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[img]https://i.ibb.co/DVL7cSh/Sirona-FC-slate.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]

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[b]Full Name[/b][COLOR=white] - Sirona[/COLOR]
[b]Age[/b][COLOR=white] - 24[/COLOR]
[B]Gender[/B][COLOR=white] - Female[/COLOR]
[b]Vocation[/b][COLOR=white] - Kind of a weird fusion of a Caster and a Warden, really[/COLOR]
[b]Nationality[/b][COLOR=white] - Scila[/COLOR]
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[hider=// PERSONALITY][indent][SUB][b]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=9CB5CF][b]Tranquil[/b]
[COLOR=white]Sirona is a little bit strange. Where some Hunters channel their pain into rage, some throw themselves wholeheartedly into defeating the Void, and some cling to a facsimile of a normal existence, Sirona is a constant picture of perfect placidity. She moves smoothly and gracefully and very, very rarely raises her voice, preferring passive aggression to visible frustration on the rare occasion that she shows anything other than a perfect calm.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=9CB5CF][b]Polite[/b]
[COLOR=white]And pairing perfectly with that unbreakable tranquility is an almost excessive level of courtesy. Her comrades aren't addressed by their first names, but by Miss. Miss Fray, Miss Kimnothelis, Miss Stormbrew, Miss Ice. Authority figures are referred to by Master if they don't have a title, and their full title if they do. She almost never asks for anything of others, preferring to give help instead of receiving it.[/COLOR][/COLOR]

[COLOR=9CB5CF][b]Self-Sacrificing[/b]
[COLOR=white]Giving help instead of receiving it indeed. Sirona has a really prominent (and some would say problematic) habit of throwing herself under the bus for the people around her. It's unclear why she does this, why she lays her own life down in service of others. Perhaps in those moments, she throws aside whatever artifice of humanity she's build around herself and becomes the weapon she was always meant to be...[/COLOR][/COLOR]
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[hider=// GIFT][indent][SUB][b]G I F T[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=9CB5CF][b]The Flame Unburned[/b]
[COLOR=white]Sirona has a Gift most unlike her sisters. Perhaps one could even call it a balancing act; the opposite of what it is to be a Melter. Instead of forcing her Embersoul to the surface, it rips the heat from her body, leaving her in a state of perpetual cold, though to others her skin is painfully hot to the touch. And in exchange? Heat cannot touch her. No matter how much heat is poured into her—fire, lava, molten steel—the most it does is to warm her skin, bringing it just slightly closer to the seething blaze of the Embersoul within her. There is nobody else like this, nobody else with this strange inversion of what it means to [i]melt[/i]. This is her fate. This is her burden. This is her Gift.[/COLOR][/COLOR]
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[hider=// EQUIPMENT][indent][SUB][b]E Q U I P M E N T[/b][/sub]

[sup][COLOR=9CB5CF][b]Usariom, the Scar-Crown[/b]
[COLOR=white]Nobody knows why Usariom was created. Perhaps it was for ritual. Perhaps it was for torture. Perhaps long ago, there was a way to use it that wasn't so inherently destructive. But if so, it has been lost to time, and all that remains is the Scar-Crown. It binds to the wielder for life, hanging above their head like a ravenous halo, completely immovable. When the head moves, the crown moves, and the same is true in reverse. And at an unseen command, Usariom blazes to life, pouring out streams of molten steel that cascade over the body of the wielder, almost invariably killing them as it pools on the ground.

Sirona is...uniquely qualified.

There are a few ways she tends to use this. Most commonly, she lets the molten metal run down her arms, then flicks liquid flame from her fingertips. With practice, she has achieved fairly precise control of this viscous liquid, allowing her to fling her hand wide and spread the devastation in a fan-shaped spray, or to, with the precise flick of a wrist, launch of a narrow spray at a surprisingly long range.

If, however, the Void is encroaching upon her faster than she can cut down with her molten steel, she can allow Usariom to flow freely, bathing her in a veil of liquid fire before she simply walks into the shadow. This is very much a risk-reward assessment for her. Usariom's fuel is not eternal. It does have a limit, past which the molten streams will thin, then stop entirely. If she is wielding it with her flicks, then it is inconvenient, but relatively harmless. But if she's walked directly into the Void and her crown of fire flickers and fades, then she is not long for this fallen world.[/COLOR][/COLOR]
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[/cell][cell][b]Physical Description[/b]
[color=white][indent]Owing to an entire childhood spent barely escaping starvation, stealing food from those more dominant than she, and having her fingernails torn off as a result, Sirona is a short woman, standing at just a hair beneath 5'2", and less slender than she is skinny. Her eyes are piercing ashen-white-gray, and seem a bit more...glazed than most. Her hair is a wild mess of stark whiteness, and her skin is almost completely white as well. Around her head looms the Scar-Crown Usariom, a jagged tangle of black iron and silvery steel that twists above her in a sick parody of a halo. One of the most important features she displays, though—and the most damning evidence of the life that was inflicted upon her—lies in her smile. Unwavering, unchanging, unbreakable; the calm smile, perfect down to the last muscle, is forever scarred into her face, and even she can't change it.

