Post by Smother on Jan 5, 2011 12:04:03 GMT -5
Smother lurched through the derelict courtyard.
Her stride was lethargic and her body bent. With a disconcerted groan, she craned her neck toward the hoary sky - her vertebrae creaking and popping - their grating protests echoing through the deserted ruins of Lordaeron.
She glowered.
Her shining amber-colored eyes narrowed, scanning the distance. The eastern horizon was but a murky amalgamation of indistinct shapes. Once again, dawn threatened to annihilate what little solace she had found in the night. She cursed the new day and quickened her pace, eager to reach the Undercity before the sun had an opportunity to banish the darkness completely.
Her shoulders were hunched in a perpetual slouch and her lanky arms, perhaps too long in proportion to her torso, hung like dead-weights at her side, her crooked fingers nearly raking the ground.
Her breathing was labored and her chest heaved as though each breath was an effort. Her full grey lips were permanently agape as she breathed. Such was her customary countenance - one that bespoke suffocation and struggle and unfathomable despair.
She was Forsaken.
Yet, despite her corrupted flesh, she was not hideous. Her ashen face still retained a semblance of her former beauty, a powerful enchantment impeding its inevitable decay. Her cheekbones were still regal, though more severe and hollow now. Her nose was beautifully proportioned, and her chin subtly cleft.
One long scar marred the left side of her otherwise pristine face, carving a diagonal trench from her temple to her chin. Even the enchantment could not erase this indelible mar - for it was the mark of her ultimate demise - the sole remaining evidence of the plague-ridden blow that had transformed her from Human to Undead. In that moment, everything good had been utterly obliterated.
Yes, that is how she felt. Obliterated and Erased.
Her hair was cropped above the ears out of necessity. Her once silky tresses were now dry and brittle, the color a mere suggestion of its former glory. Attempts to be stylish failed miserably, and she had accepted a forced apathy about her appearance over these last years. Nevertheless, there were moments when her indigo highlights and hues could be appreciated, though she no longer sought-out her reflection to behold them.
Attempts to conceal the state of her decaying body proved futile.
She had no recollection of the elapsed time between her Human death and Forsaken resurrection; but it had been sufficient to putrify her tissue and weaken it beyond repair. Her flesh gave-way at the joints first, in the areas most prone to pressure or bending. It seemed that, once the blunt ivory bones had stripped themselves bereft of her flesh, they refused to be concealed again - disintegrating any and all apparel that might endeavor to hide them. It was as if her skeleton itself needed to breathe.
So it was that she walked Azeroth in a state of perpetual disrepair and dishevelment; the reproachful stares of others only serving to deepen her despair.
But despite her lot, she exuded a sinister confidence. Her gait was steady and determined, and there was fluidity in her movement. At the very least, it implied some semblance of physical acclimation to her Forsaken body.
Her sinewy figure tapered to a concave, emaciated waistline. Her construct suggested frailty to the casual onlooker; a dangerous assumption discovered too late by many.
She was, in fact a gifted mercenary; a mercenary whose weapon of persuasion was a dagger - or even better, two daggers. They dangled from her hips, equally weighted by design, and were infamously referred to as “The Twins”. It was a rather amusing name – unless you were at the receiving end. It was difficult to miss them, for not only did their hilts tend to clink, clink, clink against her hip bones when she walked - but their blades oozed fluorescent green, its presence requiring no explanation.
Her voice was overtly feminine, but hoarse. There was a deep guttural rattle that was ever-present, as if she needed to clear the phlegm from her throat but could not. She was not averse to swearing, though she often chose to punctuate her sentiments with a simple “pfft.”
She had little odor (scent) by design, much of her Herbalism income consumed in trade for tinctures obtained from The Royal Apothecary Society for this very purpose. The passing years had, in fact, desiccated her flesh to the degree where it imparted surprisingly little odor. Stealth was inherent in her line of work, and scent could be a DEAD give-away…
Her stride was lethargic and her body bent. With a disconcerted groan, she craned her neck toward the hoary sky - her vertebrae creaking and popping - their grating protests echoing through the deserted ruins of Lordaeron.
She glowered.
Her shining amber-colored eyes narrowed, scanning the distance. The eastern horizon was but a murky amalgamation of indistinct shapes. Once again, dawn threatened to annihilate what little solace she had found in the night. She cursed the new day and quickened her pace, eager to reach the Undercity before the sun had an opportunity to banish the darkness completely.
Her shoulders were hunched in a perpetual slouch and her lanky arms, perhaps too long in proportion to her torso, hung like dead-weights at her side, her crooked fingers nearly raking the ground.
Her breathing was labored and her chest heaved as though each breath was an effort. Her full grey lips were permanently agape as she breathed. Such was her customary countenance - one that bespoke suffocation and struggle and unfathomable despair.
She was Forsaken.
Yet, despite her corrupted flesh, she was not hideous. Her ashen face still retained a semblance of her former beauty, a powerful enchantment impeding its inevitable decay. Her cheekbones were still regal, though more severe and hollow now. Her nose was beautifully proportioned, and her chin subtly cleft.
One long scar marred the left side of her otherwise pristine face, carving a diagonal trench from her temple to her chin. Even the enchantment could not erase this indelible mar - for it was the mark of her ultimate demise - the sole remaining evidence of the plague-ridden blow that had transformed her from Human to Undead. In that moment, everything good had been utterly obliterated.
Yes, that is how she felt. Obliterated and Erased.
Her hair was cropped above the ears out of necessity. Her once silky tresses were now dry and brittle, the color a mere suggestion of its former glory. Attempts to be stylish failed miserably, and she had accepted a forced apathy about her appearance over these last years. Nevertheless, there were moments when her indigo highlights and hues could be appreciated, though she no longer sought-out her reflection to behold them.
Attempts to conceal the state of her decaying body proved futile.
She had no recollection of the elapsed time between her Human death and Forsaken resurrection; but it had been sufficient to putrify her tissue and weaken it beyond repair. Her flesh gave-way at the joints first, in the areas most prone to pressure or bending. It seemed that, once the blunt ivory bones had stripped themselves bereft of her flesh, they refused to be concealed again - disintegrating any and all apparel that might endeavor to hide them. It was as if her skeleton itself needed to breathe.
So it was that she walked Azeroth in a state of perpetual disrepair and dishevelment; the reproachful stares of others only serving to deepen her despair.
But despite her lot, she exuded a sinister confidence. Her gait was steady and determined, and there was fluidity in her movement. At the very least, it implied some semblance of physical acclimation to her Forsaken body.
Her sinewy figure tapered to a concave, emaciated waistline. Her construct suggested frailty to the casual onlooker; a dangerous assumption discovered too late by many.
She was, in fact a gifted mercenary; a mercenary whose weapon of persuasion was a dagger - or even better, two daggers. They dangled from her hips, equally weighted by design, and were infamously referred to as “The Twins”. It was a rather amusing name – unless you were at the receiving end. It was difficult to miss them, for not only did their hilts tend to clink, clink, clink against her hip bones when she walked - but their blades oozed fluorescent green, its presence requiring no explanation.
Her voice was overtly feminine, but hoarse. There was a deep guttural rattle that was ever-present, as if she needed to clear the phlegm from her throat but could not. She was not averse to swearing, though she often chose to punctuate her sentiments with a simple “pfft.”
She had little odor (scent) by design, much of her Herbalism income consumed in trade for tinctures obtained from The Royal Apothecary Society for this very purpose. The passing years had, in fact, desiccated her flesh to the degree where it imparted surprisingly little odor. Stealth was inherent in her line of work, and scent could be a DEAD give-away…
)
Founded April 26, 2005