Eryx would attempt to befriend Isana. I don't know if she would accept.
She was hella suspicious in her first life, but I think she could appreciate his quiet presence. Besides training and meditation, some of her hobbies would have been drawing, painting, finding hidden nooks and crannies to hide and chill in. Esp. if he was Ophelia's friend, they could have definitely hung out.
By the way, did Estelle or Isana ever really attempt to reconnect with Ophelia.
Isana sort of tried, visited a few times, but she just didn't know what to talk about then. I was imagining this strained mostly silent meeting. Or maybe they did tell each other at least a bit of what they were doing? Idk. Either way, she'd always go back to adventuring after leaving some gifts. And as for during the war, would have def communicated whenever they happened to participate in the same battle if there was a chance. All attempts were likely highly awkward tho.
@OwO Cue Isa trying to chase her if time and circumstances permitted XP
Her earliest memories of happiness are so faint, she sometimes doubts they were real at all. A strong, loving mother. An incredible older sister. A precious baby sister. Those halcyon days when they could still laugh together, unaware of one fundamental truth:
The world was a cruel place.
It first bared its fangs when Ophelia was nearly assassinated at three. The attempt left her a wreck. A young life, irrevocably altered. Forever.
How? That was her first question. How could it have happened? Her mother was the strongest woman she knew; her father the strongest man. With all their power, how could anyone attack their family – and succeed?
What was the point of all that power, if it couldn’t protect their loved ones?
Why? That was the second question. Why would anyone want to hurt sweet, innocent little Fi?
That answer came far too soon.
The whispers. The stares. The judgement.
“Well, that one was born a country hick, after all…”
“Serves them right.”
“The tallest fall the hardest.”
Envy. Pity. Hatred. False sympathy.
“Oh, it’s a shame the youngest was crippled. At least the older two–”
There it was. The expectation that they would excel.
Estelle did. A prodigal huntress born to a genius swordswoman. Blood had bred true, they said.
But Isana?
She couldn’t muster the same resolve. Her body was whole, but her soul wasn’t. Her spirit was weak. Damaged.
How often did she wake to Ophelia’s cries? Her sister’s harrowing wails as she was plagued by nightmares?
How often was Isa the one beset by nightly terrors? But she hated the worry in her family’s eyes. She didn’t deserve it, not when Ophelia suffered the most. So, she learned to keep quiet. She stifled the screams, hid the fear, buried the pain.
For a time, she managed to pretend she was fine. She wasn’t, but she was supposed to be. She was a Kaides, after all.
For a time, Isana convinced herself that she was okay. At home, surrounded by her family, she thought that, just maybe, they could be alright again.
That illusion shattered at twelve, during an in-house Kaides tournament. She entered the stadium, alone. She felt their eyes. Saw them staring. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, and refused to settle.
Thump.
THUMP.
THUMP.
She gasped. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Shaking like a leaf, she forced herself step by step until she stood in the centre of the arena.
They were cheering, but for what? To see her win? To see her fail?
She never found out. Mid-match, she was knocked out. They claimed she’d fallen ill. But Isana knew the truth. Something was wrong with her. She failed, and there was no explanation for it.
She turned to the only solution she could think of. She trained harder. Studied more. Yet, at the Collegem, she ran into the same problem once again. In some exercises, she performed adequately. In others, it was as if she forgot everything she knew.
Ultimately, the verdict came: She was a disappointment.
She lived like a shadow, avoiding the spotlight. She did alright when working solo or supporting others. But alright wasn’t enough. Not for a Kaides.
Then, without warning, her worst nightmare returned.
Estelle was attacked, nearly killed.
Isana’s mind blanked. Static filled her head. For days, she drifted. Until one day, she found herself holding a knife to the neck of one of Estelle’s so-called teammates. She didn’t know how it had come to that. Didn’t know what she would have done had she not been stopped.
They called her mad. She thought the world was.
After that, people left her alone. The exceptions were those few who tried to corner her. But she followed Ophelia’s example, learned how to make them pay.
Estelle fled home at 20. Isana wasn’t surprised. Why would anyone stay in such a hostile environment?
She consoled Ophelia. “She will be back, you’ll see.” Months passed without a sign. “I’m sure she’ll visit.” A year went by. Still nothing. At 21, she gently patted Fi’s head, and said, “I will find her, alright?” It never occurred to her that Ophelia might want to join her.
