Post by Lyrt on May 12, 2012 21:54:54 GMT -5
Name: Lyrt
Age: Seventeen
Race: Human
Occupation: Assassin
Allegiance: None
Physical Description: Lyrt unlike how her current occupation may require sticks out much like a sore thumb. Hair white as snow frames her face much like one would observe on the elderly. Yet the features are strangely young, pale skin and a small nose. A sweet face that could charm many if not for its usually stolid state.
When in pursuit of a target on the other hand she seems to be quite the pleasant young lass. A lute perched on her hip playing sweet melodies as an icy blue gaze darts about battling the soft simper that paints her lips. Yet in mere moments she changes striking without notice then disappearing as suddenly as she had appeared, somehow blending into the surroundings.
Personality: Lyrt is a hopelessly persistent at her work, never taking a break or slipping off for another interest for a few days. Her targets never escape while she never ceases the relentless chase. The hunt is the only focus, only thing that matters. No man, woman, nor child matters, they all are just hunks of meat if they stand in the way of work.
On the other hand not considering work Lyrt is quite the pleasant person to be acquainted with. Only though if are a cadaver though, they seem to be the only things that don't tread on her nerves. Not that they can tread on much of anything being they way that they are and all.
Firstly though on her list of hate prevails children, the loud annoying lot of them. Always crying, always wailing, expecting everyone to simply hand up their sympathies for the slightest crash. It was only common sense that you had to help yourself, no one would ever do anything for you out of the good of their hearts.
Running in close proximity though lies people in general, if not for work she would have no contact with anyone. Simply living out life as a hermit away from all of the ignorant stupidity they held. Yet one who didn't work didn't eat, and with the lack of farming knowledge food had to be gotten someway.
As a person of generally few words Lyrt rarely will voice her opinions on matters. Actions are much more preferred, they seem to say much more on a grander scale and all in a shorter amount of time. Why kill with words when a knife does it with much more satisfaction?
History: As far back as she can remember Lyrt had traveled with her father, a wandering scholar. Her mother had died shortly after giving birth to her, supposedly she had a weak body. Though the lack of a mother did not mean much, her father was all that was needed.
Growing up she traveled far and wide, too many places to remember nor to count. Being the child of a scholar she was taught her letters and sums instilling a deep love of books from a young age. Books were her playmates as they were always moving too quickly to linger.
From books came knowledge, lots of it. From how to pick a lock with a paste made of tree sap to how to catch a fish with ones bare hands. The boundless knowledge of the written was there waiting to be consumed.
Yet there was always one book she was never allowed to touch, never allowed to open. He always kept it with him, no matter where they went. It was bound in a vibrant red leather and inscribed with odd symbols she could neither identify nor understand. She was always aware of it, always curious of what knowledge lay inside.
Yet one uneventful day it came to an end right after her twelfth summer. On the road towards an ancient ruin he suddenly collapsed doubling over with a high fever. No matter what matters of medicines she used there was little that she could do to save him and he died that very night.
Alone out in the wilderness she began to despair terrified as to what would happen. Never had the thought crossed her mind that she would be alone, never had there been reason to brood on it. Her father was strong, persistent, what was there to worry about?
Yet somehow that book was there, sitting by his motionless form. Somehow...it drew her close and she began to read, about magic. Fascinating magic, she knew of its existence yet but never had she ever seen anything of this sort. Odd symbols and phrases capable of pulling great beings into the world, beings of unlimited power.
Such beings could revive him, such power could be unlimited able to do anything. The temptation was far too great and she began to draw out the symbols with a twig broken from a tree , all around his lifeless shell. She had read about shades, yet believed herself above them. Their mistake was summoning a spirit through a living being but what about through a corpse?
So Lyrt began speaking the words so foreign to her tongue stumbling over the pronunciation clumsily yet seeing no problem with it. If the intent was there why would pronunciation even be an issue?
