Amaranth

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

29th of Second Seed, Evening
Gilane, Hammerfell

It was cold. Shakti shivered, even wrapped in her robes and tattered cloak. She leaned against the wall, next to the door to a small, out of the way watering hole. She had spent the better part of an hour trailing a man wearing the same type of cloak as hers, albeit in somewhat better shape. The type of cloak only a former Knight of the Moon would have. Or daughter of a Knight of the Moon in her case. Israhal's contact had been right. There was a Knight here. She had seen him speak with some of the Dwemer and Redguard patrols as he snaked his way from bar to bar. Evidently he knew them or had some ties to the local government. She had finally decided that this place was small and out of the way enough for her to make her move. She did not plan for it to get violent, after all, she only wanted information. There's no telling what a drunken former knight might do though, so she kept her guard up. The door opened and a Redguard man, with his arm around an equally drunk Redguard woman wobbled out. Shakti caught the door as it swung back and slunk inside.

The smell was terrible. Like vomit and cheap but overly strong alcohol had mingled together for far too long. It was smoke filled as well, no doubt the result of several men in the corner puffing away on hookahs and pipes in the style of foreign lands. Shakti kept her cloak over her mouth as she slowly and methodically picked her way through the small but fairly crowded establishment, searching for her target. Finally she spotted him, and with one hand on her sword she did her best attempt at a swagger over to him. His back was towards her, too busy chatting with another man wearing the uniform of the city guard. Shakti took a deep breath and tapped the man on the shoulder. He turned his whole body to look at her. He was fairly average looking, not quite attractive but not ugly either. She guessed he was a Breton or Nord based on his pale skin, although pale skinned Redguards were not totally unheard of. Sentinel was on the Iliac Bay and a frequent destination for Bretons seeking knighthood outside of High Rock, which explains the high numbers of Bretons in the Knights of the Moon.

"Huh? What do you want, girl?" The man's accent was definitely foreign, but Shakti could not place it, not through the slight slurring of words that came with the nice buzz the man was speaking through.

"You are a Knight, correct?" She asked plainly.

"Might be I am. Wait- That cloak!" His eyes flashed from suspicion to realisation in an instant. "Where did you get that, girl?"

"I think you know exactly where I got it. Taren Nasaaj, what happened to him?" Her tone came out very accusatory, possibly a mistake. She did her best to contain her rising emotions. Control, control, control! She repeated in her head. She grimaced inwardly, hoping the man wouldn't totally shut her out.

His eyes narrowed. He got out of his seat. He was taller than Shakti, but she did her best to project her presence. "I suggest you scurry back to wherever you came from, girl. It's best you don't know what happened to him." His tone was dark, threatening. She did not like the implications. The room felt like a powderkeg. She saw in her periphery the man's companions eyeing her warily. Their hands were all below the table, no doubt clutched around weapons. Despite the tension in the small bubble, sounds of merriment and the clinking of glasses still radiated throughout. "Tell me what happened." Shakti insisted, as forcefully as she could. "Last warning, girl. Leave." She couldn't back down though, not now. Her pride wouldn't let her. "I've come too far to let you stop me. Tell me what happened to him and I will leave." The emotion in her voice had changed. Gone was the blunt force, replaced with deadly calm.

"Don't stick your head where it doesn't belong!" The man roared as he lunged at her. Luckily, drink had slowed him, and Shakti had enough time to dive out of the way. She half-rolled-half-tumbled to the right, narrowly missing a man carrying a drink. The drunken knight (if he even was still a knight) crashed into a table, upending it and sending the occupants scattering. Unfortunately the man's companions were not so deep in the drink and were faster. One of them was already brandishing a scimitar and vaulting over the table after her. The other had gone around to try and cut off her escape from the door. She could not fight them here, not with all these people. She pushed her way through the rapidly panicking crowd to try and make it to the door before the man could cut her off. The small door was rapidly becoming clogged with people trying to escape the fight, Shakti among them. This did have the added effect of preventing the second man from cutting her off, he himself becoming entangled in the mob, reaching in vain for her. She could hear the curses and grunts of the knight as he got up and started hurling people out of the way. Desperately, Shakti pushed and pushed at the people in front of her, stealing a quick look back at the rapidly approaching threesome of trouble.

Finally, she resorted to literally throwing her body at the stuck group of barflies, causing the doorframe to splinter and the six or seven people to spill out onto the stone of the streets. Shakti herself almost tripped and fell on the poor fools who had fallen as she stumbled out into the cool night air. As soon as she was free of the crowd she spun back towards the door., her hand on her sword. Sure enough, almost immediately the three men, all brandishing blades, made a beeline for her. The first man, the one with the scimitar advanced and swung at her in one motion. She drew her blade and slapped the scimitar away in a fluid motion of her own. She then riposted with a downward cut that the man counter-parried. She hopped backwards, anticipating a counter-riposte that never came. The Knight advanced on her, his Cyrad-style longsword drawn. This time she was the first to attack. Shakti dashed forwards, feinting to the left before swiping upwards at his heart. It would have been a killing blow had the man not blocked it and redirected her blade towards the stones of the road. Even drunk, the man was obviously well trained.

The gale wind of emotions in her heart was slowly dying down and Shakti was beginning to realise she was a bit overmatched. The third man thrust at her with a wicked-looking-knife and she barely strafed left in time to avoid a jab in the ribs. She circled the three men, her sword held neutrally at her centre. Her eyes were rapidly scanning the area for an escape, but she didn't dare to move her head, lest she give them an opportunity to attack. The Knight roared and swung a terrible overhead blow that if it had landed would have bisected Shakti for sure. If it had landed. She sidestepped the blow and in return smote him across the back with a solid chop. Luckily for his spine, he was wearing chainmail and leather and thus the blow was mostly absorbed. It did however, have the force to send him sprawling against the ground. Before she could react and finish him, she heard the whistling of a sword and instinctively raised her bracer to block it. Sometimes acting on instinct was a good thing, especially if one has honed their instincts. This was not one of those times. The scimitar cut straight through the hardened leather of the bracer and bit deep into her arm. Shakti screamed in pain and lashed out with her foot, planting it firmly on the man's chest and sending him stumbling backwards. Despite the horrible, burning, searing pain in her left arm she seized the moment and took off running, slamming her sword back into its sheath as she sprinted down the path.

She looked back and saw the three men desperately running to catch her, but she was too fast. They were rapidly fading into the darkness as the gap between them grew. Ignoring the pain and focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other, the young Redguard did not notice the Dwemer patrol until it was too late. She turned and made a last ditch attempt to turn and slide between them, but the two guardsmen were prepared. One of them merely stuck his arm out at head height and brutally clotheslined her. Nearly causing her to flip over as she slammed painfully into the ground. The fall combined with the cut on her forearm was too much. The last thing she remembered was the two helmeted heads of the Dwemer soldiers staring at her.

---

When next Shakti awoke, the world was a grey fuzzy blob. She blinked twice and sat up rubbing her eyes. Her head ached and her left arm throbbed badly. She tentatively considered looking down, hoping maybe if she didn't look the wound would go away. It wouldn't of course, so she forced herself to inspect the damage. The bracer itself was split in the middle and dried blood coated it. She delicately unstrapped the bracer and pulled the torn sleeve of her robe back. She instinctively sucked her teeth. It was bad, but not crippling. It was sore when she moved her hand and arm but the fact she could move it was a good thing. Idly scraping dried blood from her arm she next inspected her surroundings. Some sort of holding cell. It was made of stone and save for a high window that let light shine in, there was only one way out, a metal door with no visible windows. She stood up and stretched. Her body felt bruised all over. She wondered how long she had been out for. It had to have been at least a couple hours, because of the light. She felt for her sword, which of course, wasn't there. Shakti mumbled a curse and then quickly prayed to Satakal to forgive her foul language. She needed to get the sword back. It was her Father's after all! Luckily, the Dwemer hadn't taken much else from her, save her knife, her food, and her satchel it was all in. She hopped up and grabbed the edge of the window with her one good arm and hoisted herself up the rest of the way with both of her arms and peered out into the daylight. Squinting, she could make out some of the city landmarks and, from what she could see and couldn't see she guessed she was in the city dungeon. A child could have figured that out! She let go of the window and flopped back onto her straw mat. Her stomach grumbled. Maybe just a few more minutes of sleep before escaping...

