*Scrawny in a rather ungraceful manner, Sigve resembles a child more than a fully-fledged woman. Her boyish physique and hollowed gaze give no indication for why she was reaped.*



Race:
Gemmenite

Age:
18

Element:
Air

Height:
4’11”

Bio:

Sigve was ready. She was ready to be reaped and given a life that was better. Or worse. Never could she decide what it would be like and honestly, Siggy didn’t care. She wasn’t beautiful or wise but damn was she foolishly eager.

Sigve was born in Peles-- or rather the slums of Peles. For a grand city to be so grand, there has to be a place that is comparably shoddy and small. Her parents, Revna and Aloren, were considerable good-for-nothings. They were poor and in debt. The kind of debt you never pay off and instead pass onto future generations to suffer for. So desperately did the couple wish for a son to do hard work and get plenty of money. Though, this never did happen. Sigve instead became their sixth daughter or was meant to be the sixth daughter. In actuality, she is their second daughter to reach adolescence and their only one to live past eighteen.

Most of her childhood was starved and full of hard work. Both her and her sister, Asta, did small jobs for anyone who would listen. While Asta, beautiful and charming, did an excellent job at this, Sigve never had the “knack” for it. She poked too much fun at people and could easily be described as "annoying". She has never been balanced like Asta. This made Siggy feel that people owe her something. She didn’t understand why she must suffer and starve and hurt. She loathes her parents and she despises the warning and cross glances she receives from people. It made her self-preserving and angry. With no friends and so much bitterness in her, Sigve has always been a good worker for herself. Like whipping wind, she can drive herself to extremes and at a young age, underwent hard physical labor. Both hard work and hunger most likely stunted her growth and kept her from becoming a more appropriate and healthy size.

When Siggy was about fifteen, Asta was becoming of reaping age. The Valetta family was poor and easily missed but Asta wasn’t. She was gorgeous and well known. Despite them being impoverished, it was apparent that the drakken would come for Asta. It was a month or so before the reaping when Asta killed herself. She couldn’t bear to be taken away and so Asta, an air gem, pulled all of the very air from her lungs. Sigve always knew her sister was delicate but never so fragile and definitely not breakable. Most of all, Sigve couldn't imagine doing that to herself-- couldn't see why that would be necessary. She knew her sister was afraid and hurt but never, never, did Siggy think she could be that desperate. In a sick way that even she herself regrets feeling, she almost enjoys that her sister has died. She is stronger and there is nobody to overshadow her anymore.

Siggy spent the final years until her reaping in a bubbling rage. She was angrier than ever before. She hated everyone and everything and felt that the world was so unfair. Her sister had left her and her parents had never been any help. To her, it seemed that being reaped would be her salvation. She could be married away with a new life that would always have enough to eat even if it was a monster. She had been waiting for the drakken to come and welcomed them with opening arms. She wouldn’t let herself be missed. No, no. Everyone was going to see her and everyone was going to feel her presence. Finally, she would get what she deserved.

Other:

Sigve has a masculine name because her parents named her before she was born. They were hoping the power of a male’s name would ensure that she would be a boy. It didn’t work.

Sigve feels almost a tender part of her heart ache for the drakken. They are viewed as monsters and sometimes she thinks she is a monster too. Excitement (and a fear that she will never admit) fills her for how terrible or possibly good they are.

Sigve’s sister, Asta, was extremely skilled at controlling the air inside a person’s body. Whenever Siggy became particularly cross and began breaking things, Asta would make her take calm, long breaths. After Asta’s demise, Siggy has practiced and does this for herself now-- if she has enough sense to calm herself down, that is. She also practices this when at night as she is a very light sleeper. She has never tried to control the breath of another person.

Adult Content Preference: Fade to black normally. I'll pm you if I'm interested in otherwise.

