| to noise making (sing) ~ hozier | soulless creatures ~ aurora | vagabond ~ misterwives | the love club ~ lorde | too much is never enough ~ florence + the machine | the author ~ roosberg | someone to you ~ banners | half the world away ~ aurora | honey ~ kehlani | are you satisfied? ~ marina and the diamonds | seashore ~ the regrettes | would you be so kind? ~ dodie | runaway ~ aurora | new constellations ~ ryn weaver | seven ~ sleeping at last |
“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”
date: may 23rd
time: 12:45
location: myrefall
status: closed for @orphea-ourobora
Sana had a lot of talents - all of which she was quick to boast about, especially to those who looked particularly well-off - but listening was not one. Her left ear had never been the same after an explosion on-the-job a year ago, and she lost interest exceptionally quickly. It was why she preferred a more straightforward approach, whether that be a clever manipulation of words or a clever manipulation of her blade. Unfortunately for her, today’s client had been very specific about her remaining unseen. She was to gather intel, and nothing more. She just wished the person who had this intel was a bit more interesting to watch.
Supposedly, the man Sana was ordered to watch was a supplier. He was to meet with someone to discuss a shipment of fey mushroom around noon, and all Sana had to do was be invisible and listen. Well, he had met up with someone around noon, but if they were meant to talk about a shipment of drugs, they hadn’t gotten the memo. They sat around this fountain and talked their wives, and then about mutton, and then about rash treatments. Maybe they were speaking in code - but for this long? Surely her invisibility would fade soon, and she’d be left with nothing to bring back to her client.
Frustrated and rather bored, Roksana slipped carefully from her seat on the edge of the fountain. She wasn’t sure what the men were saying now, but they didn’t seem to notice as she paced back and forth in front of them, weighing her options. Maybe it would just be easier to wait until one of them left and then disguise herself as them, returning to the other’s side and feigning poor memory. Or maybe it would -
Roksana’s thought was interrupted by an invisible force, something too weak to bruise but still entirely startling. It felt like something connected with her jaw, and she resisted the urge to curse as she stumbled backward. After a brief moment of frantically waving her arms she managed to steady herself. Luckily, the supplier and his friend seemed too enthralled in conversation to notice that there were now two unseen beings before them. Sana allowed her attention to stray to whatever was in front of her. She didn’t know who - or what - it was, but it was tangible and it had hurt her. That was enough reason, she thought, to send a fist in its direction. When her fist didn’t connect with anything, a dejected sigh fell past her lips. “Who’s there?” She whispered, the sheer volume of the supplier’s laugh enough to drown her out from anyone she didn’t want to hear.
———
Orphea had been having a terribly unexceptional day. She’d tried to write when she’d first awoken, but the words betrayed her and wouldn’t come. She thought an hour of walking in a cloak of invisibility and people-watching might lighten her spirits, or cause some kind of inspiration to slap her in the face, but in the few minutes that she’d been walking nothing of the sort had happened. It was hopeless. She’d never write again and she’d have to kiss her authorship goodbye and be bored for the rest of eternity.
It was nice to wander the city unknown to everybody, though. Amusement bubbled in her stomach when she knocked shoulders with someone and their gaze darted around for their invisible assailant to no avail. She wandered until she came upon a fountain with two dull looking men chatting—they sat too far apart for them to be intimate partners, she decided. The day was shaping up to be truly boring—
Orphea found herself sprawled on the cobblestone street, her elbow stinging from her fall. She’d collided with something as invisible as she was and the tip of her nose hurt from the impact. With an audible huff she scrambled to her feet, her fingers dancing over her instrument case she had hanging from her shoulder. It felt undamaged and she sighed in relief, unworried about being overheard. She was invisible, but she wasn’t exactly hiding.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled at the whisper and she stepped carefully closer to the sound. “I’m Orphea,” she whispered back, though not nearly as quietly. She let amusement seep into her voice and her lips to curl into a grin. This was exciting! The last thing she’d expected to run into was another invisible person, and here of all the dull places… She waved her arm out in front of her until her fingertips brushed against the thick fabric of a coat or cloak. She latched on to it and tugged lightly, giving the other person a guide to where she was. “Who’re you?” She hissed, her voice nearly getting lost in the spray of the fountain. “Why are you invisible, a bad hair day?” Orphea feigned an astonished gasp. “Are you a spy?”