But the truth was, Isana had another reason for leaving. She had come to a terrible conclusion: someone within the Kaides family must have orchestrated the attack on Estelle. Nothing else made sense. She wouldn’t serve a house where monsters hid in plain sight and rot festered deep beneath the gilded surface.
She traveled far enough that no one recognized her as a Kaides. She signed up at a local Adventurer’s guild, taking on solo missions. Pursuing rumours of a giant, one-eyed bowwoman - Estelle. She never found her.
But she did find something else: friends.
They met by chance. She was clearing out goblins in a ruined settlement, picking them off one by one. A commotion disturbed her. A hobgoblin leapt from a crumbling rooftop toward a quartet of adventurers. Another emerged from inside. Curiosity drew her in. She watched them fight. They lacked experience and stamina, but they were determined. Goblins from vicinity began swarming them. A single misstep, and their leader faced certain death. Isana moved on instinct. Her blade plunged through the hobgoblin’s neck, striking from behind. “MOVE!” she barked, and the four listened. Though strangers, they fought with surprising unity. Isa filled their gaps with her skill. Together, they cleared out the nest of goblins.
That night, they celebrated with drinks and laughter. Afterwards, Isa simply…stayed. At times, she worked alone, but more and more, they took missions as a team. They trained together. Ate together. Lived together.
For the first time, someone outside her sisters and mother valued her for who she was.
She never revealed her last name, but told them about her sisters. They helped her gather leads. Encouraged her to visit home.
After a year, she did.
But standing before Ophelia, she didn’t know what to say. Her sister seemed so distant now. Instead of trying to talk it out, she left gifts from her travels, then left. The next visits were the same.
Then the war began. Battle became her life. Desperation coloured her world. Respite came only in brief, broken moments. So many strangers died, their lives became mere numbers. When a friend fell, there was no time to grieve. When she awakened her Aura, she didn’t rejoice – it was just another weapon to use in humanity’s last stand.
At Hadrum, she finally reunited with both sisters. But their mother was gone. Only two of her friends remained. Then, they all were killed. A bitter end.
Biggest Failure: She gave up on herself before trying. She ran from her pain, her family, and her name, and thus, left behind people who needed her. She turned her back on House Kaides, and by the time she wanted to help, it had been too late.
Biggest Regret: Besides the war itself? She wishes she’d been able to share what little happiness she found with her sisters.
Biggest Obstacle: For most of her life, she was hounded by anxiety, mistrust, and social judgement. Later, as she learned to overcome her fear, she discovered a deep-seated grudge. She came to hate the whole damned ‘Kaides equals greatness’ mentality. It was flawed, it was hurtful, and ultimately, she was sure it was the cause of their downfall. She will need them, but hell, can the Kaides and their worshippers be a gut-curdling lot.
Greatest Achievement: Even as the "Failed Generation," there had to be ONE good thing that happened to you. Maybe it was stolen away, but at least for one brief moment...You were happy.
Driving Hope: Her friends and her family. The people she loved were her true treasure. In the end, desperation kindled a new idea. The faintest, impossible hope that if they succeeded, they might once again experience peace.
Equipment
(You can give yourself something nice for the scenes before you die if you'd like, lol. Different materials conduct Aura/Mana to greater degrees. Aura-user Equip: Iron Weapon > Steel > Mythril > ??? Magic-user Equip: Bone Wand/Staff/Deco > Gold Deco > Wooden Wand/Staff > ??? Remove this blurb.)
Preferred Weapon Type/Magic Focus/Important Tool
blank
Abilities
Physical Strength: 1st Rate
Aura: 2nd Rate
Magic: 0th Circle
Blindside - In a moment of enemy’s inattention, she delivers an incapacitating strike. Exploits blind spots, targets least defended areas.
Will fill in the missing touches tomorrow. Feedback appreciated. Will also create the NPC blurb for their mother, I'm definitely accepting name recommendations for the mother, heh.
Yo! I arrenged the Family tree for ease of visualization:
Arrows are descendants and normal lines are marriages/relationships. If anyone is sure who their PC parentage is I would love to add them.
I know Martenos married too young for the mother of the sisters trio (Estelle, Ophelia, I'll probably name my Isana) to be his first wife. Maybe his second or third? It depends mostly on when Martenos married the second and third time. Any input, @Zeroth?
The stench hit before anything else—stale beer, old grease, sweat, and something fishier lurking underneath. The Seafarer’s Slop Shack had probably been named by someone with a gift for accuracy, if not marketing. It had the sort of honest grubbiness that came from years of people making do with very little.
