Cyrene




Offline

Neutral Pegasus Apothecary of Morthalion Novice
Alignment Species Rank Buff
23 Mare — she/her 16hh 55ʜs
Age Sex Height Currency

Appearance

reference
sixteen hands
twenty-three years
lion-gold eyes
blood bay coat
perpetual smile
mahogany curls
flightless
you save everyone,

Red. You first see her as a swath of silken red, soft and sweet like the petals of a September rose, deep and rich like a glass of winter wine. Her hue seeps amber-bright down her sides and pools blood-red at her feet. Her coat shifts like tumbling satin as she glides from shadow to light to shadow.

You linger upon the flush of her high-set cheeks and the pink of her upturned lips when she spots you.

Burnished gold eyes, twin flames, peer curiously towards you from beneath a fan of dark lashes. Glitteringly amused, her gaze is soft, inviting. And... something else. Something sharp, something — hollow, but before you can place it, she looks away.

When her eyes return to yours, they are bright and smiling and careful.

She walks towards you, and as she nears, you realize that she is taller than she seems. Willow-slim, her steps are nimble and eerily quiet against the cobblestones. She moves like a nymph with the skills of a huntress. Warily, you scan her for weapons. There are none.

Her reddish-sable hair gathers into a braid along her crown, and stray curls float like spider's silk across her blooming features. It is not until now that you finally see the wings, mottled with flecks of shimmering gold, trailing limply behind her.

You stare at the golden glimmers along her feathers and back with fascination. Squinting, you recognize a constellation etched into her left wing as Cygnus, the swan. She catches you staring, and her smile breaks for the briefest of seconds as her wings fold tightly against her sides.

You do not know that the marks are scars.



Personality

moodboard
selfless
whimsical
affectionate
quick-witted
fearless
self-destructive
guarded
impulsive
defiant
but who saves you?

It is not difficult to strike up conversation with the smiling girl. In fact, it is blessedly easy. She whisks you from topic to topic like a hummingbird flitting from flower to fragrant flower, her eyes sparkling, her laughter infectious.

Effortless. Everything about her is effortless, and her voice is as vibrant as the primroses twined like jewels through her braid. You cannot place her accent, though it is lilting and bright and musical. Just like her.

She is not a native. You know because she tells you story after story about her travels, her expressions theatrical, her movements practiced; and like a moth to a flame, you cannot look away. Her stories, fantastical and daring, carry with them an allure like spun fable, and her smile only deepens when you ask if they are true.

It is in the space between stories when you slowly begin to notice.

How her back is never towards you, her vast wings tucked neatly behind. (Like she does not wish for you to see them.) How her eyes are lined with shadows, their vibrance dimmed by fatigue. (Like she has not slept through the night for weeks.) How her lips roll between her teeth as she charmingly evades your questions. (Like she is a keeper of a thousand secrets.)

You realize that, despite her teasing familiarity, she has never told you her name.

-----

There is much she will never tell.

Never will she cry of the grief that wraps like a fist around her heart, squeezing and squeezing until the tears no longer come. A hollow space. A bottomless desolation.

Never will she speak of the blood that stains her hands, the bile forced down her throat, as she watches them die one by one in her trembling arms. Death wins. It always does.

Never will she whisper of the eyes that haunt her in her dreams night after endless night, begging for her to save them. Them. Mama. Papa. Cygnus. Him. An unblinking, piercing yellow.

History

prelude —
The humble settlement of Pelion is inhabited by an age-old herd of pegasi made wary from decades of isolation, and a war long ago that had decimated their numbers. Yet this sleepy village houses one great secret: a group of healers so skilled that their medicines inspired tales of revival and immortality, their potions rumored to be brewed from ambrosia and dragon hearts. Cyrene’s story begins with Cassandra — a silver-eyed Panacea among these healers of legend.
before

My birth, I've been told, was so momentous an event that a celebration lasting three days and three nights was held in my honor — though I suspect that the barrels of wine the healers had supplied helped spur at least half of the village's enthusiasm.

There had been a prophecy for me as well, because my mother was the greatest healer Pelion had seen in centuries, and prophecies for firstborns of such merit were custom. She'd refused to hear it. In her youth, a prince of a rich kingdom had asked for her hand in marriage — she'd refused to give it, and married my father, the baker's son, the next evening. My mother, you see, was fond of defying custom.

There are only a few moments from my youth that I can recall in detail, none of which are significant enough to be singled out and mentioned. Whenever I try to think about the time Before, all I can ever grasp is an overall sense of contentedness. Like reminiscing about the warmth of summer during wintertime, when frost seeps into all the corners and you fear that you may never again be as warm as you were in summer.

My childhood had been happy. The memories are soft and hazy, like cotton. When Cygnus was born is when they begin to sharpen.

She was everything I was not — small, meek, soft of voice, skittish. A muted dove grey instead of my fiery wine red. I adored her. Everyone adored her. And as frightened of the unknown (which to Cygnus, could be something as commonplace as a roach) as she was, she'd insist on accompanying me wherever I went like a tottering duckling. My little shadow.

The first time Cygnus became ill, as she lay in her bed shivering from fever, I told her that I would cure her. When I asked my mother for her tome that night, she responded by pressing a palm to my cheek to test for the same fever. (I hadn't been the most studious of daughters.) Nevertheless, I studied hard. And I cured her.

For seven years, illness after illness, I cured her.

after (i)

It pains me, how little of my life I can recall from Before. Everything After, I remember with too-sharp clarity, like a reflection in a broken mirror. Fragmented, but still perfectly, maddeningly clear.

My life is a series of Before and Afters. The first split, the first fissure, is the arrival of the Plague.

