[hider=Prisca Houndrut]
[h2][center]Prisca Houndrut[/center][/h2]
[hider=Appearance]
[img]https://pre00.deviantart.net/4abc/th/pre/i/2015/238/2/9/elurey_olorra_by_kate_fox-d6k7bir.jpg[/img]
[/hider]
[b]Race:[/b] Gem
[b]Age:[/b] 18
[b]Element:[/b] Earth
[b]Height:[/b] 4'11
[b]Bio: [/b]
Prisca was born in  large mining town of Cohsenwig in the mountains west of Priscel Aldetine. Cohsenwig is, by Gem standards atleast, a hard place to live. Sure, the terrain and climate were hospitable enough, but the mines that were the life blood of the city fought its workers at every turn. Some even joked that Vivari herself liked to shift stones in the mountain just to make the jobs a little more challenging. Still, the opposition between miner and mine was a good natured one, if somewhat strained by the occasional accidental death. 

Of course, with any town that works hard there is a tavern where they play twice as hard afterwards. Enter the Pryus’ Pucker, a crassly named bar and sometimes inn (most times brothel) that suited the city far to well. It stood in the middle of town, great oaken archways burned dark by a long forgotten blaze and plaster walls stained yellow from an equally forgotten reconstruction. It was the much beloved ugly boil of the town, as crass and hardy as the people who patronized it. 

The Houndruts had owned the place as long as there had been a Cohsenwig, and they were as crass and rowdy as their namesake (the origin of which, they would only tell when a person was properly off their ass with drink). Nothing short of bloodshed was too good for their bar and it showed. For generations wine, women, men, smokable treats of all sorts would flow freely into the waiting arms of patrons, where after gold would promptly flow straight to the Houndrut’s pocket. 

So, in short, not exactly a prim and proper upbringing was ever in the cards for Prisca. Not that it seemed to phase the girl in the slightest. The delicate complexities of a fine stout were far more interesting to the girl than any peice of rot a ‘great poet of age such and such’ could vomit out onto a page. And the fanciful sheer silks and perfumes of the local prostitutes (and sometimes their clients) were far more beautiful than the stuffy octo-layered garments of the nobility. 

The Drakken were a rare concern, but Prisca never worried about them much. The people were common folk, and looked it, only the occasional noble girl getting nabbed (thinking they’d be safe amongst the ‘rabble’). Frankly, they could have the nobles. As far as Prisca was concerned, they were more delicate than sensible, and most couldn’t hold their liquor to save their life (which was the bigger problem during the reaping). 

Feeling fairly secure that she’d not end up like some haughty high born bimbo, Prisca adorned herself with innumerable tattoos. Her body was her private canvas to paint her absolute right to freedom on, each streak of color happily applied to mock the poor saps who had the misfortune of turning into glorified breeding sows because ‘daddy’ happened to own a strip of land. 

Turns out? Bad idea. Prisca on her own was decently attractive, but apparently the drakken reapers who rolled through town found the additional body art to be ‘Striking’. The only thing Prisca found striking about it was the grinding noise as she managed to kick one of the reapers square in the nose before they hurled her into the cart, dragging her away like some noble whore. 
[b]Adult Preference:[/b] Good either way.
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So I was asked to make a Gem. I made the lest gemmy Gem I could Gem in such a short Gem.