Character(s) saturnalia's cabal

[saturnalia]

Spoiler

Birth Name: Iantha Nepthys
Alias: Sparrow
Race: Tiefling
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 125
Age: 21
Hair/Eyes: Pink with pale highlights // Pitch black sclera with a dark grey iris

Concept
Wandering tiefling bard that moonlights as a thief.

Description
Iantha is all sunny smiles and bright laughter, her joy entrancing enough to hide the sly hand slipping into her mark's coin purse. She arms herself with silly jokes and charm aplenty, divesting even the most dour of their troubles and extra coin. In her wake, she leaves eddies of happiness, because every stage is a show, and she is nothing if not a professional. In the quiet moments, when the music has stopped and there is no one watching, perhaps a faraway expression of sadness will cloud her face, but it always gone before the next curtain lifts.

Petite and fine-boned, she was built for acrobatics and dance. Beneath her costumes she hides lithe muscle, because how many stage performers find themselves scaling sheer walls or free-climbing cliff faces? She's fit, but in possession of the svelte curves of a woman grown. Her skin is a mid-tone pink in places that the sun often graces, and paler elsewhere, with a fine smattering of silvery freckles across her cheeks and nose. Her facial features are sweet, with an impish, up-turned nose and full cupid's bow, fully capable of hiding her mischief behind dimpled smiles. Her eyes are that of pitch, while her fingernails and horn are a gradient flushing dark.

Trouble
When frustrated, she grows petulant and will pout. Being denied things, especially things she wants, has never been handled with grace. She grew up affluent and spoiled, often manipulating her family into giving her whatever she wanted. Lies drip from her tongue like honey, sometimes just for fun, and danger gives her a thrill.

She has sticky fingers and often target the wealthy, because taking from the poor leaves a bad taste in her mouth. Iantha isn't quick to anger and has never killed, she doesn't even have the stomach for blood. Especially her own.

Background
The tiefling was abandoned at an orphanage as an infant because of her infernal heritage, but quickly adopted out to a mercantile tycoon named Oren Nepthys. He, too, was a tiefling, and traded primarily in less than legal goods smuggled under the guise of a normal trading company. She was raised with love and spoiled from the start, her doting father unable to deny her every whim. She was tutored by well-to-do governesses during the day, then spent her nights learning tricks of the trade from her father's underlings.

Being a child under foot in a criminal organization, she learned many things that she normally wouldn't. Iantha was taught how to scrap by her favorite bodyguard, how to seduce by Oren's various girlfriends, and how to steal by his employed pick-pockets. There were always new and exciting things to learn, but he kept her sheltered from the darker sides of the business as well.

When she came of age, Iantha struck out on her own to tour the world, much to her father's ire. He wanted her kept close and safe, but she was intent on performing, exploring, and stirring up all manner of trouble. By trade she is the traveling musician called Sparrow, but at night she is a thief-for-hire.

Highlighted Capabilities

Arcane Trickster Rogue/Bard:
1. Iantha specializes in sleight of hand, acrobatics, and stealth. She is trained to fight with two daggers, but also carries a small hand cross-bow. Her capabilities at hand-to-hand depend on her speed and sneak attack.
2. Infernal ancestry grants her immunity to fire, a small amount of control over the element of fire, and knowledge of the Infernal language. She's ambidextrous, has darkvision, and can be quite intimidating when she hisses threats in Infernal.
3. School of Illusion: Iantha is a master of illusion magic and often uses it to supplement her repertoire of skills. Some of her favorite spells include Disguise Self, Invisiblity, and Hypnotic Pattern. (A complete spell list can be acquired upon request. These are all basic 5e spells.)
4. School of Enchantment: Iantha is an adept at enchantments. A few of her favorite spells are Charm Person, Otto's Irresistible Dance, and Vicious Mockery.

