[hider=Rain]
[color=92278f][CENTER][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/220125/3df6e6e554618b73c4d18ce14aa937c2.png[/img][/CENTER]
[table][row][/row][row][cell][center]
[img] https://i.pinimg.com/564x/90/ed/3d/90ed3d5d32076cdac2b3e2c4d6af09ed.jpg[/img][color=2E2C2C][sup]_______________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center][hider=// INFO][indent][sub][b]P E R S O N A L   D E T A I L S[/b][/SUB]

[sup]
[b]Full Name[/b][COLOR=white] – Rain on My Skin, Ice in My Mouth [/COLOR]
[b]Age[/b][COLOR=white] – 18[/COLOR]
[B]Gender[/B][COLOR=white] – Female[/COLOR]
[b]Vocation[/b][COLOR=white] – Warden[/COLOR]
[b]Nationality[/b][COLOR=white] – Scila[/COLOR]
[/SUP][/indent][/hider]
[hider=// PERSONALITY][indent][SUB][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=92278f][b]Angry—Like, Really Angry[/b]
[COLOR=white]Few are the people Rain doesn’t greet with a scowl, and it is only by the draconian training of her youth that she no longer compounds those scowls with threats and occasionally [i]acts[/i] of physical violence. Usually. Anger was what the Locke Institution wanted, and it’s what they got. They coaxed it out of her, stoked it like a hearth until it grew into wildfire and set it loose. Sure, sometimes it’s more than they bargained for, but she’s been taught well enough to direct her anger at what matters[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=92278f][b]A Sharp Claw, a Dull Tool[/b]
[COLOR=white]Rain does one thing well, and a lot of other things very not well. Sic her on a voidbeast and all the stars, see, they just align. She can formulate plans on the fly and her reflexes could make a Ldrant warmaster blush; it’s when things deviate away from fury-murder that everything kinda blurs. Lacking pretty much any formal education, Rain is functionally illiterate and utterly oblivious to much of the world’s politics, aside from the fact that she was told often and loudly how cool and great Scila was. Doesn’t bother her, though. Let the nerds waste time scribbling stupid lines on maps and smooching with their precious equations. If it doesn’t bleed, scream, or threaten to engulf the world in cold oblivion, it can’t be [i]that[/i] important.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=92278f][b]Ironic Autophobe[/b]
[COLOR=white]You know what would be funny? What if you took this irate, unsociable, idiot child with exactly one purpose in her miserable little life, you teach her to conflate pain with affection, and you saddle her with this crippling fear of being alone and unloved. She won’t understand it, she won’t know how to deal with it, she won’t even know how to ask for help. She’ll just blindly seek companionship in people who are disgusted by her, or who can’t stand to be around her, and when they inevitably leave she’ll be stuck with this ruinous pit in her soul that just gets wider and wider and deeper and deeper until there’s nothing left but her and the empty loneliness she’s so afraid of. Oh my god. Holy shit. Hilarious.[/COLOR][/COLOR]
[/SUP][/indent][/hider]
[hider=// GIFT][indent][SUB][b]G I F T[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=92278f][b]Furnace[/b] 
[COLOR=white]It’s going to hurt—endure it. That’s love.

As a young pyromancer, Rain’s abilities were fairly lackluster. As a hunter, however, things are a little different. See, turns out, fueling fire magic is easy is shit when you have an eternal engine pumping agony into your veins eight days a week. With her newfound resistances and her apparent inability to fucking [i]die[/i], Rain’s Gift sees her turning herself and the air around her into a whirlwind of searing hot misery. She’s made stone into puddles, swords into soup, and has on more than one occasion required excising from melted suits of armor, which was fun for literally no one.

In addition, by building up and expelling heat, she can create bursts of flame to skirt around the battlefield, because what’s worse than a fiery, angry creature? A fiery, angry creature hurtling at you at speeds which are, frankly, concerning.

There is one caveat. Being that she has to stoke her inner ember to fuel this Gift, usage enflames that natural, torturous burning all hunters abide with into a real whopper of pain. The longer she goes, the harder she pushes, the worse the pain gets. But that’s okay, she can take it. Pain means she cares. Like, if you aren’t a seared, shuddering wreck wailing in silent agony at the end of a fight, were you really even trying?[/COLOR][/COLOR]
[/SUP][/indent][/hider] 
[hider=// EQUIPMENT][indent][SUB][b]E Q U I P M E N T[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=92278f][b]Hunter’s Claws[/b]
[COLOR=white]Not exactly fancy, nor particularly expensive, but at least these babies can keep up with the heat. Utilizing a magically-receptive metal she can neither spell nor pronounce, and an enchantment for heat-resistance, Rain is able to channel her Gift into the clawed gauntlets to turn their razor-sharp edges white-hot; and, since she has to apply this enchantment herself, in theory it should be able to match her no matter how hot she goes.[/COLOR][/COLOR]
[/SUP][/indent][/hider]
[/cell][cell][b]Physical Description[/b]
[color=white][indent]Rain is an even 5’0”, but has only ever had it described to her as “short,” and “no, you’re probably not getting any taller.” She possesses the build of someone who spent most of her childhood kicking other kids in the teeth for scraps of meat, and the complexion to suggest there wasn’t a lot of sun where she was doing it. Aside from being a pallid, wiry imp, her hair is about waist-length and settled about as neatly as an avalanche. Many of her teeth, filed before her procedure, are much sharper than they ought to be. But hey, at least she’s hygienic. 

