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Lacernella Rubra

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About Lacernella Rubra

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  • Birthday 02/12/1989

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  1. Grant me serenity.

    Gentle prayers came from a bowed head, slipping across plump lips as daily offerings were made. Hands clasped at chin height as hues tightly closed in honor of the Goddess. Every day Priscilla made her presence at the statue of Tellus Mater, every day without fail. So strongly believed she, in their Goddess. Her cloaked form huddled in prayer, she waited fifteen full minutes before standing once more, and releasing her gloved, clasped hands. A soft, supple leather covering digits as they folded back into the large, fur lined cloak that warmed her body. Soft, supple lines of her face peeked from the collar, pale and pleasant. Plump, rose colored lips curved into a smile as hazel eyes peered upon the statue with a serenity that few of her family seemed to be aware. Mouse colored hair bound in artistic form atop of her head, the woman turns as her heels click against the bridge all the way back to her carriage. The brisk walk was good, Priscilla finds that it clears her head after her prayers and helps her ramble on insights within her own mind, before she must return to the prattling job that is managing her parents estates and accounts. The Bellmours, afterall, are responsible for all of the waterway transportation in and out of Nu Martyr. Her parents had given her the duty of seeing to the businesses and accounts on her seventeenth birthday. As the eldest, it was her job to ensure that the company continued in their absence, or, goddess willing, their deaths. The whole ordeal left a sour taste in Priscilla’s mouth, her younger siblings carefree and mocking of her in their wild ways and youthful endeavors. Things in which Priscilla had never been part of, and likely never would. No, to Priscilla duty must come before all else. As her wrapped figure settles inside the vehicle, she sighs as she makes herself comfortable. The Driver turns down the radio, but she protests. “Wait, Gregori, please…I’d like to hear the wedding…” Priscilla offers to the greying man who sits in the front. “As you wish, Mistress.” The elder man smiles, a quirk of the side of his face. “I’ve asked you not to call me that, Gregori. You’ve known me since a child. But I’d like to hear…” She offers him a sweet, kind smile, and he nods and accepts her request by turning it up once more. Priscilla settles back and listens as she watches the city pass by. She is taken in by the tale of romance and love that the wedding presents. Among the other noblewomen, it is a source of gossip and admiration, to find such love in another person. “Perhaps someday, but unlikely.” Priscilla reminds herself, “Daydreams do no good.” She chides. “Did you say something, Miss?” Gregori asks, looking back at her. “No, thank you.” A sigh escapes her lips. “Gregori, I’d like to go to the market in the lower quarter, if you don’t mind.” “But, Miss, your parents—“ “Will never need to know, and if they find out, I assure you none of the blame will come back to you.” Priscilla assures him, her hazel gaze assuring him as her lips twist into a smile. Gregori sighs and turns back around to focus on where he is going. “As you wish.”
  2. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    Once the wizard settled down to rest, Dhizzandra was left to her own devices. She stayed awake as long as possible, not wanting to leave the kind wizard to any ill fate that might befall in the night. Fortunately there was little activity and the fire kept away most of that which would bring harm. The curious centaur was regarded with a frown. Dhizzandra knew of such creatures, they had existed in the old world, the first in which she had truly existed. That world was long gone, however, tossed about like a ship at sea as her Tree saw fit. Sometime in the hours of the morning, Dhizzandra would close her gaze and settle in, meditation bringing her mantras of solace. As it was taken upon, the Dryad focused on the Earth and what lie within as her breathing evened to match the gentle stillness of the just before dawn hours. As she focused in this state, roots grew from her form, stretching and grasping at items in which the Dryad would bring back to camp. Berries and fruits plucked for harvest, setting them on a giant leaf of sorts that surely wasn’t native to the area. Gentle consideration was given to each fruit, in hopes that it was edible for the wizard who had offered her such comfort prior. As the sun rose on the horizon and light filtered into the thick woods, Dhizzandra would finally stand, her figure stretching as fingers reached for the tiny bits of sun that graced them. Refreshed and pleased with herself for thinking of the man’s breakfast, Dhizzandra would also pluck two eggs from a nearby nest, setting them amongst the other edibles. “Barric?” Her gentle voice reaches out, an emerald hand gently giving a shake to the wizard. “Barric it is morning.” At least, to the Dryad. Most humans did not desire to rise so early. “It is time to wake.”
  3. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    Nature is cruel. Mothers are often separated from their children, or children are eaten in the chain of evolution and food. Mothers reject offspring for weakness and illness – though the Dryad is more sophisticated in those means – she understands why her tree has done what it has done. The reasoning does not soothe her grief, though she places it aside for now. “Such is the way of nature.” The Dryad offers to his statement of fair. Life was not fair, of this the Dryad was certain. She has seen enough of the human world to know that. As she watches Barric perform his feats of magic, he won’t be disappointed in the quest to impress the Dryad. Any action of magic, or even mundane feats of simple human ingenuity often found the woman impressed and inquisitive. So she settled and watched, brows furrowed in concentration as she took it upon herself to watch every movement of the alchemy he performed. The flash of lightning drew forth a soft yelp, however, Dhizzandra putting a hand to her mouth as a sheepish look graced her visage. “My apologies.” The woman offers as she looks to Barric, “I hope I didn’t alarm you.” A few steps back is taken, as Dhizzandra settles nearer the fence rather than closer to the fire. Though she remains within distance to speak to Barric. “In the morning, if you know the tale, will you tell me about these forests?” She intones, curious. Humans always had their own versions for how things came to be, and so she wishes to know. Perhaps the land itself has more secrets than she can glean from simply the flora and fauna. After her inquiry, Dhizzandra quiets, waiting for Barric to rest as he needs. She will rouse him when the morning comes, unless something creeps in the night.
  4. Death Valley