Race:
Drakken
Age:
198
Element(s):
Fire
Wind
Height:
6'4"

Bio:
It was said that the Drakken throne had been built on the bones of thousands of their enemies, sacrificed to the Old Gods when the wicked thing was formed. It was the King that carved it; built his empire through blood and war. But a King is nothing without those that would support him and atop that list was Kallab Darion, the Wolf. There wasn't a war that he didn't stand side-by-side with his King, so much so that he was mockingly called the Pup, but only behind cups. For Kallab was an unholy creature who delighted in nothing more than death. He bathed himself in it. When Toran united the warbands under one crown, it was Kallab's who first answered the call. When he marched on the Southern Invaders, it was Kallab who was there at every step, every victory. And, of course, when they came to claim their prize, it was Kallab who was rewarded.

In Drakka, a friend is a strange term, not truly understood but for the most part, the two were what could be described as friends. They hunted together, feasted together and when usurpers rose amongst the ranks, it was Kallab who crushed them. He was one of the greatest warriors in Drakka and his warband, hailing from the frozen North, were an especially vicious set of bastards. They could always be distinguished on a battle field with icy hair, thick armour and hammers and axes as their weapons of choice.

With so many fine deeds came a good herd of wives. Of all the children he had down through the years, only boys were sired. Massive things that could crush a man before they had even fully grown. Dull but machines like them so often were. In his mountain fortress, Kallab was pleased with his lot. His sons bickered for his title but none dared challenge him. But the Wolf had grown much too content and the Gods have no time for happiness.

For a man so great, his weakness was so little. Kallab was not known for kindness to his wives but one managed to melt the ice. Her hair was the colour of blood and fire danced in the green of her eyes. In that moment, the darkness collapsed and his icy heart was thawed.

He promised her the sun and the moon and gave her both - his days he would spend with her, hearing her sing and dance. His nights would be a passionate gift and they would be trapped in one another's arms. So blissfully unaware was he, that he forgot about his duty, his image. Eventually, the young Gem fell heavy with child and the great warrior was called back to the King's side to answer warcries from the South. He became lost in his war but even he could see that he was no longer the same - he lacked desire to kill and his heart wandered back to his bride and child. Little did the warrior know that his secret had already spread amongst the court. His sons knew his sin but knew better than to strike the girl down.

It was only when he returned home did his punishment from the Gods truly present itself. For it wasn't one child that was born but two. Both sickly and small, one a boy with snowy hair and a skittery flair; the other a girl with blood red hair and sad eyes. Kallab was furious. Never had his children been such runts and he knew deep inside himself that the Gods had put him in his place. There was only one way to right the wrong but he could not do it. Instead, his eldest took the Gem into the mountains to dispose of his father's sin. The problem of the two babies still existed, however.

The boy was a runt, almost a quarter of the size of his brothers when they were the same age. He grew sick a few days after his birth so Kallab did the only thing that was good for runts in the mountains, he had a trusted warrior carry it away. So ashamed was he that he insisted the babe was carried through the pass and out of Drakkan territory so that the Gods would not chastise him further for his sin. And so the boy was left on the Rynek plateau to die.

Kallab was wrong, however. The Gods were not quite finished with the runt of a Drakkan. A shepherd, guarding his flock from wolves, found the baby and for all his life he could not leave him. He was given the name of his intended grave and carried down from the mountains. It was obvious that the boy was no Gem so when he began to grow he was left in the care of an exiled Drakkan, Villam Snagtooth. He was old, blind in one eye and hard as rock but he raised Rynek nonetheless. It didn't take long to realise the boy was a vicious thing with little to no care of others and his fighting displayed a cunning that outweighed that of even the harshest of Drakken fighters. He didn't have an ounce of honour but by damn was he a fine fighter. His people were heavy things, capable of fighting with weapons that were nearly half their size but Rynek was quick.

As he grew, Snagtooth hammered him into a killing machine. Obviously a one-eyed lunatic was not the best father figure and with little else to talk to, Rynek plucked up the strange habit of talking to himself. He fancied himself a bit of a comedian, even if Villam didn't laugh. Soon Rynek found himself not quite knowing why he was doing things but doing them nonetheless. His first girl was a local one who he happened upon as she bathed in a nearby river. He had his way with her and realising that poor Snagtooth probably hadn't had a woman in decades, decided to take her home to meet the family. Poor girl had to be drowned after a night of that.

