Aeudla Vesnat | 28 | ElvenA P P E R A N C E :
As most elves, Aeudla stands at around six feet tall, with long, jaunty legs that have only (within the past thousand years) become used to walking. Curved, arched feet help this estimate, as do rounded albeit pointed ears (interbreeding, no doubt). Her skin is a strange mesh of light and hazely patches of tanned skin that betray the years wandering in the full glory of the sun. Patches are strangely sunburt while others are clear. There are the familiar patterns of light scarring on Aeudla's extremities, callouses especially present on her legs and feet after a partial life of nomadacism. Dark hair, eyes hazelly, high elven cheekbones, but nothing particularly sharp or soft to suggest power or otherwise. She is lightly muscled, enough to pull a longbow but not without some strain. If not barefoot, she wears extremely thick, woolen socks, in addition to swaddling cloaks typical among tribespeople.
M I N D :
Shaped by a rich - yet mangled - view of her race and tribe, Vesnat is particularly prideful of her kind, though this has come into question and ebbed over the years. No longer is she surrounded by others who share her amazement with the Old Gods, the ancestors, and various Elven mythologies. No more prideful leaders that value the idea of power and tradition over any semblance of sense. There is small sample of elves in Legion - most, one would imagine, in a similar position as Aeudla. Isolation and a heathly dose of self-pity (what could an uneducated, blood-magic-using, barbarian elf do outside of fighting?) has lead her to gradually become more accommodating of others, and more skeptical of Elven culture as a whole. She can be impetuous between her mixed values, when she engaged - skeptical, and bitter.
She is extremely spiritual in a way that is not particularly Elven, or aligned with any other specific system of beliefs. The vicissitudes of life are often lost upon her, as supposed commune with the souls - afforded by blood magic - has led to a diminished care for life. There is not much remorse in killing; but not out of love of death, or any sort of personal viciousness. There is no sadism involved. Souls moved, and that was that. Simultaneously, she is fascinated with blood-reading and the body, which is able to sustain its movement off of its own, internal blood magic. A contained system, cyclic magical energy. Aeudla is droll, if not somewhat inspiring in her odd fascinations, a bit of a mystic.
Otherwise, asides from some prejudice towards some races, she is fascinated those she considers to be of "strong spirit". Tarkus is such a person. But fascination does not equal loyalty, only passiveness or fondness. With no formal education, she is not particularly bright, but is sensitively intuned to those around her which offers some semblance of sharpness. Aeudla has an emotional and physical fixation on blood magic, and the supposed euphoria brought on by it. Whatever stretches of clarity she has are punctuated with periods of internal mania rendering her unable to carry serious conversations, and the like. In speech, she is at times irreverant and direct, and other times bubbly with intoxicated wonder. She lacks social graces and her prejudices belie the insularity of her upbringing.
H I S T O R Y:
Perhaps once an honorable thing, to be born intuned to the thrumming of souls when the Old Gods still breathed alongside the elven. Less malignant, in those times, was the ability to sense out the feeling of soul, perhaps gaining some deeper understanding of the heart, and other meaningless sentimentalities. No longer - inclination towards the blood arts was a threat - even if minor - to the dwindling peace among the nomadic elvish tribes, though this was something unspoken. Pride did not diminish with the coming of the dark times - something so foundational to tribe Vesnat could not simply abate with the coming of the dark times. Circumstance - as the elders likened fate to - ate away at the old way of life, and a great race turned into a smattering of roaming tribes. Still not lacking pride for some emaciated vestige of a past life, clutching to the hackles of the old ways.
There were other tribes, maybe, hidden in some nook of the mountainside. Conflict with the flat-footed human tribes occurred more than once, one day over access to trading rights with some forgotten merchant somewhere, a fortnight later over some stupid relic believed to possess some minor spirit or the other. The flat-foots were especially baneful. They had named her Aeudla, loosely after the primordial cow that had suckled the first elves to emerge after the destruction of the First War. Her feet were purplish and bruised-looking, not unlike its teats. The irony was not lost when she showed an inclination towards blood magic, the veins under the thin layer of skin swelling in her palms, singing against that of fresh game. This fact was not particularly monumentous, but proved a minor strategical boon to tribe Vesnat. It was good, to have one or two magically-inclined clansmembers - give pause to another tribe in negotiations over land use, maybe. They certainly had their value, but in a tribe the size of theirs, too many could perhaps threaten the power of the head family, the elders. Particularly with age, skill. Blood magic was sickly and unnatural, especially the strange euphoria it presumably invoked. It was with great pride that an elf serve its tribe in any way they saw fit. So it was precedent that Aeudla be sold as a sorcerer, to be a mercenary of some sort, or what have you. This was fine. True to her name, a chattling.
She had hoped to end up in Belyss, which sounded quietly resplendent in its mysticism and beauty, behind the curtain of the Black Mountains. Do your crevasses sing like blood, behind the jeweled skirts? Instead she ended up in the Legion, somehow still kicking its heels at the sky, desperate for anything to populate its dwindling ranks.
M O D U S O P R E R A N D I:
Aeudla has an acute attunement to the movement of blood in those around her, claiming to be able to hear the spirit crying from within - though whether this is true, or some side effect of the high she gets from using blood magic is unclear. Adept as any other blood sorcerer at actually using soul, she is most skilled manipulating blood - through the air and under her feet, using runes. In and out of bodies, in a manner that could be described as artistic (if one could even liken blood magic to art). Fluid movement, like a river, or a symphony. It is no trouble, especially should she have access to exposed skin, to pull the blood from one's veins, stop oxygen from moving to the heart or brain. Drowsiness, then death.
