeful beginnings and fiery ends that life had to offer... she would return to Mithra, and share the fruits of her knowledge, creating a beautiful garden amidst that lifeless valley.
And yet, throughout all of this, still she is haunted by the dreams of all that she has seen -- and all that may wait for her in the world beyond. Something dark and terrible looms upon the edge of her awareness, and all that Mithra has taught her may not be enough to prepare her for it. If that day comes where her flame fails her as her father's sword failed him, or where the essence of life she strives to uphold slips from her grasp as her mother's hand slipped from hers... what will she do then?
Going Forward
At the moment, Aethra would say that she simply wants to make her mentor and surrogate grandmother Mithra proud of her, and to fulfill her promises. However, that's not entirely true. In part, her real goal upon this journey is to try to prove, both to herself and to those who once called her a monster, that her power really can be used to do great things, and that she's not the bringer of destruction she once feared she was. In seeking this, she'll also have to contend with the difficulty involved in changing people's perceptions of her, and her own wavering confidence in her own abilities as she wonders what, precisely, even is the right way for someone like her to live.
Secretly, she also perhaps holds out hope that her father might have survived the attack and still be alive somewhere... and that maybe, just maybe, some of her old friends who might still remember her from her childhood as Mary won't hate her when they see what she has become. Finally, she's also curious as to why she was cursed with the flame she bears to begin with, and from whence her daemonic heritage springs -- hoping that, perhaps, if she understands the roots of her own nature, that may bring her closer to triumphing over it, and over people's perceptions of her as a result of it.
But even leaving aside her plethora of emotional issues, the fact remains that Aethra is horribly sheltered and ignorant as to the workings of civilization and society as a whole, and she has a lot to learn before she is ready to truly save -- or destroy -- anything. Where her path and her reunion with the other survivors can take her, who can say? And what further trials fate has in store for her, only time will tell...
The strong, silent type. Given his (former) profession, it would only make sense that Ulreik is someone who prefers actions to words, as what he lacks in rhetoric and wit, he has in work ethic. That said, it's not like he holds any sort of pride over his work, as he is completely modest with what he does. After all, why would someone be proud of digging graves? It is an honest job, if macabre, but it's not like he's anyone special for doing it.
Believing that he is cursed due to his tragic upbringing, Ulreik prefers to keep others at a distance. It is why he ended up tending graves in the first place. After all, he believes it's better if he hung around the dead over the living. It's because of this that Ulreik has made little friends aside from his fellows from Ardenfeld. In place of interacting with others, however, Ulreik has dedicated much of his focus to improving himself and getting things done. A determination developed by someone who spends too much time alone.
My Story
Even before the attack, Ulreik's life was already filled with tragedy. His mother had died during childbirth, leaving himself and his father on their lonely little farm on a hill. It didn't help that every time it was the day of Ulreik's birth, something bad would happen in the small ranch of theirs. When he turned two, their cattle had gotten sick and were nearly all killed off. When he was four, a terrible famine struck their farm just before the month of harvest. At seven, their barn had been struck by lightning. It was coincidences like these that caused Ulreik's father to call him a cursed child, regretting that he was ever born.
On his ninth birthday, Ulreik's father had sent him to Ardenfeld, a town only a few paces away from the farm, to run some errands. In truth, he had only sent the boy out so his presence wouldn't cause another travesty to happen. Of course, this was the same day of the attack. During the siege of the lowly hamlet, Ulreik had blacked out in the chaos. When he had finally come to, he was surrounded by the other surviving children of his age, mere minutes after the highwaymen had sacked the village.
Believing himself to be truly cursed, Ulreik broke away from the other children as soon as he was able to, running back to his home. It, too, was ablaze. Their crops had been stomped out, their animals dead or taken, and their barn all but destroyed. Ulreik had found his father's body, already bled out, nestled atop the small mound that was his mother's grave. It was such a sight that had finally broken the idea to the boy's mind that he was actually cursed.
When the older survivors had found Ulreik, he was clutching a shovel almost as large as he was, standing in front of two makeshift graves.
Ulreik's time at the Landeil orphanage was as expected. The more superstitious folk shared the same beliefs as the boy's father, believing Ulreik to be a child that would only bring tragedy and death. Many of the other children in the orphanage saw this and used this as enough of a reason to pick on the poor boy. Much like his father's abuse, this bullying was merely another form of penance that Ulreik believed he deserved. Of course, this didn't mean he wouldn't fight back.