Notable Assets

1. Astolat: her demon familiar, a lesser hellspawn that is truly devoted to her. Because tiefling's possess no shadow, he often hides in plain sight disguised as just that. Sometimes he likes to pantomime her shadow doing odd things just to cause confusion or mild hysteria in passerbys for fun. He can assume an unlimited number of forms, but most often he is a tiny, cute little goat frolicking at her feet, a crow perched on her shoulder, or a snake coiled around her forearm. Astolat can take a blow meant for Iantha, but once struck he is dispelled and takes an hour to regenerate.
2. Cloak of Shadow: a cloak spun of the shadows collected from the Nine Hells. It is crafted from the hide of a displacer beast and has two daily charges of shadow-step, a short range teleportation to any place within 150ft.
3. Dis & Pater: her two daggers, gifts from Oren on her 18th birthday. One is a dagger that once activated with flare with the flames of the city of Dis that will deal fire damage to the enemy; the other will drip poison when activated that deal poison damage.
4. Petunia: a lute lacquered dark blue, strung with enchanted strings and inlaid with flowing designs of silver.

Thread Participation

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Spoiler

Birth Name: Kisa Inuksuk
Alias: Coldblooded Kisa, Icewhip Inuksuk, Tundra-daughter among the Tribes.
Race: Waterbender, Southern Tribe
Height: 5'3''
Weight: 125
Age: 23
Hair/Eyes: Black hair // Ice-blue eyes

Concept
Southern waterbender warrior/healer making her coin as a traveling mercenary.

Description
Kisa was defined by her environment, frigid and inhospitable at first glance. She is a proud woman and holds herself to a higher standard than most, nothing less than perfection accepted, and this could easily translate to a superiority complex by some. It is hard to earn her loyalty or affection, she holds herself apart and is standoffish in an effort to protect her soft core, because beneath her hard shell is a girl terrified of being abandoned. As a battle-medic, she is used to making the hard calls when it comes to saving lives, causing others to label her as coldblooded. Beneath the surface, she craves the kinsmanship of family and tribe, but is too afraid to reach out to make those connections. Thoughts of rejection and betrayal mark her too deeply to seek out friends, no matter how lonely she is.

She is petite and graceful, moving with the fluidity of her element. Being shorter than most chagrins her, she hates having to look up at people. Her skin is the same tawny-brown of her fellow tribesman and her eyes shine pale blue amidst dark lashes. As dictated by the coloring of her people, her hair is black and worn long in two braided tails with a woven headband at her crown. She is fit, her body compacted with lithe muscle, but touched with generous curves.

Trouble
Biting sarcasm and cynicism should be her second language, because very few are not subjected to it. She can be cold, standoffish, and outright mean-spirited at times, but it's all a defense mechanism to protect herself. Her icy outside guards a soft core, where she craves the familiarity of kinsmen or friendship. Kisa is touch-starved and therefore avoids contact with others unless required, preferring to be seen as stuck-up than allowing anyone to touch her. When she does allow someone to get close, she tends to express herself by gently bullying them and growing possessive, insisting that only she's allowed 'to treat them like that'.

Background
Kisa was born to a pair of hunters that stayed with the main tribe during the darker months, but made their living off the ice-floes in the warm season. It was a secluded way to grow up, but being largely nomadic fit her parent's independent lifestyles. She learned to ice-fish, hunt among the tundra's predators, skin and process fur for trade, and fight all from her upbringing. In the winter she learned from the tribal healers, turning her offensive waterbending to a different type of flow, and blossoming as a capable young bender.

It was late in the warm season when an unexpected blizzard kicked up off the coast and swept across the ice, catching her small family unawares. They led a hard life naturally, but trapped in a freezing ice-cave for weeks with dwindling supplies bested the family. Her parents perished in that dark cave, starving and frozen, clutching her to them to protect her. When Kisa staggered back to the tribe, a malnourished ghost of herself, she returned a child no longer. If her parents had been better, stronger, maybe they would have survived, thus sparked the drive for perfection and constant vigilance. She hardened herself and her resolve, striving to be better, so she wouldn't ever have to leave someone behind the way she was.

---

Spoiler

Birth Name: Artemas Kushnir-Burke
Alias: Artem Kushnir, 'Adam Burke', Artie
Race: Werewolf
Height: 6'0''
Weight: 180
Age: 23
Hair/Eyes: Dark brown // Whiskey brown

Concept
Listless college student turned reluctant werewolf.