The metal door swung open with a crash, startling Shakti's eyes open. She sat up like lightning as her eyes focused on the two figures standing over her. "You. Get up." The voice was harsh and grating, almost inhuman. Well, it wasn't human. It was Dwemer. The figure in its burnished armour brandished a spear at her, forcing her shakily to her feet. On her way out of the cell, she noted it was dark again. A few more minutes indeed. She thought grimly. Stupid stupid stupid! The two Dwemer led her down a corridor and into a holding cell with a few other prisoners. When she dragged her feet getting into the other cell, the spear-wielding guard gave her a shove that sent her stumbling fully into the area. Shakti cradled her injury and surveyed the other prisoners. No one she recognised. Mostly fellow Redguards, though. Local resistance or just petty thieves and troublemakers? Turning back to look out of the bars, her eyes searched for her things amongst the pile of items on the other side of the room. It was impossible to know for sure, but she thought she spied the hilt of her Father's sword. She imagined herself as a powerful mage and tried to will her imaginary telekinetic powers into bringing her the sword. Worth a try. She thought, giggling inwardly. Her nonexistent magicka reserves depleted she turned back around and resigned herself to sitting back against the bars, rubbing more blood and dirt from her wounded arm with her cloak.

Hours had passed. Prisoners had come, prisoners had gone. Seemingly at random, although Shakti had a few theories on patterns amongst the prisoners. One, the ones that had been taken were all healthy. No one with an obvious wound (Shakti included) had been taken. Secondly, they seemed to take the biggest and fiercest-looking prisoners only. Perhaps they thought they couldn't handle feeding the big ones? Seemed unlikely. She settled on the theory that they were probably being separated between prisoners who could fight in the arena. It would explain why they were only taking healthy prisoners. After all, no one wanted to bet on a wounded fighter. It would also explain why the bigger ones were being taken. Shakti counted herself lucky that she had sustained a wound. If I had not been injured, I might be dead or fighting for my life right now. She silently thanked the nameless Desert Spirit and Diagna and rested her head against the cool metal of bars.

Eventually they stopped taking prisoners out, and even the influx slowed to a trickle. In total there were perhaps six of them, counting Shakti. She was getting bored and began to trace the motions of sword-forms in the air when the Dwemer guards returned and ordered everyone up and into a line. Shakti was second-to-last in line and thus couldn't see where they were going very well, but eventually they were bombarded with the late afternoon sun, still as hot as she remembered from all of two-ish days ago. Much to all of the prisoner's lament, they had to stand in said hot afternoon sun for the better part of an hour, slowly watching the sun set as the Dwemer guards argued with the local Redguard officer about something. Shakti couldn't make out exactly what they were arguing about, but it seemed like something to do with a delayed wagon. She supposed they did not wish to travel at night for fear of ambushes, but the delay was causing them to consider it. The Redguard officer was telling them to wait out the night, because they were sure to be attacked if they attempted travel, but the Dwemer counterpart was insisting on sticking to the schedule and that they would travel through the night. It seemed that the Dwemer won out and the prisoners were herded onto the wagon once it arrived and chained together so that they could not run, at least not easily.

As the wagon began to move, Shakti attempted one last telekinetic summon of her sword, which to her dismay, failed like the first. Temporarily defeated, she slumped down and settled in for the ride.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Hello! I'm very excited to join!

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Shakti

Name: Tariyeh Shakti Nasaaj

Race: Redguard

Sex: Female

Age: 18

Birthsign: The Warrior

Family Origins: Alik'r Desert, Iliac Bay, Hammerfell

---

---

Appearance:

Shakti

Full Face

Shakti is a Redguard, and looks the part. She stands fairly tall at 5'9" (about 175 cm), with a fairly thin, boyish frame. Her skin is a shade of brown, 'like the color of the dunes at sunset' as her father would say. Her hands are roughened and covered in scars and small cuts from a lifetime of harsh desert living and manual labour. Shakti's eyes are also a brown hue, although one that sparkles in the light, like a polished stone catching the corner of your eye. The light behind them is one of youthful enthusiasm tempered by the experiences of one forced to grow up fast. Her hair is short, unkempt, messy, tousled. The only thing keeping it semi-controlled is her occasional hood that she wears to keep the sand and sun off of her face. Unleashed it goes in whichever way the wind blows and that is how she likes it. Shakti has a somewhat tomboyish face, with a small-to-medium sized nose that is fairly flat and points down like an arrow. Her eyes resemble somewhat rounder-than-average almonds with rather thick and expressive eyebrows. Her mouth is smallish and oval shaped, with full lips darker than her skin that give her an expression of youthful innocence.

Her clothes are somewhat piecemeal, and with good reason. Being a wanderer means she has had to make on-the-go modifications to her outfit, deciding what to keep and what to leave behind or repurpose into something different. The robes and pants she wears on the under layer are white and slightly tattered, with the better condition blue robe worn over the top. Both of these are exceptionally suited to the heat of the desert and allow the wearer's skin to breathe to prevent sweating and unnecessary loss of water. These are secured over her torso with an improvised sash/scarf of orange cloth. It was torn from a cloak and she occasionally wears it as a sort of single-shouldered cloak. The armour she wears is relatively light, with a mismatched pair of leather bracers over her forearms to aid in the parrying of blows. Her shins are protected from the elements as well as enemies by a pair of matching leather greaves. Her abdomen is protected by the lower half of a leather cuirass, evidently part of a set. However the upper chest piece is missing, possibly discarded. Her belt is plain but well made, featuring a baldric to aid in the wearing of her sword. 'Every girl needs a good pair of boots' is what her mother used to say and Shakti has followed that piece of advice well. They are not as heavy-duty as Cyrodiilic or Nordic boots but are instead lighter and easier to move around in to prevent the user from sinking down into and becoming fatigued while moving around in sand. Finally she adorns herself in her father's cloak. It is sky blue and all the other markings and embroideries have long since faded or been torn off save for a barely visible crescent moon around the centre. Its edges are tattered and frayed so badly that if it were any other piece of clothing it would have been discarded by any sane person. On a fair weather day she wears it draped over her right shoulder and up over her mouth and nose to keep the sand out of her mouth, but leaves her hair open to the breeze. If the weather is rough she garbs it over her head like a hood to protect herself as much as possible.

Equipment:
-Her Father's unnamed Steel Redguard Blade, possessing a slight curve to the overall shape. Long enough to be wielded in one or two hands without too much trouble. In decent condition. Worn cutting-edge up on her hip in the style of the old Sword-Singer masters.
-Worn Iron Dagger, used mostly for menial cutting work and as a last resort.
-Leather armour, including bracers, a chestpiece, and greaves.
-Alik'r Robes, semi-loose, clamped down by the leather that's worn over it. Highly suited for the desert environs of her homeland.
-Cloak/Hood/Mask made out of the cloth of her Father's cloak. It is blue and has a faded gold trim with a moon motif on the center. She now wraps herself in her father's memory, almost literally. Can be worn in a variety of ways, most frequently a half mask/cloak to keep the sand out of her face.

