Aerion [OOC + SU] Rated M
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December 28th, 2012 (11:58 AM).
The Wise Lesbian
Join Date: Nov 2012
Character sheet, ho! If there're any problems, let me know.
Country of Origin:
Crystia's appearance is a mixed batch, ranging from creepy to alluring, depending on whose eyes are following which curves. She stands short among post of her peers, with a curvy form that emphasizes her feminity, along with a general lack of musculature and hips that dwarves could envy. Despite this, she possesses lanky limbs for her height and slender fingers that allow her subtle manipulations of magic. Crystia's body is unfortunately where most of her conventional attractiveness ends.
Vast locks of void-colored hair cascade down Crystia's olive skull and spine like a waterfall of liquid ebony, with tides that shift and rise with every step. This veil of hair hides a face beautiful, but not shaped by make-up or dainty features; instead crafted by the strong hands of a feminine artisan. Her cheekbones stand high and hollow, with a strong jaw to emphasize and a pair of dark, full lips that are often all people get to see of her emotional expressions. If the veil is pulled aside, Crystia's most defining features are seen; a pair of large opalescent eyes that stare into the souls of others. Every emotion can be seen reflected through these windows, which is why they're often hidden, save for the view Crystia can get through her magic and from the corners of her eyes. Above them sit a pair of elegant black eyebrows and long eyelashes, with a small nose of up-turned curvature.
These combine to form an unnatural appearance to most, with each stray look seeming haunted or dishevelled, when her hair moves of its own accord and eyes stare out like the moonlight from a deep lake. Crystia's movements lend it no credit, with each gesture learned from years of magical training and personifying her own exuberant nature. Like when a monster offers them a cup of tea rather than attacking, people get more confused by Crystia's generally optimistic nature than her strange appearance alone.
Crystia's attire changes with each dawn, depending on what's available and which mood has stricken her fancy. Most of the time, it revolves around something that allows for many measures of movement, whether it be the flowing robe of a monk or priest, or the woven undergarments of a barbarian tribe. Though her skin is unmarred itself, she has a fondness for gems that she can attach to her skin or outfit, to accessorize or use as a component for her practiced magic.
A minor appearance quirk is the fact that Crystia hates to be dirty, which comes into conflict with her habit of going barefoot wherever possible. As such, she created a minor cantrip that cleans any unwanted residue off of her own body. In lands where magic is forbidden, where she hates to step, Crystia is forced to wear boots.
Crystia is a woman of mixed first impressions and stranger following ones, with a curious mind befitting somebody with so many years on Aerion. Much like most of her own people, to those of other races, she can be seen as alien, despite their best intentions. She can either be seen as extreme in her actions, with grandiose notions of beauty covering all of land and life, or incredibly naive, with a lack of cynicism borne by those who've seen war or more violent aspects of life. Regardless of their goals, she will attempt befriending a person at least once.
In the purest sense, Crystia is an anarchist who believes the imposition of order on a world that is inherently chaotic is something to be lauded as a joke; she treats it as such, because that's all life is. Everyone is under the whim of nature, and the whim of everyone around them, which makes true order impossible. When a king can be struck down by a bolt of lightning, cities destroyed by nature's wrath, or a plan of conquest ruined by mere rain. Like a fickle God, she laughs at the dawdling of mortals, but makes friends with them anyway; because people are worth loving.
Because of this philosophy, Crystia treats all people as equal. She would pay the same respect to a beggar as one of the elven druids, which can get her into trouble with some, and lauded by others for not fearing the nobility. People aren't something Crystia fears, but there are many things she does. Magic used by others, monstrous creatures that could snap her twiggy body in two, and the potential rejection by friends she's already made, were they to discover her powers or hate her for an action she thought would be valuable.
At the top of Crystia's list of fears, however, is death. Despite her talent in working with fate, she fears the fickle finger pointing at her one day, and ending her adventures through the wondrous world. Never will there cease to be things to discover, remember, or live, and she wants to see all of it. But, behind it all, lurks this fear, that can inspire her darkest emotions and temptation. If there were some way to avoid the clutches of death, it would be very hard for her to resist. Regardless of the consequences for others; because if she lives so many more lifetimes, theirs are worth sacrificing.
Some of the smaller things that Crystia enjoys are sweet baked goods, jewelry, and romantic moments captured in word, song, or painting. There is fun to be found in all aspects of love and camaraderie, after all, because it inspires the purest of emotions. Nothing fills her with more glee than to watch the first kiss of young lovers, or the heartbreak that comes when it turns out such was not meant to be.
Crystia was born in an elven settlement by Lodricari Lake, to a father of the forge and a mother of magic, the former of whom was just as much a carpenter and the latter a member of the Lodricari Mages' Guild. On her birth, she was ordained as a mage, and spent more time with her mother than any other. This was in no small part to an apparent mark of magic on her form, that allowed her to know when anyone was watching, and anyone she looked at to know they were being watched. It was both a gift and a curse, but led to trust within a community.
