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𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱. ◆ 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞. ◆ 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬.
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Dementedly beloved, an enigma of the conjoined presence of grace and otherworldly obsessions, bathed thick in adoration of the more critical and harsh tones of something forlorn, and a paragon of dangers and bereavements. She is a deceptively feminine creature, weighted in accessories of silver with tarnished glamors and silver-black fur, donned over ebony cloth and slight furnishing of hides curred and shadowed by veils. Fed persistent cardio in the daily musings of a woeful mercenary has afforded Gisselle with a willow-wisp figure, accentuated with deadly efficiency and delicacy privy to those of a slight inclination of more relaxed nature to violent ends. Slicks smiles painted in roses over bone-white teeth, etched into the pale face of a reputable woman by glories of strife and infamy. Thick weaves of coal hair spiral onto waif shoulders and down, dipping into her spine and tangled with trinkets of unpolished copper and silver, weighing the mass onto her person; her tresses merrily twinkling eerily within the gloom. Undone, Giselle's figure can be described as slight, malnourished and grotesquely beautiful, the bizarre attractions courtesy of the rather hellish objectives she has pursued in life.
Her gaze is a penetrable blue, crystalline eyes liken to ice floes across the sea, rigid and unyielding, capped by a flutter of thick lashes and a drawn down brow obscured often by her penchant of veils concealing her identity in the crowds of towns and people alike. Uttered as a specter, a lover of the magically inclined, diseases and all to perish, and a harbourer of toxins within the sheath of her tongue and weapons, Giselle is much like the poisons she spews.
She is often described as unforgiving in her inclinations, if only by the magic she wields. Giselle is burdened by sins of vanity, hubris, and greed, sprinkled and adorned by touches of wrath that is slow and churning, always bubbling yonder her pale face and brewing within her shearing glare. Liken to most mercenaries, Giselle beholds selfish wants and needs, siring to her daily machinations in life that herald to luxury and finesse. She does not tolerate mediocre or primitive dressings, and advocates to the ascension of pleasure and fineries of the current age. Scrupulous unto others and herself, her diligence is well suited to her lifestyle, to see means finished and foes vanquished, no matter how slow one might take her time to see the deed done. Enchanted by the darker findings in life, Giselle is wooed and adoring to poisons and ailments derived from them, her obsessions of fauna and flora turned deadly concealed carefully within a tome always kept to her person. This same obsession is applied onto magical properties found within mediums and the manipulation of spells of a rather poisonous inclination, and a queer fascination to the diseased products of those without. Studious, perhaps, by the employment of these findings and experimentations onto her intended, and other times described as malicious and excessive by her occasional peers within the sell-sword business. A leash may be strung about her delicate neck, but it is one she entirely controls.
&& [sickles.] -- Giselle's primary weaponry, perhaps a little archaic and simplified, but overall effective to the purposes of her tactics. Often strung about her hip, cushioned against her veils and sometimes hidden beneath them, and sharpened religiously and meticulously to a gleaming edge. She employs two at most, given to each hand, or wielding them singulary wherein one should procede with caution, literally depending on the stance she bears. Giselle is not a stranger to weeping lines and wounds, and infact relishes in their mark, and will employ one's own strength against them by her deliberate motions and dexterious claims. These sickles can also act as a medium to the magic Giselle is inclined to, the stress of her spells fracturing the blades often into web like patterns of destruction that must later be tended to by a smithy.
She was once burdened by a title of a woman who seeks vengeance, reaping revenge onto those that had scorned or mocked her, or had taken to her feminine disadvantages by lashing tongues and burning teeth; nails peeling and scraping, eyes rabid and mad. Branded in scarlet hate, Giselle bathed within the souls of those victims, some by her hand, and others by Fate, and sunk herself deep into voids of black and red. She relished, and she hated, and she burned. She was an advocate to the eternal curse of emotional disturbances, brandished like a wraith wailing within the gloom of night or a banshee weeping in the dark and seen lost, wondering, yearning and perishing over a loss. Once bound to a man and wed to his morbid and depraved fortune, Giselle was taken of her innocence on the cusp of one Spring and literally fed to the wolves baying ravenously in the distance of her physical nightmares. Sold is a more befitting term, relinquished by parents whos' faces have long since become weeping shadows within her memory. She started, as these types of women often do, as poor and without, weak and submissive to the life she was forced into. Years like these will pass into the dark of the mind and heart, vanishing into nothing until time does not exist or adhere to the soul.
Until a cold night, the grounds drenched in snow strained black, did a shard of metal find itself into her quivering palm, hilt sunk deep into the heart of not a man, but a girl much like her with eyes dead gazing back and lips agape in a silent plea. Giselle cried, not in a sorrow, but in some degree of pleasure, for the gushing red wept over her numb fingers was alive and warm, literal steam coiling off the sudden weapon. She struck again, and again, and again until reason bled over and all she knew was a sensation. It was cruel and it was beautiful, and it was life in the purest form known to man. Giselle buried the shard within what little belongings she possessed and set fire to the body, allowing the stench to coil and attract her masters. Here she turned bright eyes skyward and, feigning innocence at the time, came into her own deceptive prowess by allowing Fate to guide her hand and deadened heart. One, by one, she culled the small town, because they all laughed, they mocked, the watched on as she pleaded to lost deities as sweat became drenched over her and breath tainted her night and day by the man she was sold to, and the wolves that feasted on the scraps of her bitter heart.
Testimony is hardly found with the histories, as the town of Lullin was reduced slowly over the years as a girl wielding metal shards grew into the woman bearing teeth like daggers on their throats. She was discovered, of course, as blood is often difficult to cleanse away entirely from one's clothes, and Giselle was drenched utterly from crown to foot one evening when she tempted two to bed and stole away their breaths on sighs and moans of pain in the night. Finally, there was a face to the reaper in their dreams, and she laughed.
Lullin officials; lost knights and wayward squires and quivering townsfolk will forsake her name if ever prompted, as Giselle vanished suddenly one night in a fire they set to the dwindling, dilapidated cottage she grew up in; chained, and bound, and defiled. Under cover of darkness, she stole into a passing caravan and rode curled up within their discarded beddings. Until she had leapt upon them, dagger in grasp, and raked her tongue in a slivering curse and stowed away their fear, and meek as they were, they silently led her into The Disk under the guise as their daughter.
She has been lost to time, again and again, coming to and from The Disk through life until her infamy, nurtured as it was, came to fruition in her womanly inclinations and wiles of mercenary work. Her severe penchants of magic, coin, and vanity weaving a tale within Pratus that is likened to a crown of bleeding crystal spiraling high and stained in soot and blood. She is a harsh patron and an even harsher employee, though the best often are. Though none are aware of her previous life in Lullin, it's curious that a letter found a way into her tome of poisons one evening, the wilds fresh on her person, and her eyes glowing within the lamplight of the fire of her home. Giselle had sworn to never bind herself onto another person, but when the price and temptation are right, a woman of her nature can hardly say no.