Yo folks, wanna hear something funny? The guy who struggles with getting frequent posts out for a single character is now putting a second character into the ring! Hah! Now that we've all had a laugh, though, it's time to get the serious face on because this character's story is anything but funny. Hopefully I hit the mark by keeping it this side of, if not tasteful, then at least engaging. I've spent the past few weeks discussing the concept and refining this or that lore point with Jack, and now that it's finally done I'm finally ready to post it in the thread in general.

My desire is to have this character become an ally of sorts, or at least stay in contact with the main group because it would be nice to pass around posts between others than just Jack, as is the case with Jill for the forseeable future. I'm admittedly not up to date on the IC posts that do not directly concern my character, but I've been told that at least Aemoten and Thaler (and Etakar, I suppose) would be arriving in Zerul shortly, as in, 4-5 posts. I'll have to read up a bit on what they've been up to so I can get a better idea of what is up. If that's true, we can probably organize a first-contact run-in by the city gates. Ciara, being underway with a few other clerics, is on a quest to convert some poor refugee suckers to Ismyel, meaning they'd be by the gates anyway. Wanted to make sure this encounter is okay with you folks. In any event, Ciara should be far more agreeable than Jillian was.

As for the sheet below, I strongly recommend reading the story first and then the rest. You don't have to, but the story was written as a self-contained introduction that practically makes the rest of the sheet optional.

[hider]
[color=9966CC][b]Introduction Story[/b][/color]:
[hider]Sleek fingers wrapped in blackened leather tightened their grip around the sword handle. Two hands clutching a downwards pointing blade, its tip securely balanced on the polished stone floor. Her vision was downcast, dreamy silver eyes following the fuller of her weapon.

“Yes, they are right,” she said, her voice firm and unhesitating but sweet all the same. Her left knee, placed on the cold, hard floor, shifted ever so slightly, grating the steel kneepad against the ground. “I was a slave. For a long time. I understand you want to know everything?”

A cold void enveloped her stomach. She had no desire to open these wounds, but if this was the will of her goddess, she would gladly apply the knife.

“I know who you are, Ciara. But I need to know who you were, as well. There can be no secrets if you desire more than your current lot in life.”

His voice was raspy and merciless, like the ocean breeze in winter. She could see his gnarly, sandaled feet before her, just behind the gleaming iron blade of her sword inside which the nearby torchlight flickered.

“Then I will spare no details. Unless my memory should fail me,” she answered with a heavy heart.

“I was born in Relimon, in a fishing hamlet they call Vickerstine. A small and dreadful place for small and dreadful people,” she began, pausing only to snicker at her own description, “Nobody knows it. Nobody should, by rights, know it. Father was a carpenter, or what passed for one back there. He made crooked little chairs, gnarly little tables, and fixed moldy old shacks that some would call home. It was a big household but a small house. We were fourteen all in all: Father. Mother. Mother’s parents. Seven brothers. Two sisters. Me. I was the third youngest. I believe I was… eight? Nine? Still a girl. There wasn’t enough space. I shared a bed with three of my siblings. There wasn’t enough money, or clothing, or food.”

She paused to clear swallow and clear her throat. Her fingers relented their grasp, then clenched again, finger by finger.

“The only thing we had in abundance were children. And father had no purpose for girls. We were too fragile to make fragile little furniture. Or to go out fishing. Girls were good for cooking, making more little boys and maybe keeping a bed warm at night. That’s what we believed.”

“Truth is,” she added after taking a deep breath, “I don’t know for how much time they’ve been setting up their little deal. Maybe it was planned months ago. Maybe it was a spur of the moment decision. They never deigned to tell me. Only one day, it was a late, autumn evening, father called me to come outside. I hadn’t seen mother that day, but I heard her swallowing tears in the kitchen. I didn’t think much of it back then. This happened all the time.”

“As if crying would have changed a thing,” she added bitterly, her knuckles becoming white underneath the leather gloves.

“He called me outside,” she continued, doing her best to stay the course and not lose herself in emotion, “Father was talking to a group of men with toned skin and strong bodies. Not locals, I would have recognized them. Looked like seasoned seamen perhaps from the city. They had a large carriage with four horses. Other fathers were also speaking with the foreigners, each with one or more of their misbegotten offspring in tow. Girls, boys, it did not matter. Clinking bags exchanged filthy hands. Then they told the children to get on the cart. Some refused, tried to cling to their fathers, or run to their homes. That’s when they began to bind their feet and their hands. That’s when they beat them. I almost got away, but Eirik, one of my older brothers, caught me in the backyard. Dragged me back out.”