What little light from outside made it through the grimy windows seemed embarrassed to be there, leaving most of the illumination to oil lamps whose glass had not seen a good polish since the last king’s reign. The doorframe listed to one side like a drunken sailor, and generations of spilled drinks, food, and who knew what else had worked their way into the warped floorboards.
Ryn paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior while cataloging exits with the absent habit of someone who learned young that knowing how to leave a place was as important as knowing how to enter it. Main door at his back, a narrow back door half-hidden behind a crooked shelf of bottles, and what looked like a cellar hatch behind the bar.
Like water finding its level, the evening crowd began to seep in. Over at the main table, dock workers fresh from their shift hunched over a card game. Heads bent close together in one corner, two women shared whispers, while another woman in a threadbare dress that might once have been fine leaned against the far wall, watching the room with hollow eyes. A patron who started their evening several hours too early was teaching the shadows how to snore. Behind the bar, a broad-shouldered woman with iron-gray hair wiped down the bar top with a rag that had seen better days. The brass spigots of the beer barrels behind her had been polished to a shine that seemed out of place among the general grime.
He caught the barkeep’s eye with the universal nod of someone who spent all day doing honest work and was ready to undo it with dishonest drink.
“What’s good?” he asked, laying down copper for two.
The barkeep snorted. “Nothing’s good. But the fish stew won’t kill you and the ale’s wet.”
“Sold,” said Ryn cheerfully.
Wulfric scoped out the inn upon entry, and found Hendrix doing the same. Strolling alongside the count, he sat down by the bar. “Brew them yourself?” he wondered, to which the barkeep grunted. She slid over two glasses topped with murky yellowish ale. The prince drank a mouthful, then another, discovering he was thirstier than he had realized. The liquid was thicker than expected, and somewhat sticky, the drink clinging to his palate. Yet, it was as if the flavour had been washed out; the ale was barely bitter, almost stale despite its lightness, carrying an elusive hint of citrus, and a strange metallic tang. The alcohol content was so low, one would need several glasses to even start feeling drunk. It wasn’t quite like drinking water, but hydration did seem to be the main purpose of the drink. “It’s not bad,” he commented, which drew a hefty snort from her. “Ain’t that a compliment.”
The fish stew which followed shifted his opinion - in comparison to the food, the drink was downright decent. His plate emanated such a pungent scent, he honestly wondered how it was possible for cooked fish to smell worse than when it was fresh and gutted. Did they put a rotten carcass in? The fish head floating in his portion supported that idea. Deciding it was best to get it over with, he treated the stew as he would medicine; he ate as much of it as he could fast enough not to taste any of it. Even so, the putridness lingered in his mouth, eliciting disquieting roiling from his stomach. “I’m done,” he pushed the plate away, and grabbed the ale as if it might be his saving line. Unfortunately, it did little to wash away the aftertaste of dead fish.
How the count was able to eat with a straight face was a mystery in itself.
“Do you have anything stronger?” The barkeep shrugged. “Sure, ‘s long ‘s you pay.” For a few coppers, he received a sampling of her specialty moonshine. He took a cautious sip, and immediately grimaced, though he managed to swallow down the harshly burning liquid. “This…isn’t acid, is it?” he half-joked. The woman only laughed. “Best stick to the ale, lad.” Wulfric silently agreed. As far as he was concerned, the moonshine was for anyone looking to get knocked out fast, which he was not. He had to give credit where it was due, though; the one sip had burned away all else, aggressively cleansing his mouth and throat.
“Thanks for the meal.” Ryn slid his empty bowl forward, earning a grunt of acknowledgement from the iron-haired woman as she whisked it away. The clattering of dishes nearly drowned out the ongoing card game behind them, where colorful curses suggested someone was having a streak of particularly bad luck.
Turning to Prince Wulfric, who still looked faintly green around the edges from his encounter with the stew, Ryn asked, “The night’s still young. Anything else you’d want to see before we call it a day?”
Having managed to win his battle against nausea, Wulfric turned around in his seat, so his back was facing the bar. “Hmmm,” he casually perused the patrons. There was at least one familiar face among the players at the large table, the two women were still fiercely whispering to one another, and the lady he presumed was a prostitute remained quietly watchful. “Play a game or two, talk, soak in the atmosphere.” Gather information, in other words. “I would like to explore the area at night, though it might be tricky without a light source of our own.” He stretched languidly, and slid down from his seat. “Might as well have some fun, hm?”