    The Princes’ insistence of ownership upon the nymph was lost on Helaine. Not only does the aberration not comprehend such a thing as ownership, her mind is addled by the distraction that presses between her thighs. Her gaze flickers in interest and caution as the man’s hands find themselves all about the little nymph, her yelp causing ears to stand straight as the woman stiffens slightly. She remains quiet, however, watching as the nymph provides no further protest to the Princes’ treatment of her, so she assumes this must be normal and accepted by the creature. Curiosity finds her leaning closer, nose wrinkling as she draws in the scent of the little nymph’s arousal. It is thick and spicy in the air in comparison to the gentle scent that normally graces the nymph. Eyes widen, however, at Paris’ offer to touch the nymph, and further at the nymphs own offering. A rumbling purr escapes the aberration as she leans forward to grasp the offered appendage. Helaine is surprised by the texture, soft and smooth, similar to…scaleless fish skin. Perhaps another animal creature – she is fascinated by it, and looks pleased to be holding the nymphs hand. Gently, and carefully, the aberration attempts something normally reserved for lesser beings. Helaine stretches her empathy, though it is difficult and without practice – least of all meant for more sophisticated beings like the nymph and her Princeling. Still, she presses against the Nymphs mind, the physical connection allowing her strength to do so. She is curious, and wants to know what the nymph is feeling as well – however, Helaine is poorly trained at this, and is more than likely creating a bridge between the two in the moment. That poor Shinguri would also be granted access to the woman’s own feelings and arousal, folding over atop of her own. Helaine makes a mewling, throaty noise as she sniffs at the nymphs fingers, drawing them close to her face. Her pink tongue darts from her maw to run along the smooth flesh of the nymph – fortunately for both, her tongue is not sharp or rough as might be expected. It draws along Shinguri’s palm, leaving a trail of saliva in its wake as it draws up her little webbed fingers curiously. When her sense of taste is satisfied, Helaine draws back, but not to release the nymph. She finds that she is far too warm, the slow feedback suddenly becoming rushed as the aberration writhes upon the saddle. Confusion laces her face, furrowing her brow as pleasure blossoms from her abdomen. This is a foreign experience, and Helaine is unsure of how to handle it. Rocking against the saddle in an effort to alleviate the issue, but she quickly finds that it exacerbates it instead. Helaine whimpers, fangs sinking into the soft flesh of her lower lip before a sudden, sharp cry escapes the woman as the pressure finally releases. Helaine swears she sees stars as pleasure she has never felt before floods her form, loosening all of the muscles she had tensed prior. Her form shudders, as breathing comes in sharp, desperate pants as she finds the saddle beneath her now warm and wet. Confusion brings another noise as she tries to make sense through her pleasure hazed mind of what just happened. Helaine finds her gaze turning to Paris in question. “What?” She intones, not sure what else to say.
  5. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    A flicker of a smile graces her visage at the horses’ insistence, fingers splaying across the velvety muzzle before withdrawing. The question that tumbled from Barric gave the Dryad pause, and a shudder came to her form, an effort to hold the gates against the flood. “No. My tree denied him, and separated us. He lives in another world, now. Thank you for the offer, but it is a burden I must carry…” The sins of the mother, afterall, often punished the child. While that wound was raw and fresh, the Dryad knew she could not focus on it, not at the moment. This man before her, the kindness in his hazel eyes and round face – bless him, he needed her help. She would resume her weeping after he had gone, surely. As she withdrew from the earth, human feet once more taking place of roots, the dryad moved – not like the stiff trees of the forest, but more like the grand willows. Graceful and soft, her feet upon the ground as she walked a pace around the would –be camp. Where she walked, vines sprouted around the trio, the dancing steps instilling life and encouraging growth. As it grew up, high enough to be a fence to block them from view, the Dryad pauses, leaving an opening big enough for Jorgh to walk through should he please, or a quick escape be needed. “As long as you don’t use fresh, living trees, I do not mind. The undergrowth must be culled or the forest suffers.” The woman offers as she presses a hand against the bark of a small tree that had become part of the enclosure. “When the sun rises, I will help you find your way out of the forest.” The Dryad promises the young man. This is something she can do, to perhaps one day prove to her tree that her transgressions were not so damnable. “Until then, you should rest. I will gather some wood for you.” And with that, the Dryad disappears into the dark forest. Though Barric shouldn’t worry, it is not home, but forests rarely differ. The Dryad slips through the shadows and trees as though she has existed among them since the beginning as she gathers up the dead boughs and branches that would provide ample heat and light for the young wizard. It takes a while, perhaps a half an hour before she deems enough gathered and returns to the fenced camp. Setting her two armfuls worth of wood down, she looks to Barric expectantly. Everyone makes fires differently, she is curious to see how he would perform.