Description
Artie is a surprisingly charming person, despite his apparent transience and wanderlust. He doesn't keep friends easily, but makes them with just a twist of his smile. He's easy-going, witty, and quick to laugh. His social awkwardness translates into endearing and comedic, which pairs seamlessly with his lack of shame. He's never minded being to but of a joke, as long as everyone gets a good laugh. Beneath all of that sunshine and goodwill exists a much more flawed and insecure person. Art can be sharp-tongued and downright mean when backed into a corner, has a tendency to run from his troubles, and has always existed in the morally grey sphere. He revels in chaos and has been known to stir up trouble just to watch the fun unfold.

It took years to grow out of his awkward, coltish limbs, but his early twenties have been kind. His height pairs well with the generous breadth of wide shoulders, which tapers down into narrow waist and hips. An active lifestyle and boundless amounts of energy have kept him fit, but he'll never be the type that's bulky with muscle. His strength is wiry muscle in his arms, thick thighs, and strong calves; a swimmer's build, lean and balanced. In an effort to cover an old injury, Art has tattooed most of his right side, the ink sprawling over his entire arms before draping across his chest and dragging from his ribs to his hip. The art blends over old surgical scars and patches of shiny, burned flesh.

Trouble
Artem has never really known true stability or support, so he runs from his problems. When friendships or relationships get sticky, he bails without a word or backward glance, and therefore is always holding himself back from making true connections. He has no true concept of 'home', no known living relatives that he's close to, and can pack everything important to himself in a backpack. He's all wick and no wax, a man ready to burn up at a moments notice.

He's extroverted, craves social interaction, but quick to fall into depression and seclude himself. He'll often take weeks at a time off his job during breaks at school and just disappear onto the open road or into the many nature preserves to just be alone and 'ground' himself.

Background
He was born to a career military man and an ex-pat Ukrainian. His mother was a brief bright-spot in his young memory, beautiful and kind, everything a child could need. Lesya took joy in whispering fairy tales to him at night, teaching him ukrainian words or phrases, and cooking him the recipes of her mother. His father was distant, yet clearly loved his mother. When Art was six, he remembered waiting for his mother to come pick him up from the bench beside the school on base, but it was dark by the time his dad showed up. When questioned, his father simply said that it would just be them from now on, that she had 'run off.' Years later, Artem had searched death certificates, missing person reports, and deportation records. There was nothing to be found of Lesya, she had simply vanished.

Growing up neurodivergent and defiant with a father-figure that preferred to be absent led to a lot of growing pains for Artem. He was a ball of energy that confounded most teachers and exasperated authority figures on a good day, plus the bouncing around from military base to military base left little opportunity to build friendships. It was a lonely childhood, espousing bitterness and resentment in his young mind. It didn't prepare him for the car crash at sixteen that killed his last remaining parent and disfigured his right side. It was a dark time, but he had already been raising himself for years, he knew what he needed to do to survive. Artie was officially emancipated at seventeen and graduated at eighteen. He was granted survivor's benefits from the VA and in a fit of ever-present defiance, sold all the possessions left in his name, bought a motorcycle, and hit the road. It was a gap year spent traveling, sightseeing, and slutting his way across the eastern seaboard.

A year and a half later he picked a random city with a good school, walked into a job bartending, and hasn't looked back. He has a wide array of 'friends' that operate more as acquaintances, works his ass off in the evenings to afford school, and studies Comp Sciences despite it being boring as hell. In his off-time, he hauls off down the highway or into the local preserve to smoke copious amounts of pot and lose his stress in the silence.

Highlighted Capabilities

Werewolf
As a wolf he's large and rangy, with long legs and a sleek build. His coat in pitch black with touches of white on his toe tips and chest. Lambent gold eyes stand out against his dark fur.

Notable Assets


Thread Participation

 

[saturnalia]

Spoiler

Birth Name: Nimat al-Badawi
Alias: Nima
Race: Sentinel, desert-born
Height: 5'8''
Weight: 140
Age: 25
Hair/Eyes: Black hair // Brown eyes

Concept
A descendant of the oldest blood from the deep desert, freshly returned to the city Sentinel guild.