As a general rule, she wears long black clothing, usually fairly tight, with light plating here and there. The only thing that's truly ubiquitous is a thick black cloak pinned in front with the Scilari symbol. Because of a specific incident in the pit, she is missing the last knuckle of her left pinkie finger.
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[b]Character Conceptualization[/b]
[color=white][indent]Before she had a name, before she had a life, before she had anything at all to call her own, Sirona was only "L.I.-14, Group One, Number 22." 

Her childhood, if you can call it that, was a nightmare of empty stomachs and constant pain. She never learned to dominate others, to force her will upon them, the way one needed to in order to eat in the pit of the Locke Institute. She never really even learned to fight. A scared, broken shell of a child, all she could do was sit alone in the dark and cry.

And as was the way of the pit, the only thing that crying earns you is more pain. It was a vicious cycle for Twenty-Two. Crying. Pain. More crying. More pain. No matter how much she needed to, she just couldn't stop the tears. And so, the rest of the pit kids learned very quickly that Twenty-Two wouldn't—couldn't—stop them from taking whatever they wanted from her. Food. Water. Space. Fingernails. And, on one occasion, the last joint of her left pinkie. Until one enterprising youngster, L.I.-14, Group One, Number 17, came up with a brilliant idea: if this weak dumb kid couldn't stop anybody from taking from her, then she wouldn't have food. She would be desperate. So Seventeen reached out a hand to her. She would be given food. Tiny scraps of it, but enough that she wouldn't starve. And all she needed to do was everything Seventeen said.

Of course, that news didn't spread any slower than the lack of resistance. From then on, Twenty-Two was mostly left alone in her dark corner. Until some other pit kid, one with a spine, came along and gave her direction in life. Servility was as natural and necessary as breathing.

And then, when she was perhaps eight or nine, came Papa Locke.

She didn't know why she was being pulled from the pit. She didn't know what Locke wanted from her. But she knew that he saved her. He lifted her from the dark corner where she cried and let her eat real food, and sleep in a 'bed,' which she thought must have been the closest thing to perfect there could be. Whatever he wanted, she would give it to him, as natural and necessary as breathing. He was her Papa, and she was his daughter. Years passed by, and she grew more and more devoted to him. There were many words that could be used to describe her. Docile. Servile. Subservient. Compliant. Passive. Locke taught her many lessons, which were burned and scorched and seared into her mind as thoroughly as her own thoughts: be polite. Be calm. Be obedient. Be diffident.

And, above all...[i]smile.[/i]

She was perfect, she thought. A perfect daughter. A tool. Even a weapon, said Papa, though she didn't understand how.

Undergo this procedure, said Papa Locke. And with the bliss of serving, the perfect daughter did as she was told. She was polite. She was calm. She was obedient. She was diffident. And she smiled. Even when she was strapped down, when her mind nearly shattered from the agony as liquid fire roared through her veins, as her body shattered, snapped, broke down, only to be reconstructed...still she smiled, face twisted in a permanent rictus of tranquility. [i]Be polite.[/i]

When the procedure was over, she was...different. The pain wasn't as mind-warping anymore, but it remained trapped within her chest like molten metal. But the outside...she shivered...the outside was freezing. And she couldn't get warm. She didn't understand. It was like a switch had been flipped in her head as soon as the straps were let loose. Why Papa would do this. Why he would put her through so much pain. Why Papa hated her. And yet on the outside, she showed nothing. None of the pain, none of the heartache, none of the scorn. [i]Be calm.[/i]

Fine. If he hated her, then she could hate him in return. No longer Papa. Just Master Locke. But before she could really process what this meant—what she would do now that Master Locke hated her, and how to live in a world of ice—she was given a strange circlet of sharp, twisted metal. Place it over your head, they said. [i]Be obedient.[/i]

The pain only became worse. So much worse. For a moment, there was a feeling like her head inverting itself, and then a feeling of a circle of blades slicing into it. When the pain abated—though, like before, it would never truly fade—she blinked the tears from her eyes—she couldn't stop them—the circlet hung above her head, locked there for the rest of her life. As she thought of it, it began to dribble streams of liquid-hot steel. And yet nothing touched her. Indeed, far worse than the feeling of the blaze was the guilt that screamed inside her because of those tears. [i]Be diffident.[/i]

And so she was bound irrevocably to the Scar-Crown and taken to Scilis, where she learned who and what she now was. She was a Hunter. And just like Papa—just like Master Locke said she would be, though she didn't understand it at the time, she was a weapon to fight the Void. She accepted her new duty with the resolution that she would never again obey Master Locke. He no longer owned her. She was free from his mental chains. He would never threaten her with sleeping in the pit if she messed up again. She had her own life now. And she gave herself a name. She didn't know what it meant. She didn't know if it meant anything at all. But she liked how it sounded, and she liked how it made her feel. Sirona. She was Sirona, Hunter of Scila. Hunter of the Void. She would never listen to Master Locke again.

But perhaps she isn't quite as far from him as she thinks. As much distance as she puts between them, as much as she has convinced herself she's free of him, as much as she [i]knows[/i] she hates him...

She is still [i]polite[/i]. She is still [i]calm[/i]. She is still [i]obedient[/i] to some extent. She is still [i]diffident.[/i] She is still just a weapon. And she still can't shake that [i]smile.[/i][/indent][/color]
[b]Other Information[/b]
[color=white][indent]TBD
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