The prince strolled towards the card table, waving to the worker he recognized, and brought a chair over. It was so crowded the players were knocking elbows. No one had anything against fresh blood though, so all Wulfric had to do was sit back till a new round started, and he was dealt in. He chatted to the dockers about this and that, but at best, they shared mundane rumours and tid-bits of local news. The third round in, the fishmonger entered the joint, pipe in hand. Spotting the two new faces he’d directed to the docks that morning, his gaze travelled from the count to the prince, and he invited them to join him at a separate table with a head tilt.
The three met up, drinking and talking to each other for a bit. The fishmonger, or ‘old man Gus’, as he introduced himself, was true to his word, and told them about what he’d seen throughout the years. Small time gangs coming in and out, rumours of one organization behind the disappearance of some, and the flourishing of others. There were other prominent groups, but there was one which was feared - or respected - the most. Apparently, a few of the regulars of the Shack may or may not know someone who knew someone…and so on, until somewhere down the line there might be someone with ties to the Black Rose. Gus had a policy of plausible deniability, and even a few whiskeys in, he would mumble things like, “Ne’er mind me, jus’ an old man.”
Of course, as soon as Wulfric heard there were others in the bar who might have information – well. Naturally, he had to prod them a bit more. A part of him was counting on something coming out of it. As it was said, so it was true: Those looking for trouble would find it.
It was well into the night when four men entered the pub with purpose. “You’re the fella stickin’ yer nose into our business?” One of them asked, a burly man with a bush of hair and beard.
“What? Me?” Wulfric feigned innocence, though he didn’t put any true effort in the attempt, sporting a mocking smirk. The second largest man, a tough looking bruiser spoke up, cracking his fingers. “There another one?” To which the prince laughed. “I’m enough to take you all on,” he bragged.
At the corner of his periphery he saw Hendrix turn to him, “... Really?” It wasn’t a question about whether Wulfric could take them all on, but an entirely different one: This is how you want to spend the rest of the night?
The prince shrugged, conveying in one single motion a sense of, ‘I gave you the chance to stay out of it.’ His provocation had riled up the four as expected, but one sharp, “OY!” from the barkeep was enough to restrain them. “Tch,” the largest one still looked like he might pick a fight right there and then, neck vein pulsing, but had stopped himself for some reason. Did the owner here have some sort of a deal with them, or was her property under someone else’s protection? So much for causing enough chaos indoors to secure an escape route. The remaining few patrons were very firmly minding their own business.
“You. I’ll deal with you,” the bushy haired man glared at him. “You two. Don’t let him run.” Two lackeys surrounded the disguised royal, and he followed without protest. At his left was a pony-tailed man with a knife sheathed at his back, and at his right a shaggy haired fellow who struck him as disinterested in what was going on. “You, get him.” The bruiser was directed to Hendrix. Now that it was clear the ruffians knew they were together, Wulfric fully turned towards the count for a moment. Eyebrow arching, he seemed to be asking without words, You can handle this, yes?
Hendrix shook his head in what looked more like resignation.
Despite his companion’s lack of enthusiasm, Wulfric wasn’t worried. They were definitely being underestimated. The leader was so confident all would be fine, he lumbered ahead. The moment the giant of a hoodlum opened the front door and stepped onto the first of the three wooden steps, the prince took advantage of his inattention. Wulfric had been compliantly walking behind, all easy going and unhurried, but within the blink of an eye, he jumped into action. He grabbed the knife wielder, and kicked him down the stairs in the same motion he snatched his knife. “You–!” The burly thug leader turned around at the commotion, then stumbled as one of his men was sent flying into him. The two tumbled down, the front door slamming shut behind them as Wulfric faced off against one of the men remaining indoors, and the count against the other.
Ryn was not what one would call a proponent of violence. Oh, he had nothing against recreational violence or even a friendly bout of fisticuffs to work off frustrations. Although he declined Prince Wulfric’s earlier offer, Ryn did enjoy a good sparring match on occasion—the dance of it, the rush, the way your blood sang when you landed a perfect hit or dodged a blow. But brawling in establishments? That had a way of escalating from “just a scuffle” to “explaining to the city guard why that load-bearing beam now had a person pinned to it by an axe.” And frankly, paperwork for the property damage was its own special kind of violence.