“Aurum phthisis consumes the afflicted from within, until all that remains is a rigid, hollow body encrusted with golden scars. The corpse decays at a snail’s pace, and must be burned to prevent post-mortem contamination. The Plague creeps into the body undetected, until pores open from the extremities and beyond, weeping a golden fluid — they then scar over, gilded. The Plague takes a limb, a wing. And if it likes the taste, it eats you whole.”

The boy had collapsed just outside Pelion's walls on a bitterly cold December day. His limbs were purple with frostbite. His body was dotted with flecks of gold, the fluid leaking out staining the white snow yellow. Barely able to speak, he told with heaving breaths of the sickness that had spread like wildfire outside of our isolated valley. “The Golden Plague.”

He was dead by the morning. And in the span of a few weeks, he wasn't the only one.

I remember feeling strangely detached from it all, even as I worked on finding a cure with the healers for weeks without rest. Even when the first traces of gold appeared in my left wing, and then the other. If I closed my wings, I wouldn't see it. We would find a cure.

When a constellation of golden stars appeared in Cygnus' wings overnight, I felt it, all at once. The choking pain of desperation.

When my mother came to me that evening with a knife stuck in her chest, (“The key ingredient, what we've been missing, Cyrene. I've found it.” No — “The lifeblood of a healer descended from our Goddess — a healer of my lineage.” Stop — “I leave it to you now, my brave girl.”) I smelled it, all at once. The suffocating stench of death.

Their ashes are spread deep in the forest, all together, so even death cannot keep them apart.

I survived. The plague took my wings, and decided it was enough. When my mother's cure was distributed, and there was no one left to save, I couldn't stay in the ashes of my hometown any longer. I left Pelion behind, the last vial of the cure and a single grey feather my only two possessions.

That was the end of my first After.

after (ii)

Broken with grief, I wandered from town to town, shore to shore, for a desolate year. I suppose I got sick of it eventually, the constant traveling, and so when I arrived upon the shores of Novus, I decided it was time to settle.

Novus was a beautiful land, but it was a kingdom divided — a foreign concept to me. I was determined to settle, however, so I lay my allegiance (what little of it remained) with the gentle court of Dusk. I smiled, always, so no one would know of my emptiness. I laughed and sang and befriended a golden queen, a honeyed Anthousai, and she appointed me her Emissary. But, pleasant as things were, they were not where my second After began.

It began with a boy. A beautiful, broken, bitter boy — I was not as drunk as I believed myself to be that night we first met, and I knew these things painfully well when I kissed him. Perhaps that was why I was drawn to him. Perhaps I thought that if I could ease his pain, maybe I could ease my own.

He slipped away into the night before I could find out, however, and left me nothing but a name: Velorca. As I later learned, Velorca of the Sun Court, Velorca of the Davke — a tribe hungry for a bloody revenge.

For weeks, I tried to forget him. I convinced myself that I was just another foolish girl, entranced by a boy too beautiful to belong to anyone. If I hadn't met him again, I think I would've believed it.

In the ruins of a burning city, our paths collided once more. The Davke, after years of ominous silence, attacked Solterra's capital just as I passed within it's shining ivory walls. I'd fled one disaster only to find myself in the middle of another. Blood, death, tragedy — now more familiar to me than peace.

I remember the blood that ran down Velorca's gloved hands, the blood that dripped off my own, when he found me that night, crouched over a dying Davke soldier. Bandages trailing from my shaking fingers. I couldn't just watch them die. Friend or foe — what did it matter? It wasn't my war. I had no more loyalty left in me to honor.

When I returned to Dusk, I wrote to him. And to my surprise, he wrote back. My letters were long and rambling, full of tangents and stories and musings. His were short and curt, his rebuttals to my teasing jabs delighting me with its razor-sharp charm. Slowly, slowly, I dared to let myself hope that things would all be alright. I was not alone anymore.

When the letters stopped coming, a throbbing numbness spread through me like poison. A week, then a month passed — and I couldn't stand it any longer. Something had gone terribly wrong. Something had to have gone terribly wrong, because he couldn't have just left. He couldn't.

And he hadn't. After weeks of fruitless searching, I met a local merchant who whispered to me that he'd seen a man bound, gagged, and dragged onto a slaver's ship. His description fit Velorca exactly. It had happened a month ago, the merchant said, and if he remembered correctly, the ship had headed east.

By nightfall, I was off.



Relationships

VELORCA

Assets

Magic



Varwulfar



Arms & Armor

  • Three piece outfit that follows the fashion of Cyrene's home, Pelion (with Greek roots)
    • Hood: draped to hide her face and curls when she goes undercover, secured by silver cuffs that clasp around her neck; hanging fabric embroidered with spun silver to signify her status as a highly ranked healer, second only to her mother; a piece of carved amber weighs down the fabric on either side
    • Leather satchel: oftentimes worn alone when she heads out to gather herbs, always filled to the brim with supplies and the day's flora
    • Rug: worn when it's especially cold out; tassels made of spun silver weigh the fabric down


Trinkets & Accessories

4.5 11 5 64 Novice 0
ATK DEF DAM HP BUFF VP
4 4 4 8
STR SPD AGL END WP AR SR VL

Battle

Battle VP: 0
Novice

Alchemy

Alchemy VP: 0
Novice

Stealth

Stealth VP: 0
Novice

Credits

header — footybandit
pagedoll — Seadraz
avatar — youburymexx
pixel — LiticaHarmony
outfit design — Muertia-Adopts

Player

OOC name: rallidae
Characters:
Plotter: link
Threadlog: link
Table Tracker: link


Contact

Discord: rallidae #1737
Deviantart: siliencely