Mairead decided not to linger any further on her awkward blunder. Instead, she wished to focus on Orphea. A good performance always involved a level of interaction with the audience, making eye contact, talking with them, pulling them and catching their engagement and cheers like a fish on a hook. As she began to lead the way down the street, making sure to keep close to avoid losing sight of her … date, was it? That thought brought a sort of tingle to her stomach and hands.
“I…” Did her name mean anything? “I’m not sure, but I think it might refer to a gemstone.” Ash had chosen the name from a book she’d read as a child, once she’d learnt how to pronounce it from Joss, and found the name very pretty. She wracked her brain for a proper explanation, but it was truly escaping her at the moment. "Oh, here it is.”
She stopped in front of an establishment that was very easy to miss from the outside. It was located in the alleyway of two buildings. From the outside, there wasn’t much to see, but once the two got closer, a door became visible along with a slightly raised platforms with an assortment of colorful furniture, planter boxes and small, dangling lights hanging above. As it was starting to get dark, the lights were on, and they reminded Ash of her dancing lights. Small, dim and cosy.
Just a good place overall.
She turned to Orphea, trying to take in her immediate reaction. “It isn’t much, I know, but their wine is unbeatable.” And she was saying that as someone who didn’t drink wine very often. She rubbed at her arm before adding, “And I thought… after your great display earlier, you might like something of the more quiet sort.”
Orphea hummed in acknowledgement at Mairead’s name explanation. She liked gemstones well-enough, but their beauty was played out. Gems were little more than clichés to her—give her the majesty of a mountain, the awe of a rockslide or an earthquake, or the just-there promise of an un-cracked geode just waiting to be revealed. Give her the quiet prettiness of a sea-worn pebble dotted with minerals and scarred by salt or the untamable potential of malleable clay.
She was broken out of her thoughts of earthy analogies by her amiable pebble of a companion. It took her a moment to take in the hole-in-the-wall establishment and when she did she cooed. She looked to Mairead and nodded with a wide, grateful smile. “You read my mine. My ears are still ringing.” She bounded ahead and got them seated beneath a bundle of hanging lights that cast glittering shadows across their small table. She stowed her pack and instrument beneath her seat. The menu the server placed in front of her remained closed and she didn’t spare it a glance. Instead she rested her elbows on the table, atop the menu, and her head on her fists, and fixed Mairead with an intent and curious look. “What’s your favorite here? What should I get?”
Opinions and judgements were things Orphea loudly excelled in. She protected her privilege to choose what she did, who she was, and what she consumed and she wasn’t afraid to vocalize those choices, but sometimes she liked making others do it for her. There was something intimate and thrilling in someone else deciding what best suited her, so long as she was the one telling them to decide.
Hanna shied away from the stranger that closed in on them as they started to gather their books, hearing the sigh and knowing what it meant. They wished she wouldn’t bother, would have just left it to Hanna and gone on her way if their help was only accompanied with the thick, gripping feeling of being a burden. “Thank you,” they mumbled so quietly it was probably hard for the stranger to hear. That’s what they had to say after all. That was the script people expected them to follow. Hanna dared a single glance up at the stranger and then immediately back to the ground as they took the books offered to them and clutched them like a shield to their chest. The stranger was the kind of beautiful that Hanna previously only thought existed in storybooks.
It took a few seconds for Hanna to process the words being said to them, their heart pounding in their throat so hard that they thought they might throw it up. They had to look down at the book at the top of the pile that she’d indicated, and their face flushed until they were nearly as pale as the stranger when they saw the title. ‘Aphrodisiacs, Hallucinogens, and Deadly Poisons: A Traveler’s Guide to Eating in the Feywild’ was one of the books Hanna had chosen not specifically for its relevance to their work, but because it was the latest publication of Annabelle Sharpe, an anthropologist that Hanna had been following closely since they’d been ten years old and reading of her exploits and adventure’s with their sister Delilah.