As he sidestepped a meaty fist that whooshed past his ear, Ryn found himself wondering, as one does in such moments, how often the Slop Shack saw this sort of excitement. By the looks of it, perhaps not that many. For all its well-earned grubbiness, most of the damage seemed to come from time and the relentless assault of sea air rather than flying bodies and furniture. Either the locals knew better than to start trouble here, or the iron-haired woman behind the bar had ways of dealing with those who did.
“Hold still, you weaselly little sh*t,” the man growled, overextending on another punch that Ryn simply was not there to receive.
“Ah, but then you’d hit me,” Ryn replied, ducking under another swing. “And I’ve grown rather attached to my face. Known it all my life, you see.”
The bruiser chuckled at that, before trying to grab him. “Just trying to rearrange it a bit. Add some character to that pretty face of yours.”
“That’s nice of you,” Ryn said, “but I prefer my scars to come with heroic stories. ‘Got these while rescuing a princess from a dragon’ sounds much more impressive at parties.” They had completed nearly a full orbit of the room now, Ryn staying just beyond reach, the big man getting progressively more winded and frustrated.
“You talk too much,” the bruiser announced, charging forward like a bull that spotted the red cape.
“I get that a lot,” Ryn agreed, then added helpfully, “Oh, watch that loose board there—” The other man’s boot caught exactly where Ryn had noticed a warped plank earlier, sending him stumbling, arms windmilling, directly into the path of Prince Wulfric.
“Adel,” Ryn called out.
One thug had just fallen down, kneed in the chin, when the other oh-so-handily stumbled his way, all wide-eyed and undefended. With nary a glance in the count’s direction, Wulfric understood the signal, and was ready to take advantage of the opening his ally had created.
A twist, a grab, a throw, and the bruiser was sent careening—
Slam!
Body met wood, yet though the chair creaked and protested, the rickety piece of furniture didn’t break. Which was just as well, because he had set that particular chair to block off the front doors. The shaggy haired fellow had been disabled moments before, lying disarmed and unconscious on the floor. “Hnnng,” the pugilist, meanwhile, was only dazed, but taken care of for the moment.
“Well done,” the prince gave Hendrix an appreciative look. Fritz had not only carefully kept track of the flow of the whole battle, he had strategically manipulated it in their favour. Wulfric found it comfortable to fight alongside the other man. It was as if they had done it countless times before. Almost as if they could trust—
THUD!
A sound akin to a battering ram striking a castle’s barred gates interrupted his momentary reverie. Only, it was a man instead of a ram, and a feeble shack rather than a castle. By the sounds of it, the thug leader was none too pleased at Wulfric’s actions. With one more charge, the chair was dislodged from under the doorknob. The man Wulfric had thrown into that seat jostled at the force of it, and he appeared to realize he was in his friends’ way. The unconscious shaggy haired thug was starting to stir as well. “That is our cue to leave,” Wulfric suggested.
Dashing towards the back exit, he stopped only long enough to empty his pocket onto the bar counter. Along with the coins, he handed over the stolen knife as well. “Sorry for the trouble,” he gave the bartender a charming smile. The stern old woman looked ready to inflict some serious violence, her narrow-eyed gaze mellowing only the slightest at the offered appeasement. Unfortunately, he had nothing else to give, and if their escape was to be successful, he was in rather a hurry.
Despite the need to hurry, Ryn had one last bit of business to attend to. He dropped a handful of coins on the counter. “Plus a little extra,” he said.
The barkeep snorted, sweeping up the coins while eyeing the chaos they caused. “Next time, just lose at cards like everyone else.” The words were gruff, but the wrinkles around her eyes suggested she penciled them into her mental list of acceptable regulars.
“Duly noted,” Ryn touched the brim of his hat.
On his way out, Ryn slipped his remaining coins into the hands of the hollow-eyed woman. She startled from her daze, blinking at him as if he were a dream not quite remembered. He answered with a wink and a wave to the room at large. “Have a good one, folks!”
An unusually loud smack resounded when Wulfric opened the back door. Apparently, the now knifeless knife-wielder had been sent the other way around, and had arrived with truly unfortunate timing. Wulfric recovered faster than his opponent, and punched the pony-tailed thug in the chin. A quick glance back confirmed the burly leader was inside the shack now, kicking the shaggy man to consciousness. The bruiser was already charging towards them. The prince closed the door as soon as both he and the count were out, and leaned his full weight onto it. “Go on,” he urged Fritz. “I will follow right behind.”