At the age of thirteen, Ulreik was kicked out, having gotten into far too many physical altercations with the other children. With nowhere else to go, Ulreik had gone back to the only place he had known, back to his father's ranch. When he returned, Ulreik was surprised to see that it had turned to a new graveyard. What was once a place where life is cultivated had now turned into a land where the dead would have their final rest. Ulreik would soon find the place where his mother and father were buried, now a part of a mass grave dedicated to those who lost their lives during that fateful day in Ardenfeld.
Believing that the dead should at least have some form of memorial other than merely being buried together, Ulreik had made his way to the groundskeeper's abode, finding it empty but unlocked. Procuring some tools and a pair of planks, the boy would fashion a makeshift memorial, listing the date of the attack as well as a few harrowing words.
"We have not forgotten."
When the graveyard's groundskeeper, a wizened halfling, had returned, he would see the boy resting near the mass grave, tired boh from his work as well as his journey from Sarinan. The halfling dragged the boy back to his home, waiting for him to awaken. When Ulreik had come to, the halfling first scolded the boy for using tools not belonging to him before complimenting him on his handiwork. Introducing himself as Osmund, he gave the young Ulreik an offer soon after finding out that he had no place to go: help him tend the graves in exchange for room, board, and maybe a wage if he does a good enough job.
And so, Ulreik began his work as a gravedigger, tending to the very same lands his father had done years before. He would learn many things from Osmund, from boarding up a grave template to properly sawing out a casket. He also learned other skills from the halfling's past life as well. Osmund was not a stranger to death even before he became a grave tender, having served in the Pallaviel military as a scout. Keeping his larger build in mind, Osmund drilled Ulreik in many of the basic sword techniques taught to fresh recruits. Ironically, it was a place of death that Ulreik would truly find the most growth for himself.
Many years would pass, and soon, Ulreik's nineteenth birthday would come closer and closer. Having spent much of his coffers on a set of hand-me-down armor, a battery shield, and an old sword, Ulreik would prepare himself to face his curse head-on.
Going Forward
Beyond potentially getting revenge on the bandits who had slain his father, Ulreik truly desires to overcome his supposed curse. He wishes to rise above it, and to not let it control his life any longer. That being said, he's not quite sure how to go about it. There is always following Osmund's steps and joining up at Pallaviel, himself... But they wouldn't want a cursed recruit, now would they? Maybe he could also become a scout, staying on the outskirts of the battle rather than in the heart of it? Or perhaps he should just be a simple sellsword, dedicated to no cause but his own, so that his curse would not drag down anyone else...
In other words, Ulreik has not completely thought this through. At the very least, he'd like somewhere where he could belong, somewhere where his curse wouldn't trouble the lives of others. The dead make good company for this, but aren't quite the best when it comes to striking conversations with. That being said, he does not wish to merely abandon his past. If he ends up working as a gravedigger again, then so be it. He will continue to carry the memories of all those who have fallen. After all, he has not forgotten.
And another one who I think would have great potential interactions with Aethra, what with both of 'em being "cursed" in one way or another. XD I especially like how the imagery in their backstories is exactly reversed -- the destroyed home Aethra thought of as a graveyard ended up teeming with life, whereas his lively home became a literal graveyard.
Tor has never quite gotten a handle of controlling or even understanding his own emotions. While definitely not as bad as he used to be, he constantly struggles with stress, frustration and self-doubt. Even in his better moods, there's always something slightly forced, like he's trying very hard to enjoy himself, both for his own sake and for others. He wants to be happy, he feels he's at a point in his life where he should be capable of being happy, but there's always this lingering feeling that, even when things are good, they could very easily go wrong. Even when he's genuinely enjoying himself, he never seems relaxed, always a little jittery, never able to sit still for too long, and sometimes bordering on hyperactive. It can... a lot at times, but it's better than alternative, because when Tor hits a low mood, he really hits a low mood, with full on emotional break-downs, swearing, verbally lashing out at others, and occassionally punching a wall. He has gotten better at recognising when he's getting to this state, and will remove himself from others if he feels he's about crack. He really doesn't want people to see him like that. He wants to get to a point in his life where he can strong, if not for himself than at least for those he cares about. He wants to the kind of person who is control during a crisis, who can rally others together and solve a problem. However, even after all these years, that goal still seems as far away from him as ever, and he is constantly chastising himself to improve.