Yet soon things began to shape, dark things. A fog seemed to roll in along with a dark mist that began to condense in a form unlike nay other. Terrifying yet so exciting, so many things coursing through her as she continued. It was working, she was succeeding where no others had been able too.
Then it all went oh so horribly wrong. The shadow began to screech in rage staring at the body before them its face slowly turning with ruby eyes glaring towards her. Then it struck claws raking across her chest over and over until she passed out from the unending pain that plagued her.
Suddenly she woke, unsure of how much time had passed yet somehow...different. Her father was gone, a pile of ash where he had lain. But her sight, something was horribly wrong with her eyes. Slowly she reached up splaying her fingers over both yet only able to see one set of them.
Slowly she began to realize as the memories began to settle into place no wounds lay on her body. No rips in her clothing, no blood, no pain. Hesitantly she removed her shirt staring at the long lines of black symbols twisting about where the claws had raked her skin.
The lass's mind hardened after that, changed from her encounter. Over the course of the next few days her brown hair gradually faded to white. She began to use the knowledge learned from books to survive, poisons and the such. People were such fragile creatures, they all seemed to drop like flies. Why not simply make a business of it as life had a time limit on it, cutting it back by a few years made no difference.
She carried a lute with her, the only possession she took with her besides from the clothes on her back from her father's belongings. It had belonged to her mother once, and she had been taught to play a few songs on it. She never knew, music seemed to have its own magic and it would be something to do whilst she bid her time until her death. Who knew, it could come in handy in the future, who was to tell.
Roleplaying Sample:The loud slam of a nearby cell door rang through the dark dungeon followed by the sounds of marching feet softly fading off into the erie silence. The dungeon was encased in a thick blanket of shadows broken only by the torches scarcely distributed throughout and casting dancing shadows on the thick stone walls. It was a solemn place, slowly sucking the light out of its pitiful inhabitants who were unlucky enough to land there. Anywhere else would be kinder, and few ever left in the same mindset that they entered if, if they ever left.
In one of the small cells laying back leisurely in a corner was a young woman of no more than twenty staring up at the ceiling and counting anything she could to keep herself occupied. She did not seem to be very worried at her predicament, rather she looked comfortable in her current position sprawled back on the straw pallet. Her Ebony hair lay spread out in all directions and she sighed softly amber eyes distant.
Of all of the reasons to end up in such a place hers was by far the most pathetic to date. It all began with that damned inn she had stayed at. She was down in the bar with a drink or two, maybe four or five, though that slight memory lapse may have been one of the many problems of that night leading up to her waking in a cell. From what she could recall there was a fight, the nasty bruise on her cheek that was definitely not there from before.
Her lance was gone, that was simply a given, she highly doubted one would leave her with a weapon though she had no knowledge of how to use it properly. It was only with her as a warning to those with little knowledge in their tiny brains to notice her obvious lack of battle skills. One would see it and turn away thinking her not a profitable target for their troubles.
Though such babble was completely irrelevant to the dilemma at hand, what had she done today to land in such a forlorn place. It was not some simple prison, that was clear to her quite quickly. The silence hung over it like a thick cloud foreboding something... Sighing softly to herself she propped herself up on her elbows and rested her chin in her hands.
Erio's mind searched for anything of what had happened nearly a week ago but it was all still slightly faded. First there were drinks, a nice amount of it to boot, rather odd for her who rarely ever touched the drink to begin with. Though it had happened and there was no time to brood over it anymore, nothing would change it no matter how hard she may wish it to be possible.
From there broke out the fight, chairs and dishes being flung around the crowded room with serving maids taking cover behind overturned tables and chairs. Then...ah yes...soldiers showed up and... She scratched her head and let out a soft yawn, hand dropping from her head to lazily cover her mouth. Ah. There it was. She had in a drunken stupor yelled out something with the Prophet and Yellow bellied, accompanied by an entourage of less tasteful words and other such things landed her in here.