Misc. Possessions:
-Several incomplete and ancient texts about Sword-Singers.
-Traveling pack, small and specially designed to survive the harshness of the Alik'r Desert, it carries her what little she owns.
-Bedroll, mostly self-explanatory, although this one is handmade by Shakti's tribe and is exceptionally comfortable in the desert.
-10 gold pieces, held within her pack is all the wealth she has, preferring to live off the land itself and get paid in training or knowledge.
-Rations, bread, dates, water and goat's milk (of which she is particularly fond.)
-Basic sewing kit

Family and Associations:
Taren Nasaaj - Father; deceased
Karayyah Nasaaj - Mother; alive
Tarinah Nasaaj - Younger sister; alive
Tarish Nasaaj - Younger brother; alive

Israhal - Bandit, Partisan, Freedom fighter, and Shakti's mentor; unknown

Favoured Skills:

One-handed and Two-handed Blade - Moderately Proficient - Shakti is naturally gifted with a blade and self-taught. One might even say she was a prodigy, for it is rare indeed to find someone with such barebones formal training as skilled as she. All Redguard children receive martial training in a variety of weapons, but none are as favoured as the sword. From this beginning, Shakti has sought out ancient Ra Gada Sword-Singer texts to help further her self-training, to some modest success. She has learned to wield her sword in one hand or both hands equally as well, and is able to switch mid fight to throw off her opponents. Her fighting style is a mix of modern Redguard conventions of swordplay and old Ra Gada Sword-Singer techniques. She is an adherent of the philosophy of 'Strike with Intent', meaning she only strikes if she thinks she can kill what she swings at. Ra Gadan swordplay has no use for defeat or wounding or submission. There is only death. No half measures. This also means she does not block her opponent's strikes. Ra Gadan swordplay again assumes the opponent also seeks your immediate death, so to let them hit you is to die. Thus, Shakti either avoids the blow by dodging, dashing or otherwise moving herself out of the way, or by redirecting the blow so it misses her with the brunt of the strike. Indeed, this is where her natural speed helps out quite a bit as in Sword-Singing being able to draw your weapon and attack in a single motion is seen as the most efficient and thus one of the most useful skills to practice.

Athletics - Moderately Proficient - All Redguards are physically fit for the most part. For the nomadic denizens of the Alik'r Desert this is doubly true, for to stop moving there is to die.

Acrobatics - Moderately Proficient - Ra Gadan Sword-Singing (at least the texts she has read) places high value on avoidance in combat and Shakti has both practiced and been trained to dodge both defensively and offensively in a duel. That being said she is not going to be doing any flips or twirls.

Hand-to-Hand - Somewhat Proficient - She has had some formal training in the basics of unarmed combat. All Redguard children are taught how to defend themselves, and her natural Redguard strength and speed help out quite a bit.

Weaving/Sewing - Somewhat Proficient - Isolated nomadic tribes don't get to go to the clothes market very often, so every member of the tribe is taught to sew and weave cloth using a hand loom. Though Shakti somewhat neglected her weaving skills in favour of more martial pursuits, she still knows how to mend rips and tears fairly handily. It just might take her a bit longer than say, her sister or mother. It has come in handy quite a few times since she has begun her wandering.

History:
Born into a small nomadic tribe that wanders the Alik'r Desert, it first seemed as though Shakti's destiny would be one of dunes and goat herding. Her mother was Karayyah, Matriarch of the tribe, and her father was Taren, a great warrior, the greatest of the tribe. Her sister Tarinah was born two years after Tariyeh, and a younger brother, Tarish, two years after that. The eldest child, young Tariyeh and her siblings spent their early life learning how to defend themselves, their tribe, and their family from all enemies, particularly the Aldmeri, as the War between Hammerfell and the Dominion was still a recent memory in those days. Even though the eldest girl was raised to be next in line to take over matriarchal duties once her mother was too old, her younger sister showed much better aptitude and eagerness for leadership. Tarinah was dutiful and sharp of mind, cognizant of the burden of leadership and determined to prove herself as a competent leader. While Tariyeh was mercurial of mood and motivation, more interested in her father's lessons on swordplay and tales of great Yokudan heroes. Though she lacked her younger sister's interest in leadership and more domestic activities, she more than made up for it with a determination to follow in her father's footsteps as the greatest warrior in the tribe. Her younger brother, Tarish, took to weaving like a duneripper to the sands. Even as a child his garments were prized possessions and cherished gifts. His skill with a loom was only matched by Tariyeh's lack of interest in one. Regardless of her eldest's misgivings, Karayyah was determined to tutor all of her children in the ways of the Alik'r. So, Tariyeh, Tarinah, and Tarish all spent their childhoods learning the ancient traditions and customs of their tribe. From this knowledge came a deep respect for the family's honor and the ancestors that had helped shape the history of the Alik'r Desert and Hammerfell as a whole. Though none of them had become great kings or rulers, there had been plenty of warriors among the lineage of Tariyeh's tribe, including a Sword-Singer (the legendary Ra Gadan warriors who were said to be able to fell mountains with their blades.) So when the King of Sentinel put out the call for household guard, troops who would be inducted into a knightly order (the Knights of the Moon,) guard him and carry out his will amongst his domain, he specifically requested Taren join. Tariyeh knew in her heart that Taren would join, it was an honour to be called upon to serve in a knightly order after all, but deeper still in her heart, she did not want him to go. It was irrational of course, but what ten-year-old girl is rational? She loved her father and she loved emulating him in her sword-drills and mock battles with the other children. Tariyeh's father, of course, was honoured and readily accepted.

Tariyeh had been young then, a girl of only ten. Old enough to remember her father leaving.

The sun was 3/4ths of the way through the sky, just beginning to descend towards the horizon when her father stood up from the midday meal. His scaled armour glittered in the late afternoon sun. Tariyeh knew this meant he was to be leaving soon. They all knew. The youngest, Tarish, was not old enough to hold back his tears and wept openly. Tariyeh and her sister were old enough to know better and merely sat with watery eyes as their father strapped his sword to his hip once again. The whole family followed him out of the tent. His comrades-to-be were assembled in similar equipment to his and waiting in the common area of the site, near the communal firepit. They laughed about something. Tariyeh couldn't find anything funny. She sniffled. The wind tasted like she had lost something. When they too had reached the common area, her father turned and knelt down to her.

"Stay strong my little sand-sparrow. You'll be in my heart for every moment I'm gone, and maybe if you are diligent in your sword-drills, in a few years you will join me in Sentinel."

She looked up from his shining breastplate and into his eyes, but did not say a word. He patted her head.

"Listen to your mother. Everything she does, she does for the honor of the tribe. For the honor of the family. For the honor of you. As do I. As will you. Without our honor, we are nothing. Remember that, my little sand-sparrow." He patted her head again as he stood up. Before she knew what was happening, he was gone. The sun was falling across the sky and she could barely make out the banners of the caravan arc over the dunes towards Sentinel. One of them was her father's. Before long, it was nighttime and she could no longer see the blue shapes fluttering in the hot desert wind. Her mother called to her to set up the johads before she went to bed. Tariyeh was still sitting on the dune outside of the camp when her younger sister came up behind her holding the bundle of sticks and cloth that made up the johads.

"Yehyeh, the johads." Her sister said, tapping her on the shoulder. Tariyeh blinked herself out of her haze and stood up. Her sister was eight and just as dutiful as their mother. So dutiful in fact, that Tariyeh thought she would make a better leader than Tariyeh herself. "Sorry Nahnah. I was watching Papa leave. Let's set up the johads and get to bed before it gets too cold."