My Story
Born to a half-orc mother and a human father, Tor has always struggled with anxiety. In his early years, this merely manifested in him being a little quieter and shyer than the other kids, though he was always vaguely aware of this nervousness that seemed to follow him wherever he went. This, he realised only later, was likely a product of his homelife: his father was a soldier, and thus rarely around. Any time he returned home, he was distant and Tor felt intimidated in his presence. Tor's mother, on the other hand, was loving, if a bit overprotective. Being one of the only half-orcs in Ardenfeld, she didn't leave the house that much or socialise with any of the other townsfolk. She was also reluctant to let Tor play with the other children. In her mind, he was a frail child, so much scrawnier than he should have been, even when she did relent, she often was very strict about how long he should be out and what he should and should not to. She did loosen up a little once Tor reached his preteens, but the damage was done: Tor never quite felt safe outside the walls of his house, never felt entirely comfortable. While it was great he got to spend more time with other children and exploring the world, and certainly did start to come out of his shell, he was never able to just relax. His nervousness started to express itself in different ways, from bursts to hyperactivity to frustration to, as he reached thirteen, full-blown anger, and he could shift between all of these states pretty much on a dime. One minute he'd be enjoying himself with his friends, the next time the smallest thing would set him off. He'd get upset, storm off, and neither he nor the other kids could grasp why that happened. He felt confused, unable to understand himself and that further fueled his anger.
Then the destruction of Ardenfeld happened, and the already shaky foundations that his life was built upon came crumbling down. Tor's father was not home to protect his family, his mother died fighting off the bandits in an attempt to protect her son, and Tor and the other surviving children were taken to the Landeil Family Orphanage in Sarinan. Despite numerous attempts to get in contact with him, Tor's father never responded or showed, which either meant he had been killed in battle or, what Tor more suspected was the case, he wasn't willing to take on the responsibility of actually being a parent to his son. This... was not good. Tor was not long to be fourteen years age, meaning he wouldn't be at the orphanage long before he was too old to be considered 'adoptable' and would be thrown out onto the streets to fend himself. This was the point that Tor's stress-fueled rage went from him getting a little huffy and verbally lashing out to actually aggressive. If anyone made slightest action towards him or the other Ardenfeld orphans that could be construed in a negative way, he would punch, kick, bite and even full on wrestle with them. By the time he became fourteen, the orphanage was pretty happy to see the back of him.
He spent about a year and a half on the streets, and during the whole time, as stole and fought to survive, his anger only grew, until one day, when he took it too far and brutally attacked someone he was trying to steal from. While the person didn't die, it was enough to get Tor locked away in a cell for a couple of days, with talk of him possibly being moved to prison in Pallaviel. While Tor felt guilty for what he did, his anger remained him all while he was locked up. He was angry at his father for not being their to protect them, he was angry at his mother for not running away with him, angry at the bandits who destroyed his life, angry at the orphanage, angry at the city, angry at his fellow orphans because they weren't here going through all this with him... and eventually, just angry with himself. When anger finally died, he just felt so tired. He fell asleep...
... and when he woke up, someone else was watching him from outside the cell. A wood elf man in strange clothes, wearing some sort of emblem that Tor didn't recognise. The man introduced himself as Ilanis, and said he had come to collect Tor. Tired and having no fight left in him, Tor assumed he was there to transport to Pallaviel, and just went with him. However, it didn't take him long to realise that this was not the case. Ilanis didn't cuff him, despite the guards warning him to do so, and lead him far away from civilisation towards the mountains. Turns out, Ilanis was a group of small, obscure monastic group the Order of the Still Pool, dedicated to the goddess Eldath. Some of the higher members of this order, like Ilanis, had visions of those who's lives had been troubled or broken by violence, and would seek them out in order to help them undergo spiritual healing. That's where Tor stayed for the next few years, training his body and soul, learning how to recognise when he was becoming stressed or overwhelmed and picking up techniques in order to calm himself again, such a meditation and prayer. He also discovered a love of cooking while here, which worked as a way to get his mind off things, though sometimes came with its own frustations. He also got some combat training, though he was repeatedly told that, as a follower of Eldath, he was only use his skills in defense of himself or others, never to attack first and always strive to find peaceful solutions to problems. Tor tried his best to follow these teachings, and while his aggression was never as bad as it once was, he still struggled a lot with frustration and keeping his cool in a crisis. He wondered if he would ever be at the level of spiritual peace the Still Pool promised him, and as the tenth anniversary of Ardenfeld's destruction drew closer, he decided he wanted to leave the temple, at least for a little, to figure out where he wanted to from here. Ilanis and the other high-ranking members of the order were hesitant, but realised that, while they didn't feel Tor was ready to leave them, he needed some time to sort some things out. He's been on the road ever since.