Description
Nimat's mother had always told her children that, 'hot tempers don't belong in the dunes, you'll only burn away.' She had taken that teaching to heart, even as a babe it seemed, and was known to be easy-going and affable among her peers. She didn't allow silly things like failure or criticism to hold her back and only endeavored to train harder, to accomplish more. There were concerns that her easy smiles and lack of fiery temper would leave her soft, but a back-bone of steel and fierce determination to succeed divided her from the pack. Her ability to charm with a smile and witty turn-of-phrase was encouraged, but beneath it lurked the same predacious instinct of the creatures that called the dunes their home. She is a conundrum, a beguiling oasis surrounded by quicksand, armed with smiling eyes and a beckoning hand.

She is willowy and tall, built strong with a solid core and lithely muscled legs. Years spent ranging across an inhospitable desert and training under the intensity of her clan has molded her into the curved edge of a scimitar. Her hair is long and a riotous melange of curls, untamable by an comb created by man, so she often keeps it braided at the crown of her head in intricate styles. Nimat's eyes are dark in most circumstances, but shine like rich spices in the right light, and are often rimmed in dark kohl.

Trouble
Despite her laidback attitude, Nimat is an extremely prideful person. She cannot tolerate disrespect to her people or way of life, nor does she appreciate for other people to take for granted the beauty of the desert and all it's mysteries. For those reasons, she often cannot find common ground with the city-dwellers that have never stepped foot beyond the sultan's walls.

Background
Nimat's mother and father ruled their home creche with an iron fist, instilling in her the same staunch morals and rules that are required to live in a land considered lawless. The Sentinel are a people bound by honor and tradition, and it was these ideals in which she was raised. As a child she remembered chasing after her mother's linen thobe in the twisting halls of the creche caverns, her chubby fingers chasing after the gold-threaded tassels that shone in the stray beams of sunlight that pierced through the roof. Cool nights under desert stars were spent with her father at the side of a fire, just growing into coltish, preadolescent limbs as he passed down verbal tradition in his growling voice. Those early years were easy and carefree, spent learning foraging and mending with some of the women during the day, then clinging to stories of glory with the boys at night.

It was an easy decision to take her step into service. All served in the Sentinels, just in different ways. Even the caretakers of the children or cooks were in service to a good greater than their own, but at a certain age one must choose their path, or have their path chosen. Nimat chose the desert and it's endless beauty. Her mother had tried to steer her away, draw her closer to animal husbandry with the hopes of grandchildren playing at her feet, but young Nima was already in love with a concept bigger than herself. So her father sent her into training, a grueling and often fatal process. For ten years she dogged the footsteps of her teacher's, outstripping her peers in survival and combat in leaps and bound until she was deemed ready. Then she was banished out into the desert to find her way, to prove how she would provide for the future of the clan, and bade to not return until her effort bore fruit or until she died in the wastes.

Nimat was successful amongst the Sentinels of Azhara, had led enough forays into the dunes to be considered a veteran among the guild, and returned with her first purse to give to her home clan. Now she returns to Azhara with another untried and untested Sentinel set to prove himself, her upstart of a younger brother, and she can only pray to whoever would listen that she not strangle him before he succeeds.

---

Spoiler

Birth Name: Hassan al-Badawi
Alias: None
Race: Sentinel, desert-born
Height: 6'1''
Weight: 186
Age: 20
Hair/Eyes: Black hair // Brown eyes

Concept
A descendant of the oldest blood from the deep desert, newest recruit of the city Sentinel guild.

Description
Where his sister is the untouchable presence of light within their family, Hassan has always seemed to lurk in her ever-growing shadow. Nima's legs leapt and bounded far ahead of him, always outstripping him and leaving him behind. He was a fussy baby, always trying to toddle after her and left crying in her wake when she would run ahead. His father would try to soothe this growing berth between them, but the plight of the youngest and only son weighed heavy on Hassan. It didn't help that he was his sister's polar opposite. Where she lit up the room with a smile or funny comment, he was often found scowling or criticizing someone to the point of passionate argument. It was said that he sought conflict, that his personality ached with a fire that burned too brightly, and his parents feared that his own flame would suffer beneath the desert's punishment. Their doubts in him festered, encouraged the snarling thing in his chest to spread deeper into him. With it came a fight that could never be beaten out of him.