But her father never did return, at least not alive, and even as diligent as Tariyeh was at her drills, she never did join her father in Sentinel.

Tariyeh's adolescence was one of hoping and praying that her father would return, or at least visit. The tribe continued its endless journey around the great Alik'r, snaking its way through the sand, occasionally stopping at a city along the way. All the while, her mother kept trying to urge Tariyeh into taking a more active role in the leadership of the Tribe. At fifteen she still refused to do anything more than herd goats, practice her swordplay, and watch the horizon for her father's return. Tarinah, however, was happy to take the eldest girl's place in learning to lead the tribe.

It was just beginning to turn to dusk. The red-blood sun hung dangerously low in the sky as Tariyeh twirled her blade with her right hand, practicing a feint, then a slash, then a block, then a parry. She was only keeping a nominal eye on the small herd of goats under her charge as they browsed a small patch of desert shrubs, focusing instead on the muscle memory of her own short curved sword as it swung through the air in arcs and cuts. She moved her feet in deliberate but not slow movements as she traced a mock duel against an invisible opponent through the small gully in which she and her herd were situated. She guessed it was a stream bed of some sort during the rainy season, the water in the soil allowing some small plants to sprout and grow during the dry season. Tariyeh closed her eyes and focused solely on the feel of the motions as she practiced the forms of the attack. She could hear the soft bleating of the goats and bells around their neck grow slightly louder and faster in tempo, but she paid it no mind.

During her next cut, there was a noise like a shriek. Tariyeh's focus was ruined and she opened her eyes. She blinked as they adjusted to the ever-increasing dark. The noise was coming from a baby goat, being carted off by a shape. Tariyeh shouted for the shape to stop and broke into a run towards it. The shape was halfway up the gully wall with the goat under its arm, but it was clearly harder to get up the sloped and sandy side than get down. Tariyeh dove for and grabbed at the legs of the shape. She found purchase and the thing released the goat and tumbled down the side of the gully and onto Tariyeh. Judging from the noise it made, it was a man. A bandit of some kind no doubt. Goats were always popular at markets. The man rolled off of the girl and pulled at something near his chest. She could see the glinting of the large knife in the waning sunlight. She practically dove for her own short sword and retrieved it from where it had fallen. Her heart was beating as fast as a duneripper that smelled blood on the sand. She took a deep breath to calm her shaking and brandished her blade at the man, showing she was not afraid of him. Another shape appeared on the side of the gully. The man's partner? He made no attempt to climb down, the narrow gulch barely wide enough for two people to stand abreast, let alone three people fighting.

The bandit made the first move, thrusting out with an attack that Tariyeh clumsily slapped away with the flat of her blade. It was hard to see and therefore hard to react, but perhaps she could use that to her advantage. She used her free hand to make a motion towards the man, who instinctively flinched, unable to see what Tariyeh was doing. Seizing the moment, she made a wide hack with the hand that was actually holding the blade. It bit into the man's upper arm and he shouted in pain. It was mostly superficial, the man's clothing blunting the novice blow. The brigand's partner yelled a curse at Tariyeh that almost made her laugh if she wasn't in a life or death struggle. Thoroughly distracted, the girl did not see the counter-thrust coming until it was too late. She tried to leap back but the tip still scratched at her ribs. She winced in pain, but the adrenaline was coursing through her and the pain did not stay her focus.

I do not think I can make that mistake again.

She steeled her focus again and correctly predicted a third thrust, twisting her left shoulder to avoid the knife while extending her own blade with her right side in a counter-thrust of her own. The longer blade of her own proved adequate and she felt the tip press into meat. A yelp of pain erupted from the man and a chorus of bleats from the goats followed. Desperate and humiliated that he was being beaten by a teenage girl, the man angrily lashed out in a series of swipes with his hunting knife. Tariyeh turned the first aside before hopping backwards to avoid the rest. Undeterred, the man let loose a vicious downward stab at the girl's head. But she was prepared. Her knees bent and legs coiled like a sand-snake, she sprung under the man's attack and slashed at his abdomen as she passed him. If she had been bigger and perhaps a bit stronger, the stroke would have spilled the bandit's guts. However, a fifteen year old girl, even a Redguard, was not that strong and so instead it left an angry red cut across his stomach that oozed blood.

Perhaps realising that it was not worth a single baby goat, the man retreated a few steps and leapt up the sandy wall, aided by his friend. Not one to let her first real opponent go, Tariyeh ignored her aching ribs and jumped after the man, latching onto his boot. He wriggled his foot, attempting to scrape her off like a bug, but the girl was hooked on tight. She even dropped her blade to get a better grip with her right hand. Frustrated, the other man knelt down and kicked out with his foot, striking her in the forehead and propelling her neck backwards. The force of the kick was enough to dislodge one of her hands but her other remained firmly grasped onto the boot even as she fell. There was a sound of tearing and the wind was suddenly knocked out of Tariyeh. She found herself still in possession of a boot, laying on her back on the sandy floor of the gulch. Bruised, bleeding, and with an aching neck but victorious, Tariyeh gathered her small herd and her newly acquired boot and trekked back to the camp.

Karayyah was proud of her daughter. Sure it was foolish of her to attack a full grown man, but she had drove the two men away and sustained only a minor wound in the process. All in all, there wasn't much she could be mad about. Tariyeh was happy. Her siblings had oooh'd and aaaaaah'd as she regaled them with her duel in the gulch and her mother had told her how proud she was. Still, lurking in her heart, she wished she could tell her father. She knew he would be proud of her. Extra proud. The leaf did not fall far from the tree. Imagining the look on his face as she told him her adventure only half-satisfied her. She could picture the way his short beard would distort as he smiled at his eldest daughter. But again, it only partially made her feel better. She was proud of herself, but she missed him.

She sat in the tent with her mother. She was sixteen. Old enough to start leading the tribe, her mother insisted. Tariyeh protested. "I cannot. Tarinah-" Her mother raised a hand. "-is not the eldest." Karayyah finished for her. "YOU must lead the tribe. It is your duty to our people. To your people." Tariyeh sighed. She knew her mother was right, but she still felt stuck. Her sister was twice the leader Tariyeh was, but her mother did not care. "I have taught you both the same thing." She would insist. "Anything she can do, you can do alongside her." She was technically correct. Both girls had learned how to navigate the desert via the constellations in the sky. Both girls had learned how to follow the changing seasons so that the goats always had food to eat. Both girls had learned the ceremonies and holidays of their people. Still, to Tariyeh she felt every bit the novice she had felt at ten. She hadn't told her mother that when they tested her by leaving her in an oasis to find them again on her own by the light of the night sky, she had merely remembered the next destination from the previous years' journey. How could she? She wouldn't dare disappoint her mother. Her children were the desert pearl of her sands. The proudest thing she had ever done. She could barely keep all the holy days in her head straight. She remembered the Day of Shame, though it was hardly relevant to the non-seafaring Alik'r nomads. There was also the Fiery Night, but what self-respecting Alik'r child would not remember it? It was the liveliest party of the year. Meanwhile, her sister could seemingly name all of them off the top of her head without batting an eyelash. There was also weaving. Oh Satakal, the weaving! Everyone knew of her brother's prodigious weaving. He was practically the master of cloth already at eleven. It was almost scary. The only effect it had on Tariyeh was to discourage her. Try as her mother might, she could barely get Tariyeh to attempt to make socks. Her hands were deft and strong with a sword, but turned into sandstone bricks with a loom. She stuck to mending her torn clothes rather than put herself up for comparison with her brother.

