Alias: Vex, Eros, depending.
Race: Witch / Human
Height: 5' 10"
Physique: Lithe, Muscular, Agile
Eyes: Dark forest green, like shadows fallen on late summer leaves.
Hair: Nearly waist length, thick, curly, and black; pulled back from her face with a mass of braids, messily tucked strands, and a few small silver circlets designed to decoratively clasp ringlets of hair.
Skin: Dark and bronzed from a life spent outdoors, freckles on her nose bridge and cheeks, a few small scars along her forearms from blades and arrows just barely missed.
Occupation: Survivor, thief, hired blade or witch when need be.
// Secretive // Daring // Curious // Temperamental // Cunning // Solitary // Brazen //
Thief: Good at pick pocketing, better at armed robbery, best at breaking and entering. Includes inherent skills of lock picking, cat-like prowess, and the ability to stealthily disappear into the shadows.
Witch: Self-taught and still learning. Basic spells of scrying, seeking, and hedge/herb craft only at this point.
Blade Slinger: Preferred weapons include throwing knives and concealed daggers. Adequate with a sword, but considers them too bulky and obvious to be worth carrying.
Archer: Barely qualifies as a skill, mainly used for hunting when traps prove barren. Last resort in a fight, really, she sucks.
Intuition: Call it a fifth sense, a witches gift, whatever. Her gut instinct is never wrong.
At a Glance
What little clothing she owns is a motley collection of various dark fabrics and leather, some borrowed, few bought, most stolen in times of need. Her preference for blending into a crowd leaves little room for embellishments or decoratively 'loud' dress, and brings to mind the simplistic desire for warmth and comfort that any traveller would apply to his own wardrobe, though she indulges herself with a richly dyed scarf here or there.
Her over shirt; made of a thick, warm, black linen with sleeves that reach slightly past her wrists is covered by a jacket of equally dark and heavy wool. A red scarf, the color of slowly dying roses is wrapped round her neck many times, partially pulled up over her face like a cowl. Her legs are protected by a pair of worn yet supple brown leather pants, over which another scarf is tied at her hips, once brightly dyed in royal purples and blues but now faded and worn, stained with dirt and years spent in the elements, partially conceals a black leather belt cinched tight. Dagger sheathes hang at each hip within reach of her hands and pouches for valuables hang safely hidden at her back. Her boots are simple, strong, and flexible leather traded off a cobblers apprentice for a night of ale-fueled fun.
Over all this; a woolen cloak hangs just past her knees, heavy and dense, oiled to keep rain and cold at bay, lined with hidden pockets and scarves made of softer, silkier fabrics. The hood is lined with the fur of a black rabbit she herself ate and skinned, and completely covers her face in shadow when worn. Its color, designed to change with the light, conceals her figure in the dark corners of buildings and the canopy of trees.
She wears little jewelry, save the silver clasps woven throughout her hair, and a length of plain leather cord wrapped round her wrist and forearm, for use in emergencies.
On her person are no less than 5 concealed blades at any given time; each of varying length and width, and each suited for a different purpose.
The two daggers at her hips are partially serrated hunting knives, best used for skinning animals, cutting through bone, and if need be, intimidating potential enemies.
The blade hidden in her boot is a skinny 5 inch Dirk, used only in defense. Obtained off the waist of a rich and fat nobleman who's drunken stupor kept him snoozing soundly as she easily pilfered his pockets. The hilt is made of beautifully forged steel, inlaid with an opal outline of a stags head. The blade itself is of equally rich make; a shining white metal of unknown make, with a channeled groove along its length. What appear to be silver markings run down it's face, but the language is a curious one, and even she can't decipher its meaning. This is easily the most expensive item on her person at any time, and thus keeps it completely hidden unless need be. She has no name for it, and knows she will one day part with it when her money purse hangs empty for too long.
Sheathed on her belt and hidden at her back hangs her throwing knife, weighted so perfectly it practically throws itself. It's black as night, from the hilt to the blade tip, and whistles slightly as it flies through the air. This she calls her "Nightingale".
At her wrist she keeps a well-hidden stiletto blade, one of her most prized possessions. It has no real value other than to her; the hilt is made of a rich and dark redwood, nearly black at its base, but surely not rare or expensive. There are no inlaid jewels at its hilt, no special carvings or images, and the blade itself is of average make, with a long and slim tapered point, perfectly designed for driving deep into flesh. It's real value comes from both its origin and its usefulness. Her name for this blade is kept secret, and those who learn it are buried or burned just as quickly.
•TW• 18+ fuckery
Her companion through constant travel and turmoil; a large and sturdy mountain breed draft horse. Mottled grey, black, and white, with a long black mane and tail, usually kept in tousled and messy braids for the sake of ease, decorated with silver clasps similar to those in her own hair. One of her first ever shadily-acquired (i.e stolen) goods, she's managed to not only keep him from being stolen in turn, but has bonded well enough to the point of conversing and confessing her secrets to him as they roam. He doesn't say much back, but seems to enjoy the conversation none the less.
While she herself remains mostly undecorated in terms of dress, she enjoys spoiling him with rich, dark leather saddlebags engraved with small designs, and reigns and bridal tack adorned with red braided tassels along the sides, and even a brightly dyed, dark, ruby colored saddle blanket, with golden tassel ends that sway as he moves. Her saddle is of well styled and stiff black leather, comfortably worn to her form, and her stirrups are true silver, not the usual sad strips of animal skins refashioned for poor farmers.
She's named him Rowan.
She likes to think he loves her too.
Raised on a small farm in the wilds of Elendaron, she grew up very poor. Her mother, father, and two younger brothers shared a single room cottage her father had built when they first settled the sparse land. She never knew why they had left the city to live outside protected lands in the first place. She always assumed it was simply a desire for a more honest, hardworking life that her father had uprooted them, with little to no warning. Her mother never protested, and her siblings were too young to even truly recognize the depth of change. She herself was merely 10.
Aside from two pigs, a goat, and two draft horses, they had not much else but the rows of potatoes and greens they struggled to keep growing each year. They had little to wear but rags, and even less to eat, but they loved each other and were quick to say they were truly happy. Her mother spent her days sewing and patching their clothes, preserving the few products of their harvest labors, and teaching Vex and her brothers what little she herself knew of the world. Her father spent each day in the fields or woods, either planting, caring for, or harvesting his labors, or placing and checking traps he laid in the surrounding forests. They lived this simple life for roughly three years.
She was 13 when raiders burned her home to the ground, with her family locked inside.
By a cruel yet convenient twist of fate, her mother had sent her to the woods to try and scavenge mushrooms for their supper. She hadn't been gone longer than an hour when she noticed the oddly colored smoke rising from over the tree tops.
This is the first time she remembers ever having a spark of intuition. Her gut instinct told her to hide, rather than investigate. And, thank the gods, she listened.
While nestled in the boughs of a large oak tree she watched as five raiders, each nothing but a shady figure against the backdrop of thick, harsh smoke billowing from what had once been her home, slaughtered her families pigs and stole their horses. The cottage was nothing but an inferno at this point, and her naive young mind hoped her family had somehow hidden themselves in the trees like she had.
It was only after the marauders had long gone, having passed on the road just below her hiding place, that she dared to climb down and search for them. She found not a trace, no footprints, no messages left behind for her, nothing. So she sat in front of her burning home to wait. For what she didn't know. Salvation, perhaps.
When the blaze died out she found the charred remnants of two little, and two larger skeletons amongst the remains.
She's been running ever since.