Hassan is tall and built for ranging with whip-chord muscle packed onto a lanky body. His shoulders are broad and forearms strong, conditioned from years of free-climbing in ruins, and his legs are cut with muscle built from sneaking across shifting sands. Years of enduring training meant to break the normal person has forged him into a deadly, swift melee fighter, but he also had a broad base of skills that translate into adventuring. His dark hair is kept shaved close at the sides and his dark eyes often look eclipsed by his pupil, reflecting only firelight, but in the right moments they shine chocolate brown. His complexion is a bit lighter than his sister's, perhaps because he hasn't spent quite as much time ranging the ever-shifting dunes.

Trouble
Hassan wasn't friendly growing up and therefore wasn't socialized well. He's a little awkward in social situations at times and tends to try to scowl his problems away. He doesn't encourage conversation, often tries to avoid being social altogether, and is fierce when it comes to his pride.

Background
Growing up in Nimat's shadow was hard for Hassan. He was always compared to the creature of accomplishment and light that she was, which was hard for a young boy. Due to his innate reticence, he wasn't quick to make lasting connections or friendships, and often found himself seeking solitude away from his peers. Secretly, his parents encouraged this. They knew he craved to follow in Nima's footsteps, and walking the path through the dunes was a lonely one that would suit him.

Despite his lack in aptitude in social norms, he excelled physically and mentally when it came to training. Hassan was fierce and had a physical prowess that was similar to his sister's. Instead of focusing on being friendly, he instead immersed himself in the ways of the Bedouin and their ancestors. He walked amongst his peers and took to the desert like a natural, but all of his teachers warned of his temper. He would burn away if he did not learn to master himself, they chided. It was pure coincidence that when he was deemed ready to walk his path, his sister returned with proof of her labors. Flush with coin and stories, she beguiled the creche and their parents, and even Hassan could not help but remember his childhood bond and love for her.

As was only natural, the siblings met on equal footing now and accepted each other in adulthood in a way that they never had before. Nimat was due to return to the Guild and continue working, the tales spun of battle and rare treasure, unknown map locations in far-away corners tempting him after her like a lure. She invited him to return under her wing as her protegee, and though he initially chafed at the thought, he accepted readily. He was ready to walk his path, too.

 

[saturnalia]

Spoiler

Birth Name: Aiwestë Laelithar
Name Meaning: Bird's Nest
Alias: Wren, Ren
Race: Elf
Height: 5'8''
Weight: 135
Age: 434
Hair/Eyes: Ash blonde and coarse, curly // Sea glass green, sometimes grey

Concept
The long exiled daughter of an old bloodline, since turned vagabond in the gloom.

Description
Hundreds of years spent harrying her way through the gloom has sharpened her, all but hollowing out that sweet, naive girl she had started out as. Hard lessons have taught her to strike first, always be suspicious, and that there is no kind hand waiting to pick her up when she stumbles. Wren has learned to become opportunistic, but layers a beguiling silk over all those rough edges. She is not above using her looks to get what she wants. Beneath all of those thorns, her humor is wicked and dark, and her sense of justice is skewed toward vengeful. Her moral compass has edged more into grey territory, but she still can't stand a bully and has been known to buy her fair share of trouble just to stop one. Layers of sarcasm hide a deep melancholy that she carries, groomed and nurtured by old injustices, but it hasn't quite made her into a villain. Her methods may err on the side of brutal and moral stand just outside what is publically acceptable, but Wren still has some sense of justice in her.