She is, of course, not nearly as effective as anyone else in killing, lacking real mastery of any sort of close-range weapon. Though good against one or two enemies at most, blood magic does not defend against waves of swordmen. Best, probably, against prisoners and the like. She is adept enough - for the Legion, in any case - at range with an eighty-five pound yew-cherry longbow. At that poundage, even her small bodkin-tipped arrows were capable of puncturing armor, even at range. It was later into battle, when the air was rich with blood, and there remained a scattering of soldiers, that the blood magic was acutely useful.
O P I N I O N S O N O T H E R S
Arthur Wick: Some guy in armor, with horn-things on the top, almost like rabbit ears. Aeudla wondered if he ever got them caught on anything - her assumption was that it was a man, anyways. Probably a human, or one of the larger races, under that hulking mass of armor. He would show up here and again sometimes, should there be a scrimmish and spear-throwers sunk back into the line of archers. He had a beautiful horse, but quite unlike some of the horse-riding archers her tribe had come across, out of the mountains near The Edge. Those archers had been magnificent creatures, with short, tapered horsebows that bent gracefully at the slightest tug. This man was orderly and with some amount of grace, prancing around on horseback. Just like with the rest of the lugs who coated themselves in metal and were perhaps too haughty to show their faces, there was a fair amount of extrapolation. Aeudla painted pictures of him in her head - his blood was heavy but slightly melodic, jumpy. Like a batallion of ogres skipping through a field of flowers, making detours to chase butterflies. Maybe he was sentimental and enjoyed poetry, and wore stupid armor because he wished to be a rabbit, or a songbird. Maybe it did not have a head at all, and was waiting to run into a tree so the helmet could fall off, revealing a flowerpot. Aeudla could only wait to see.
Myaenthar'Sul: Some sort of Goblin or gnome hybrid, she hardly knew the difference and cared even less. Actually, Aeudla wasn't really sure if gnomes were real, or just akin to fairies - whether that was real knowledge, or something from some Elven folktale. He was small and grey, like a statue - which was interesting to consider. Did his blood move quickly, like the flutter of a bat's wings (he certainly had the eyes and teeth for it)? Or was it slow and steady, like subterranean dwarf-blood? There was something very approachable about this one though, if you ignored the resemblance to a rat. Sort of flighty and not brooding all the time like some of the others, who seemed to linger in their own melodrama. He seemed intelligent, not just throwing himself in the line of fire - a skirmisher of sorts. It endeared him to Aeudla in an odd way, as she too was not desperate for some lion's share of 'glory' or what have you. He acted with purpose, and not reckless abandon. A curiosity.
Reika: A pretty one, with long hair. Tall, with high cheek bones. Relaxed, flowing clothing would suggest he was from a tribe. He seemed somewhat distinctly Elven in aspects of his appearance, and stirred in Aeudla a sense of romantic sentimentality for her people. Yet he was a flatfooted human, with hard, angry eyes and the same sort of brooding intensity that was not uncommon among warriors of the Legion. He was both appealing and off-putting. Easy to romanticize, yet looked like he would gladly rip out the eyesockets of the next unfortunate soul who dared look at him. That he could use some blood magic was interesting, but his blood magic was so forceful. He would needlessly (she thought) form massive shards of blood to turn his enemies to wine, when only a slight tugging would suffice. Perhaps he knew little sorcery, and this was the only thing he could do, so he just forced all of his unabashed rage into it.
Magatha: Elvish ears and ram's horns, ashy complexion and salamander eyes. There were old tales of ageless mages with bodies a mishmash of beasts. One, Koshchei, rode on a talking horse quicker than the sun (there was a kidnapped elven princess, too - Magatha could be their odd-looking child). She had seen some like this woman, with horns. Consistently good mercenaries, inconsistently pretty to look at. She didn't seem like one of those brooding types - quite pleasant, and present - drinking ale, or commisserating. Memorable. Yet any time Aeudla might approach her - or any other sorcerer, for that matter - Magatha's nose would wrinkle and she would huff out of sight. Obviously some problems, that one. Perhaps her and the other pretty one could commisserate on the (she assumed) virtues of undue anger and stony melodrama. The woman fought sort of frenetically, but in a way that was somehow ordered for someone so tempestuous. One could only wonder about the rhythm of her blood - few times had Aeudla had a chance to study a godling, nevermind such a spirited one. It was quite sad, actually, that Aeudla would never have a chance, at least without active opposition. If she even had the opportunity to draw so close, the only self-sustaining thing to do would be to stop the woman's bloodflow, stutter her heart. Aeudla had little doubt that a close encounter with the woman would result in some bodily harm, Legion or not.
Hanir: Nice-looking, but hairy and distinctly human. Upon first seeing him in camp, Aeudla found that he smelled wonderful. She imagined he was superstitious, like one of those frail priests that powdered themselves with dried lysander every morning and made tinctures out of frogspawn. That was an amusing thought. He threw himself into battle as if he had nothing to live for. This seemed stupid, but he was somehow still alive. Probably because of his size. Perhaps sometime or another she had been sent to out-magic some blood sorcerers with him. And on rare occasion, bring someone back, as things became more desperate. Maybe stop the blood from flowing to their heart just long enough to make it back to camp so they could be tortured, or interrogated (was there any difference?). Hanir smelled nice.
Andrea Albane: One of the many decked in layers of metal. Gave off a sort of holier-than-thou art attitude, which was somewhat hilarious given that he was a member of the Legion, not some templar fighting for one of the jeweled cities. Aeudla hardly knew anything of him, as there was nothing distinctly noticeable about him other than that he seemed to be everywhere, though this could as easily be something else. Because, again, forgettable. Perhaps he had showed his face in camp, before. Who knew.
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