"You will have to lead someday, my little sand-sparrow." Tariyeh said nothing, but sullenly cast her gaze at the rug on the floor of the tent. "There is no need to mope around, child. I am very proud of the woman you are becoming. You will make a great leader one day." It seemed an empty platitude. "Now, let's get back to studying these constellations. I know you didn't use them to find us when we left you at the oasis." Tariyeh, who had been slumped over on a pillow, suddenly shot straight up. "How did you know?" Her mother laughed lightly, "You think you are the first child to remember the route? You weren't supposed to meet us there, you were supposed to follow the stars and meet us a few days later, past the town, like your sister did." Her mother winked at her. Tariyeh knew she didn't do it maliciously, but the comparison to her sister hurt her nonetheless. She winced slightly.

The next time she saw him was when the caravan brought back her father's body. She had just turned eighteen. The caravan returned with a man who was somewhat unknown to the tribe at its head. He introduced himself as Sir Adhemar, a Breton from Wayrest who had come to join the knightly order of Sentinel and a comrade of her father's. Tariyeh recognised the name from letters her father had sent home. He had spoken highly of the young knight from High Rock and Tariyeh's tribe treated him accordingly. The caravan rested with the tribe while burial preparations were made for Taren, and a feast was thrown to honour the sacrifice of the man and the joyous journey he was surely onto the Far Dunes. Of the circumstances surrounding the death of Taren, Adhemar grew nervous. Sitting in the tent with Tariyeh and her mother, Adhemar looked around anxiously. "I know not who killed him, my lady..." He trailed off as if he had more to say, and then spoke again, "...But I suspect he was one of our order. Not a Dwemer. We were betrayed from within." He looked nervously towards the entrance flap of the tent, before settling his gaze back onto Tariyeh's mother. Tariyeh felt her stomach knot itself three times over. It felt like Diagna himself had delivered a blow that had knocked the soul from her body. "Our caravan was attacked on the way out of the city as well, by an unknown party who wore no heraldry. I am taking these few men back to Wayrest, where we might seek refuge. The new Governor has a taste for blood as well. I'd steer clear of that accursed place." The Breton shuddered, as if the mere mention of Sentinel would curse him. So the Dwemer had returned, and invaded at that! Of course, the tribe had heard rumours about an occupation, and seen strange shapes in the sky, but for the most part nothing had changed from the past years of traveling the Alik'r.

The feast was soon concluded and Taren given to the Desert, leaving Tariyeh only a precious few items to remember him by; his cloak, his sword, and most importantly his honor. Her mind darkened. The hot dusk wind blew through the air. She gritted her teeth, crunching sand in between them. She knew what she must do. Her whole family did. No one spoke of it for a full day, long after the column of knights had departed. Tariyeh tried to think of it in positive terms. She would be absolved of her leadership duties until she returned, and Tarinah would get her dream of leadership. That was good. It didn't make her feel better, or less apprehensive.

The youngest, her brother spoke about it first.

"You're leaving, Yehyeh?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

How could she explain to her poor brother, who only wanted to weave masterpieces, that as the oldest child, she was honor-bound to find and kill the man who had betrayed their father? How could she explain that she would not be allowed to return until she had either killed the man or been killed herself? Perhaps he would understand, after all, Redguard culture was steeped in honor and ceremony and pride and family ties. And blood. Lots of blood.

"I must find out what happened to Father." She finally said as she strapped her father's sword to her hip. She had worn it edge-down back then. She had not known about the Sword-Singers then.

"When will you be back?" He insisted.

"I do not know." She replied honestly.

She left the next day, wrapped in her father's cloak, headed for an old friend of the tribe. One who could better prepare her for her task at hand.

On the third day of travelling she finally saw the camp on the horizon. The hot desert sun was at its zenith in the sky. Sand blew against her boots as she walked, kicked up by her relatively light footfalls and picked up by the wind. That constant companion, that constant foe, the wind. The Sand-Sparrow flies against the wind, she reminded herself. A common saying amongst her people. When travelling in the desert, very rarely were you walking with the wind and even the birds flew against it more often than not. She crested a dune and slid down its face. Her eyes were fixed on a small outcropping of rocks on the far horizon, towards where the sun heading in its great journey across the Alik'r sky. She knew that within the small outcropping was a cave and within the cave was a camp, and within that, a man. Israhal. He had fought in the Great War, long before Tariyeh's time, and had helped thwart the Dominion's plans to yoke the Redguard. Some had claimed he had turned to banditry in the interbellum years. Tariyeh did not believe that. It had been some years since she had seen him, but her father claimed he was always the just and honorable man she had known him as. Time would tell. She crested another dune. Her legs ached and she could feel sweat dripping down her forehead despite the harsh wind blowing against her.

It was deep into the night by the time she reached the rocks. Heat had been replaced by teeth-chattering cold. Not the drippy-wet coldness of snow and ice and rain. The wind-blasted nothing-cold of the desert. The cold you get when there is nothing for warmth to latch onto. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her as she cautiously approached the mouth of the cave. There were three huge sandstone boulders arranged in a triangle on the top of a large dune. The rocks had been sandblasted over the ages and barely resembled what they had been three ages ago. Before they had been rocks they had been part of a temple. A first era Sword-Singing temple if Israhal was telling the truth. Supposedly this was the very top of the temple, the desert having reclaimed the entirety of the rest of the temple. She presumed the dune itself was the temple and that the cave must have been some sort of passage to the top. It did not matter now. She slowly, but steadily began her descent into the cave, her right hand on the wall and her left out in front of her. It was dark. Too dark to see and she had foolishly not packed any torches. She thought of her mother as she made her way further into the passage. She was back leading the tribe, after losing her husband and now having to part with her oldest child, the one supposed to take her place. The thought made her resolve harden. She would not let her mother OR her father down. She would avenge her father and then return to lead the tribe. But first she had to find Israhal.

The passage slowly began to get steeper as she made her way down, down into the heart of the temple. The light of the moon was no longer visible behind her. A wrong step! Slick with sand, her boot failed to find traction on the sandstone and slid from beneath her. She fell backwards onto her back and slid, half riding, half tumbling down the steep incline. She tried to slow her fall, only succeeding in tearing skin from the ungloved parts of her hands. Finally the grade of the slope lessened. She slowed and was spit out on her behind in the middle of a huge hall, a roaring bonfire in the the center. Three men immediately sprang at her, swords pointed at her throat.

"I-Israhal! I've come for Israhal!" She spit out as fast as her mouth could move, before realising how sinister that sounded.

"Tell him, Nasaaj, Tariyeh Nasaaj is here!" One of the men broke off and headed back to the group around the fire. She heard bellowing laughter. She grasped her bloody hands and tried to shake the pain from them to no avail. Finally an older man appeared, a long black beard sprung from his face and hung at his chest, his head was bald, or at least shaved close enough to functionally be bald. He wore the robe of an Alik'r and had a sword hanging off of his belt. Upon seeing her sitting down, covered in sand, staring at her bloody hands, he laughed again. The two men sheathed their swords and looked strangely at the man.

"Tariyeh Nasaaj. It has been a looooong time, my little sand-sparrow. You have grown! Tell me, how is your family?" He offered his hand to her as he finished speaking.