She swallowed again, pausing for longer. Her eyes closed.

“I hate him.”

[i]A late evening sun painted Vickerstine in rusted golden hues. Poorly constructed wooden huts with straw rooftops pressed against the muddy shoreline. Beached boats lined the oily coast from which deeply dredged trails led back to the inner village where sturdy wooden crates and bundles of nets were propped up against the ramshackle huts. The stench of rotten fish prevailed over everything, enveloping the hamlet like a poisonous miasma. To the inhabitants, it was the smell of home, but to the slave traders from the city, who themselves were used to the stink of the city harbor, it was revolting, fouling their moods and tempers. One boy struggled so much while they bound him that they beat him until his nose bled and lips split open, then they threw him on the cart where his body almost crushed a frightened young girl that squealed in pain. Next they wanted to bind a little blonde, but she tore at her captors and bit one of them in the arm, drawing blood. Her head slammed against the side of the cart, dizzying her and causing her vision to blur. When she lay on the cart afterwards, like a piece of meat, her little silver eyes glared hatefully at her house until she could no longer see it.

The seed had been planted.[/i]

“We didn’t stay with the slavers,” she specified, her face now a mask of stone gazing at the ground so intensely that she had come to commit every speck of dust, every piece of rubble and every fold in the rock to memory. “They were just the hired muscle. The collectors. I don’t think they’re working under Relimonian law. But they’re cheap and efficient. Nobody asks too many questions in this business. Money exchanged hands again and we were given to a reputable slave trader operating from the capital. We weren’t beaten anymore from now on, but most were broken by now anyway. They saw to it that our bruises were healed or covered up, washed us. We were quite young so we were told how to behave and even given a bit of education while we waited for a buyer. Sometimes there would be inspections where they lined us up and had a client eye us up and down like a farmer would look at a sow he was thinking of buying. We were told we were lucky to be in Relimon. Overseas they treat slaves worse. I didn’t feel lucky.”

“It’s a shame we haven’t returned the isles to the oceans yet,” she commented with an absentminded smile. “And speaking of oceans. I would soon spend a lot of time being rocked by her sometimes gentle, sometimes violent waves. One day, an enterprising tradeswoman picked me up, I don’t know for how much. She commandeered a trade vessel that ran a route between Arkanoz and the mainland. The [i]Gallant[/i]. The ship brought in shipments of medicine and brought back exotic foods and sometimes cheap slaves to be sold at a profit. Wouldn’t surprise me if we smuggled a box if Piaan every now and again but I know little of the business, it’s not what I was bought for. The captain wanted a handmaid, likely because her newfound wealth got to her head.”

Ciara paused for a moment, cocking her neck to the left and the right, each time provoking a subtle cracking noise. Having knelt for a while, the stiff positioning was becoming stifling. But she could not bring herself to feel bothered by the discomfort; she had endured far more painful and far more humiliating things in her life. This was nothing, and she would gladly kneel for the rest of the day if it brought Ismyel joy.

“All things considered, this [i]was [/i]a turn for the better. The [i]Gallant’s [/i]captain, Eva Levant by name, was as good a mistress as a slave could expect. I – I should mention I was about twelve, thirteen maybe by this time. Sorry. As I was saying, she was fair to me. Mostly. How she expected a smelly little runt from a forgotten fishing hamlet to know how to powder her face or neatly fold clothing is beyond me, but I learned. You might be surprised that the vessel’s captain was a woman. I know I was.”

She subtly wriggled a bit to try and move her body. Her tight leather harness was chafing and she could feel herself sweating underneath.

“I learned that the Melanians, degenerates that they may be, have far more respect for women than for men. In turn, this made trade deals much easier for Eva, who had learned how to engage the catfolk in such a way as to respect their customs and appeal to their sensibilities. I’m almost tempted to call her a smart woman, but she got greedy. Sailed further into the isles, began dealing with the Unseen. Travelled unsafe waters to reach untapped markets. It was a mistake that would ruin her.”

“Oh, how it ruined her,” she chuckled awkwardly. In the polished reflection of her sword, she could see her strange grin, framed by chin-length blonde hair. But then the expression vanished from her pale lips and her mien became grim once more. After a pause, she glumly added: “Ruined all of us.”