Eventually Rynek grew bored. Villam was convinced that the boy was his one-way ticket home but his student had other ideas. He had no intentions of going back home, he wanted to taste the world. There was an art to killing that couldn't be ignored. The thick stench of death that airs the nose, the screams of dying men that enlightens the ears, the weight of a blood-drenched blade that has all cower before you and the pleasure of taking a whore straight after killing; the stuff of dreams for young Rynek. They argued and the now young man stabbed his mentor. He was the only man Rynek ever buried but he took his eye for good measure. A third eye was useful now and again, after all.

When he left, he went west. He took what he needed, whether it be food or women. He was free and more than happy about it. His only companion for most of the way was an eye but he was content. Rynek never quite knew what he intended to find but he found it nonetheless. An adversary.

One day he happened upon a village which he had every intention of raiding. The only problem was a man before him with a stick. He drew his steel on the fool and despite his best efforts, he was sorely beaten by the strangely quick man. The man spared him and let Rynek go and lick his wounds. The next day he returned and met the same fate. And the next. And the next until finally Rynek, exhausted and confused, gave up. He could not understand why he kept losing so he did the next best thing - pestered the man with questions, day after day. He never did figure out if the man lost his patience but eventually he spoke and informed Rynek he was a fool that did not know anything. Curious, Rynek made a deal with the man. If he showed him the error of his ways, he would turn back and never harm another village in the East again.

And so, they began to train. Nothing like a Drakkan, the man used speed and agility to best Rynek. They started with sticks, then spears. Rynek slowly began to comprehend. He learned to read an enemy, to see his next step. For many days they sparred and surprisingly, he found himself growing fond of the man. When their training was finished, Rynek had a spear forged and abandoned his sword. He stuck to his promise and turned back on the road. He had realised what he must become but first he needed a name.

Still having more than a few screws loose, he made for the South and along the way collected together a band of merry men that were something like him. They delighted in death and didn't know a great deal of loyalty until it was beat into them. With them, he staged raiding parties along Southern towns. He killed many a fine warrior and bedded many a less than fine woman but we can't all be perfect.

Eventually, word spread back to Drakka of a white-haired runt with leather armour that moved like the wind and killed with a pointy stick. He added the last part for fun. Finally, he deemed it a good time to come home and carve out his own legacy. But first, he had to visit family.

Other:
Uses a spear as his weapon of choice. Not particularly fond of armour and ballsy enough to go without it if he really wanted to.
One of the few Drakkens with a sense of humour - although a brutal one at that.

Adult Content Preference:
I'm easy in that regard, more than happy to go to PMs if someone wants to.

Race:
Drakken

Age:
198

Element(s):
Water
Earth

Height:
5'8"

Bio:
It was said that the Drakken throne had been built on the bones of thousands of their enemies, sacrificed to the Old Gods when the wicked thing was formed. It was the King that carved it; built his empire through blood and war. But a King is nothing without those that would support him and atop that list was Kallab Darion, the Wolf. There wasn't a war that he didn't stand side-by-side with his King, so much so that he was mockingly called the Pup, but only behind cups. For Kallab was an unholy creature who delighted in nothing more than death. He bathed himself in it. When Toran united the warbands under one crown, it was Kallab's who first answered the call. When he marched on the Southern Invaders, it was Kallab who was there at every step, every victory. And, of course, when they came to claim their prize, it was Kallab who was rewarded.

In Drakka, a friend is a strange term, not truly understood but for the most part, the two were what could be described as friends. They hunted together, feasted together and when usurpers rose amongst the ranks, it was Kallab who crushed them. He was one of the greatest warriors in Drakka and his warband, hailing from the frozen North, were an especially vicious set of bastards. They could always be distinguished on a battle field with icy hair, thick armour and hammers and axes as their weapons of choice.