She had been drunk! How was such a thing justified?
Age: Seventeen
Race: Human
Occupation: Assassin
Allegiance: None
Physical Description: Lyrt unlike how her current occupation may require sticks out much like a sore thumb. Hair white as snow frames her face much like one would observe on the elderly. Yet the features are strangely young, pale skin and a small nose. A sweet face that could charm many if not for its usually stolid state.
When in pursuit of a target on the other hand she seems to be quite the pleasant young lass. A lute perched on her hip playing sweet melodies as an icy blue gaze darts about battling the soft simper that paints her lips. Yet in mere moments she changes striking without notice then disappearing as suddenly as she had appeared, somehow blending into the surroundings.
Personality: Lyrt is a hopelessly persistent at her work, never taking a break or slipping off for another interest for a few days. Her targets never escape while she never ceases the relentless chase. The hunt is the only focus, only thing that matters. No man, woman, nor child matters, they all are just hunks of meat if they stand in the way of work.
On the other hand not considering work Lyrt is quite the pleasant person to be acquainted with. Only though if are a cadaver though, they seem to be the only things that don't tread on her nerves. Not that they can tread on much of anything being they way that they are and all.
Firstly though on her list of hate prevails children, the loud annoying lot of them. Always crying, always wailing, expecting everyone to simply hand up their sympathies for the slightest crash. It was only common sense that you had to help yourself, no one would ever do anything for you out of the good of their hearts.
Running in close proximity though lies people in general, if not for work she would have no contact with anyone. Simply living out life as a hermit away from all of the ignorant stupidity they held. Yet one who didn't work didn't eat, and with the lack of farming knowledge food had to be gotten someway.
As a person of generally few words Lyrt rarely will voice her opinions on matters. Actions are much more preferred, they seem to say much more on a grander scale and all in a shorter amount of time. Why kill with words when a knife does it with much more satisfaction?
History: As far back as she can remember Lyrt had traveled with her father, a wandering scholar. Her mother had died shortly after giving birth to her, supposedly she had a weak body. Though the lack of a mother did not mean much, her father was all that was needed.
Growing up she traveled far and wide, too many places to remember nor to count. Being the child of a scholar she was taught her letters and sums instilling a deep love of books from a young age. Books were her playmates as they were always moving too quickly to linger.
From books came knowledge, lots of it. From how to pick a lock with a paste made of tree sap to how to catch a fish with ones bare hands. The boundless knowledge of the written was there waiting to be consumed.
Yet there was always one book she was never allowed to touch, never allowed to open. He always kept it with him, no matter where they went. It was bound in a vibrant red leather and inscribed with odd symbols she could neither identify nor understand. She was always aware of it, always curious of what knowledge lay inside.
Yet one uneventful day it came to an end right after her twelfth summer. On the road towards an ancient ruin he suddenly collapsed doubling over with a high fever. No matter what matters of medicines she used there was little that she could do to save him and he died that very night.
Alone out in the wilderness she began to despair terrified as to what would happen. Never had the thought crossed her mind that she would be alone, never had there been reason to brood on it. Her father was strong, persistent, what was there to worry about?
Yet somehow that book was there, sitting by his motionless form. Somehow...it drew her close and she began to read, about magic. Fascinating magic, she knew of its existence yet but never had she ever seen anything of this sort. Odd symbols and phrases capable of pulling great beings into the world, beings of unlimited power.
Such beings could revive him, such power could be unlimited able to do anything. The temptation was far too great and she began to draw out the symbols with a twig broken from a tree , all around his lifeless shell. She had read about shades, yet believed herself above them. Their mistake was summoning a spirit through a living being but what about through a corpse?
So Lyrt began speaking the words so foreign to her tongue stumbling over the pronunciation clumsily yet seeing no problem with it. If the intent was there why would pronunciation even be an issue?