Going Forward
While in the angrier moments of his youth Tor may have entertained thoughts of tracking down the bandits that destroyed his village, these days he just wants to be a good person, and to live up to the ideals of Eldath and the Still Pool. In particular, with the tenth anniversary just round the corner, he wants to be there for the other Ardenfeld orphans. As he is one of the older kids who survived the bandits' destruction of his home, he feels a responsibility to them, like a big brother or something. He feels he needs to be the strong, stabilising influence in their lives during this distressing time. Plus, he still feels a bit guilty for how he acted during that one year they were at the orphanage together... while he may have seen himself as protecting them from the orphanage staff and other kids, he feels now he may have only been adding to the stress. He just wants to reconnect with his friends again and prove to them (and himself) that he can be strong, that he won't fall apart again. And maybe, just maybe, if he can recognise that strength within himself, he might finally be able to see where he wants to go with his life.
Oooh. I really like this character concept. I feel like it'd definitely have some interesting interactions with my own if we end up both accepted. Feels like they'd have plenty of common ground, but also both have boatloads of emotional issues to keep them from quite meeting each other in the middle. Both have a lot of pent-up anxiety and self-worth issues, and hide themselves away from other people "for their own protection."
...Plus, y'know, she's extremely uncomfortable around any kind of clergy on the one hand, but he has the power to make tasty treats on the other. Could definitely see him having to win her over with food. XD
Either way, looking forward to seeing how he plays out. He seems rough around the edges, but still a cinnamon roll. :3
I mean if you don't have a problem with it, I'll go ahead. Just didn't want you to feel I was stepping on your toes
Yeah, go ahead. I don't mind having characters with such broad similarities as "focused on fire magic." Besides, if we both end up in the thing it could help give our characters stuff to talk about if they're similar.
Though, I think Genasi might be a bit unusual for the setup Gowi has planned what with all of us being peasant kiddos and stuff? So rather than worrying about me, you may want to ask her? Idk.
I was planning on making my character a fire genasi, but I fear there might be too much overlap with Feyblue's cool tiefling so I might choose something else ^^;
Okay, but hear me out. A party where everyone is either on fire, a cat, or a cat that is also on fire.
Though she is known as something of a cryptid to the locals still inhabiting the area around the ruins of Ardenfeld, the so-called "Witch of the Argent Vale" really... doesn't live up to the hype. Spoken of in hushed tones, she is reputed to be a horned demoness who preys upon those who go too close to the old village, searing them to the bone with hellfire. In some tellings, she is a vengeful spirit -- a village maiden who gave herself over to the dark powers to survive the disaster, now driven mad with agony by the very flame she bears within her. In others, she is simply a fiend called forth by death and destruction that needs to be cut down. Still others claim she's nothing but an old wives' tale, while others claim to have caught glimpses of her with their own eyes; a fleeting horned shadow in a black cloak seen watching from afar, her eyes burning like embers amidst the shadows of the forest.
Despite these fanciful stories and poetic descriptions, however, the truth of the matter is significantly more mundane. Aethra is simply a sheltered, reclusive individual who, seeing how feared she is, withdraws from any and all human contact. And, sure, perhaps she might have used her powers to create eerie, flickering fires to scare off people who got too close to her camp, but she never actually attacked anyone!