[i]The entire vessel shook and leaned sideways when the great ballistae unloaded their broadside. The noise of dozens of arm-thick strings being released rumbled through every beam and plank of the ship. Frightened silver eyes stared upwards at the lantern dangling from the ceiling, which danced wildly from side to side, casting ever warping shadows across the lavishly decorated wooden bedchamber. The servant girl sat on a stool placed before a low desk, complete with drawers and with a large mirror situated on it. Her sleek arms were wrapped around her stomach, entire body shivering as if winter had invaded the cozy cabin.

“You really are a frightened little kitten, aren’t you, Lilian?” the other woman in the room, a tall brunette clad in fine silks, soft leather and wearing a rather large, feathered hat teased her servant. “This is one of the finest vessels in Relimon. We have about sixty ballistae and two mages aboard. This’ll be over in no time and we can all sleep soundly tonight.”

She sounded so confident in her crew and her vessel. Not for a moment did she believe that things could go sour. Whether her words belied her thoughts or not, the servant girl could not say. All she knew was that they were a far way from home, and they did not belong here in these savage waters.

Another barrage of heavy bolts left the ship’s starboard side, seeking vulnerable hulls to dig into. Again the entire vessel vibrated and rumbled in protest. Then the vessel was shaken a second time, more violently than before even, but without the accompanying sound of whizzing strings. Instead, there was the worrisome creaking of broken wood and bending iron. The frightened handmaid toppled from her stool and even the captain had to grab onto the front side of her bed to avoid falling. Dozens of men shouted above deck. Orders were shouted. Warcries were shouted. Dying screams were shouted. If one listened closely, one could hear the sound of clashing steel as men hacked at each other with saber and axe.

Worry crept up the captain’s face. This wasn’t part of the plan. The helmsman had been given the order to treat suspicious vessels with extreme prejudice. He should have engaged them at a sufficient range. There was no way anyone could have gotten into boarding range without sinking. Her orderly trade run had turned into a disaster. Thousands of Rodlins in losses. She would have to repair the vessel, hire new men. Not to mention the potential for damaged goods below deck. And if all of these concerns weren’t enough to give her a headache, her handmaid began weeping loudly on the floor.

Minutes went by, minutes of nail biting uncertainty. The captain sat on her bed, facing the door with a cocked crossbow in hand. A jeweled saber lay next to her. It had never seen combat, nor would it ever. The sounds of fighting had quieted down, but neither the captain nor her servant eased up – rather, they became even more tense.

Then they heard it. Thud. Thud. Thud. Somebody – no, multiples – were descending below deck towards the crew and the captain’s quarters. If they were coming to report of their victory, they would have been faster, and not so numerous. These steps were calculated, careful. They weren’t familiar with the ship. They were [/i]invading[i].

“Whatever happens now, don’t make a noise,” the captain whispered to her maidservant. Then she swallowed and spoke no more. She was trembling; her fine merchant fingers, more accustomed to counting Rodlins than to grasp a crossbow, were sweaty and uneasy. Unlikely she would even hit the mark if somebody were in the doorway, and she had only one shot.

Clink. Somebody tried to open the door; it was locked. They tried another time or two before realizing that gently pushing would not be sufficient. The captain nervously aimed her weapon at the door, aim swaying wildly. All she could think of was the Grand Relimon Harbor with its myriad vessels, a forest of masts adorned with colorful flags flapping in the wind while seagulls screamed in the fair skies above. And her mother who never ceased protesting against her daughter’s aspirations. In this moment she realized she would see neither ever again. And then the door was kicked in.

The seed took roots.[/i]

“The [i]Gallant [/i]was seized by pirates,” Ciara explained factually and slowly, carefully measuring each word. She felt nothing but disdain for her former self as she recalled these events. All she could do was weep and beg and weep some more. A worthless wench. How did Ismyel ever find it in herself to uplift her from this sorry state? Perhaps she had seen potential that Ciara would have been blind to back then. They called her the spirit of evil, but to Ciara, she was the most magnanimous of all.

“Most of the crew was killed in the ensuing combat. The deck looked like a battlefield. Thick smoke and fog hang over everything, the floor littered with bodies, body parts and blood. Parts of the deck were burning. There had been four ships attacking us from all sides. They took massive losses, we sunk two of their ships, but we were overwhelmed. Those that survived – meaning those who surrendered and those who hid below deck – were taken as captives along with sackfuls of other spoils. I remember the remaining pirate captains, as well as their henchmen, arguing over who gets what. I couldn’t tell you how their feud went. I… was in no state to pay attention. Those were different days. I was worthless and they treated me as such.”