  6. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    “Oh.” A simple punctuation of sound, more than a word. “I’m sorry…” Those golden hues well with sappy tears once more, threatening to overrun her emerald cheeks. “I didn’t mean to cause you issue.” The Dryad sniffs harshly – rather unattractively, really, as most crying women are. “I just…I lost my son, and…and now I’m stuck here…” The last is a sad warble, lip quivering with the words as Dhizzandra desperately tries to pull herself together long enough to converse with the kind, hazel eyed man. Hands raise to wipe away that pitch, hoping it not to mar her visage as it falls down her cheeks in torrent once more. A shame it wasn’t water, for it could rebirth the area she had slain. Her question for cinnamon rolls had been selfish, in hopes for a small comfort. “It..it’s ok. Thank you anyway.” The Dryad manages through yet another unbecoming sniffle. However, she pauses as the man rifles through his pack, making small talk as he does so. Dhizzandra has seen magic before, in a way, her own power is considered magic, but she finds it fascinating just the same. An emerald hand presses against Jorgh’s nose, finding comfort in the presence of the animal as she strokes the velvety flesh. For this moment, she welcomes the distraction the polite young man has given her, endearing himself to the Dryad as he presents his prize. A gentle, albeit still sad, smile crosses her visage. “You are…kind.” The spirit offers, lip trembling for the briefest of moments. Knowing her grief will not bring anything but harm, the Dryad tries to stifle it. With leaden heart, she reaches out, carefully breaking the cinnamon roll into two. She leaves one half in the magicians hand as the other fills her mouth. It is heavenly, and her eyes close with the comfort of cinnamon that washes her tongue. It fills her senses and allows her to take a breath, and then two as she tries to release the tension that holds her body hostage. When her gaze pries open once more, the spirit moves to embrace the young wizard in a hug. She thinks little of it, knowing this is how humans convey appreciation, among many other emotions. After a second, she withdraws. “Let’s see if I can’t at least help you get out of the forest.” The Dryad steps back, her feet becoming roots as she delves into the very ground beneath them in an effort to find a layout, or perhaps a secret it would offer. It takes…longer than she is used to, but eventually it gives way to her prodding. She is granted with the knowledge of the tree roots and the animals of the forest. For the moment, however, it is dark, and predators abound. The flowers gracing her hair become full and flush once more as the Dryad allows the earth to replenish her energy, as well as giving some in return. It appears as though she is merely meditating, though she twists after a moment. “It might be best for you to camp. Night is for predators. I will keep you safe, it is the least I can do.” With this, Dhizzandra has purpose, her grief is displaced for the moment – though she is not human, and while her grief is great, it likely will not plague her for long. Such is the way of nature.
  7. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    “Terrenus…” The word is foreign, tasteless on her tongue. Dhizzandra peers at the man who did not flee at first sight of her strangeness. Perhaps spirits like herself were commonplace in this land. The accent the man has is unknown – and difficult for the Dryad to comprehend. She gives it her best shot, however, and accepts his hand to stand. She first notices the callouses that plague the man’s flesh, her own free of such things, though her skin smooth – it resembles something akin to white tree bark in texture. Barric..The name itself is not so foreign. She knows an elf of similar name from her own home. “Barric…Thank you… I am Dhizzandra.” The Dryad offers after a moment, as she peers at the man and his steed. The horse is sturdy, that she can tell, and pleasant enough to keep man at his side. “Are you lost?” Her attention focuses on his statement of not knowing as well, a frown deepening the crease of her brow. “No…yes…I should stay here, I think. Mmm…Is this land of Terrenus magical?” The first sentence is spoken to herself, the second directed at Barric. “Do you have cinnamon rolls?” This question, while perhaps off topic seems quite important to the Dryad, the way it is stressed. Kill her now if there are none.
  8. Ancient Characters: How do you sell thier age?