In any case, she is painfully shy, and though she hides it well, dislikes being looked at and doesn't really know how to talk to anyone with two legs. She doesn't become a blushing, stammering mess when forced to interact with others, mind you -- but even if she keeps her composure, she seldom says more than a couple words unless they're practically forced out of her. This may give the impression that rather than being shy, she's simply without feeling, or actively hateful of others. But though she never forgets an insult -- a scornful glance, or a derisive remark about her horns -- she does not hate people for acting this way. Rather, interacting with them simply makes her sad, and so she'd just rather not bother. Needless to say, this also makes her somewhat neurotic about her appearance, to the point that she usually wraps her forked tail around one of her legs and hides it under her skirt, and keeps her head down in dark places to avoid having the fiery glow of her eyes seen. Only her horns are too large to adequately hide, but even then, she does the best she can, draping a hood over her head at all times to hide the point where they actually connect to her scalp. Maybe she hopes they'll be taken for some form of decoration or garish accessory, rather than an intrinsic part of her person?
She's much more comfortable with animals, however -- especially when she thinks she's alone -- and can often be seen conversing quite cheerfully with various creatures she encounters, using the magic taught her by the spirits to communicate with and befriend anything she thinks won't judge her too harshly for being different. While her unnatural heritage does sometimes thwart these attempts too, most animals don't think twice about her horns, tail, or gleaming eyes -- after all, in this sense, she's quite similar to them.
Despite her cold exterior, she's also quite childish, displaying no small measure of awe or even fear in the face of very simple things. Big cities are utterly foreign to her, having lived first as a country girl, then as a hermit. Fanciful baubles and trinkets catch her eye quite readily, and she has a tendency to fiddle with almost any unusual or interesting thing she encounters, displaying an almost magpie-like attraction to shiny objects. And, thanks to her deprived upbringing, her standoffish attitude can oftentimes be defeated with the help of tasty food, especially sweets. Wild berries, roasted fish, and the occasional morsel of meat are all well and good, but given her insatiable curiosity and voracious appetite, she just can't resist.
My Story
Born as a peasant girl, the girl now christened with the fanciful appellation "Aethra" originally bore the much simpler name of "Mary." Her father was one of the village of Ardenfeld's foremost hunters, and was a gruff-but-gentle man who doted upon his daughter extensively. Her mother, on the other hand, was a wanderer from elsewhere -- a gypsy of sorts of unknown heritage who had ended up in Ardenfeld on her travels and cared for her father when he was, coincidentally, injured during a boar hunt. Ultimately, she decided to settle down there and marry him, and though her origins were originally regarded with some measure of suspicion at first, the other villagers quickly stopped caring. The family didn't have any outlandish customs, nor did the foreign lady have any particularly alarming physical traits. They got along well with the community and all did their part, and so quickly became just as ordinary a sight as anyone else.
Her parents loved her very much, and she would often help her mother around the house with chores or errands. She learned to cook, the basics of mending clothing, and other common household skills -- as well as a few small tricks her father taught her, such as how to carve and play a reed flute. They would wile away the hours sitting on their back step, with Mary clumsily tooting away on a small, shabby instrument of her own creation, and her mother singing along from inside. The memories are bright and warm, like a flame -- but they have since flickered and faded as the years drag on, until only embers of those warm, happy days remain. Aethra remembers little of that time now, for her peaceful childhood ended when she was only eight years old -- and after that, she tried her hardest to forget.
Her father's voice, telling them to run.
His hand, clutching an old sword.
His back as he rushed out of the house.
Her mother's grip on her hand.
A stifled cry as that grip went slack.
The fire, all around her.
The pain, the heat, the choking smoke -- and then suddenly, nothing at all.
Someone had pulled her from the flames and carried her to where the other children were hiding. Miraculously, she was mostly unharmed. Her skin was burned in places, leaving scars upon her back that persist to this day -- but she survived. Initially, this was seen as simple good fortune; but when a fire mysteriously broke out in her room at the orphanage, too -- from which she also emerged almost entirely unscathed -- people began to grow worried.
It was around this point when the dreams began. Nightmares, visions of fire and death and bloodshed -- landscapes left barren and lifeless by war. Whether it was the trauma of the attack or some kind of vision of things to come hardly mattered to her at the time, however -- because the more immediate concern was that the flames in her dreams persisted when she awoke. Opening her eyes to find fire in the palm of her hand would set her screaming, only for it to disappear when people came rushing in to check on her. She thought she was losing her mind... and others thought she was possessed. These fears only became more founded when one morning, after a particularly bad nightmare, she awoke to find that her hair had become white like an old woman's, her ears pointed, her teeth sharp, her eyes like blazing embers, and, worst of all -- horns and a forked tail had grown upon her during the night. She panicked, and this in turn once more drew people to come running to her room -- only this time, the evidence didn't just go away.