She took his hand gingerly and pulled herself up. "It has been some time, Israhal. It is good to see you again." She forced herself to smile before continuing. "Things are not well. My father... he ... " The words caught in her throat like a sand-rabbit caught in a trap. "He died. Recently. And not because of the Dwemer, though I suspect they might be involved somehow. He was betrayed by someone he trusted." Everything flooded out at once. She did not even know if they had known the Dwemer had returned, although it was a safe guess. Israhal was known to be well informed. He stroked his beard knowingly, seeing the pieces fit together. "Ahh, and you have left the tribe, as tradition dictates you must, to avenge him." She nodded hopefully. "And you have come seeking me for aid?" She nodded again, unable to guess at his motives. He clapped her back and began to lead her back towards the fire. "Your father was a good friend to me, child. Because of this I am honorbound to aid you in your task. I do request one thing in return from you though. I am aware of these so-called Dwemer returning and claiming to rule over Hammerfell. I have dedicated my life to a free Hammerfell and I would not see it occupied by one race of knife-ears so soon after I have thrown out another!" Israhal cleared his throat after his impromptu speech and continued, "So... I will train you, but in return you will act as my eyes and ears in Hammerfell throughout your travels. Easy enough I should think." Tariyeh bit her lip. It was not like she had much of a choice. She was a good swordswoman, but so was every other person in Hammerfell. It was often joked that even the goats would pick up a sword if given the chance.

"I guess I don't have much of a choice do I? I accept your offer." She said after a few moments of mulling the idea and what it entailed in her head.

"Excellent!" Israhal declared, "First lesson, you shouldn't use your first name anymore. Your father was very proud of you and spoke often about his little Tariyeh. Whoever killed him might be looking for his family to prevent reprisal. Perhaps your second name will work?"

"Shakti." She declared at once, "It means power." Tariyeh said it again, quieter. It was the name of a maternal ancestor, perhaps her mother's mother, passed down to her.

"Good. It is a good name. May it serve you well. Now, second lesson. You know of the Sword-Singers of ancient Yokuda?" Israhal began, going into detail about how this had once been a temple of the Sword-Singers and how their art was long since forgotten but how he had began piecing together texts to try and revive the lost art and how Tariyeh, nay Shakti would be his first student.

Time had passed since she had begun her training with in the temple. She had taken to Sword-Singing like a duneripper to sand. Venturing across the Alik'r in search of more texts to further her study. From the temple, she had made her way to Sentinel where she had no luck acquiring a genuine Ra Gadan text and only ended up thrown out of the city after slaying a bandit who had tried to rob her in an alley with the lure of Ra Gadan artifacts. Frustrated but undeterred, Shakti made her way to Old Hegathe, landing point of the Ra Gada when they first arrived in Tamriel, investigating a tomb along the way and finding pieces of an ancient Sword-Singer text. It was nothing worldshaking but it did give her a few new forms to practice in her drills. From Hegathe she crossed the bay to Gilane, a smaller city that nevertheless was still a popular stop for travelers and tribes making their way into or across the Alik'r. Indeed, Shakti was familiar enough with the city that she knew where all the inns were and thus, information. She had no luck figuring out if there were anymore Ra Gada artifacts but she did learn something else interesting.

Israhal had many different contacts in many different cities. This city, Shakti had learned, was no different. She had only entered the city perhaps, two hours before a man dressed as a merchant told her someone wished to speak with her in the inn Three Crowns. She gratefully thanked the man and told him she would go there at once. It was eventime and Shakti enjoyed the cool air and the bright stars of the Hammerfell sky. In theory she could follow a certain star to the location of her tribe at any given time of year, but Shakti had to admit she hadn't paid attention when her mother was explaining it. She nevertheless tried in vain to pick out the star as she walked. The Weaver's Star is what they called it, because supposedly the spirits weaved the desert using its light. She was surprised she even remembered that much from her mother's lessons. She was always much more invested in the martial part of her drills than the mental tasks. She would worry about finding her tribe again later, for now she had her own path to walk, and she was determined to see it through.

After a decent jaunt through the winding streets (and more than a few Dwemer patrols, as it was nearing curfew) she finally arrived at the guarded gates of the Three Crowns. "All of the rooms here are in use, and it is getting late, you should find somewhere else to stay." The guard spoke with the accent of a man born and raised in the city. Shakti smiled sheepishly as she desperately tried to remember the passphrase Israhal had drilled into her head.

"Uhh... Sen sogat kulo.. go." She declared triumphantly after the longest second of her life. The guard looked at his friend, who still looked suspiciously at the young Redguard.

"Hurry up and go inside, before someone sees you." His friend said, gesturing with haste towards the door. She dashed inside the door and into the common room, opening and shutting the door in one fluid motion, her speed surprising even herself. For a place with no vacancies, it sure looked vacant to her. There was all of one man, passed out in a corner on a floor pillow, still nursing a bottle of Breton wine. Perhaps they were expecting people. Shakti let out a pfft of annoyance and looked around for her contact. None of the tables were occupied. Maybe there was a backroom? She approached a red curtain semi-cautiously and peered behind it. A man, a Redguard man, sat at the far end of the next room. He spotted her and gestured her to sit with him. She did so, still somewhat expecting to hear a knife slide from its sheath.

"Shakti?" The man inquired in a raspy voice.

Shakti nodded.

"Our mutual friend tells me you are interested in former members of the Knights of the Moon in Sentinel."

She nodded again. "I am."

His voice lowered to a whisper, the man spoke again, "There is one here. I do not know his name, only that he is not a Redguard. Perhaps start with the other inns or the bazaar. I hope this helps you. You are welcome to stay here tonight, though no longer than tonight as we are expecting arrivals soon."

Shakti thanked the man profusely and hurried to an empty room. Her stomach felt like it was full of desert flies. Her first major lead in almost a month! She was so excited she ended up barely being able to sleep, her mind racing with possibilities of where to start, people she should ask, and answers she might find. It was exciting but also nerve-wracking. What if it lead nowhere? What if she was back to the oasis she had set out from? Shakti pushed the thoughts of doubt from her mind. "A bird's trust is not in the branch she sits on, but on her own wings." She whispered to herself as she drifted off to sleep. She would make the lead work. She had to.


Personality:
Shakti is a strange mixture of contradictions, as many young adults are. Torn between two worlds, one of childhood wonder and naiveté and another of adulthood duty, honor, responsibility, and death.

Her experiences in life have left her somewhat wise and reserved beyond her years, and yet she has not totally shaken off her childish impulses and naiveté that comes with being born in such an insular community. Her resolve is like sand, sometimes totally indomitable and practically a force of nature. But other times she is defeated by a stiff breeze. Beneath her resolve and determination to walk her chosen path, is a compassionate and honourable young woman who always strives to do what she feels is right. Though she can come across as overly serious or quiet at times, Shakti is also still young and has a playful side that she does not mind sharing with those she trusts or feels do not wish to harm her.

Shakti is fairly outgoing in her dealings with strangers, making no secret of her quest for knowledge and interest in learning the ways of the sword from anyone who will teach her. She is slightly more tight-lipped about avenging her father, but if she thinks someone can help her get closer to her goal she will talk freely. She holds great reverence for Satakal, the Yokudan God of Everything and Diagna, the Yokudan God of Abberant Swordsmanship (an old favourite of the ancient Sword-Singers.) In addition to those more mainstream Yokudan gods, Shakti also venerates more local spirits, such as the nameless Great Spirit of the Desert, a favourite deity among the nomads of the Alik'r, said to have weaved the stone and sand from the worldskin of Satakal.

Furthermore, Shakti is not necessarily one to give in to whimsy. She can be decisive when she needs to be, but she prefers to think things over and follow the winds in that direction rather than just let herself be blown along. She is patient and knows that mastery is a journey and journeys take time.

Like many Redguards, Shakti views magic somewhat warily, while being outright hostile to most forms of necromancy due to the borderline ancestor worship and high value placed on the body of the deceased. Other forms of magic are merely regarded with extra caution and its users kept at a respectful distance.