As people of tradition, Crystia was raised by her the guild and her mother as a mage, to make use of the magic within her blood. Were she any other person, she would have grown up to be a regular elven mage, but one moment changed her life forever. She was sitting by the lake and studying incantations while listening to the chopping of wood by her father. Then came a crash, and a scream, and a turn of her head, where she saw the smoldering remains of a tree's trunk, with her father crushed beneath it.
It was a moment of chaos that sparked life-long inspiration within the girl; a morbid fascination surrounding the event followed, which the other elves of her community mistook for trauma over her father's death, which allowed the nurturing of this urge to begin. Crystia's father took his time with all things, always made sure that everything was perfect before he began to work, and that day was no different. The cause of his death was a stray lightning bolt, that changed the mood of the community for years to come, and the mood of her mother, too.
So Crystia began to think. If she'd been looking the other way, her father could have been warned of the falling trunk or the flash. If he had been working on other lumber, the tree would have fallen too far from him to hurt. Had the weather been less cloudy, the lightning would never have struck. It was a moment of beautiful fate, of which they were all at the mercy. Nobody in the guild understood this concept, though, instead urging that things can be prevented; the traditions worked, and there was some mistake in her father's performance.
Crystia retreated to her personal haven, to study fate itself, with calculations and storytelling, but fate was too vast to be constrained in such a way. But magic, that was something that could change the world; something unexpected, and spontaneous, and it could surely constrain fate. Much to her surprise, she was able to change the slightest things, as though fate had chosen her to be able to do it. What happened with her father was too far gone, but fate could be changed again.
So she sat in the same spot, as another village resident worked for lumber, beneath a cloudy sky, and urged lightning to strike the tree. And it did. The villager had done everything right in his job, yet he'd fallen victim to fate's finger, too. This was enough to confirm Crystia's hypothesis; that tradition was at the whim of fate, as was everything else. And if she could get on fate's good side, such things would not happen to her; an underlying notion that resulted from the fear of watching her father die.
Crystia left Lodricari Lake as soon as her training in the guild was over, despite the love she held for its inhabitants. She was to live her life as fate's little helper. Discovering the other nations was something of a surprise, especially their hatred of magic, but it was more than worth the expenses. Because, despite their regulations, they were still at the whim of fate, and that was a thought that made her giggle merrily. Sadly, the lands of Aerion soon fell into the sorry state it did not because of her, but because of fate itself. It wasn't hers to change it, indeed, she saw it as proof of her very worldview, but Lodricari Lake called her back with a message, to be their emissary to the Monks of Ekilore.
The choice was based solely upon her interest in fate, and why she'd left her beloved friends in the first place, so she took on the duty with a heart full of pride. Perhaps the Monks of Ekilore would be able to offer her some enlightenment, or she would be able to put her abilities to the test. If fate was going to be her guide, this was the chance to prove it. Not to the world, but to herself.
Crystia is skilled with magic, as any born and trained in elven lands would be, but her particular favorite is fate magic; a subschool that works particularly well for her, and can be used to subtly manipulate all things.
"Of course." Oda's agreement was swift, despite the reservations flashing clearly across her face at the apparent lack of sociability in the Apprentice that stood before her. She turned into the streets with a fluttering of her coat and returned within a few short minutes, with a sufficiently dour look hanging across her eyes as they met Xoxaa's azure orbs. "Come, quickly. The guards have received word of a truck headed towards the airfield; we'll need a vehicle, in short." Without waiting for response from Xoxaa, the Adept returned to the shadowy dockside street.
A gaze cast down each side of the street told Oda that only one viable vehicle remained, if they were to make use of the shortcuts that littered Regalo Island's surface like scars across a veteran's face; she'd seen enough of both to dread the bumpy ride. There happened to be a finely crafted motorcycle sitting on the street corner, unattended, whose silver sheen seemed to call out with an enticing glamor. It was a fine machine, not dissimilar to Oda's own, but that was stored by the mansion itself.
There were certain liberties allowed to Adepts of the Sword more than any other rank within the sector, such as the one Oda was about to take advantage of. It would cost money out of her own pocket if she were to damage the vehicle, but she trusted enough in her own confidence to not end up in a fiery wreck with an Apprentice on the backseat. The thing that worried her the most was the potential damage this thief could do, depending on the weapon they carried, or if another traveled with them.
Regardless, the time for worries had passed, and Oda knelt beside the motorcycle with a Swiss army knife retrieved from one of her many deep pockets. Hot-wiring the vehicle didn't take long, and was luckily a skill Oda's father had taught her back in Sweden that proved to be more useful than she'd ever expected. It was certainly quicker than knocking on the owner's door, and could possibly save one twelfth of the Famiglia's bank, if they caught up in time.
With no helmets hanging from the handlebars, Oda would need to be especially careful in her driving, and push back the instincts that would cause her to speed recklessly across the tracks of dirt worn through by many years of enthusiastic teenagers; ones like Annabelle, in fact. The Adept climbed aboard the motorcycle and revved the engine a few times, making sure she hadn't broken anything lethal, like the brakes, and whistled over to Xoxaa with the knowledge that the young woman's mind oft wandered.
Knights of Ekilore
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