Rain prefers comfortable clothes, but that’s not really her call. As a representative of Scila [i](pause for the sound of Scila collectively grinding its teeth,)[/i] she can’t just run around wearing her old pit-rags smudged with dirt and grime and the blood of little rats that were pretty quick yeah but not quick enough. What she wears now isn’t a uniform per se, she still has to fight in it, but it lends her an air of formal conventionality that on literally anyone else might look nice, but she somehow manages to ruin that too. 
[/indent][/color]
[b]Character Conceptualization[/b]
[color=white][indent]Technically speaking, before she was “Rain” she was “L.I.-23, Group Four, Number 13,” or, sometimes, “The one that keeps making the other kids swallow her baby teeth after they fall out.” But, for clarity’s sake, Rain will do. 

Oh, Scila. Land of industry. Land of ingenuity. A land of people unbroken by slavery, and emboldened by their independence. Truly, if any nation could face the void and, in response, attempt to improve the production of hunters, it would be you. 

You bastard.

The sorcerers had developed their procedure, yes, but it was inefficient. No helping that. But the shrewd minds at the Locke Institute had a supplementary solution. Locke himself was a pyromancer of substantial skill as well as a man of severe influence and, clearly, a bit of a narcissist. Hhared with his fellow countrymen the disdain for their former tyrants, but when it came to Ldrant, he also harbored a begrudging, inquisitive respect. They were hard, cruel, even. When the nations began creating hunters, Ldrant, in its typical way, obviously wanted to produce the best and strongest. He remembers hearing of a baron enacting an “ember-hunt,” in which children with an affinity for magic were gathered and trained, so that when they all eventually underwent the procedure, those that survived were versed not only as hunters of the void, but as strong pyromancers as well. 

“Well,” Locke thought. “Shit, why not?” 

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Using his position as head of the Algaeon Hearthfire, Locke brought his personal project to life. The Locke Institution began with a mission to find out whether or not pyromancers were more likely to produce magically-fluent children than your average, unmagical shmuck. It was research that would take generations to conclude, and necessitated the creation of a small academy in order to ensure the pyromancers that [i]did[/i] come out of it would be useful. Efficiency, after all, was as key as quality.

Thereabouts two decades later, Rain was born at the Locke Institute’s appropriately named Ember Farm to exactly zero parents who would ever know her name or see her face, alongside a whole gaggle of similarly spawned lambs-to-the-inevitable-slaughter. Growing up, the rules were simple: kids who showed magical aptitude got to leave the “pit” and train to become super cool fire-throwing badasses. Kids that didn’t got to stay in the pit and hate each other. If you didn’t show up by the time you weren’t a kid anymore, you got the boot. Allegedly. 

By the time Rain’s match was struck, she was ten. She had to leave all her teeth-trophies and rat bones behind, but that was okay, because she also got to meet Papa Locke. When he brought her up out of the dark, and gave her the first hug she’d ever received—that wasn’t a precursor to being thrown onto the dirt—Rain knew instantly that she loved her papa with all of her heart, and would do anything for him. 

The next eight years she spent training under the institute’s best pyromancers and weaponsmasters. Some days she would make progress, and papa would tousle her hair and praise her and she would feel like a shooting star on a clear night. Then there were tough weeks, or months, where she struggled or plateaued and papa wouldn’t even look at her. It made her whole self shake, made her sick, made her never want to leave her cot. 

When she was eighteen, papa came to her after she’d failed another lesson. He wasn’t upset, but he didn’t tousle her hair and didn’t have anything particularly nice to tell her. All he had was a proposition. “Undergo this procedure,” he said, and she didn’t even hear the “or,” or even what it was. The moment he asked, she decided to do it, she didn’t need to know. They strapped her to a table and the next thing she [i]did[/i] know was pain, pure and blinding and all-consuming. But in the back of her mind, she had her papa, and she knew that if she could just bear through it, he’d be so proud of her. He’d love her as much as she loved him—maybe even [i]more[/i]. 

Everyone seemed surprised when it was done. Surprised, but not particularly happy. Rain wasn’t happy either. The pain hadn’t stopped with the procedure, it had stuck with her. It was stuck [i]in[/i] her. Always. Day and night, burning, burning, burning it was like her blood was molten and even when it wasn’t awful it was still [i]bad[/i]. Drinking water didn’t do much, chewing ice was a little better. Whenever it stormed, she would stand out in the rain and that took the edge off enough that she was almost comfortable. Almost. 

Papa hadn’t told her about this. About the pain. He hadn’t even come to see her when it was done. He just went back to the pit, and the other kids just striking their matches, and she was taken off the institute’s hands. They gave her to the other hunters, because that’s what she was now, apparently. 

They asked her name. She told them, and they said, “that’s not a name, that’s a bunch of letters and numbers,” which didn’t make much sense to her because that’s what all names were. They told her to pick, and she almost picked “Locke,” but then decided that, no, she didn’t like that name at all. In fact, she hated it. 

So they told her to pick something she [i]did[/i] like.[/indent][/color]
[b]Other Information[/b]
[color=white][indent]N/A
[/indent][/color]
[/cell][/row][/table][/COLOR][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/UXfALKZ.jpeg[/img][/center]

[/hider]