Champion Bliss Whisper
I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because 'romantic' doesn't mean 'sugary.' It's dark and tormented - the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can't attain.
Social Rank: 7
Concept: Champion Courtesan
Vocation: Champion Courtier
Hair Color: sable
Eye Color: pewter
Skintone: medium beige
Description: Despite her loose, windspun brown curls looping around an oval face, there's something so sharp about her; a bearing that shifts from cocky to outright impudent when she's flashing a particularly challenging smile. It's a sweetly bowed mouth, and she's on the tall side (if just), with an adorably upturned nose and slender shoulders. Her graceful carriage gives her an air of delicacy anchored by athletic legs and wide hips.
Personality: Celia was never satisfied. As she's gotten older, she's discovered ways to find (fleeting) satisfaction, but her desire for a good time outstrips all. She likes fun, and irreverence, and doing whatever she wants, when she wants. No one always gets what they like, of course, and Bliss can certainly play along with social mores when it suits her. She's even patient, in a terrifyingly predatorial sort of way. She might play along for days, weeks - even years! As long as she wants the payoff badly enough, it doesn't bother her. Conversely, if something that seemed like a good, fun idea loses its lustre, she won't hesitate to drop it - forgotten just as fast as last week's breakfast. Bliss is the sort of woman who might be perplexed at someone attacking her for something she said last Tuesday. "But, that was three weeks ago!" She burns hot and hard, but once it's done (or once she's won), she is gracious with her forgiveness.
Background: The Lyceum city stats are famous for many things: dangerous women, dangerous men, wine, silk, sun, and passion in politics and swordplay, both. Bliss, nee Celia, might as well be made of all these things in equal measure. She was a quarrelsome, charming child, the only daughter of the Master at Arms serving Duke Leo Fidante('s holdings) in Tor. Her father loved his daughter, and taught her everything he knew. Everything he knew was about fighting, drinking, and wooing women. She got so good at these things that it's no surprise she ran off when her first lover (a local official) tried to find her a husband. Out drinking her frustrations away, she met a handsome swordsman on the run for killing his opponent during a duel, said forget this place, and then did.
Their torrid affair lasted right up until the time she realized he couldn't teach her any more about fencing. She dumped his ass and found herself in the borders of the Oathlands across the Lycene Split, making her way by parking herself outside the rare tavern and challenging the knights and sellswords coming out with mocking singsongs and extravagant boasting. . .all backed up by her shockingly quick swordplay and her utter lack of hesitation. Bliss, she called herself, part of some joke or rhyme that just stuck. She talked herself into a fancy party one night, flirting and flustering her way through the room to a tipsy meeting with the glowing blonde angel who seemed to be the belle of the ball. She was the best looking girl there, can you really blame a woman for stealing that kiss? That kiss on the dance floor. In front of the lovely angel's intended. Honest mistake.
You can't win all the time. After taking a serious wound to her shoulder, she had to slink away and nurse it in friendlier climes. Not able to reliably fight her way out of all the trouble she talked herself into, she had to reconsider her actions for the first unfun time in ever. So she said forget this, and came to Arx to join the Whispers. She could still sing, and she could put on quite the show against opponents who are also playing it up (and less intently thirsty for your blood). Why not get famous? That could be fun.