With so many fine deeds came a good herd of wives. Of all the children he had down through the years, only boys were sired. Massive things that could crush a man before they had even fully grown. Dull but machines like them so often were. In his mountain fortress, Kallab was pleased with his lot. His sons bickered for his title but none dared challenge him. But the Wolf had grown much too content and the Gods have no time for happiness.

For a man so great, his weakness was so little. Kallab was not known for kindness to his wives but one managed to melt the ice. Her hair was the colour of blood and fire danced in the green of her eyes. In that moment, the darkness collapsed and his icy heart was thawed.

He promised her the sun and the moon and gave her both - his days he would spend with her, hearing her sing and dance. His nights would be a passionate gift and they would be trapped in one another's arms. So blissfully unaware was he, that he forgot about his duty, his image. Eventually, the young Gem fell heavy with child and the great warrior was called back to the King's side to answer warcries from the South. He became lost in his war but even he could see that he was no longer the same - he lacked desire to kill and his heart wandered back to his bride and child. Little did the warrior know that his secret had already spread amongst the court. His sons knew his sin but knew better than to strike the girl down.

It was only when he returned home did his punishment from the Gods truly present itself. For it wasn't one child that was born but two. Both sickly and small, one a boy with snowy hair and a skittery flair; the other a girl with blood red hair and sad eyes. Kallab was furious. Never had his children been such runts and he knew deep inside himself that the Gods had put him in his place. There was only one way to right the wrong but he could not do it. Instead, his eldest took the Gem into the mountains to dispose of his father's sin. The problem of the two babies still existed, however.

And, as it was, the darkness crept back into his heart and he sealed it once and all for love was no use for a bitter world that only knew pain and woe. However, the girl was much too like her mother and his care lingered so he had the child guarded. She was a monument to his weakness, a reminder of his pain. She was his punishment from the Gods for believing that there was something more than death. In the first few nights, he found himself at her bedside, knife in-hand. He wanted nothing more than to end her, to forget what he had done, to cover his weakness but he could never quite do it.

And so, she grew, the bane of those around her. Her father could only see her mother in her and ashamed of his weakness and sin, he cast her aside. His response was of violence, a wicked upbringing that was better suited for the likes of her brothers. Her brothers weren't much better either. She was the runt, the weak thing that didn't even deserve their time. They kept her shielded, however, under orders from her father. It wouldn't do to have his secret revealed and they knew better than to hurt her too much. She had to stay alive, a relic from an era of regret.

Despite this, she survived. Changed greatly, of course, but survived nonetheless. Meek and timid, she was no true Drakken nor was she viewed as a legitimate Darion. Her name was for her position - the lowest of the low, a bastard.

Kallab aged and bittered, his heart growing darker by the day. Violence could be beat into any child, he insisted, but anytime she raised a blade she was all-but uselesss. Eventually, he gave up, they all gave up and she was forgotten. She was a pretty young thing and some of her brothers insisted that her father marry her off. She had Drakkan blood but for all intents and purposes was a Gem (except the horns) but he declined. Never seen by the public and locked away from those in better positions, she was only spoken about in tales and stories. Stories that were told with quiet voices - there weren't pleasant endings for those who spoke about the little bastard around Kallab.

The warrior locked her away but sometimes, just sometimes he would come and visit her and it would be happy. He would smile and laugh but call her by a different name. He was growing senile and she thought the name to be her mother's but she never did protest. Eventually, he died like all old, broken things and Aeila was left to her brothers. When the annual tourney came, it was accepted that the Darions would go but strangely, they decided that Aeila had to be in attendance. She didn't particularly understand why but she was in no place to argue.

Other:
Sorta like a Gem but with the rights of a Drakkan.
Has a surprising flair for magic considering it was one of the only things she could spend her time doing in solitude.

Adult Content Preference:
I'm easy in that regard, more than happy to go to PMs if someone wants to.