She was locked in her room, priests were called to conduct an exorcism, and Mary, not unfamiliar with what happened to monsters in fairy tales and already quite aware that she was feared by those around her, was certain that she was going to be killed. In her panic, she broke out of her room and made a run for her life. Though several people caught sight of a horned girl fleeing the city, the search parties that followed lost her trail in the deep woods, as she instinctively began to follow old hunting paths that led her back to her old home.
Arriving amidst the ruins of Ardenfeld, she found an unexpected sight. The fallen houses, the charred landscape, and the ravaged ruins that had haunted her dreams had long since given way to verdant greenery. Vines, flowers, trees, and shrubs had completely overtaken the former town, leaving nary a trace of the hell she remembered from her nightmares. There was a certain tragic beauty to it -- one that burned itself into her memories even more strongly than the trauma of that fateful night.
She wandered aimlessly through the ruins for longer than she can really remember. For a while, she occupied herself with searching for familiar places or items -- old, burnt dolls pulls from the wreckage of her house, a broken reed flute found trampled in the village lane, or a book of fairy tales she couldn't read that the headman's wife had once read aloud to the village children during the harvest festival. She gathered all these mementos in one place, and then, not knowing what else to do with them, with her tiny hands she set about burying them as a kind of memorial to what once had been.
The final trinket she found, however, she couldn't bring herself to bury. It was the broken-off handle of a shattered sword -- an heirloom that had never been meant to see combat. It must have failed its user in his hour of direst need, or surely -- surely, he would have been able to save them all. If only the blade hadn't broken, her father never would have lost his noble fight. Yet, even though he must surely have been defeated without a weapon, she couldn't find any signs of his body. Perhaps it had just burned to ash along with the others, but maybe... just maybe. Hope rekindled itself in her heart, not because she truly believed it to be possible, but quite simply because she needed something to believe in. So, she held on to this ruined keepsake, promising that she wouldn't bury it until she was certain her father was dead.
It was in this state, however, that someone -- or rather, something -- found her. On the first night, it came as a great wolf, from which the young girl hid in terror. Since it could not find her, it left -- but returned upon the second night in the guise of an owl, circling high overhead to search her out. When it found her hiding place, it left, and then returned upon the third night as a white deer -- a doe, but bearing horns like a stag. It came to her hiding place and asked of her...
"Why do you linger here, mortal? This land has already been lost to your kind, and none here yet live."
She, unsure of how to respond, answered only that she had nowhere else to go.
"Why do you not go among the living? Among your own people?"
She shook her head and said that she could not go back, for she was not welcome among them.
"And why is that?"
Because she was a monster. A bringer of fire and destruction -- and so, she only belonged in a place like this, where there was nothing left for her to destroy.
"Tell me, Little Flame, what do you see around you?"
A graveyard.
"Nay. I prithee look again, for you will find not a graveyard, but a garden. The end of your people need not be the end of this place. For the birds will build their nests among your fallen homes, and their songs shall be a lullaby to those who sleep beneath the soil. Look, Little Flame. Look and see. Even atop these graves you have dug, flowers will one day bloom."
It was beautiful, yes... but she wasn't any less lonely for knowing that. And, if that was truly the case, then she had no place here, either -- for she would only serve to destroy what nature hoped to build.
"Then, what if there were another like yourself here? Another with no place and no purpose, save to wait for and tend to what comes after the flames?"
If there was such a person, then she wouldn't want to hurt them. It would be better for her to stay alone.
"Ah, but that person needs you more than you know, Little Flame. There is a place not far from here where few tread -- a blighted, sorrowful land where the trees can no more grow, where the grass withers and fails, and from which all creatures shy away. That place was once her home, as this was once yours. And if you were to burn the rot away, then that place, too, might become a beautiful garden. I'm sure that she, and all those who once shared that home with her, would be happy."
It beggared belief that the strange power she had been granted might be used for such a purpose... but ultimately, she accepted. If that person showed herself, and could accept her as she was, then maybe she could do some good for someone who shared a similar sorrow to her own.