Yet soon things began to shape, dark things. A fog seemed to roll in along with a dark mist that began to condense in a form unlike nay other. Terrifying yet so exciting, so many things coursing through her as she continued. It was working, she was succeeding where no others had been able too.
Then it all went oh so horribly wrong. The shadow began to screech in rage staring at the body before them its face slowly turning with ruby eyes glaring towards her. Then it struck claws raking across her chest over and over until she passed out from the unending pain that plagued her.
Suddenly she woke, unsure of how much time had passed yet somehow...different. Her father was gone, a pile of ash where he had lain. But her sight, something was horribly wrong with her eyes. Slowly she reached up splaying her fingers over both yet only able to see one set of them.
Slowly she began to realize as the memories began to settle into place no wounds lay on her body. No rips in her clothing, no blood, no pain. Hesitantly she removed her shirt staring at the long lines of black symbols twisting about where the claws had raked her skin.
The lass's mind hardened after that, changed from her encounter. Over the course of the next few days her brown hair gradually faded to white. She began to use the knowledge learned from books to survive, poisons and the such. People were such fragile creatures, they all seemed to drop like flies. Why not simply make a business of it as life had a time limit on it, cutting it back by a few years made no difference.
She carried a lute with her, the only possession she took with her besides from the clothes on her back from her father's belongings. It had belonged to her mother once, and she had been taught to play a few songs on it. She never knew, music seemed to have its own magic and it would be something to do whilst she bid her time until her death. Who knew, it could come in handy in the future, who was to tell.
Roleplaying Sample:The loud slam of a nearby cell door rang through the dark dungeon followed by the sounds of marching feet softly fading off into the erie silence. The dungeon was encased in a thick blanket of shadows broken only by the torches scarcely distributed throughout and casting dancing shadows on the thick stone walls. It was a solemn place, slowly sucking the light out of its pitiful inhabitants who were unlucky enough to land there. Anywhere else would be kinder, and few ever left in the same mindset that they entered if, if they ever left.
In one of the small cells laying back leisurely in a corner was a young woman of no more than twenty staring up at the ceiling and counting anything she could to keep herself occupied. She did not seem to be very worried at her predicament, rather she looked comfortable in her current position sprawled back on the straw pallet. Her Ebony hair lay spread out in all directions and she sighed softly amber eyes distant.
Of all of the reasons to end up in such a place hers was by far the most pathetic to date. It all began with that damned inn she had stayed at. She was down in the bar with a drink or two, maybe four or five, though that slight memory lapse may have been one of the many problems of that night leading up to her waking in a cell. From what she could recall there was a fight, the nasty bruise on her cheek that was definitely not there from before.
Her lance was gone, that was simply a given, she highly doubted one would leave her with a weapon though she had no knowledge of how to use it properly. It was only with her as a warning to those with little knowledge in their tiny brains to notice her obvious lack of battle skills. One would see it and turn away thinking her not a profitable target for their troubles.
Though such babble was completely irrelevant to the dilemma at hand, what had she done today to land in such a forlorn place. It was not some simple prison, that was clear to her quite quickly. The silence hung over it like a thick cloud foreboding something... Sighing softly to herself she propped herself up on her elbows and rested her chin in her hands.
Erio's mind searched for anything of what had happened nearly a week ago but it was all still slightly faded. First there were drinks, a nice amount of it to boot, rather odd for her who rarely ever touched the drink to begin with. Though it had happened and there was no time to brood over it anymore, nothing would change it no matter how hard she may wish it to be possible.
From there broke out the fight, chairs and dishes being flung around the crowded room with serving maids taking cover behind overturned tables and chairs. Then...ah yes...soldiers showed up and... She scratched her head and let out a soft yawn, hand dropping from her head to lazily cover her mouth. Ah. There it was. She had in a drunken stupor yelled out something with the Prophet and Yellow bellied, accompanied by an entourage of less tasteful words and other such things landed her in here.
She had been drunk! How was such a thing justified?
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