[hider=Oray]
[img]http://i.imgur.com/vf7xruk.png[/img]

[color=#cebc78][b]Name:[/b][/color] Oray

[color=#cebc78][b]Race:[/b][/color] Human

[color=#cebc78][b]Nationality/Nation description:[/b][/color] Raised around the Marches.

[color=#cebc78][b]Occupation:[/b][/color] Scout for mercenaries and lookout for trade caravans. 

[color=#cebc78][b]Religion:[/b][/color] Skeptical but seems to have a fair few superstitions regarding luck. 

[color=#cebc78][b]Appearance:[/b][/color] Most folk who see her on the road can’t say for certain what Oray looks like beyond being relatively short and having a spill of dark, curly hair. When she’s not shooting Oray covers her face in a black veil and only moves it so much as to show her eyes in combat. She dresses in tatty rags fashioned like a poncho or a shawl overtop compressing leathers. Her colors range from brown to grey with a minimal amount of black.

Beneath all her veil is a face that she’s been told many times “would be pretty if she weren’t so severe”. Oray has no plans of being any less severe. A square jaw proves her hardest feature, nose button like and doe eyed despite the profound tiredness of her heavy lidded gaze. Her resting face put her thick brows in a persistent furrow and her mouth a vague frown, giving her the look of a woman who’s long overdue for a nap. 

Oray is brown of skin and dark of eyes. She seems to have a fondness for smudging kohl around them even if there’s kohl left over from the night before. It doesn't help her look any less tired.

[color=#cebc78][b]Personality:[/b][/color] Oray is a dry, monotonic woman with an offbeat sense of humor. Oft times she leaves people uncomfortably laughing at what they hope is a joke. It’s usually a joke. She’s learned that people will believe anything if you say it with a straight enough face. Considering most people are speaking to her veil, she’s got a damn good poker face.

A woman of diametrically opposed ideals, Oray struggles with being a survivor while trying not to be absolute human filth. Oray has lied, cheated, stole, and slept her way through life but she’s trying not to ruin any lives in the process. Trying being the keyword. Particularly vile dealings leave her vulnerable to fits of compassion which she promptly tries to forget ever happened once they’re over with. 

[color=#cebc78][b]Biography:[/b][/color] Oray doesn’t remember much about her childhood. Early in her life she can remember the smell of a verdant garden, teapots lined with gold filigree, long locks of dark hair. She thinks she can recall the streets of the Imperium. . . But she wonders if it’s all a vivid dream. 

Beyond that all she knew was her grandfather, a stalwart wall of a man. Oray has spent most of her life moving from place to place, being taught to shoot a musket and how to skin rabbits since she was able to talk. Agarus, her grandfather, worked as a bounty hunter and didn’t much try to hide the reality of his work from her. Well, for as long as he could, anyway. 

At twelve Oray watched her grandfather meet his untimely end at the hand of a bounty he decided to take. A slaver with a little too much mettle had found a way to shank Agares when his guard was down. In some other story this would end with Oray being snatched up and put on the market, a little lamb ripe for the slaughter. 

This isn’t that story, however.

Oray didn’t watch the life leave Agares’ eyes, rather she saw the hope drain from them. A man who had dedicated his life to raising his granddaughter now watching helpless as a misstep failed him, failed her. The weight of his regret proved too much to bear for Oray. Taking up his musket Oray shot his murderer down. It was under the bone white sky of a bleak late winter that Oray was left with nothing but a musket and two bodies: one to bury and one for bounty. 

Thus started her complicated foray into adolescence. Masquerading as a young lad? Check. Horrific, prophetic dreams? Check. Oray’s made attempts at ignoring what comes to her in dreams and tried to make as few enemies as possible. Guarding merchant caravans seems to be a good way to go about that, and thus that’s the profession she’s chosen. Occasionally she’ll act as a scout, though she tries to be selective about the job.

Over ten years of this life and Oray is at a loss for what she’s doing with herself. The thought of trying to settle down doesn’t sound terribly appealing. The thought of going on doesn’t sound terribly appealing, either. To find some modicum of purpose Oray has turned inward, looking to the strange dreams that have plagued her. Perhaps they’re not the source of residual trauma but something more profound. 


[color=#cebc78][b]Equipment:[/b][/color] A musket slung behind her back and two daggers strapped to her thighs. A waterskin, for drinking. A flask, for [i]drinking[/i]. Oray carries tobacco (or what the in world equivalent is) and a pipe with her. 

Around her neck Oray wears a signet ring on a silver chain. Unbeknownst to her this proves to be the source of her dreams, oft times filled with dark murmurings and perhaps prophetic imagery. 

[color=#cebc78][b]Skills:[/b][/color] Oray is a survivalist, about to live off the land around her and—usually—find north. Eerily quiet, Oray can keep her steps soft and her presence hidden. Taught from a young age to use a musket, Oray shoots straight and she shoots well. When that fails her she turns to her daggers. She’s got a good eye, you’ve got to when you spend half your life with a veil over them. In fact, she can read lips when able to get a good look at the lips she’s reading. She is, despite all odds, literate. 

[color=#cebc78][b]Motivation:[/b][/color] Oray is driven by the pipe dream of a great beyond, the idea that there’s something more. She goes through each day hoping that there’s something better living hand to mouth, town to town. The opportunity to watch history unfold around her, to take part in something meaningful, the opportunity to be bigger than her skin wouldn’t be passed up. . . Though it’d be met with a healthy amount of skepticism. 

[/hider]