Post by Ellycia on Sept 23, 2018 18:13:32 GMT -5
Under any normal circumstances, Ellycia would be a strikingly beautiful girl, with warm eyes and soft curves that are easily appreciated given her typical attire. Her long, golden hair is generally pulled back into a loose ponytail bound with a faded hairtie that may have once born some sort of threaded inscription, but which is now all but invisible from sun fading. Her eyes, large and sea-green in color, sit beneath her parted bangs and above a thin nose and full mouth that would seem to break easily into a mirthful smile, if the crinkles around the corners of her eyes and dimples in her cheeks are any indication.
But a closer look quickly reveals that circumstances are not normal.
Up close, Elly's eyes are bloodshot and almost frantic, darting this way and that constantly as though on guard against some horrible monster that she imagines lurks just out of eyesight. Dark circles ring her eyes, and her lips are cracked and chapped as she nervously licks them. Her hands are often clenched tightly in fear or worry, and tremble ever so slightly even at rest. Standing about five foot five on the rare occasions when she stands up straight enough to be measured, she often appears even smaller due to a habit of crouching in the shadows against walls and trees or sitting with her knees tucked up against her chin, always nervously watching those around her with a silent, fretful gaze. Though she appears no older than 19 or 20, her skin is weathered and rough, especially at the knees and elbows and across her back, softer and smoother on her stomach and chest, and while she has no immediately obvious major scars, her legs, feet, and arms are constantly covered in minor bruises, abrasions, and cuts, while her feet are roughly calloused from many years of going without shoes.
Though she has neither jewelry, piercings, or any other sort of ornamentation besides her faded hairtie, should one contrive to catch Elly in broad lighting (which is uncommon in the extreme) Elly's clothes, or lack thereof, would rapidly draw attention. Most typically, she wears nothing beyond a simple bikini, woven together out of silverleaf fibers and stranglekelp, combined with the odd scrap of cloth. Though she does occasionally adorn herself with something more substantial (usually stolen) she seems ill-at-ease with anything confining her movements, fidgeting uncontrollably while doing so, even under the best of circumstances. A pair of plain but wickedly-sharp daggers, mismatched and of unknown provenance, sit openly worn on each hip, tied to her bikini with loops of leather. Constantly ill-at-ease, she is forever nervously tapping the hilts of her daggers with her fingertips, adjusting their carry minutely, or otherwise assuring herself that they are still in place, wordlessly betraying a fundamental lack of ease with the weapons, though they spring to her hands readily enough whenever she feels a threat, real or (often) imagined.
More commonly, one will find Elly clinging to the shadows, out of sight of all but those she chooses to reveal herself to, her scent that of the pulp of crushed herbs that she applies to herself to mask her own, combined with that of cut grass and freshly-turned earth. Her voice is soft, almost whisper-quiet in these unsettled days, as if she were afraid that to speak up to any volume would be to invite the attention of those she desperately wishes to avoid. She speaks haltingly and with constant hesitations, her accent confused and hard to place, and except in times of great ferment, she rarely looks people squarely in the eye, lowering her head as if avoiding glares.
But a closer look quickly reveals that circumstances are not normal.
Up close, Elly's eyes are bloodshot and almost frantic, darting this way and that constantly as though on guard against some horrible monster that she imagines lurks just out of eyesight. Dark circles ring her eyes, and her lips are cracked and chapped as she nervously licks them. Her hands are often clenched tightly in fear or worry, and tremble ever so slightly even at rest. Standing about five foot five on the rare occasions when she stands up straight enough to be measured, she often appears even smaller due to a habit of crouching in the shadows against walls and trees or sitting with her knees tucked up against her chin, always nervously watching those around her with a silent, fretful gaze. Though she appears no older than 19 or 20, her skin is weathered and rough, especially at the knees and elbows and across her back, softer and smoother on her stomach and chest, and while she has no immediately obvious major scars, her legs, feet, and arms are constantly covered in minor bruises, abrasions, and cuts, while her feet are roughly calloused from many years of going without shoes.
Though she has neither jewelry, piercings, or any other sort of ornamentation besides her faded hairtie, should one contrive to catch Elly in broad lighting (which is uncommon in the extreme) Elly's clothes, or lack thereof, would rapidly draw attention. Most typically, she wears nothing beyond a simple bikini, woven together out of silverleaf fibers and stranglekelp, combined with the odd scrap of cloth. Though she does occasionally adorn herself with something more substantial (usually stolen) she seems ill-at-ease with anything confining her movements, fidgeting uncontrollably while doing so, even under the best of circumstances. A pair of plain but wickedly-sharp daggers, mismatched and of unknown provenance, sit openly worn on each hip, tied to her bikini with loops of leather. Constantly ill-at-ease, she is forever nervously tapping the hilts of her daggers with her fingertips, adjusting their carry minutely, or otherwise assuring herself that they are still in place, wordlessly betraying a fundamental lack of ease with the weapons, though they spring to her hands readily enough whenever she feels a threat, real or (often) imagined.
More commonly, one will find Elly clinging to the shadows, out of sight of all but those she chooses to reveal herself to, her scent that of the pulp of crushed herbs that she applies to herself to mask her own, combined with that of cut grass and freshly-turned earth. Her voice is soft, almost whisper-quiet in these unsettled days, as if she were afraid that to speak up to any volume would be to invite the attention of those she desperately wishes to avoid. She speaks haltingly and with constant hesitations, her accent confused and hard to place, and except in times of great ferment, she rarely looks people squarely in the eye, lowering her head as if avoiding glares.
Founded April 26, 2005