And so, on the fourth night, the one who came to visit her was not a wolf, or an owl, or a deer -- but rather, an old woman with a kindly smile, who introduced herself as Mithra. The girl said that she had been named Mary, but all those who knew her by that name probably hated her by now. And so, the woman gave her a new name: Aethra. A little flame, but one which could offer much to the world by burning brightly, be it in the seclusion of the wilderness or for all mankind to see. It was a name weighted with expectation, but made light by hope and joy -- for finally, there was someone who would walk with her and talk with her, and tell her that she wasn't mad and that neither the world nor her place in it had yet come to an end.
In the years that followed, she learned much under Mithra's tutelage. They lived together amidst the wild, with Aethra tending to the chores that were appointed her by her new mentor, and Mithra teaching the young Tiefling to control the flames within her, and to suppress them if need be. She learned that her powers could be used to heal and to create life in addition to simply destroying it... but also that there was a place for destruction, just as there was a place for new life to take the place of the old. Within an ever-snowy northern forest of rotted, whitened trees, hidden in a secluded valley unknown to mortal men, she worked tirelessly to perfect her craft, so that she could at last fulfill her promise to Mithra, and create for her a garden amidst this wasteland.
But there was another promise that weighed heavily upon her mind -- and as the time came to fulfill it, Mithra ordered her not to break her word, reluctant though she was to leave. And so, her two tasks became one. She would go back to the home she had left behind once more, and tend to the garden there. She would make good on her promise to speak once more with her old friends, even if they hated her or didn't recognize her after all the changes she had gone through. She would travel the world outside the Argent Vale once more, and once she had learned everything she could learn from seeing all the hopeful beginnings and fiery ends that life had to offer... she would return to Mithra, and share the fruits of her knowledge, creating a beautiful garden amidst that lifeless valley.
And yet, throughout all of this, still she is haunted by the dreams of all that she has seen -- and all that may wait for her in the world beyond. Something dark and terrible looms upon the edge of her awareness, and all that Mithra has taught her may not be enough to prepare her for it. If that day comes where her flame fails her as her father's sword failed him, or where the essence of life she strives to uphold slips from her grasp as her mother's hand slipped from hers... what will she do then?
Going Forward
At the moment, Aethra would say that she simply wants to make her mentor and surrogate grandmother Mithra proud of her, and to fulfill her promises. However, that's not entirely true. In part, her real goal upon this journey is to try to prove, both to herself and to those who once called her a monster, that her power really can be used to do great things, and that she's not the bringer of destruction she once feared she was. In seeking this, she'll also have to contend with the difficulty involved in changing people's perceptions of her, and her own wavering confidence in her own abilities as she wonders what, precisely, even is the right way for someone like her to live.
Secretly, she also perhaps holds out hope that her father might have survived the attack and still be alive somewhere... and that maybe, just maybe, some of her old friends who might still remember her from her childhood as Mary won't hate her when they see what she has become. Finally, she's also curious as to why she was cursed with the flame she bears to begin with, and from whence her daemonic heritage springs -- hoping that, perhaps, if she understands the roots of her own nature, that may bring her closer to triumphing over it, and over people's perceptions of her as a result of it.
But even leaving aside her plethora of emotional issues, the fact remains that Aethra is horribly sheltered and ignorant as to the workings of civilization and society as a whole, and she has a lot to learn before she is ready to truly save -- or destroy -- anything. Where her path and her reunion with the other survivors can take her, who can say? And what further trials fate has in store for her, only time will tell...
Sorry this ended up so long. I got carried away trying to tie a lot of the imagery and stuff in her background together and be all poetic and shit. I'm well aware that it's just overly elaborate high-concept bullshit, and that mechanically speaking, it doesn't entirely line up -- like, yes, she has Produce Flame as a Druid Cantrip, but I had her creating small fires in her backstory even before that and acted like it's a racial ability because it was more dramatic that way. Regardless, I can provide cliffnotes if needed, but I figured I'd leave it as is for initially submitting it since I was kind of proud of the result.
Also on a lighter note, I am officially the first non-cat in this party. Except not really because I'll probably turn into a cat once I get Wild Shape. All cat party anybody?
TL;DR, sorry for being so edgy, and looking forward to RPing with y'all. XD
Carlyle
Noctis
Lemons
mickilennial
AlteredTundra
TokyoPewPew
Kaithe Dame
Cyadical
Damycles
