- Pronouns
- She/Her
Veradite
Blessed
Art by Veradite
{Theme}{Theme 2}
༺Name: Cieren
(Yes, I have learned it means sunscreen, please just laugh with me)
{Other Names} Feral, Goblin, Chickadee
{Titles} None
{Age} 20
{Birthdate} 2nd of Springrise, 2289 -Year of Imprisonment
{Race} Human
{Background} Anhalder father,
Sooleran mother
{Gender} Female
{Current Residence} The Storm's Landing Ranger Hall. Stormhall. Verdant Valley.
A little abode just inside the gates of Storm's Landing, shared with Nywyn.
{Social Status} None
{Height} 5'6''
{Weight}
{Eye Color} Grey - pupils are ringed in silver. Beneath the silver, radial spires of light gold shimmer across the grey.
{Skin Color} Honey
{Hair Color} Rust - two streaks of silver tangle back through her curls from the points of her divine markings meeting her hairline.
{Shape of Face} Heart
{Distinguishing Features}
{Build of Body} Slight,
{Hair Style} Free, unkempt, down her back
{Complexion} Wind roughed, yet glowing.
{Posture} Lithe, relaxed,
{Is Seen By Others As} Wandering,
brave--dauntless. Wild
{Scars} Look closely enough, and you'll see the mild scars of a child playing with a stick
+Her hands and forearms are covered in cloudy, mottled silver--burn scar pattern. Layered with that are the long streaks of claw marks, also silver. Cause: Ashhounds
+A silver, crooked crescent scoops left from the center of her chest. Cause: Shrapnel--from armor exploding off a fiend of the hellplane.
+On her left side along her ribs, massive claws raked--now scarred into a silvery hue. Cause: A Wendigo mauling.
+From her right ear at a diagonal down to her jaw are three, thin streaks of silver. Cause: A Wendigo mauling (antler edition)
+Around the back of her neck are crisscrossing lines, with the hint of pointed ridges. Cause: The challenge put forth by Theodra--the spirit was given the use of a shard studded whip.
+Down her left forearm are long, thick claw marks. However, it's hard to distinguish from Ashhound granted scars already there. Cause: Theodra's challenge.
{Voice} Warm, soft accent of
The Mantle of the Hunt | Theodra
Members are acutely aware of the smell of blood, and can usually smell fresh injuries or trails of it within three blocks unless it's overpowered by another strong smell.
⊱ Feathers and leaves can be found in their hair from time to time.⊰
⊱ They can take on a natural smell, such as pine, mint, or even floral scents.⊰
Cieren specifically smells the scent of rich, wet forest--especially following the rain.
⊱ Her touch can instill a subtle sense of clarity and focus.⊰
⊱Silver ring around her pupils.⊰
⊱Twin, silver streaks wind back through her curls.⊰
⊱She has fanged incisors (framing the front two teeth), and sharp upper and lower canines. Predator sharp.⊰
⊱Tattoos mark her face, back, rump, hamstrings, and calves.⊰
Members are acutely aware of the smell of blood, and can usually smell fresh injuries or trails of it within three blocks unless it's overpowered by another strong smell.
⊱ Feathers and leaves can be found in their hair from time to time.⊰
⊱ They can take on a natural smell, such as pine, mint, or even floral scents.⊰
Cieren specifically smells the scent of rich, wet forest--especially following the rain.