    For the one character I have - Age isn't really a concept to her. She's not human, so that's also a factor. She never counted her days or years, not understanding the human concept of them. She followed the seasons, and she knows she has lived a lot of winters, but for the most part she only concerns herself with major events in her life. All else is not important, in her mind.
  9. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    Surely it was just a cruel dream. Surely that’s all it was. Why would the Tree be so cruel as to do this? The Dryad trembles in her slumber, her pain unbearable as her hands clutched at her chest in hopes of finding it devoid of heart. Alas, it beats beneath her palm, echoing her lamentations as Dhizzandra desperately tried to remain in peace. The destruction her grief had caused halted – it was not this planets fault, after all, that she should lose all she held dear. “Miss, are you alrigh’, do you need ‘elp?” What? Words, why were words here? Voices and unfamiliar scents, here…why? Dhizzandra manages to pry open a golden hue, taking in the appearance of the peasant man, unsure what to make of this situation for the time being. She contemplates this situation for a moment before a deep, shuddering sigh escapes her lips as her hands shift to push her form off of the dirt. As she raises into a sitting position, her golden gaze settles on the man once more. It takes a moment for the woman to process his words – her brain not quite at full capacity from her grief. “I…don’t know.” She answers truthfully, her stomach feels hollow and her head hurts. The pain of her heart was so great it stifles her very being, the flowers in her hair wilting around the antlers protruding from her skull. “Where am I?” The woman questions, noting the unfamiliar and strange forest. There is a …lifeforce in the land she does not recognize, yet is soothingly familiar. Perhaps…It is similar to her own Mother. “I don’t recognize these lands…Who are you?” The question comes bluntly, as shakey legs are bid to stand. A delicate hand raises to her head, brushing at the temples as if to alleviate some headache that plagues her, and then moves to wipe aside the sticky sap that would stain her cheeks. She waits patiently for a response from the man and his horse.
  10. Anguish.[Scudder Forests.]

