Lemons
RPM
Supermaxx
Zeus23
Yankee
Raijinslayer
SkyeOfStars
Not a Sayan
 __________________________________________ Sybil, Daughter of Daumm _______________________________________________________________ 18 | Female | Southron _______________________________________________________________ | D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Sybil is much bigger on the inside than she is on the outside. She stands a head or two below her peers, even in greaves, and has a habit of lugging things around that put her size into an unfavorable perspective. Her physique is wanting for the focused muscle of a would-be warden, and instead she bears the build of someone who spent their life walking, and often enough, running. Otherwise, while not shying from exercise, she’s never put much stock into it. It’s not as though muscle would make her any taller. To compensate, she has mastered the art of the glower. The glare, the scowl, the knives-in-the-eyes-and-soon-in-your-spine stare, and it’s just about bolted on. She keeps her soot-colored hair in a short bob, her face framed by blunt bangs and dirt, neither of which lend her any disarming qualities. Her attire is a motley collage of southron culture, crossed with all the chic of a hedge knight with no money. Patchy cloths and dark leathers shift and chafe under joint segments of armor. The sword she carries stands nearly as tall as she does, and when it isn’t strapped to her back, she’s dragging it along like a dead animal. She cleans them when she cleans them, which just happens to be past the threshold most people do—people who don’t understand the value of a dirt sheen. At a glance Sybil may look like someone’s grumpy, ill-tempered niece, but in reality Sybil doesn’t have any aunts or uncles. |
There’s something unsettlingly vicious about Sybil, from the way she speaks and carries herself, all the way down to her personal ideologies. She has a low tolerance for socialization, and an indiscriminate temper that often leaves people with a low tolerance for her, and that’s all before the garnishing of sadistic tendencies and a wicked napoleon complex.
Missing from this vile mixture, and perhaps her saving grace from true villainy, is the textbook narcissism and arrogance. Sybil possesses a candid self-awareness, and admits her own shortcomings as freely and as bluntly as she points out the mistakes of others. If it’s her fault, she’s the first to rat on herself, and she’s quick to avoid making the same mistake twice. To her, there’s a million things to shame people for, but learning isn’t one of them. This has made her a rather productive learner, and an apt student.
But there are some stains the wardens can’t wash out. The body can be scrubbed, the mind can be polished, but dirt on the soul tends to never have been dirt at all, but intrinsic. This belief has been the cornerstone to Sybil’s reflection upon not only herself, but the Path as well. Nature rules man, Evilness lingers in all men, Know oneself. Do these tenants better the soul, or do they simply justify the soul’s behavior? Is change possible, or is it simply a matter of being repurposed?
Does she care, or is she just making excuses for why she's always favored killing men over beasts? Perhaps there are questions she isn't ready to ask herself.
Missing from this vile mixture, and perhaps her saving grace from true villainy, is the textbook narcissism and arrogance. Sybil possesses a candid self-awareness, and admits her own shortcomings as freely and as bluntly as she points out the mistakes of others. If it’s her fault, she’s the first to rat on herself, and she’s quick to avoid making the same mistake twice. To her, there’s a million things to shame people for, but learning isn’t one of them. This has made her a rather productive learner, and an apt student.
But there are some stains the wardens can’t wash out. The body can be scrubbed, the mind can be polished, but dirt on the soul tends to never have been dirt at all, but intrinsic. This belief has been the cornerstone to Sybil’s reflection upon not only herself, but the Path as well. Nature rules man, Evilness lingers in all men, Know oneself. Do these tenants better the soul, or do they simply justify the soul’s behavior? Is change possible, or is it simply a matter of being repurposed?
Does she care, or is she just making excuses for why she's always favored killing men over beasts? Perhaps there are questions she isn't ready to ask herself.
---O R I G I N
The wardens really will take just about anyone.