“It’s-“ Hanna stammered, taking off their glasses so that the world didn’t seem so sharp. “It’s for my thesis. I work at the Academy and I’m trying to acquire a research grant. But um. Things have been precarious lately. I mean they have been for the past two years, but ever since Arx-“ They were rambling. They snapped their mouth shut and swallowed. “Thank you for helping me pick my books up. Sorry I bothered you.”
Orphea knew she should say that they were welcome and move on, follow the sweet little script that chance run-ins were meant to follow, but her curiosity had already been captured. She was already intrigued by the way they were acting as if Orphea had killed their kitten, shit in their coffee, and told them their glasses were ugly instead of helped them with their books. They could hardly look at her, too, and she knew it wasn’t because she was unpleasant to behold. It didn’t bother her. One of her old crew mates could never look at anyone and hold a conversation. He’d always had to look at their shirts or his shoes. When he’d felt especially comfortable he’d manage to look at her forehead while speaking to her, but that was a rare, quiet occurrence.
“If I were actually bothered I wouldn’t have helped,” she said dismissively before her lips blossomed into an impish grin. Her expression dropped from mischievous to practiced, portrait-perfect drama and she pressed one hand to her bosom. “There were books in peril,” she gasped. “How could I ever turn my back in their hour of need?” The effort she put into her brief, but heartfelt performance was herculean and dripped in hyperbolic heroism. In a moment however, she shed the performance like someone might drop a cloak off their shoulders. Her mischievousness remained apparent. “No need to thank me, sugar. You’ve helped me fulfill my good deed of the day. Now I can safely ignore little old ladies trying to cross the street and anyone else who drops their belongings in front of me for another twenty-four hours. It’s very helpful of you, actually.”
With the absence of glasses she could see the worry scribed into the stranger’s forehead much clearer. Without asking permission she dropped into a chair at their table. “What—“ Orphea paused, hummed, and steepled her fingers on the table. She had to ask a good question. One that might get this recalcitrant, anxiety ridden individual to feed her curiosity. Already her head was full of too many questions. Questions she couldn’t ask all at once without overwhelming the stranger and making herself seem like more of a loon. She’d done that before to less than favorable, though amusing, results. “Why is your thesis precarious? Also, what is your thesis? I’m Orphea, by the way.”
Ash felt herself becoming the center of attention once more, and she wasn’t sure if she was into it or not. It was always a bit of a strange oxymoron for her as she loved people yet had a tendency to shrink at too much attention. She was always one for the stage, but it also made her very nervous and almost shy. Having a persona to turn to made it easier to handle, but it still had its challenges and bad moments.
Orphea was truly a very pretty person. She was confident, bright, bold, everything a proper bard would love to be. Ash could be those things on a good day, especially when she slipped into the form of Darragh, but right now she was not the one speaking. She just had to stand, nod and be a good listener. A bit of a rollover from her days as a spy, no doubt. It had been some time since she’d actually drawn attention to herself like this, willingly.
“I’m Mairead. Oh…” She looked down, away, before running a hand through her hair. Knowing that it would be rude to leave the lady with no answer, she turned back to look at her. “That would be lovely. I, um, I know this place not far from here. It’s small, but it’s got an intimate feel to it.”
After saying that, she turned even brighter. Her cheeks felt like a pair of bonfires. “I mean, you know, it’s very cosy.”
Orphea’s laugh was like tinkling bells as Mairead blushed scarlet. She didn’t laugh in condescension or glee at the other’s awkwardness, but in delight. She liked to meet all kind of people and that included the shy, verbally bumbling ones.
