Princess Serafine Velenosa
I'm not looking for a fucking rescue; I'm looking for my fucking swords.
Obituary: Killed in Setarco. Some say by monsters, but that's just the fog of war talking, and it's most likely meant metaphorically. Right?
Description: Short, stocky, powerful, but incredibly feminine.
Described in the most simplest of words, Serafine is done little justice by the standards of many, but in truth? She doesn't care.
Her skin was never fair, it's about the lustre of a copper ingot, red-brown and covered with dark blue tattoos, scars, and natural imperfections. The curves of her body are sculpted in muscle, thick powerful thighs, wide hips, a torso that curves subtley inward at the waist only to flare out to a deep chest and the shoulders to match the width of those hips.
Dark brown, angled eyes are wide-spaced over a flat nose, her lips full and soft. The pointed chin gives her a devious look, the sharpness a fair counter to the softness of her round face. Her hair, a mahogany brown, spills like flat silk to her waist when it's loose.
Personality: Serafine is fearless. She doesn't care what anyone truly thinks of her and doesn't care where a person comes from. Are you true to yourself? You aren't hurting anyone (that doesn't deserve it)? Well alright then. Mischievious, trouble. At times volatile, at other times, she is the still waters of a millpond. Not above kicking open doors or causing a little chaos because, honestly, sometimes it's just necessary. Always interested in fun, should the mood permit. Dislikes the selfish parts of nobility. Adores the genuine relief in a hard day's work.
Background: Serafine wasn't above telling her peers what she thought of them, making friends with the scullery kids and the guardsmen and the commonfolk who were the true reason the place was kept running, from a very young age and onwards. Her disdain for her social class was coined 'a phase', but she never grew out of it. If anything, it was the most stable thing about her through her teenage years as she trained with the soldiers, sought to become a knight, and, eventually, volunteering her skills to a few caravans throughout the year.
When she was 21, she disappeared. One of her protected trade groups was attacked and she stayed behind with a half dozen others to buy the caravan time. Searching for her led to nothing.
Stories began to filter in, of a woman in knight's armor with Shav'arvani tattoos and scars, who wore a signet ring of a noble House but spoke in the flawless tongue of some strange Abandoned tribe. Perhaps she was kidnapped? Brainwashed? Where has she been all this time?
Some ten years later, she's returned to Arx, wealthy in strange items and bizarre stories, languages few understand, her once unmarred, flawless skin coverd in the tracks of a culture she should despise. But there is no grief or trauma in her face, she bears the smile of a glad-hearted woman, who laughs as easily as a child. Perhaps she lost her mind? Is she a traitor now, this noblewoman-long-dead, this Shav'arvani Knight? Where her loyalities lie is anyone's guess, but for now, she is content to be back in the thick of it. Who's to say what stories she can tell?