⊱ Her touch can instill a subtle sense of clarity and focus.⊰
⊱Silver ring around her pupils.⊰
⊱Twin, silver streaks wind back through her curls.⊰
⊱She has fanged incisors (framing the front two teeth), and sharp upper and lower canines. Predator sharp.⊰
⊱Tattoos mark her face, back, rump, hamstrings, and calves.⊰
༺Personality༻
Being of use Running, jumping, climbing, learning, exploring, outdoors, freedom, elation, the experience, the rain.{Likes}
Failure Hard rules, being told no, being trapped inside, social separation by classes.{Dislikes}
Fighter Caring, determined, lawful neutral, brave, open-minded.{Strengths}
Loner Patience, bodily weakness, still so much to learn{Weakness}
Being caged in and controlled.Failing loved ones, inability to protect, failure to learn all she means to.{Fears}
Securing the safety of the realm Freedom of self and others, confidence, mysteries of life and life itself.{Values}
General reading and maths--not informal, but not high-class, either. Theodran principles and survival.{Education}
{Languages}
Fluent::Rede-
Fluent::Common-
Basics, mostly fluent, behind on newest terminology::Marjash-
Fluent::Elvish-
Theodra{Religion}
Extrovert {Social}
Lawful Neutral, leaning Good. Chaotic good{Alignment}
Being of use Running, jumping, climbing, learning, exploring, outdoors, freedom, elation, the experience, the rain
Failure
Fighter Caring, determined, lawful neutral, brave, open-minded.{Strengths}
Loner Patience,
Securing the safety of the realm Freedom of self and others, confidence, mysteries of life and life itsel
General reading and maths--not informal, but not high-class, either. Theodran principles and survival.{Education}
{Languages}
Fluent::Rede-
Fluent::Common-
Basics, mostly fluent, behind on newest terminology::Marjash-
Fluent::Elvish-
Theodra{Religion}
Extrovert {Social}
Lawful Neutral, leaning Good.
{Wardrobe}
+An earthy-green tunic of inexpensive wool, with a silver bow and arrow drawn taught. Gifted by Miya.
+A silk shirt, dandelions embroider the neckline. The sleeves of the shirt are puffy, yet slightly tamed in by the bracers she wears.--Unknown Source
+Her grey breeches tuck into thigh-high boots of nice leather, crafted to form-fit her legs for stealth and dexterity. Made by herself.
+She wears a cuirass over her tunic, crafted of 2 kinds of leather (one from a fine kill done by herself). The work is by Eren.
+Patchy but efficient socks made by Lysander.
+A second pair of socks, wool, made by Somnastra.
+Pinned to her cuirass is a stone-carved arrow symbol--by Lysander.
+Tied choker-tight on her neck (so it won't be hung/torn off) is a Holy Symbol of the White Wolf. A gift from Frost.
+A carved wooden pendant of a peregrine falcon, made by herself under Frost's guidance.
+A black cloak with seams stitched to shape to her shoulders for secure fit--desert flowers frame the hem and hood in a dark green stitch, mainly visible in the catch of light
given how dark the stitching is. Made by herself.
+Her Ranger Oak Leaf, worn proudly on her chest as a member. Given to her upon her informal graduation, by Somnastra and Marian.
{Owned Homes} A tent in the Verdant Valley and a room in a home purchased by Nywyn.
{Carried Inventory} An old satchel with useless collections, such as tiny shells or a rock she found interesting. A few feathers. Gold dust from a Figment.
A lock of red hair, almost like hers but deeper in tone.
{General Wealth} Comfortable, despite poor.
{Weaponry}
+A Blessed Seax: gifted by Somnastra with "Ready" engraved near the base of the blade. Added to the hilt is a carving of an owl, falcon, and hawk. When in combat, the blade and birds glow a subtle silver.
+A Long Seax: gifted by Ced and crafted by Storm Arcturus, entitled "Caracal." A blooded silver blade, archblossom hilt, and mirrorwood strands.
+An Everday Seax: gifted by Somnastra, for battle and practical daily use--crafted by Bennett. Entitled: "Hellion's Seax."
+A Bow: gifted by Marian Olliran. The bow is called "Commencement", and seems to be a bow specifically for her training.
+A Knife: gifted by Aryn Ithildran. Entilted "Stalker's Blade."
+A Scimitar: gifted by Halvar Varyn. A blade with a mangrove hilt, influenced by Jaden Seeker. Cieren has carved in Marjash:"Kinship Elenthalion - Blood Sooleran - Heart Theodran" on the handle.