“That sounds wonderful. I do enjoy intimacy,” she said, her tone playfully teasing rather than lascivious or purely suggestive. As much as she liked to flirt and poke fun, and be intimate, she was also looking forward to some quiet. She’d been performing for the better part of the day and even though her skin still tingled pleasantly from all of the attention and the applause she recieved, her ears rang and fatigue dragged at her limbs. “Mairead,” she repeated to herself, enjoying the shape of the sounds in her mouth. She was happy to follow where the woman led her, especially if she led her towards food and drink. “Does it mean anything? Your name? It’s very beautiful.”
Time: Early evening
Location: Myrefall, a music store named Sticks & Strings
Status: @orphea-ourobora
Sticks & Strings was a small shop which peeked out onto one of the side streets of Myrefall from between two much larger residential buildings, and it was Thalra’s last stop before heading back to her building for the evening. The sun was already casting its red and orange rays over the tops of the city’s skyline and it was growing late enough that most commerce would be closing for the evening in a matter of an hour or two. Thalra had already done her shopping for the day, with everything neatly tucked away in her satchel, but she’d stopped in when she’d seen a small toy drum set in the window as she was passing. Detka had been with her for a while now, and she had her own instruments, but maybe he’d be interested in picking something up on his own?
The older human gentleman behind the counter looked as if he was mere moments from dozing off at his post, but Thalra didn’t mind, and much preferred not to be heckled as she browsed. There was one other person also in the shop, but she didn’t pay them much mind as she brushed her fingers over the tightly wound strings of a harp in the corner.
Her attention was only half-caught as the door opened with a small chime of bells—another customer she thought, strange that this place was so busy at this point in the evening. But then there was the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the ground and wood splintering. Thalra spun around, leaning around a shelf to see a man dressed like a mercenary stood at the front of shop with an entire display crushed to pieces around him and books of sheet music laying open in tumultuous piles on the ground. The older gentleman, woken from his dozing by the commotion, yelped and started to get up from his stool.
“Oh, how clumsy of me,” said the man who’d just entered, and Thalra noted that most of his clothes looks as if he’d cobbled together the outfit at random. She suspected that meant most of what he was wearing was stolen. He leaned down and picked up a leaflet of sheet music and examined it for a moment in mock curiosity before tearing it down the middle. “But I’m sure you can afford to replace all this, right? You must have a lot saved up since you’ve been skipping out on paying rent.”
Thalra stayed where she was, watching the scene unfold further and wondering what her next move was. If she went for the door, the thug would see her and probably quickly involve her, but if she stayed, she’d likely get herself involved anyway. Her choices seemed very slim at the moment.
The shop owner though, to his credit, didn’t seem all that perturbed by the current events. He slammed his hand down flat on the table and glared at the other man. “We don’t owe you diddly, young man. This shop’s been in my family for generations. We own it, which means all we have to pay is taxes. Now you go on and scoot out of my shop. You’re disturbing my customers.”
Thalra quickly ducked back around the shelf at that comment, trying to stay hidden for as long as possible. She didn’t know if the man noticed her, but it didn’t seem to matter. She heard him mutter, “Oh, you have no idea how disturbing things are about to get.” Then he shouted, “Boys, come on in! Looks like we have to teach Mr. Bronet some manners.” The bell chimed again, and there were the sound of several more people entering the shop.
Orphea had been entirely absorbed in an old tome full of epic ballads. She’d become enamored with the strange, winding tale of a sea serpent intent on capturing a particular pirate crew, but it kept attacking the wrong ships. It became the villain of the story even though it only wanted vengeance for wrongs against it. She was just getting to the battle, where the notes denoted the greatest musical surge, when the door opened for the second time in so many minutes. She only pulled her eyes away from the page as she heard a crash.
Orphea didn’t have much experience with robberies, at least not when they occurred on land and she wasn’t the robber, and so she froze where she stood. She couldn’t run for the door without running smack into them and she didn’t know if the little shop had a back exit. Slowly, she slunk back further behind the bookshelf and slipped the tome into a free space. She didn’t want to be involved. She wrote about heroes, she didn’t act like one.
