Feyblue — Roleplayer Guild

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P E R S O N A L   D E T A I L S

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...
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