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 Post subject: Klest
PostPosted: Sun Jul 21, 2013 10:05 pm 
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Joined: Mon Jul 15, 2013 6:14 pm
Posts: 14
Gamespy ID: Sav_WoC
Character Name: Klest
Gender: Female
Race: Elf
Age: 120
Class: Blighter
Alignment: NE
Deity: Karissa

A typical elf in height and build, her hair is long and dark brown and usually hangs loose, it is kept from her face with a twisted cloth band. The one unique thing is the heavily ritualized and extensive range of tattoos on her face, arms, hands and presumably her whole body. They vary from stylised geometric patterns to runic writing.

From the moment I emerged a scrawny screaming babe I was cursed as the bad-luck female. When my parents, ma still on her bed bleeding, sent for the shaman he cast the bones, read them, recast them, screeched and shook the death stick at me pronouncing me for eternity ‘bad-luck female’. I should have been carried to the midden pile and thrown on it for the carrion feeders but ma was too weak and it was her role as the female to be rid of me, so I gained a few days life. That was bad-luck; a cruelty that gave them time to hear my cries, to mourn in preparation and harden their hearts to the sound that should have stirred them to help me. And harden them the time did, so well that they would never soften not even when the shaman came hurrying back a day later, back from the other side of our village where another child had been born at precisely the same hour. The bones had fallen the same way for him but his father had picked up the shaman and threatened to insert the death stick sideways if he dared curse his son. The shaman reviewed his cast and pronounced the bones said bad-luck female but did not say bad-luck male, no indeed they said the reverse, they said favoured one. As they etched the symbol onto my cheek the chants and songs were dirges offering pity to my parents for their misfortune. Across the village at the naming feast the songs were of a different type and each rhythmic beat of joy hammered hatred of me deeper into my parents.

And so I lived. I lived under the curse of a name given to me by a shaman and his runes of bone. Lived because my parents were forbidden to be rid of me; the shaman said that there was a tie of birth between us between me and the favoured one. I was his. From birth I was enslaved to that arrogant and over-privileged whelp. Our tattoos were created to match and signify that I was his. I should be grateful the shaman said, I would receive a higher quality of markings than my parents would have afforded. But what benefit was that when I was forever his to use and abuse? And use and abuse me he did in every way imaginable. His creativity at humiliating and degrading me was nothing short of inspired and nothing he did or said was ever wrong or corrected because he was the favoured one. How I hated him. When we reached maturity his more violent behaviour ended; once he found that women were enamored of his title I was left in peace apart from waiting on him hand and foot but at least I was no longer his toy to brutalize. I thanked whatever gods might listen to a cursed female that he had these others to distract him. I didn’t often speak to the gods, I had such a low opinion of myself, my worth I thought they would never listen to my voice and would perhaps even smite me for daring to consider myself worthy.

Our village was on an island off the north west of Etaria, once we had belonged to clans on the mainland or so the shaman told us but now we were alone, linked to other villages on other islands but adrift from the general culture of elvishness. So when a travelling bard landed on the shore it was a great event, we had feasts and celebrations where all gathered and for a time I could forget my curse. His songs had a strangeness about them to my ears but I had no voice and was glad to sit quietly outside the door. He found me in the wood gathering foods, something I was actually good at I thought. I knew where and when the best plants grew. So when he spoke to me in the silence of the woods at dawn I was startled and backed away my head down. He sat on the ground uncaring of the dew and apologized for scaring me. I flicked quick glances at him, displaying the curse tattoo as obviously as I dared in case he didn’t understand who I was but he did not get up and leave in disgust instead he leaned back on his hands and asked me about the clan, the plants and myself. I stammered, I had little use for talking, after all who would listen to me? But he was patient and in time I sat also and spoke with him of many things. Back in the village his eyes followed me and when the favoured one saw he kicked me aside for the first time in years and explained plainly to our guest that I was the bad-luck female and cursed unworthy of attention. The bard nodded and ignored me so when he appeared again in the woods at dawn I was beyond shocked. His words were angry and vicious, tones I knew well but he was not speaking of me but the village and I reeled in amazement. He took my hand and seated us both on the grass again, his fingers stroking my painted flesh, soothing the bruises that showed so stark against my skin. He knew a goddess he told me, one who was also cursed and cast out, unloved and despised and she welcomed all who sought her, she would accept me, empower me, free me. She would laugh at my bad-luck and turn it against those who abused me should I wish it. When my face turned up disbelieving eyes he tipped up my chin and kissed me.

My seduction by both him and his goddess Karissa through his skill was complete. Beside him breathless and sated I prayed offering my will and life to her and I swear I felt her whisper across my cheek, kissing the cursed tattoo though I saw nothing. Everything changed then, I acted as the beaten worthless creature I had always been but inside I was no longer that wretch, I was free. When he saw my skill with plants and such Ontharys, my bard, told me I should be a druid, a dark druid, he spoke of Blighters and their home in the South of the mainland. I prayed again and again seeking guidance and one dark night, when the moons were gone my hands burst with dark power, my eyes flooding with the same. The bard crowed with delight and sang and our celebration was magnificent. Until the dawn came and I could not hide the blackness misting my eyes. No matter what I did it would not go. I hid in my hovel, hoping I would not be summoned but of course my bad-luck held. Seeing my eyes they seized me, thrusting me into the meat cage, the favoured one glaring at me, the shaman shaking his power sticks. They were caught, I could not be killed or the favoured one might die but neither could they keep this bad luck in the village. I was taken to a tiny isle, barely more than a rock with room for a hut and fire pit. They stranded me there with the intent to deliver food. I raged as they left, the power limning my hands driving them to paddle faster and leave me. My bard rescued me again, briefly we returned to the island in the full of night and I blessed the crops with a gift from my goddess before he took me to the mainland and led me to the Temple. I inhaled the murky dank air, heard the tormented cries and felt that I was home. Soon I would move south to find this Blighter Lord and learn more of him but for now, the swamps would house me, feed me and teach me. I was the bad-luck female and that would be my gift to the Natural world.


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