Three more men piled into the cramped shop and Orphea had to wonder if they’d contoured their muscles beforehand for optimal intimidation. Perhaps they’d even practiced their goonish facial expressions in the mirror that morning. The head goon sidled up the register where the owner, Mr. Bronet, stood and brandished his blade. The movement lacked all flourish; if she wrote about this later she’d need to embellish this man’s paltry performance. “You seem to be confused, old man,” continued the leader. This would be terrible dialogue—no one would read such drivel. Despite his weak words, she could see the glint of his blade and the cruelty in his eyes. She’d come into the store to browse, not watch a murder or to be murdered. With a huff, she reached into her belt for three crumbling nut shells and broke them up into powder between her fingers as she mumbled. Within a moment, one of the goons, the one who’d chosen to don an ugly blue hood, swung wildly for the leader. His short sword raked across the man’s back and he howled in confusion and pain. The leader turned on the attacker and while Orphea couldn’t see his face, she imagined he had it scrunched up like a squished-faced dog in anger.
Orphea’s disappointment that her spell had only affected one out of four of her quarries diminished slightly at the betrayed cry of: “The fuck, Brian!” followed quickly by the equally distraught “Sorry, Neale, I dunno!” She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her mirth and watched as the four men rounded on each other. She’d meant to confuse them enough so that she could make her escape, but clearly that wasn’t in the cards for the evening. The two in the back stepped forward towards Mr. Bronet, their weapons held high, while the leader continued to berate Brian. One of them swept one of the delicate potted plants off of the counter and she jumped as it shattered upon the floor. At her sudden movement, the book she’d been reading before slipped from the book shelf and landed with a dull thud on the floor. Neale fell silent before turning, slowly, no doubt in a manner meant to be menacing, towards the shelves to the back of the store.
A small crowd appeared in the streets, essentially creating a blockade. The streetlight illuminated the performer, who was whiter than porcelain, brighter than moonlight. It was blinding. It was a strange sight to see a bardic performance in the city of Myrefall – at night, no less.
Rovasha squinted, weaving her way through the crowd. She was not there to dawdle or sway. There was a package, a cache, somewhere in Myrefall – somewhere on this very street – she needed to pick up. She searched for the familiar symbols in thieves’ cant but no such luck. She made a note to return closer to midnight. With the day’s travel between cities, she was on borrowed time and this would fuck the whole plan, but Sarkesh had her back. He didn’t ask questions. Still, the quartermaster couldn’t cover her ass forever.
“How about a sea shanty?” She responded hastily, without much thought. It was unlike her, but it’d get the bard’s attention off her.
"Oh ho ho, a sea shanty? I know them all!” she said with a wide grin. She hadn’t spent nearly eighty years aboard a tall-ship not to have every sea shanty memorized and immortalized in her mind. She knew the ones by Anarian sailors, the pirates’ songs that roamed in the east and the smugglers in the south. “Oh, but which one,” she crooned as she turned back to her greater audience. “The ‘Sailor’s Widow’ perhaps? Oh, or the ‘Kraken’s Craven Crook’?” She glanced back at the tiefling she’d questioned to see if she had any reaction to her suggestions, but frowned at her lack of energy. Maybe she’d picked poorly. No matter, this was her last tune for the night anyway. “I know,” she said, already strumming, “’The Star Kiss’ it will be.”
Without another pause she launched into the melodious, but rambunctious tune. She knew it by heart and could have played it with her eyes closed, her tongue-tied, and her lute broken. She stepped back into the heart of her audience and gave it her all, as she did every time. Judging by the way they clapped along, swayed, and the way their eyes remained trained on her for the duration of the shanty, she’d done supremely well.
As the last note petered out, she waved her audience away. A few more coins landed in her lyre case and she winked at the contributors. She swiftly packed her lyre up, and stowed her coin in her purse, before turning to the unfortunate tiefling who seemed so indifferent to her. “Was that up to your standards?” she asked, tilting her head back to properly look the tiefling in the eye. Well, as close as she could get to the tiefling’s eyes. Really, she just wanted to prove she could get and keep their attention.