Sybil was born to a bandit and raised in banditry. Her father, a man named Daumm, roamed the marshlands with his band of reprobates, terrorizing traveling merchants and plaguing the trade routes between lordships. He knew no boundary to self-indulgence, and spared no thought to foresight. This recklessness made him excellent at marauding and debauchery and generally any activity which could stand to debase the good name of men, mankind, and people with black hair.
It made him terrible at pulling out.
Sybil’s mother, according to her father, had set out from whatever hole-in-the-dirt town she lived in and found him on the road. She stormed right past his men, stared him in the face, and shoved a bundle into his arms. Not her problem, she’d said. Well fuck, said he, because it ought not to be his problem either. Daumm never danced around that idea—that Sybil wasn’t wanted, that she was a mistake and a burden and every other easy jab he could make to get a rise out of her, until he got bored, or she got used to them.
It could go without saying, but should be said regardless, that Daumm was an abysmal father. None of his qualities even orbited the loosest definition of the word “parental.” In many ways, in fact in most ways, Daumm was no different from any other bandit. He was unruly, greedy, sadistic, a violent drunk and seemingly allergic to hygiene and good manners.
But in another, important way, he was very different.
He was a mage.
More specifically he was a blood mage, a particular discipline of blood mage, but nonetheless. He never considered Sybil a protégé, but he did see an opportunity in training her. After all, one blood mage had gotten him this far, and if it worked once it would certainly work twice. Daumm never considered the potential fallout of teaching his daughter everything he knew because, as demonstrated ad nauseum, Daumm didn’t think ahead. Instead, he took the meager little girl that spent her days gnawing charred meat off bones tossed in the pit fire, told her the whole world hated her more than he did, and gave her a weapon.
At a young age Sybil went from observing violence to partaking in it. It felt…good. At first. Luckless as she was, she’d inherited some of her father’s worst qualities, namely being late on the uptake for things like “compassion” and “empathy.” So for a time she delighted in the power her magic and lifestyle allowed her to exert over others. This was just the way things were, Daumm had said, this was their nature—the nature of all men, magic or otherwise. The savage life of banditry took hold of her, the violence, the power, became her passion. For a time the bloodshed brought out something in Daumm that she’d never seen before, something that fueled her and yet, in retrospect, sickened her deeply. It was pride. Pride in who she’d become. This was who she was, and she would never change.
Eventually, she changed. It was in no grand way, and it certainly didn’t happen quickly, but eventually those foreign concepts of humanity did come to her. Their roots were shallow and lethargic, and she fought them off for a while, but once they had settled, she couldn’t shake them.
Soon she had lost her passion. The violence, especially violence against people who didn’t want it, or worse, stood no chance against her, lost its thrill. She began to feel…bad, for what she’d done. Regret came quickly and burrowed deep. The sleepless nights and miserable days took their toll, until Sybil made the unsettlingly easy decision that she wanted peace more than she wanted a family.
So she struck a deal with one of the petty lords. Her father for her freedom. Hands were shaken, writs were signed, and the trap was set. It wasn’t a particularly elaborate trap, but still, no one was surprised when Daumm fell helplessly into it, nor when he went raging and wild into custody. He invoked meaning in their relationship that there had never been, that he’d been certain to remind her day in and day out could never be. Yet when she left with her freedom, she did so bitter and ashamed.
Freedom without purpose was nearly worse than regret. She longed for the thrill she’d felt before, but knew she needed a different avenue to it. Something new, something, daresay, honorable, that would accept her despite herself. Despite what she’d done. What she was even in the wake of change.
The Blackwardens didn’t even bat an eye.
Sybil was born to a bandit and raised in banditry. Her father, a man named Daumm, roamed the marshlands with his band of reprobates, terrorizing traveling merchants and plaguing the trade routes between lordships. He knew no boundary to self-indulgence, and spared no thought to foresight. This recklessness made him excellent at marauding and debauchery and generally any activity which could stand to debase the good name of men, mankind, and people with black hair.
It made him terrible at pulling out.