    Loud…It was much louder than her home, it buzzes in her ears, ringing with the sounds of nature that surrounded her prone form. The supple body of the Dryad is half sunk into the earth as though being given birth to, and her emerald tresses doused in mud and twigs, antlers protruding from beneath the nest of nature cresting upon her brow. “No! No I won’t be pushed away from him! I don’t care if you don’t view him as pure, he’s my son!” The Dryad pleaded with the giant leaf bound tree, its bark shifting and separating with power as the sentient tree seemed to speak, the leaves shaking in tremors with the decision it had wrought. A primal scream tore from the Dryad at this decision, her hands clawing at the tree in blind rage – the type that only a mother would know before her world went black. A golden hue pries open as the Dryad came to, a gasp erupting from her as she moves suddenly, her lithe figure rising from the ground as she draws herself from the dirt, neverminding the nature that clings to her. Panic settles across her visage as her emerald form thrashes about, patting around in the dirt in a frenzy. “No, nonononononono….no, Adonis!” The Dryad stands quickly, her matronly form covered in naught but leaves. A shadow of modesty finding her not quite nude, as a skirt and matching bra are made of the very leaves that surround the forest floor. “Adonis!” She calls once more, her voice growing higher in pitch as panic and despair settle into her bones. “Adonis!” It is with this last cry that the icy pit of acknowledgement settles into her stomach. The Great Guardian Tree in which she has devoted her life to has ripped her from her child, simply because he is of mixed races. Anger and shock roil in the pit of her stomach as her form stumbles forward, grasping at the ground, the trees, the foliage nearby. Any creature near has fled in the wake of her despair, and Dhizzandra’s breathing is ragged – desperate as she attempts to find some solace. Surely the Great Tree would not be so cruel as to drag her into another realm and leave her child behind. Surely…surely it wouldn’t be so cruel. The Dryad’s gaze narrows, focusing on the dirt that was at her feet as the shifting of the roots beneath it was felt to her very soul. No, that is exactly what had happened. No opportunity to say goodbye, to explain to her child what might happen…never had the woman imaged the tree would reject her child. The only solace that could be provided the creature was that he had been left in a safe place – likely to grow and flourish amongst those she considered family. For now, however, she grieves. She grieves for the child that has been abandoned, a child she knows she may not return to, tree willing. Her heart aches, be still heart, be still, she wills it, but it does not come. It beats her sorrow and it punctuates her pain with each pounding of the great muscle as her head tilts back. A scream that can only be perceived as primal erupts from her throat – echoing across the forests as her anguish makes itself known. The Dryad sits, quiet in her anguish beyond that initial scream as her heart bleeds from her chest, sappy tears creating waterfalls from her golden gaze as it shuts tightly against the light of the sky. Its brightness was too much to bear on her saddened heart, too pure for her shock and feeling of betrayal. How long would the tree keep her banished to this new hell? To this new land that she would be subject to at the whims of another. She remains like this for some time, hoping the sun would melt her body away, or perhaps give release to her breaking heart. However long she stays, Dhizzandra does not know. She wills the passage of time to mold her bones into nothingness, giving birth to dust, but she knows the tree she had pledged herself to will not give her release, not yet. No, clearly it is not done tormenting her. As despair lowers in the marrow of her bones, the emerald colored woman slumps, her form falling to it’s side in a manner that protects neither head nor side. Dhizzandra lays there, gaze open as she stares at the forest floor. In the radius around her, small plants begin to wither and perish. “Adonis…” The last, a gentle murmuring, the word flavored with sorrow. Dhizzandra knew not how long she laid there, the immediate area around her devoid of any life. The plants had withered and crumbled to nothing, until the Dryad slept, forced into slumber by her pain.
  11. Dhizzandra.