+A Dagger: commissioned from Frost. A slender dagger with a black dyed leather grip. Structured to be concealed in her boot.
༺History༻
Birthplace: A small village in the Maritte River Valley
The Brief Story: Cieren's story began before she was born. Her father Till Sonnenschutz was of a family dedicated to blacksmithing. The honor was passed down, serving the craft for generations of soldiers of the Gottland. In his youth, he toured Altera in search of the best and newest smithing methods. His ambitions drove him to the eastern reaches of the continent, where his path was crossed by a caravan. A dazzling thing it was, all colors and vibrancy--a daydream compared to the steel, the restrictive, and the disciplined. The Soolera he'd heard of, but the stories did not capture the freedom he witnessed. It wasn't long before he found himself tangled with Nevel, a clever beauty with a penchant for the new and exciting. Love bloomed into a third party, and for the first 6 years, Cieren had both her parents. During this time, Nevel grew withdrawn and ill. The time away from the caravan weighed heavy. Till, as age oft dictates, grew more reserved and determined to meet the expectations of his social standing. With their youth departed, and honor to their cultures creating a wedge, Nevel slipped out during the night. A small Cieren awoke to a snippet of her mother's hair at her bedside. Since that point, her father grew colder to the young girl. Her resemblance to her mother's spirit became an embarrassment to Till, and ever he tried to keep her inside and raise her as a respectable Anhalder. The child, however, would have none of it. Cieren was, at any given moment, into /something/. She remained covered in mud, bruises, and scuffs and was all grins for it. Many a maid was run off by the child who would not be locked in, and however it embarrassed her father was none of her concern. Perhaps it had hurt her at one time or another, being the shame of your father--especially given his marriage with a respectable woman of the town--but it would not deter Cieren. That is until, Till reached his breaking point. In an effort to heal his social standing, and present himself in honor and duty(as he believed it), he resettled an 11-year-old Cieren. The child was placed in the care and discipline of a local convent. Her unruly length of curls was shorn for hygiene, as was practice in this hovel to Ignis Synnove. In their place, she was given a humble choperon for warmth. She made a few friends with the other girls, left to be raised in prayer and supplication. It was not a cruel place, and many of the prioresses felt as grandmother-like figures, but this did not dissuade Cieren from her impish ways. However, as she grew older, her questions about the outside world and beliefs stretched her curiosity. Mischief turned to rebellion, and rebellion turned to restlessness. On the eve of her 19th birthday, Cieren slipped out in a shoddily sewn cote and cloak, with naught but a satchel of apples. She gave silent thanks to her pseudo-family, nevertheless stern, and made for Storms Landing.
The expanded experiences:
Childhood: A modest beginning, at the tail end of her parents' love life. Her rearing was a reflection
of their fading affections for each other. She favored the spirit of her mother(Nevel, Sooleran), leaning on her comforts
until Nevel departed during the night. From the age of 6 to 11, Cieren only had her father (Till, Anhalder) and the growing rift between them.
Yet, Nevel had instilled a confidence and self-love in the child. Cieren refused to lose sight of what she wanted, even
before she had the "adult" words to wrap around the concepts. Having always been distant from her father in this sense,
her displacement from the family home simply proved another adventure for the child. The hellion he could no longer
deal with would find her wild ways briefly tamed, in the form of a convent.
Teen Years: The tiny house, filled with other young girls of varying ages, served as school and board for unwanted, or simply misbehaved
children. The prioresses who ran the system tended to be older, and ranged from strict, to gentle, to motherly. In this way, it was
a balanced rearing for many of the girls. Just the sort of peace and quiet Cieren couldn't stand. The teachings were focused on the basics, with the flavor
of Ignis Synnove at the core. The dictates of the culture of the Anhalder suffocated Cieren--especially upon the idea that magic existed, yet was outlawed.
