Deleted UserJun 15, 2017Jun 15, 2017 at 10:25 PM
#1
Art by GrumpyVivec!
Gender: Female || Height: 5'7” || Weight: 135lbs || Race: Bosmer || Hair: Red || Eyes: Green || Profession: Storyteller/Bard || Age: 37 || Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
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| A muscled thing of wiry vigor. She bears red hair and a cocksure grin, the slender neck of a lute sticking out from where it's strapped snugly between pointed shoulder-blades. The lute is a beautiful thing of delicate ornamentation. Her clothing is barren of decoration in favor of function. A freckled, full face speaks of a countenance clinging to youth, while calloused palms and sun-touched skin tell of a life lived in labor. It is not the features that might arrest interest: no stunning eyes, perfect figure or sculpted cheeks. It is instead the range of expression – the way each gesture conveys itself, each syllable lilts off the tongue, that bears notice. There is a forward-moving earnestness to her, a swift vestment of singular interest, through which an otherwise mundane face gains inexplicable intrigue. | Irreverent and guileful, the words she speaks can bear either the sharpened edge of hard-learned truths or silken lyrics of pleasant fiction. Beneath the guise of an entertainer is the corrosive reality of a woman who has spent years traveling, and spent much of that time alone. The jaded undercurrent that occasionally slips its way from beneath a veneer of joviality may be startling, a thing usually reserved for one of greater years. Catch her with a lute in hand and a song in her throat and she will convey only the tragedy or triumph the tale she spins demands. Seek her for more discreet discourse, and she may prove to be less vivacious than her performance concedes. No matter what eloquence may seep past her lips, however, it is up to the listener to determine what is truth and what is lie. It could be either.[/i] | Born into the unrepentant wilds of the Valenwood, her hand is swift with a bow and faster with a knife. Like many of her kind, she prefers to use this particular ambidexterity for prey only, but understands all too clearly the necessity to be prepared to defend herself. Sleight of hand and a penchant for illusion magicks make for a potent mix both for her profession and for less virtuous pastimes. Frequent travel makes her a veritable font of information for the right ear, and the right amount of coin. If asked, the things she cherishes most are not her ability in the fight, but in the arts: to sing is to flourish. To write is to draw sustenance into a weather-weary soul. It is these things that she strives to better, and it is these things she hopes will one day help her reach loftier goals. |
No astounding birth was this. She came forth the last of seven, the youngest child, choking on the bloody remains of a tattered womb. Her fists flailed at the air, covered in viscous slime, seeking something to cling to. Her screaming was an inglorious imploration, ignored and unwanted. The room had the stench of a fresh kill, of life leaking out and spreading into the furs on the floor. Metallic. Obtrusive. Obscene. She screamed over her mother's dying breath, and when he finally looked at her, it bore the insidious taint of hatred.
He wore the reek of liquor like cologne. Her father turned to numbness to cope with his loss, drowning himself in drink. Bitterness was on his every breath and every word. His ire was for everyone, but Althiira was the target he struck most true. In time his fists ceased to open, to show providing palms. Instead they only took away, in so many blows, in knuckles against her purpling flesh, against the flesh of brothers and sisters. In the winter, in the dead of night, she taunted him, called to him and lured him into the forest. As the cold settled in deeper and deeper she left him there, howling and sobbing into the darkness, drunk and incoherent.
She left him to die.
[/url]She left him to die.
Time saw her siblings to other professions. Other lives. Bigger and better things. Yet to her time proved itself fickle, revealing little for her to grow towards amidst the dense canopies of the Valenwood. Althiira found work as a guide to those wishing to pass through the treacherous forest paths. She listened to their stories of other worlds beyond the woods, of places where the ancient branches neither sheltered nor stifled. Such an adventure, she thought, would be worthy of a Spinner's lips. She would make it worthy.
Though she won't turn up her nose at opportune theft, Althiira manages to make most of her living on musical talent. Gifted with both voice and nimble fingers, she has a knack for weaving and re-weaving stories she's heard during her travels - and for crafting her own. Despite a silvery voice and a glint in her eyes, there is a jaded undercurrent to the woman's personality, riddled beneath an air of precocious mischief. Her age is such that it's difficult to determine whether her behavior is a well-meditated act of jovial naivete, or a happy ignorance of youth.
In defiance of her fleet feet and spirit of whimsy, a foreboding pursues the Bosmer. It hides in the flick of her eyes, in the way she watches the dark vestiges of the roads she travels, in the morose fatalism that rests cocooned between the beats of her heart. It snaps at her heels, and in response she flies - one city. The next. The next. The next. Yet she knows that the running cannot last forever. She knows that her story will have no happy ending. She knows that this thing will harvest that which was planted before her bitter and bloody birth.
And like an insect infested with writhing larvae, she will be hollowed out and consumed.
Currently:
Originally hailing from a small town deep in the heart of Valenwood, the wandering bard took a break from her travels to take care of some personal business, whose specifics only she is currently privy to. In her youth she had passed through Vulkwasten many times, and while she never seems to stay in one place for long, even she is susceptible to the occasional bought of nostalgia, and it was this that brought her sauntering into the town on the notion of rekindling old memories.
Affliction:
None.
And like an insect infested with writhing larvae, she will be hollowed out and consumed.
Currently:
Originally hailing from a small town deep in the heart of Valenwood, the wandering bard took a break from her travels to take care of some personal business, whose specifics only she is currently privy to. In her youth she had passed through Vulkwasten many times, and while she never seems to stay in one place for long, even she is susceptible to the occasional bought of nostalgia, and it was this that brought her sauntering into the town on the notion of rekindling old memories.
Affliction:
None.
RaccoonismJun 16, 2017