Like the desert of her homeland, Tariyeh's austere outward appearance gives way to a rich and lively character underneath. She is a fusion of two alike-though-different cultures. The old and the new. The responsibility and duty of adulthood and the carefree wonder of childhood. The harshness of the sands but the beauty of its dunes. Her upbringing in modern Redguard culture and her subsequent immersion in ancient Ra Gadan tradition have given her a unique point of view on life, even amongst her fellow Redguard.

Star Wars - The Old Republic: Legacy

~ Low Hoth Orbit ~

Aisa ran her fingers across the control console on her green-and-gold Stinger and brought the engines up to half capacity, letting the gravitational field of Hoth do the rest. She grasped both of her hands around the control columns as she guided the through the atmosphere. The small ship paroxysmally quaked as it shot through the upper and then lower layers of Hoth's atmosphere and into a blizzard. Aisa struggled with the controls single-handedly as she activated her navigational sensors to aid her in flying blind in the vicious snowstorm. Finally the sensors hummed to life and Aisa let out her breath as she took full control of the sleek ship once more. The cockpit lit up as the navicomputer projected a flight path towards the beacon through the near-perfectly white storm.

The Mirialan Jedi weaved her craft through peaks and canyons, guided only by the red line projected onto the cockpit transparisteel and the Force. Reaching out with her senses, Aisa felt her way through the snow and sleet that pounded the ship with only the Force. But at the same time she felt something else... a shadow over the planet, distracting her from her flying. Her eyes shot open and she resumed manual flying. The soft beeping of the Navicomputer increased in speed, indicating her nearing to the origin of the beacon. She cut the engines down to 30% and circled the area, searching for a landing site, tilting the craft for a better view. Fortunately, closer to the ground, the storm had mostly broken up or it was likely she would be trying to land blind.

Aisa brought the ship down in a small valley north of where the beacon- and her friend- supposedly lay. Even sitting in her cockpit, it was cold. Each breath brought a puff of air out into the small space. She took a moment to center herself and focus her mental energy. There was still a shadow hanging over the plane. At least that's what it felt like. Something was clouding her senses. Was it something about Hoth? Was it related to the artifact Eva had come here to retrieve? Or was there something worse... like a Darksider? Aisa shook her head clear. There was only one way to find out. She tapped the button that opened the canopy and climbed out.

It was cold. So cold that any aroma or taste or feeling that Hoth had was overpowered by the bitter, painful cold. Aisa cracked open the supply case that lay behind the pilot seat in the cockpit and put on the parka over her Jedi robe, pulling the brown cloth hood over her head first, followed by the heavier parka hood. She also withdrew a cold weather survival backpack and strapped it on her back before finally pulling her datapad out of the dock in the control console and closing the canopy with the Force. She slapped her hip to make sure her lightsaber was in its place before she tapped on the datapad to make sure she was heading in the right direction.

"Let's find us a missing Jedi." Aisa declared, to no one in particular. Her old master had a utility droid and after traveling with him for so long, she found herself chatting to it idly. Bad habit. Maybe she should get herself a droid. Although her Stinger was barely big enough for her let, alone a droid. Either way, she should really stop talking to herself.

Star Wars - The Old Republic: Legacy

Aisa tinkered with her ship on a small smuggler's moon. It was mostly deserted, which is why Aisa liked to come here to meditate and mess with her ship's systems. There was an abandoned hyperdrive fueling station that had a landing pad and a stash of old smuggler's tools used to fix up ships away from the prying eyes of governments. Her ship was small, an S-100 Stinger, but one that she had continuously modified for better performance over the course of a year or so. She was no mechanical whizkid but she found tinkering with it to be meditative. And lately, she needed the meditation. Her mind was a maelstrom of emotions. Recently her longtime friend had gone missing with her master and no one had seen or heard from them since. She had spoken with her friend Eva just before they had departed and she had told Aisa that the mission was a risky one. The Mirialan Knight did not trust her friend's master to keep her safe and she had been vocal about it, but alas they had departed and now that Eva had gone missing, Aisa was afraid her worst fears had come to pass.

Frustrated by the stubbornness of a certain shield capacitor, Aisa groaned and stepped away from her ship. She lay down on its nose and closed her eyes. When she was stuck with a problem where merely cutting it half would not suffice, she relied on the Force to show her the way. She pictured the ship- No, it was not her ship. It was- Eva's!

Something about it felt off. It was in Hoth, where Eva had said it would be. Why had the Force shown her that? There must be a reason! She could not wait any longer. The vision felt disturbing. The Force was telling her to take action. It had to be. Aisa hopped off of the nosecone of her fighter. She needed to get this thing flying again so she could find her friend. She had upgraded the hyperdrive to a class 1.5 instead of the stock class 2, however this put quite a drain on the power supply and thus, there was not enough energy to have both the hyperdrive and the deflector shields active at once. Which was her big conundrum. There HAD to be a way to bypass some non-essential systems to give more power to the shields, at least enough so they would not just short out when you turned them on.

There was not. At least, as far as Aisa could see. Not without installing a whole new (and bigger) drive to power it all. Well, she would just have to do without deflector shields for now. She picked up the panels she had removed and placed them back on her ship, before locking them in place once again. Aisa stood back and admired her handiwork. It was a nice looking ship, with its starburst pattern of alternating rays coloured green and gold. Okay, enough standing around. Eva might need her help.

Aisa slid her way back into the cockpit of her fighter and placed the helmet on her head while simultaneously flipping the ignition switches and beginning startup sequences. The onboard computer bleeped happily and the Stinger rumbled as it floated easily out of the relatively thin atmosphere of the moon. She hoped the smugglers would forgive her for leaving the tools out like that, but time could very well be of the essence. She punched the coordinates for the Hoth system into her navcomputer and brought the ship up to lightspeed. She smiled a small smile as the ship's punchy new speed was on display for the whole galaxy to see.

As the ship warped into the system, Aisa concentrated. Which planet had the ship been on? Snow. She had seen snow on the ship. The sixth planet! It was a frozen ball of ice as far as she remembered, but if it meant finding her friend, she would melt all the snow on the planet. She kicked the Stinger's sublight drives into high gear and began scanning the surface for any signs of a ship or some evidence that her friend was there. Sure enough, a soft blip appeared. Some sort of beacon. It WAS a Jedi beacon as far as her ship's databanks could tell. Which meant that the Force HAD lead her here on purpose! There was a second blip though. Another ship, damaged by the looks of it. As quickly as she could, Aisa shut off her engines and floated, running silent and watching the other ship. A cursory scan of the ship revealed that there were no life signs aboard. Curious. Why was it still operating? Even more worrying, why did it look like it was preparing to land?

Troubled by this development, Aisa prepped her ship to begin landing.

Star Wars - The Old Republic: Legacy

Aisa

Name: Aisa (eye-EE-sah) Trevale
Age: 19
Class: Jedi Knight
Home Planet: Mirial
Race: Mirialan

_________________

Appearance:
Aisa stands at around 1.66 m tall, or around 5'4", with skin the colour of jade and eyes of icy blue. She is clearly young and is fairly petite in build, but possessing the beginnings of a wiry strength. Her hair is naturally jet black but is shaved off save for a braided strip of hair perhaps 2 inches/5 cm wide that slides its way down the back of her head and usually ends in a long braid or braids. Her traditional Mirialan face tattoos are fairly sparse, being as young as she is. That said she is not lacking them entirely; on her left cheek she has an intricate design in the form of a rectangle with the inner side pointing up towards her eye in black ink. She typically does not wear makeup aside from dark eyeliner which she flourishes with a streak from the bottom of her eye that makes it look like she is crying, except black and from the middle of her eye. The helix of both of her ears is pierced with three rings of silver each.