“Who even says that we need wings to fly.” Ventis chuckled at the idea of falling from the sky on faulty wings. It would be a mess. Rejection came with the forceful nature of Ventis. They were always pressing into other people. This woman was no different. Ventis had, as usual, been direct.
“You do play beautifully. I stand by my request. I would love to hear you play as I slept. It may be the first time I sleep soundly in almost a year.” Ventis wasn’t lying about their lack of sleep. It came with being crushed in a landslide. The guilt and trauma were enough to make the strongest, most charismatic people cave.
“You do not have to though. Everyone has a limit. Who am I to push yours that far?”
“Fly, no. Angel, obviously,” sniffed Orphea. She was growing impatient now, impatient enough that her previous wariness of them was evaporating with every passing moment. Even the obvious, simple compliment didn’t quell her rising irritation. She wasn’t timid by any stretch of the imagination, but occasionally, once in a blue moon, she exhibited some degree of self-preservation. Clearly, tonight was not a blue moon.
"It’s almost cute that you’re self aware enough to know you’re no one that could push me.” She didn’t like the predatory gleam in this genasi’s eyes and she didn’t like their attempt at guilting her into acquiescing. “Almost.” She had made up her mind and she moved to step around the stranger and continue on her way towards dinner. She found the promise of warm food and cool drinks much more appealling that whatever the stranger had had in mind.
Ash wasn’t sure why she had requested that song of all pieces. Ilya the Wanderer was an elven piece that she had grown up with, heard Joss sing on occasion, with or without instruments accompanying it. It wasn’t a tragic tale by any means, but any who looked close enough would see that behind the lyrics, speaking of grand adventures and falling in love with an impossible creature, was a story of someone who never truly got what they were hoping for.
While the bard played the piece, she felt herself enchanted by the performance, struggling to figure out whether she wanted to watch the musician herself or the way she pulled the strings to create the characteristic notes of the song. In the end, the focus remained on her. A few bits were changed here and there, but Ash wasn’t overly strict about keeping the complete integrity of the song in tact as long as the recognizable pieces were present.
She couldn’t stop herself from clapping, quiet and soft, as the performance came to a close. Those around her appeared to appreciate it as well for what it was, a good piece played by a good lyrist.
“Oh!” She hadn’t been expected to be addressed once more, and it was nearly a second time where she was caught without words to speak. “You were beautiful… I mean, it was beautiful. Beautifully done. Yes, that… those were the words I was looking for.” She rubbed at her forearm, looking away sheepishly. “I enjoyed the way you added to the melody. The people probably appreciated the more cheerful version. Not many are familiar with it these days.”
Orphea preened at the compliments, especially the accidental flirtation. Neither were uncommon for her but they still sparked warmth and pleasantness every time it happened. She turned heads with both her music and her body and she liked it that way. Most of the time, at least. She liked being the focus of adoration. She fiddled with the lyre case strap across her chest and swayed in tune with the human’s words. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said, utterly genuine. “That’s what I perform for.”
“Mm, maybe,” she said. “Everyone can use a little more cheer, but I do like the original. Truthfully, even though I remember the song from its heyday, I’ve never played it myself so I figured it would be better if I just put a little spin on it. You know, then I wouldn’t have to live up to expectations and could just perform!” Orphea dragged her hand up and over her head in a slow, dramatic flourish. “How do you know of the song? I’ve been alive long enough to know it, but you don’t seem like the right age.”
Before the other could speak, Orphea’s face lit up. “Oh, why don’t you tell me over dinner? I’m starving, but I want to know the story. It’s an odd song for a favorite.” She smile grew inexorably wider. “My name’s Orphea. Will you come to dinner with me?”
Orphea Ourobora - Character Development Questionnaire
BASICS
1. Height?
4’10
2. Physical appearancer?
Her eyes are so strangely pale that they’re hardly blue at all. Her hair is moon-white and falls beneath her shoulders in cascades. She usually wears part of it in a crown-braid to keep it out of her eyes. Her skin is also incredibly pale and her cheeks, nose, and the back and tops of her ears are more often than not red from sunburns.