Ciara’s head sunk lower than before and her lips pressed together in a disapproving pucker. Eyes frowned angrily at the stone tile before her whose features she had become so very familiar with.

“I ended up on the ship belonging to a human – a tall, massive, sweaty, stinking, bearded brute of a man,” she continued, expressing every descriptive word associated with the pirate captain in such a seething tone, such disdain that it was hard not to feel intimidated by the undiluted hatred in her voice. “Captain Levant, as well as a few of her crewmen were also there. I knew none of them. They- They had… cages. Easier to fit below deck. Easier to stack. About… five by five feet I guess. Ahem.”

She cleared her throat as her voice began quivering towards the end. She had to rectify the angle at which she held her sword down numerous times now. Part of it was because of her arms becoming fatigued, part of it was the ice cold void that had slowly ascended from her stomach to her chest, gripping her heart and making her insides feel as though they had been left to freeze at the bottom of the ocean.

“I spent... I spent – about, I think, five years. Six years. I don’t remember. I lost count. I was there for a long time. You remember when I said they treated slaves badly in Melanaoth? Well… that was referring to the official ones. Those in the cities. I wasn’t one of those.”

Ciara gasped for breath. Her cheeks felt wet and hot. Her body quivered. She hated herself. She was a different person now, there was no room for weakness. This shameful display alone deserved punishment, and she would do so by telling this man everything she had gone through that her mind could recall. Perhaps this was the only way to expunge the last vestiges of frailty from her ailing mind. Thus, her tale continued as she slumped down on her sword, breaking form.

“Picture a rickety wooden vessel, barely sea-worthy. It’s not very big. It’s very crowded. Everyone is a man. Able bodied men, mostly young or middle aged at least. These aren’t men like those in the countryside or in the cities. These are the rejects of society. These are the filth at the bottom of civilization. They know not decency, they know not mercy. The only reason they cooperate at all is because they both fear and adore their captain, who keeps them docile with generous supplies of gold, alcohol, piaan and ‘wenches’. Half a decade or more is a long time to become intimately familiar with the customs of lawless seamen. Where do you want me to begin? The part where they have me scrub the deck in the nude? While they piss on it? Or the part where they wake me up in the dead of night, drunk as lords, tearing me between them because they can’t decide who gets to go first? How about the part where they feed me leftovers, if you can call it that? Or the part where I can’t fall asleep because the girl in the cage next to me can’t stop crying? Oh I know, how about that one time when the Melanian-“

“Enough,” the old man commanded sternly from his chair. “You did not come before me to receive my sympathy, nor have I any to give. Continue the narration.”

Ciara clenched her teeth and straightened herself once more. She could feel her golden hair sticking to her temples, wet with sweat. She would not apologize. He was right, however. She wanted no sympathy. Only the old Ciara would have wanted sympathy. The new one only wants to persevere. Wants revenge. Wants her every word and every action to exalt the goddess that both saved her and transformed her. And she never wants to be who she was before.

“As you wish,” she said plainly, exhaling a long breath to calm the nerves. “As I’ve said, I wasn’t the only one in this predicament. There were others, mostly girls. There weren’t too many men and they were often quickly sold. I understand the girls would have fetched a fine price on the isles, but they were also an inexhaustible drug to keep the rowdy crew pacified. A few years after my capture I met strangely large man – also a prisoner – in the holding decks below. They must have nabbed him during one of their raids. He was big and strong, perfect for hard labor. A good catch. Who would have thought he was a gentle soul though? I imagine that’s how they caught him. He almost certainly hadn’t fought back. He took pity on us, seemingly less concerned with his own fate than ours. Rightfully so, I suppose, but I had grown to forget that selflessness was a human trait at this point. Of course, there was naught he could do but talk, but he did so to share with us the names of the spirits and the gods, and what those names stood for. That’s how I learned of the name that is now branded on my flesh: Ismyel.”

Ciara paused yet again, feeling parched and tired. Her tale was approaching its climax and ending and this knowledge kept her going, kept her frozen in this dreadful kneeling position and talking her gums dry.