“Or,” Ryn wedged a length of iron that had been propped against the wall through the door handle. “We could skip the heroic last stand entirely and go together now rather than later. It’d save so much time.” He grabbed Prince Wulfric’s arm and flashed a quick grin. “Come on.”
When his hand was grasped, his mind flashed to several years past. To his cousin, who had been the first to befriend him. To yet another friend, later, who— The moment passed. The unfamiliar touch was still there, but the thrill of the chase prevailed.
“I wasn’t making a last stand,” Wulfric protested with a laugh, sprinting after Hendrix at his cue.
@SilverPaw@OwO ok, I wanted to give ourselves a proper timeline at least so we can maybe plan things a little better. I think I got everything correct? Lemme know if not.
-Timeline of Events- 987 - Estelle is born 988 - Silvers character is born 990 - Ophelia Born 993 - Attempt on Ophelia's life 1005 - Estelle was poisoned here and left home after recovering. Ophelia is 15, Estelle is 18, Silvers character is 17. 1007 - Start of Regression. Ophelia is 17. Estelle is 20. Silvers character is 19 1009 - Silvers character leaves home. Ophelia is 19. 1011 - Ophelia Leaves the Academy at 21 1012 - War start 1017 - Rocks fall, everyone dies, the end.
And to also maybe suggest their mom dying in battle at some point. So I can give Ophelia more trauma.
I think Estelle left home in 1007? While my character left in 1009.
As for the mother dying in the war, ofc we can do that >:) Wanna ramp up on the whole betrayal thing? If so, maybe something like: the mom got intel on one or both the assassination attempts on her daughters. *But* it was actually one of the unnamed traitors we still don't know about who was trying to eliminate a powerful Kaides during the war setting some things up with the demons...tho she killed her assailants, they did her in. And ofc to our characters it'd be unknown who did it atm.
Or, a simpler thing: she died facing off a horde of demons in a blaze of glory defending their home.
So what I'm seeing is that both of Ophelias direct siblings effectively run away from home and leave her alone. One even after just being poisoned after she had effectively dealt with that her whole life.
~yay trauma~
Yeeeah. Think it'll be a good story of sisters broken apart (two of the three who heavily contributed to that happening) who try(?) to fit back together, reconcile, make up for past mistakes and all that.
@OwO Copy pasting relevant bits, and adding a bit of my thoughts re how this could tie in with Estelle.
As for the mother: I was thinking of this prodigal warrior who was born as a commoner, and made her name after enlisting in the military. She'd then become a knight to the Kaides, one of those elite Glavios ppl. Prolly did sth silly like keep challenging the patriarch of the family, and either bc she won one spar one time or bc the dude got charmed otherwise, became one of his wives (or the one mistress he has besides the 3 wives). As a character she'd generally be affable, feisty, believing that effort and self-determination can overcome any obstacle. But she'd also be not that well adapted to the noble society - obv if she was the wife or mistress, she prolly did go through some basics, but ya know. Not stupid, but lacking guile, and not really getting/brushing off how some others in the family (or outside) might have resented her. This could be tied into either or both of the assassination attempts if either you or Rune want it to. The mother is basically a once in a 1000 years talent who doesn't think she was born special, but became like that cause she worked her ass off. I can see Estelle thriving with that kind of parenting, meanwhile the middle and youngest sister felt quite pressured.
Was also gonna have my character ditch the family at 21 (though she'd still visit her youngest sister here and there), but probably she and Estelle never did manage to meet up until maybe the Kaidysum's last stand.
Also, looking at Estelle's height, I guess it's good I imagined the mother as this 2-meter or so giantess, beefy muscled, can swing a claymore one handed kinda gal, ha. Don't think I'll have my character be any higher than 180cm at most, though.
Looking at my timeline, it might not work unless your character was poisoned early in their life. However, it's still probably fine if they are brother/sister if you still want that dynamic. Two separate incidents and all that. I don't really have any planned dynamic for her mother. But it's also very tentative. I can change things.
It's @Rune_Alchemist's character who had an attempt made on her, and yes, it's very early in life. Looking at your character, I think our ideas could very well mesh together. I'll leave Rune time to look over things, then we'll see where we'll go from there.
Atlas946
Rune_Alchemist
Gremlin
Xaltwind
princess
Penguin
Mole
PapaOso
TheMushroomLord
leopard