While she couldn't fathom just what it meant to know magic, the idea that she would never be allowed enraged the young girl. Whispering in the dark of their cots
made Cieren realize many of the other girls were hesitant to even ponder what could be beyond their religion. Even her friends began to grow hesitant around her,
with her growing, insatiable want to understand the secrets. It felt as though the walls were closing in--the light beyond their meager windows growing dimmer
and dimmer. The hellion refused such a conclusion. While she hadn't cared or paid much heed to their schooling, Cieren had absorbed enough of their sewing
courses to stitch a cote of wool. It was patchy at best, but it covered her chemise with enough warmth. Besides, her options for clothing fabric were limited to the
cloth already on her cot. The job was done quickly, roughly, and impatiently in the cover of night. From the kitchens, she snagged a satchel that smelled of apples,
and decided that meant it would be sturdy to carry enough provisions. Though, her idea of "enough" was a collection of apples and a strudel she devoured on her way out
the backdoor of the kitchen. She shushed the pigs, trudged through their mud, and broke into a run. Chickens scattered and clucked at her, covering her in a slurry of feathers.
She had crested a hill and could see the tree line before she heard the hollers down the valley--the prioresses alerted by the squalls of the animals. Her lungs constricted as she forced her
legs as hard as they'd go, sweating and weighed down by the mud caked to the bottom of her clothes. The apples battered her hip and thigh as the satchel lolled about with
the aggression of her running. Cieren refused to stop, thrusting through the overgrowth and taking several branches to the face. In fact, she did not stop running until
she heard naught by the birds, her tread on the leaves, and the inkling of a gargling stream. She staggered into a clearing, panting hard, her hammering heart booming
hot in her ears. She blinked rapidly, and sweat even dripped from her lashes as she croaked a dry laugh. This made her cough as she pat her chest with her palm.
"Happy birthday, Cieren...,"she whispered to herself, looking over her shoulder at the dark woods she'd come through. For several months she'd travel before
finally reaching Storms Landing, all dirt and now a head full of tangled curls flopping into her excited eyes.
The Brief Story: Cieren's story began before she was born. Her father Till Sonnenschutz was of a family dedicated to blacksmithing. The honor was passed down, serving the craft for generations of soldiers of the Gottland. In his youth, he toured Altera in search of the best and newest smithing methods. His ambitions drove him to the eastern reaches of the continent, where his path was crossed by a caravan. A dazzling thing it was, all colors and vibrancy--a daydream compared to the steel, the restrictive, and the disciplined. The Soolera he'd heard of, but the stories did not capture the freedom he witnessed. It wasn't long before he found himself tangled with Nevel, a clever beauty with a penchant for the new and exciting. Love bloomed into a third party, and for the first 6 years, Cieren had both her parents. During this time, Nevel grew withdrawn and ill. The time away from the caravan weighed heavy. Till, as age oft dictates, grew more reserved and determined to meet the expectations of his social standing. With their youth departed, and honor to their cultures creating a wedge, Nevel slipped out during the night. A small Cieren awoke to a snippet of her mother's hair at her bedside. Since that point, her father grew colder to the young girl. Her resemblance to her mother's spirit became an embarrassment to Till, and ever he tried to keep her inside and raise her as a respectable Anhalder. The child, however, would have none of it. Cieren was, at any given moment, into /something/. She remained covered in mud, bruises, and scuffs and was all grins for it. Many a maid was run off by the child who would not be locked in, and however it embarrassed her father was none of her concern. Perhaps it had hurt her at one time or another, being the shame of your father--especially given his marriage with a respectable woman of the town--but it would not deter Cieren. That is until, Till reached his breaking point. In an effort to heal his social standing, and present himself in honor and duty(as he believed it), he resettled an 11-year-old Cieren. The child was placed in the care and discipline of a local convent. Her unruly length of curls was shorn for hygiene, as was practice in this hovel to Ignis Synnove. In their place, she was given a humble choperon for warmth. She made a few friends with the other girls, left to be raised in prayer and supplication. It was not a cruel place, and many of the prioresses felt as grandmother-like figures, but this did not dissuade Cieren from her impish ways. However, as she grew older, her questions about the outside world and beliefs stretched her curiosity. Mischief turned to rebellion, and rebellion turned to restlessness. On the eve of her 19th birthday, Cieren slipped out in a shoddily sewn cote and cloak, with naught but a satchel of apples. She gave silent thanks to her pseudo-family, nevertheless stern, and made for Storms Landing.