“He taught me some prayers. Taught me her symbol. Taught me her creeds, her boons and her demands. I believe he was a priest from Fokon. Or maybe a scholar. Either way, he had spent many years in the Joint Temple, studying the ancient scriptures. It doesn’t matter, I guess. Through him I learned to revere her name, and so I did. Day after day. Night after night. In my despair, I called out to other gods and spirits too, I admit. I was weak. But no answer ever came and my misery continued. Until, one night, I had a dream. More than that, it was a vision. It was too vivid, too detailed, too specific, to have been a dream. I did not understand it at first, but this vision kept haunting me every so often. Eventually, I had it daily. I saw flashes of it before my eyes even while awake. The vision consumed me until, eventually, I understood.”

A brief fit of coughing interrupted her tale. She wiped her pale lips with her left hand, the cold steel of her gauntlet feeling like ice against her dry skin.

[i]“I need it,” the silver-eyed girl insisted sternly. Her body was bare, covered in bruises, scabs, dirt and dried blood. Her hands and face were almost black from the caked in filth.

“But it’s all I have… I – my mother-“ another girl with messy brown hair weakly insisted, her voice bordering on whining. She was nervously looking around, trying to spot some kind of escape. She was cornered.

Then she screamed and collapsed against the damp, rough wooden wall of the lower cargo deck. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed miserably.

“I will take your hairpin now,” the blonde declared confidently, feeling a subtle sting in her palm. The other girl did not protest and let the fair haired girl remove her hairpin. They spoke no more; the brown haired one cried herself to sleep, the blonde left the cargo deck. She had plans. On her way out, she put her hair up with her newly gained ornament, feeling pretty as a princess. A princess in a pig pen.

When she emerged on deck she was welcomed by dozens of leering, lustful eyes of animals wearing the skin of men. They were too busy at the time rigging the sails and repairing damaged sections of the ship to harass her. Not busy enough to not make vulgar and suggestive remarks, calling out to her. She ignored them all. They weren’t important to her yet. They wanted her, and they would get her. But not yet.

There was the captain, slumped on a rickety chair in front of the steering wheel. His face was fat and greasy, covered in black, coarse hairs. His breath stunk of dead things and alcohol. His beard infested with lice. His clothes tattered and old, covered in stains. He was more than just a captain; he was a despot. Sat like a king on the only chair on deck, bellowing commands to his crew as droplets of spittle fell into his beard. Then his eyes caught sight of her. Fragile. Small. Coy. Her gaze downcast and ashamed, legs pressed together. There she was scrubbing the floor from where various alcoholic and organic substances were spilled on deck. He loved seeing that and she knew it.

He was not a smart man. Smart enough, perhaps, to commandeer a vessel of sea dogs, but not smart enough to notice her new hairpin. Not smart enough to realize that she hadn’t acted this embarrassed in years. All he could think of was a more ‘fun’ time, long ago when they captured a grandiose trade vessel. This nostalgia would be his doom and that of his crew.

“I want you scrubbing my personal quarters tonight,” he slurred, his filthy head filled with rum already. “I’ll see you there or I’m gonna hurt ya’.”

His threats were empty. In a world of pain and suffering, what import did the promise of more of the same hold? All the same, she heeded his command. Her plan was working. Later that evening, she found herself cleaning the moldy floorboards in the captain’s chambers. A far cry from the quarters of her former captain. This ship was the embodiment of decay, both material and spiritual. Here on this vessel, everything rotted away.

The girl played her part. She had known this man for over half a decade now. Knew what he liked. Knew what drove him crazy. Animals are simple creatures, after all, and he had always been an animal. Looked like one. Lived like one. Would die like one, too.

He forced his bloating, greasy body onto her on the floor. She faked him a smile. She faked him feelings. She gave him everything he desired. When later she sat on top of him, she gave him the best time of his life – until she stopped, knowing exactly when to cut short to frustrate him. He would get no chance to question or reprimand her. With an eerie smile on her face she removed the hairpin from her soiled golden locks. Clutching it with both hands, shaking with excitement, she plunged the spiked end into his throat.

Their faces were close now. Blood and gurgling noises escaped from his maw as he gasped for air like a fish out of water. “It’s my turn now,” the silver-eyed girl whispered with a youthful giggle. His fat fingers tried to reach for her body, to somehow throw her off, but she did not relent. Out went the needle. In it went. Out it went. In again. Then into his left eye. Then into his right eye. She tried penetrating his forehead, but his skull was too thick. Up the nostrils the hairpin went.