    Matron of Nature. Name: Dhizzandra. Dhizz to those of close companionship. Title: Daughter of Gaia. Matron of Nature. Age: Unknown. Race: ‘Dryad’ - Though bordering on Demi. Class: MP. Family: Gaia. Marital Status: Unmarried. act ii. The Diagnostics Height: 5’11” Weight: 155lbs though this can vary. Hair: As though strands of grass. Eyes: Emerald. Voice: Matronly. Skin: Ranging from semi-tanned to emerald. Dependant on how ‘human’ she desires to look. act iii. The Armament Weapon: Flora and Fauna. Armor: Flora and Fauna. act iv. The Dossier Likes: As a simple creature, Dhizzandra’s likes are immeasurable. She enjoys many things - Most of which are quite common. Having spent much time with those considered ‘civilized’ she finds herself quite fond of cinnamon rolls. Dislikes: Disrespect to Gaia or nature in general. She dislikes people who intend harm. Attitude: Dhizzandra has often been called ‘motherly.’ She is a kind soul who enjoys looking out for others, though fiercely loyal and protective of those under her ‘care.’ Abilities: Control of the Flora and Fauna. - Tied to the ‘Tree of life’ as a curse. This sends her through various realms at will.
  12. -Rin.

    Name: Rin Ka Title: White Lady. Age: 25 Race: Unknown; Mixed genomes. Class: “Healer.” Family: On-Wa Marital Status: Unmarried. act ii. The Diagnostics Height: 5’1” Weight: 120 lbs. Hair: White. Eyes: Pink Voice: Lilting and firm. Skin: White. Literally. act iii. The Armament Weapon: None. Armor: None, Accessories: A simple silver chain with key on the end of it. act iv. The Dossier Likes: Helping people, healing, drawing, her brother. Dislikes: She dislikes being treated badly, or seeing others in pain. Attitude: Mostly helpful, sometimes quiet and pensive. Abilities: Healing. That’s the extent of her abilities. She has no means of defending herself.

    I'm satisfied with that outcome, personally. Our characters are out of the main scene, afterall.

    He is correct in his assumption. It was a pleasure, but I also will be taking my leave. Thank you for humoring us and allowing us to participate within your roleplay. :)
  15. Death Valley

    Helaine waits, impatient and agitated next to the giant of a man. She observes him for a long moment with displeasure as they wait on Paris to join them. Solomon is far too large, far too…everything, Helaine decides after a moment and takes a step away from him, bumping into the butt of the mare. Her attention moves from the man to animal. Animals she is familiar with, and while she has never ridden a horse before, she is aware of how its mind might think. She has seen these creatures used by the villagers prior, in her hunts along the outskirts of their villages. A clawed hand reaches out, delicately touching the animal as soft croons and even a purr escapes her throat. In the short moments left to her whims, Helaine closes an eye as she presses her face to the animals’ neck, her minds power stretching to brush against the horses for only a second before she is grasped. A yowl escapes her throat, permeating the air with her surprise and momentary displeasure. While not as…robust as the little Naiad, Helaine was not without her own curves and delightful spots. A lifetime of rugged living had muscles corded and tight – sprung for rapid release, though her body is still a woman’s, and soft in the appropriate places. As her barely clad derriere brushes against the Princelings desire, Helaine’s body is quick to respond, the animalistic nature of it preparing her readily as a softer mewling tone vibrates within her throat. She is not foreign to this sensation, this…need, though it is the first time it had come with foreign touch. His hands, though covered in leather, are firm and strong – appealing to the woman and animal alike. In the next moment, however, she is settled upon a strange leather device atop of the horse. Helaine frowns, her figure shifting in her discomfort as it presses intimately against the strips of fur covering her body. Taking this time to attempt to adjust, Helaine is distracted in her movements by Shinguri’s own momentary flight into a saddle. Lips pursed in disappointment, as the Cat-woman desperately wished to know what the little nymph felt like, her curiosity nearly palpable as she craned some – before suddenly the mare was moving. Another yowl of surprise escaped her throat, though it tinged the air with something more than just surprise, a small gurgle dying in the back of her throat as Helaine’s form shuddered with each movement of the mare, though clearly not in distaste. Paris’ comment, however, is greeted by a pink tongue that slithers from her maw. “Mleeeh.” A quiet noise, only present to be ornery for that brief moment before the horse is moving again, and Helaine is once more distracted by the delightful feeling that consumes her, small mewls and puffing breaths are the only evidence of this for the time being. “Wanna touch water girl.” She states after a moment, her gaze heavy lidded in blatant desire. Her demand means no harm, but is firm in it’s saying. “Why can no touch? Is pretty. Feel…like water?” Helaine’s broken sentences are punctuated with pregnant pauses as the cat-woman attempts to adjust once more, to keep her brain un-addled so as to speak for those few moments.