Sybil’s mother, according to her father, had set out from whatever hole-in-the-dirt town she lived in and found him on the road. She stormed right past his men, stared him in the face, and shoved a bundle into his arms. Not her problem, she’d said. Well fuck, said he, because it ought not to be his problem either. Daumm never danced around that idea—that Sybil wasn’t wanted, that she was a mistake and a burden and every other easy jab he could make to get a rise out of her, until he got bored, or she got used to them.
It could go without saying, but should be said regardless, that Daumm was an abysmal father. None of his qualities even orbited the loosest definition of the word “parental.” In many ways, in fact in most ways, Daumm was no different from any other bandit. He was unruly, greedy, sadistic, a violent drunk and seemingly allergic to hygiene and good manners.
But in another, important way, he was very different.
He was a mage.
More specifically he was a blood mage, a particular discipline of blood mage, but nonetheless. He never considered Sybil a protégé, but he did see an opportunity in training her. After all, one blood mage had gotten him this far, and if it worked once it would certainly work twice. Daumm never considered the potential fallout of teaching his daughter everything he knew because, as demonstrated ad nauseum, Daumm didn’t think ahead. Instead, he took the meager little girl that spent her days gnawing charred meat off bones tossed in the pit fire, told her the whole world hated her more than he did, and gave her a weapon.
At a young age Sybil went from observing violence to partaking in it. It felt…good. At first. Luckless as she was, she’d inherited some of her father’s worst qualities, namely being late on the uptake for things like “compassion” and “empathy.” So for a time she delighted in the power her magic and lifestyle allowed her to exert over others. This was just the way things were, Daumm had said, this was their nature—the nature of all men, magic or otherwise. The savage life of banditry took hold of her, the violence, the power, became her passion. For a time the bloodshed brought out something in Daumm that she’d never seen before, something that fueled her and yet, in retrospect, sickened her deeply. It was pride. Pride in who she’d become. This was who she was, and she would never change.
Eventually, she changed. It was in no grand way, and it certainly didn’t happen quickly, but eventually those foreign concepts of humanity did come to her. Their roots were shallow and lethargic, and she fought them off for a while, but once they had settled, she couldn’t shake them.
Soon she had lost her passion. The violence, especially violence against people who didn’t want it, or worse, stood no chance against her, lost its thrill. She began to feel…bad, for what she’d done. Regret came quickly and burrowed deep. The sleepless nights and miserable days took their toll, until Sybil made the unsettlingly easy decision that she wanted peace more than she wanted a family.
So she struck a deal with one of the petty lords. Her father for her freedom. Hands were shaken, writs were signed, and the trap was set. It wasn’t a particularly elaborate trap, but still, no one was surprised when Daumm fell helplessly into it, nor when he went raging and wild into custody. He invoked meaning in their relationship that there had never been, that he’d been certain to remind her day in and day out could never be. Yet when she left with her freedom, she did so bitter and ashamed.
Freedom without purpose was nearly worse than regret. She longed for the thrill she’d felt before, but knew she needed a different avenue to it. Something new, something, daresay, honorable, that would accept her despite herself. Despite what she’d done. What she was even in the wake of change.
The Blackwardens didn’t even bat an eye.
---E Q U I P M E N T
Arms and Armor
► Greatsword
► Morning Star
► Leather Cuirass and Spaulder
► Mottled Iron Gauntlets and Greaves
► Black Leather Jerkin
► Daumm’s Cloak
Misc and Utility
►Paring Knife
►Unsavory Rations (7 days)
►"Water" Flask
►Whetstone
►Assorted Blood Vials, All Labeled "Normal Jelly"
► Greatsword
► Morning Star
► Leather Cuirass and Spaulder
► Mottled Iron Gauntlets and Greaves
► Black Leather Jerkin
► Daumm’s Cloak
Misc and Utility
►Paring Knife
►Unsavory Rations (7 days)
►"Water" Flask
►Whetstone
►Assorted Blood Vials, All Labeled "Normal Jelly"
---O T H E R
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-A Template by Load Wraith