It was her turn now. She defiled him. Spent minutes transforming his face. When she heard footsteps outside she screamed wildly, ecstatically. The men would know not to intrude. When the hairpin was little more than a crumpled iron string and the captain’s face an unrecognizable soup, she stopped. It was the happiest day of her life.

And the seed burst from the blood-soaked soil…[/i]

“I stabbed him needlessly. I thought about stopping but couldn’t. I couldn’t stop, my hands. My hands they wouldn’t stop moving, wouldn’t stop stabbing. I only stopped when the hairpin was too deformed to carry on.”

Her eyes were wide, face torn in a manic grimace. Even the memory of this event was enough to intoxicate her. Her exposed shoulders began to quiver and then she laughed, could not hold it back. It took a minute before she regained her bearing under the judgmental gaze of the old man in black robes before her.

“The best part – the best part is I pissed on him too before I got up. I – ah. Yes, the narration,” she snorted with the occasional chuckle, still unable to wipe that grin off her face. “This next part should be good. In my vision, after the deed, I would find a strange, pristine cloak in the same room. Black as night. It did not belong to the captain, nor had it been on the ship before then. So I turned around and, well, there it was. Just lying over a chair. My sweet little embrace. The next part of the plan was madness. Only a fool could have believed in it. A fool, or a zealot. I don’t know which I was, but it did not make a difference. It was too late to go back. Somebody would find the body. They would see me walk out of the room. I had blood all over my body. All over my hands. All over my face. I was bathed in it and had never felt so clean. The only way forward was to continue with the plan. It would either work, or I would die. Both options were fine.”

“So, I donned the cloak and took the captain’s saber. The saber, actually, had belonged to Eva Levant. He’d taken it as a trophy. To this day it had never been drawn for combat. Levant was too inept to fight. The pirate too decadent. But that day, I would make up for every one of those lost opportunities to shed blood. I believe the saber was encrusted with sapphires at the grip, but they’re rubies now. But maybe I wasn’t sane of mind. The cloak I wore was magical, you see. It made me invincible. Nothing could touch me. I even tried it myself: clenched my fist around the blade and pulled. My palm was unscathed. More than that, the cloak erased any sense of self-preservation from the others. It was as if they were all even more drunk than usual. So when I approached them, sword in hand, my naked body covered in blood, they did not think to panic. They only asked me to come closer and maybe play with their noodle. So I came closer, but I was the one doing the penetrating. I cut every single man aboard that ship. Dozens, you understand. There were so many my arm felt like tiring out towards the end. The deck overflowed with blood. The bodies were clogging up the corridors inside. I had such fun.”

The robed man’s eyes widened as he listened to her story. He had his doubts of course. The woman before him appeared more insane by the minute and he could not consider her a reliable narrator. Even so, her description of the cloak was too accurate to be a mere coincidence, mere fabrication. If what she said was true then… the implications would be enormous. He had to take her serious, against his better judgment, because if she spoke true and he chose not to believe her – no, he could not afford such a blunder. Religion, after all, was a matter of faith, and right now his faith was being put to the test. He would not fail her.

“What happened next?” he pressed her, making sure to obscure as much of his vested emotions as he could.

“It’s a bit of a haze. I was so drunk on the carnage I had wrought, so drunk on the freedom I had gained, that the following days are all a blur to me. I freed the other captives. When I showed them my masterpiece, they went mad with fright. My old captain stared at me with eyes like a frightened little kitten, then cowered in a corner and buried her face in her knees. She stayed like that for days. The others – I don’t know. I paid no attention. Somehow, we managed to return to the mainland, arriving somewhere in Relimon. Not sure why no other ships tried to hail or seize us. Maybe the lookout spotted the deck, full of rotting bodies that were now decaying in the sun and the rain, and decided to steer clear. I don’t know. But we arrived on the mainland, for better or for worse. We parted ways there. No goodbyes were said. Not sure where they went.

As for me, I dragged my failing body all the way to Gilmah. Got no memory of the road. I was more akin to a dead body shambling onwards. Do you remember how I collapsed on your doorstep?”

Asking a question for the first time, Ciara raised her head and looked the high priest directly in the eyes. She was serious now, no cheeky smile on her lips, no madness in the eyes.

“I crawled into your home on all fours, half dead. I was almost cast out but I found my voice just in time. Do you remember what I said?”