The expanded experiences:
Childhood: A modest beginning, at the tail end of her parents' love life. Her rearing was a reflection
of their fading affections for each other. She favored the spirit of her mother(Nevel, Sooleran), leaning on her comforts
until Nevel departed during the night. From the age of 6 to 11, Cieren only had her father (Till, Anhalder) and the growing rift between them.
Yet, Nevel had instilled a confidence and self-love in the child. Cieren refused to lose sight of what she wanted, even
before she had the "adult" words to wrap around the concepts. Having always been distant from her father in this sense,
her displacement from the family home simply proved another adventure for the child. The hellion he could no longer
deal with would find her wild ways briefly tamed, in the form of a convent.
Teen Years: The tiny house, filled with other young girls of varying ages, served as school and board for unwanted, or simply misbehaved
children. The prioresses who ran the system tended to be older, and ranged from strict, to gentle, to motherly. In this way, it was
a balanced rearing for many of the girls. Just the sort of peace and quiet Cieren couldn't stand. The teachings were focused on the basics, with the flavor
of Ignis Synnove at the core. The dictates of the culture of the Anhalder suffocated Cieren--especially upon the idea that magic existed, yet was outlawed.
While she couldn't fathom just what it meant to know magic, the idea that she would never be allowed enraged the young girl. Whispering in the dark of their cots
made Cieren realize many of the other girls were hesitant to even ponder what could be beyond their religion. Even her friends began to grow hesitant around her,
with her growing, insatiable want to understand the secrets. It felt as though the walls were closing in--the light beyond their meager windows growing dimmer
and dimmer. The hellion refused such a conclusion. While she hadn't cared or paid much heed to their schooling, Cieren had absorbed enough of their sewing
courses to stitch a cote of wool. It was patchy at best, but it covered her chemise with enough warmth. Besides, her options for clothing fabric were limited to the
cloth already on her cot. The job was done quickly, roughly, and impatiently in the cover of night. From the kitchens, she snagged a satchel that smelled of apples,
and decided that meant it would be sturdy to carry enough provisions. Though, her idea of "enough" was a collection of apples and a strudel she devoured on her way out
the backdoor of the kitchen. She shushed the pigs, trudged through their mud, and broke into a run. Chickens scattered and clucked at her, covering her in a slurry of feathers.
She had crested a hill and could see the tree line before she heard the hollers down the valley--the prioresses alerted by the squalls of the animals. Her lungs constricted as she forced her
legs as hard as they'd go, sweating and weighed down by the mud caked to the bottom of her clothes. The apples battered her hip and thigh as the satchel lolled about with
the aggression of her running. Cieren refused to stop, thrusting through the overgrowth and taking several branches to the face. In fact, she did not stop running until
she heard naught by the birds, her tread on the leaves, and the inkling of a gargling stream. She staggered into a clearing, panting hard, her hammering heart booming
hot in her ears. She blinked rapidly, and sweat even dripped from her lashes as she croaked a dry laugh. This made her cough as she pat her chest with her palm.
"Happy birthday, Cieren...,"she whispered to herself, looking over her shoulder at the dark woods she'd come through. For several months she'd travel before
finally reaching Storms Landing, all dirt and now a head full of tangled curls flopping into her excited eyes.
Last edited by a moderator: Jun 6, 2021
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perhaps someday I'll do a full body