Wren is tall and willowy, with compact muscle gained from a lifetime of fighting strengthening her core and thighs. Her legs have the muscle tone of a perpetual wanderer, belly flat and taut, and arms lean with muscle. The soft touch of womanhood is modest at her bosom, but the swell of her backside and hips in what garners the most attention from wayward eyes. Her skin tone is tan and golden, both inherited and earned, while her hair is an ash blonde that is coarse and curly. Without constant attention it can get riotous and tangled, so she often ties it up or braids it to avoid the fuss. Her eyes are sharp, but pale; sea glass green that turns grey with the weather.

Trouble
Trust is a foreign concept now, one practically beaten from her by time and hard lessons. She manipulates and lies as easily as breathing, hiding half-truths in sarcasm to get her way most of the time. Ren is also not above stealing or cheating to accomplish her goals. Murder is off the table, though. She'll defend herself in a brutal manner and has a taste for revenge, but killing a person for no reason is out of the question. She is also disdainful of those who hurt the land or abuse animals.

The betrayal of her family stings even now, hundreds of years later. It is unforgotten, perhaps forgiven, but it left an indelible mark on her soul. As such, she finds bonding with other people close to impossible. Just the thought of allowing another person close enough to possibly abandon her again is a hard concept to consider, so she holds everyone at bay with a sharp tongue.

Background
Her childhood was idyllic. She was born from an old bloodline within a well-protected paragon, her parentage one descended from wealth, but that wasn't important to little Aiwestë. All she wanted to do as a girl was find new ways to escape her governess to run wild in the fields, where she would refuse to return home until a blanket of stars had settled over the sky. She remembered a childhood of almost endless summer; being fussed at for returning with wildflowers caught in her hair, walking barefoot in the river shoals with her skirt edges sopping, or climbing orchard trees in hunt of the sweet fruit suspended in the boughs. As a child she was often mud-stained and flushed with exertion, her hair a mess, and comfortable in the naive, child-like knowledge that she was loved.

Her own parents were often busy with business in the paragon itself, but there was always a wealth of aunt, uncles, and cousins to rub elbows with. She was closest with her tutors, because no matter how wild, she loved to learn. She spent her first 30 years immersed in this charmed, rose-tinted sort of life, training with the masters and delving in bookshelves with her tutors. Aiwestë found herself a fair hand with wielding magic from the smaller fell-stones the family possessed and even bandied about the idea of joining the gloomstalkers for a bit. Her parents disabused her of this notion with a firm hand. Incensed, the young elf argued so stridently that they conceded to allow her to accompany a group of travelers outside of the paragon to lay eyes on the gloom for the first time herself. It was clear that they hoped the fraught, hopeless landscape would dissuade her without their further intervention.

It was during this venture that the unthinkable happened, at least to Aiwestë's naive mind. A heavy fog had fallen over the land and from it surged forth a beast, terrifying in its wrath, and Aiwestë just froze. All of those years of training tumbled out of her head as the screams of those around her fell into silence, dulling into a ring that whined in her ears. It was only when her own uncle was struck down in front of her, his blood spraying thick and hot across her face, that she threw a hand forward. Her palm burned like she had grasped onto a hot coal and from it surged a violet arc of lightning, jagged and crackling as it impacted with the beast. Then.. darkness. When she woke up, aching and burning with latent fever, she knew immediately that something was wrong. The fear and revulsion in her mother's eyes as she walked away, the disappointment in her father's, both haunt her even now.

It was her ever loyal and loving governess that helped her from her bed and packed her things. Udinne grasped her with shaking hands and explained that there was a taint in her blood, a type of old magic that could destroy their paragon, and that she was banished from their home. The kind woman assured that the Laelithar line suited her with all that was necessary to survive the gloom and then walked her to the property edge, eyes damp and smile wan. As she had stared back at the paragon in heartbroken disbelief, Udinne had carefully coaxed a curl back behind her ear before smoothing out the frizz near her temple. "You will survive, little bird. You are too bright for this world to snuff. Just know that I will never allow them to forget you, my Wren."

Cheeks hot with tears and chest aching, Wren had ridden out past the barrier line. Her fist clenched around the reins as that heartbreak began to sour into anger and her palm ached, reminding her of the violet mark hidden beneath her glove. A glyph left over from the encounter with the beast, a stark reminder of just how quickly her entire life had been ruined.