“I give my life. I give my life for Ismyel. It belongs to her. I belong to her. Make use of me as you will. I am yours.”

And then she fell silent, staring at the high priest with piercing silver eyes. Now only the gentle growling of torches could be heard in the dark, hollow room.[/hider]
[color=9966CC][b]Name[/b][/color]: Ciara (Doesn't give a last name)
[color=9966CC][b]Race[/b][/color]: Human, Relimonian
[color=9966CC][b]Occupation[/b][/color]: Paladin of Ismyel, the Spirit of Evil

[color=9966CC][b]Appearance[/b][/color]:
Often mistaken for a paladin of Liya or Deliph, Ciara stands tall and proud with an expression of openness and confidence on her face. Although her inviting demeanor defies expectations when it comes to those favored by the Spirit of Evil, her behavior belies her inner being the same as her clothing hides the large tattoo of Ismyel’s mark sprawled over her back. She is a woman of average height with pale blonde hair, cut straight at chin length, and an athletic build that speaks of a disciplined and hardworking lifestyle. The most striking feature of her face is no doubt the pair of unusually pale eyes, more silver than gray, which veer between attentive and dreamy depending on the circumstances. Aside from these, her face is rather plain, never having felt the touch of powders or rouges.

Ciara prefers form-fitting clothing, typically wearing some form of leather pants and a tight shirt that does not hide her somewhat ample bosom. Although she likes clothing made from more expensive materials such as silk, she has never once worn any kind of jewelry, nor does she intend to. Moreover, she strongly dislikes wearing skirts or dresses of any kind, they make her feel too feminine and vulnerable.

In combat she dons an armless jerkin and pants, both made of blackened and thick leather. Though offering less protection than plate or chain armor, these help her remain more mobile and quick on her feet and do not exhaust her as much over prolonged engagements or lengthy journeys. Her belt has a variety of bags attached to it, and on journeys outside of the city she also carries a knapsack on her back to contain supplies for the trek. While most of her body is protected only by leather – albeit of high quality – she covers some of her more important spots in something sturdier. In particular, she wears steel gauntlets over the elbow-length leather gloves as well as a sturdy pair of boots that come with metal shin plates and knee caps. Lastly, she puts on an open-faced helmet with a black and violet-colored plume prior to heading into battle.

[color=9966CC][b]Personality[/b][/color]:
There is a prevailing sense of aloofness about Ciara, some lingering impression of wrongness in her words and actions that is hard to quantify. She is largely an open and engaging person who appears to enjoy the company of others, regardless of their religious beliefs. In conversation she is polite to the extent of trying not to insult anyone, but every now and again it becomes apparent that she has a less than perfect grasp on social etiquette when she says things more plainly and openly than Rodorian sensibilities are used to, or when her humor ends up being too crass for people that aren’t sailors or mercenaries. This only becomes worse the more highly ranked people she talks to are; a meeting with nobility would be an outright disaster for her. Even so, those who can tolerate her uncouth manner will find in her a pleasant person to speak to. Only when she is pressed for personal information, particularly that relating to her past, she tenses up and becomes unwilling to speak.

Her main motivations in life are twofold: First and foremost, she is driven by an unrelenting desire to serve and exalt Ismyel with whom she has a fanatic kind of infatuation. She loves her chosen goddess and will do whatever she can to help those who would serve her as well. That is why she sought out the temple of Ismyel in Gilmah, so that she could conscript herself into the service of the clergy and become their paladin. It is unfortunate, then, that those serving the Spirit of Evil are known to be schemers that like to further their own agendas as much as they like to act in their goddess’s best interests. Ciara’s zealotry makes her blind to all but the most egregious of attempts to take advantage of her.

Secondly, and definitely taking a backseat to the former, is a strong hedonistic drive. As someone who has discovered that life has many pleasant things to offer only very recently, she has difficulty controlling her desires for entertainment and enjoyment, particularly of the sexual kind. Given her life’s story, this might come as a surprise, as there are really only two ways her views on this could have formed: Either she would have rejected sexuality as a whole or at least developed a very complicated relation to it, as one may have expected, or sex would have been robbed of all magic to her and have become something completely pedestrian and normal. For Ciara, the latter has happened; she sees the act of sleeping with another as something utterly harmless, like having a drink together or playing some sort of game. She understands that her views are uncommon, but cannot bring herself to see it any other way, especially since she happens to have a voracious appetite in this regard. Combined with a poor grasp on finances, Ciara is likely to spend most of her earnings on empty pleasures, abusable substances, gambling and the like.