She prefers to wear the darker coloured robes and tunic of her people, as opposed to the lighter, more natural coloured robes favoured by most Jedi. Although she is not that picky and will take whatever colours are available to her.

Her face resembles an upside down tear drop, with a pointed chin and rounded head. Aisa possess the fullness of lips that is common her in her species and large, clear eyes that often indicate her emotions better than her words. Her nose is somewhat small, and slightly upturned. Her eyebrows slant upwards somewhat, giving her an almost predatory look.

Personality:
Aisa is almost everything a Jedi should strive not to be. She is impetuous, hot-headed, and has trouble controlling her emotions. That being said, she is still young and has many positive qualities as well; she is caring and loyal, as well as determined and passionate. She is friendly and easy to get along with most times, but can be very prickly when she perceives something as attacking or insulting her. She tends to be blunt at times, not bothering to cloak her opinions in flowery language or euphemism. Her old master constantly cautioned her to temper her pride, anger, and hubris. It is still something she struggles with, learning to trust her instincts but not reacting merely on impulse and feeling.

Like many of her species, Aisa is deeply religious and feels that her actions do not merely shape her own destiny, but the destiny of the Mirialans as a whole. To this end she feels heavily burdened by doubts that her recklessness (of which she is keenly aware) could bring some doom upon her kind.

In matters of conflict she prefers straightforward and headlong tactics, much to almost everyone else's chagrin. To her, there is no greater victory than meeting your opponent on equal footing and besting them. She hates to lose, and loves to win, although paradoxically she views winning through deception or subterfuge as a sort of hollow victory. This is not to say she is incapable of thought or any advanced tactics, she just refuses to use them if she can avoid it. Her aforementioned hatred of losing is usually enough to push her to use any means of victory (even ones she would normally view as 'underhanded') if she feels she is outmatched physically. Some of these traits cause some small amount of alarm for the other Jedi, who view her as too martial for a peacekeeping order and view her as vulnerable to seduction by the Dark Side of the Force.

She has absorbed the ideals of the Jedi thoroughly and views wanton violence and cruelty as repugnant, though her own passion is something of a trouble spot for her, knowing that it can lead to the Dark Side. In many ways she is the opposite of the stereotypical Mirialan. She is not a controlled, measured, efficient warrior. She is wild and bold and flashy and aggressive. But she is also graceful and agile and cares deeply for her kind.

The Mirialan Jedi believes that her future is uncertain and so she holds deep anxieties about herself within her heart. Aisa feels secretly like she is an underperformer and thus she feels she must prove herself constantly, especially after her first (failed) knighthood trial.

History:
Aisa does not remember her parents, only that she was an orphan and that she felt a connection to the force from a young age. Like many force-sensitive children, Aisa was adopted by the Jedi Order when she reached the age of a youngling. From there she became an initiate and learned to control her powers. Though she was rather gifted in the force, it was the lightsabers that truly entranced her. She dreamt of one day becoming a great Jedi blademaster. Once her lightsaber training proper began she threw herself into it passionately and developed quite the aptitude for the aggressive tactics of Ataru, though she also studied the more defensive dueling of Djem So.

Though the Council saw great promise in the young Mirialan, they also were concerned for her. She wore her emotions on her sleeve and hurled herself at any task she was set upon with great passion. They were harmless now, even good for her. But they knew that if she did not learn to control her emotions she would be easy prey for the Dark Side. They would need to find a master, one who could at least set her on the proper path to control, if not totally tame her wild nature.

Eventually she was made a Padawan to the Master Thastus Halloran, a wise diplomat and powerful force user who the Council hoped would help temper young Aisa's free-flowing emotions. Affectionately calling her his young Eyas (a unfledged hawk or falcon) the two traveled the galaxy, solving problems and exploring planets and their issues. And although Thastus' influence did somewhat stop her from becoming totally consumed by her emotions, it was ultimately up to her to gain control over them, something she has still struggled with to this day. After years of galactic planet hopping and missions, her Master finally felt she was ready for her trials.

Landing on a small and remote planetoid that housed only a small mining colony, Thastus set her trial into motion. Supposedly they were there to solve some problems with the local Hutt Cartel that was harassing the destitute mining colony. Before they had even begun to investigate the Hutts, Master Halloran faked his own accidental death at the hands of the miners in an explosion. Enraged and blinded by grief, Aisa carved a bloody path of revenge through the colony and it was only after she had killed everyone did she realise what she had done. However it was all an illusion. The miners were only droids. Thastus had tricked her mind into believing they were people and had faked his death to see if she could control her emotions. She could not and so she had failed her trial.

It would be another year before Aisa was given another chance at Knighthood. Following a brief separation from her Master, Aisa was captured by a team of bounty hunters on Nar Shaddaa. Following a fierce battle and two-day chase in the Undercity, the three hunters had drugged her and she woke up imprisoned on their ship. Using the force, she fashioned a jagged knife from a loose piece of durasteel she had wrenched off of the ship. Pretending to be asleep she cut the throat of the first hunter to check on her and retrieved her lightsaber, which she used to cut down the second hunter. The third was a skilled vibroswordsman and the two had a running duel throughout the modified freighter for hours. Hiding, chasing, and having furious skirmishes among the piles of metal and darkened corridors. The only light coming from the blade of Aisa's saber. The ship drifted aimlessly in orbit as the two combatants wrecked the interior of the ship with various clashes. Finally, exhausted, the two fought themselves to a standstill on the bridge and, with grudging respect the last hunter let the young Jedi go free on Nar Shaddaa once again.

From there she made her way back to the Jedi temple and explained why she had become separated from her worried Master. Though he had his doubts about her control over her emotions, at the urging of the Council, Aisa was granted her long sought-after Knighthood. Tearfully, and with a promise to keep her emotions in check, she parted with her old Master, now a newly-made Knight and ready to make her mark on the Universe.

_________________

Equipment:
-Her lightsaber is a matte silver tube with bronze inlays along the handle and a bronze ring around the blade emitter. Its blade is a deep, deep blue, almost indigo.
-Jedi tunic of black fabric and a black artificial leather
-Brown Jedi cloak, a replacement of her original one which was lost in her escape from Nar Shaddaa
-Small and lightweight survival rations, designed to provide necessary nutrients in the smallest package possible

Skills:
-Aisa is a skilled melee combatant, utilising her natural Mirialan agility in tandem with her extensive study of Ataru to dance around her opponents and wear them down with blows from seemingly every direction like a rainstorm. She is not the most technically adept fencer, being so young, but she is ferocious.

-For more defensive situations, she has also studied Djem So, though not nearly as much as she has studied Ataru. Aisa is fairly adept at counter-attacks and reflecting blasterfire, although it's never her first choice.

-She has also begun a cursory study of Jar'kai, intrigued at the idea of two lightsabers. She has yet to formally acquire a second blade and her skill is only in its infancy as of now.

-Her melee skills also extend to unarmed combat. Aisa's natural speed and agility have led to many brawls ending with the other side beaten into submission by a flurry of well-aimed blows at blinding speed.

-Aisa is also a Jedi after all, so she possesses many powers over the Force. Some she has yet to discover. Other minor skills that warrant minor mentions include average piloting skills for someone who has traveled extensively and being a passable shot with a blaster (though she secretly views them as inferior and dishonourable.) Overall she is a very direct person with very direct skills. Though she may not be the most creative fighter, she is formidable to be sure.

_________________

Misc: Added some stuff to personality about her insecurities at Stormflyx's suggestion

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

Pms work, I'm open to anything though.

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

Oh I didn't realise that. Okay, that works!

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

So should we have them meet half way to the Demeter or something along those lines?

Tombs & Treks: A Pulp Roleplay

I'm okay with having shenanigans ensue. It's up to you though!