HARPY HARE
OATHBREAKER
split the tıes that bınd - bınd the self to freedom - free the self from freedom
'THE HERMIT (IX)' - Exile, Loneliness, Isolation, search, detachment...
* Mileage of 'bunny from waist-down' in RP may vary.
* She's not actually balding.
I. Rava? You can feel her gaze on you, burning holes. The instincts rustle. Kindred soul or sworn enemy - what do you make of the Oath? Of the Homelands? Maybe you don't know, not at all.II. A job? The people of Coerthas need each other to survive, and sometimes in more unsavory matters. Maybe you've got something for her to take on, or maybe she's crossed you before. It's all employment, though - more connections, the better.III. Garlean? Nobility? Well. Things have settled, personally, and still. There's a shyness or a biting stare.IV. Beast-taming? Ask! Beast-slaying? That too!V. A wanderer? Explorer? The life of an exile has seen her around the Star, here and everywhere - some places hurt. Need notes, stories? Better have Gil.VI. Just a friendly face? Need protection, and desperately? She's weak to those.VII. Can you see? Something's fizzling out inside her.VIII. Been around in Ishgard? She's rarely ever, because she's got bad blood - a tendency to misbehave has seen the politer parts banish her. You're a noble, or maybe you're a Knight ordered.
VYELDE ALTHAEA, OF THE RAVA
AGE: Breaking... five score?
HEIGHT: Over seven fulms at the eartips. Six otherwise.
GENDER: Female.
RESIDENCE: Somewhere in Coerthas.
Look at her.
Not just Rava.The trademark features - full and thick hair, dark umber that falls to conceal one eye. The other's a milky, clouded silver. Leporine ears, an upturned nose, sable brown skin.A true daughter of Golmore. Those familiar with her kin what wander beyond the Wood can tell her bearing's all the way different - she was within, once. Exiled, cut off, it seeps from her wounds, it bleeds from her eyes and runs down her ears.This decline.Scars. Everywhere, scars. What few meet the eyes fade to nothing over time, even those that'd last a lifetime for others. The worst of them run down her back, slashing across her hands and arms. Proof written upon proof, her body - like cut from marble, function and form. This beast, designed intelligently for her purposes in every way. The way of a scout. A pathfinder. It reads in the lines.
A life of scuffles has marked her, but it has also sculpted her.But still! Her messiness is a choice, her pains worn. She's not unkempt. There's a maintained shine to her skin, her coat, some styling about it all, this effort to stay on the handsome side of pretty. It's all very subtle. The mien, the bearing - a haughty lady, ruled, supremely, by instinct. All these tingles, the senses, the bristling of her ears and the raising of her hackles.The gift is not gone, and the habits remain.
It's written.
A frown's etched into her face, like it's permanent. Into her furrowed brows, into her intense presence - an overcompensation, perhaps. She loves rising slow from her seats, she loves rotating her shoulder, she loves narrowing her eyes. All in silence, and in her curt words. Intimidation's a tactic, not learned, but...Written.It runs in her blood. In her ears, the song of this bird, the only one left she can hear. The snow what falls once a Summer, there in Dalmasca, and the only one what still burns cold. The resting place proper what calls to her, and her people beyond the tree line.Oath-broken.Back turned to this all. Golmore to daughter, mother to daughter, mother to daughter, a perpetuation sure as life and still as death. To see five centuries under the canopy of leaves is the ordained fate of all Rava, though by whom or what has since become an abstraction to this one. If she remembers, she's forsaken it.A cautionary tale for the faithful, the ending of all exiles.But it's real. The toll exists, and she's paying it. Day by day, whatever's within her - what fluctuates, but is infinitely still in every last individual of every last race - wanes, as payment, for her separation. Wilting in a way that only another of her own could see and know.But none of that has tampered her desire - searing and ferocious, its own wick, burning to live and die free.To the Hells with their birdsong.
Hi! Please be of age.I'm a Literature major from Turkey [GMT -3]. I've been writing on and off for as long as I've been able to hold a pen.My writing style errs on the side of short and simple, and my responses average out at one or two paragraphs per, but I break this for more important posts. I have no problems mirroring and matching, but don't expect a lot of introspection to be narrated. I like subtlety!I'm a fan of the Gothic and the Queer.Especially, my preference lies in character-driven long-term roleplay.I like trust falls. If you think this all clicks, just shoot!I have Mare.
Separate OOC from IC, I'm not looking for smut, etc.
We can be friends OOC, too, if we get along. Ever play fighting games?