In spite of her rampant hedonism, she is very industrious when it comes to her work ethic. She takes tasks given to her very seriously and has an honest desire to do a good job without cutting any corners. She doesn’t take naps on guard duties, doesn’t relent on the pursuit of criminals until they’re all accounted for. She’s proactive when it comes to physical exercise and combat training. She visits sermons in the temple whenever she can. In more modern terms, she very much is the type of person to “work hard and play hard”.

Her outlook in life is positive and confident, at least concerning her own fate. She believes that, as long as she remains steadfast in her veneration of Ismyel, that her goddess will shield her and make her invulnerable. This belief, too, make her rather fearless in battle where the same principle holds true in her mind. So long as every sword stroke is as if from Ismyel’s own hand, striking down all those that she hates, then none would have the strength to overcome her. So far, at least, her faith has been rewarded.

Concerning other people, politics and the like, however, Ciara views the world with a healthy dose of skepticism and cynicism. The world is a rotten place for rotten people and she does not believe that much good can come from the works of man. There are exceptions to the rule, and she appreciates them, but for the most part she leans towards pessimism first and will assume the worst before assuming the best.

Ciara is an even-tempered person, not too quick to have mood swings but not incapable thereof either, who appears calm in most situations. However, her collected demeanor, which could come off as cold and distanced, is softened by a joyful and confident facial expression. As far as most people – including herself – would believe, these are indeed her true feelings. It would take someone who has themselves experienced great pain and loss in life to see past this shell and discern that this is merely one side of her being. She would like to believe that her old self, Lilian, is dead but it is really just dormant deep inside of her. A frightened young girl who mourns the innocence that was robbed from her and mourns for the person she has become. Sometimes, in the dead of night when no one is near and her thoughts are unshackled, she cries silent tears, sometimes not even understanding why they come out of her eyes.

**I’d like to mention that my descriptions of personality are never fully inclusive or final; they are to be understood as guidelines I set for myself, as the idea I had of my character at the time of conception. As such, it is not impossible for the character to reveal new facets not described above, or even contradict one or more of the above descriptions, within reason. Characters, after a while, become living things with a mind of their own, and sometimes they simply do things we have not accounted for.**

[color=9966CC][b]Equipment[/b][/color]:
[i]General:[/i]
[b]• Straight Sword[/b]
A very common and unremarkable – if well-made and well maintained – weapon found throughout the duchies. Ciara’s sword has a double-edged, straight blade that is about 75 cm (29.5 inch) long. A basic, unembellished cross guard rests in between the blade and the leather-bound grip of the classic one-and-a-half-hand variety.

[b]• Buckler[/b]
The buckler is a small, light, round shield primarily intended for man to man combat with bladed weapons. This one is made entirely of metal and is dominated by a convex boss in the center that aids in deflecting blows to the side. The entire shield measures some 30 cm (12 inch) in diameter. Due to its compact size it can easily be strapped to the sword’s scabbard to provide minimal hindrance in everyday life, unlike larger shields.

[b]• Knife[/b]
A simple and practical, single-edged knife with a blade length of 14 cm (5.5 inch) and a total length of 23 cm (9 inch). Designed to be a tool and not weapon.

[b]• Oil[/b]
Roughly half a liter of oil contained in an iron flask. Used to prevent rust on the blades and create torches.

[b]• Whetstone[/b]
A worn whetstone to keep blades sharp.

[b]• Money[/b]
Ciara’s initial wealth is a whole 16 Rodlins which she carries on her person.

[i]Specifically when travelling:[/i]
[b]• Rations[/b]
Travelling rations of long-lasting foods such as clean water, dried fruits and cured meats. Quantity depends on the length of the journey and number of companions.

[b]• Blankets[/b]
A pair of comfortable wool blankets that can be used as a makeshift bed anywhere, providing relative warmth. Paired with a tent cloth to keep out the worst of the cold.

[b]• Bandages[/b]
Two rolls of fine linen bandages, thoroughly cleaned with alcohol in advance and best kept isolated from other supplies.

[b]• Hand Axe[/b]
Pragmatic axe with a total length of 40 cm (15.5 inch), made from a solid iron axe head and a wooden haft. Used to cut small to medium branches and chop them into pieces for campfires.
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