3. Do they need glasses?
Yes, she’s farsighted, but she doesn’t have glasses.
4. Scars and birthmarks?
She has a circle of moles on her right hip. She has a few nicks and scratches on her knuckles and knees from everyday labor aboard a ship and from surviving in the Pallid Grove, but nothing extreme or very noticeable. She has dustings of greyish freckles all over her body centered on her cheeks, nose, shoulders, and chest.
5. Tattoos and piercings?
The shell of both her ears have several piercings and she has one on each lobe. She has no tattoos yet. They seem too permanent.
6. Right or left handed?
Ambidextrous.
7. Any disabilities? Physical or mental.
None.
8. Do they have any allergies?
None.
9. Favourite colour?
All of them. She doesn’t like grey, black, or white as they remind her of her home.
10. Typical outfits?
Orphea wears wide-leg trousers that from a distance may be mistaken for skirts, but allow her to run and move freely. She also always wears long, billowing sleeved shirts, laced vests or loosely tied corsets, and well-worn boots. When she remembers to, she puts on a wide-brimmed hat that used to belong to her captain. She generally keeps as much of her body covered as she can to avoid sunburns. Despite her efforts, the back of her ears, cheeks, and usually her shoulders get scorched. Everything she wears is a bright color.
11. Do they wear any makeup?
She wears kohl around her eyes, but isn’t practiced enough with anything else to make makeup look particularly good. If she wears blush it only serves to make the rest of her face look sickly.
12. What weapon do they use, if any?
Orphea carries a rapier and a dagger, but normally her words and lyre or lute are weapons enough.
PERSONALITY
13. Are they more optimistic or pessimistic?
Brightly optimistic except when it comes to the Pallid Grove.
14. Are they introverted or extroverted?
Extroverted.
15. What are their pet peeves?
People staring at her when she isn’t performing or trying too hard to know her. She hates it when people pry into her past instead of waiting for her to tell them.
It’s more than a peeve, but she hates it when someone tries to take her choices from her.
16. What bad habits do they have?
She’s rarely not singing or humming and it can aggravate those around her. She’s also prone to zoning out and daydreaming when not directly engaged.
Sometimes she’s more interested in people’s stories rather than them as people.
17. Do they have any phobias?
She’s terrified of going blind or even color blind. She’s too in love with the vibrancy of Romera outside of her pallid, petrified valley she grew up in.
18. How do they display affection?
She’ll constantly ask those she likes questions. Not important or deep questions, but inquiries into their favorite songs, where they’d like to go, what stories they like, etc. She doesn’t limit her physical affection and will touch shoulders, reach for unoccupied hands, and lean into those around her. For the ones she cares about the most, she’ll compose songs and poems for them, highlighting their good qualities and poking fun at their bad ones. Her books about the pirate crew are a good example of her more excessive affections.
19. How competitive are they?
Extremely. If it’s a game, she wants to win it. If it’s a true struggle, she doesn’t want anyone she cares about to get hurt and will fight viciously.
20. If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be?
She’d want to be a plain wood elf rather than a pallid elf. She just wished that she didn’t have her home haunting her. And not burning so easily in the sun would be a bonus, as well, given her propensity to be on a ship deck or on street corners so often.
21. Do they have any obscure hobbies or routines?
Orphea is a paper hoarder. If she’s written something down, she has to save it. Her bags are laden down with dozens and dozens of journals, paper scraps, and the like. For now, one of her old crewmates keeps her excess notebooks in his home, but once she settles on a place of her own she’ll move them there. She’s fiercely protective of all of them.
BACKSTORY
22. What are the names and ages of their close family members? Parents, siblings, etc.
Adastra Ourobora - Mother - ~380 years old.
Izzatt Ourobora - Father - ~380 years old.
Pazumin Goltorath (née Ourobora) - Older Brother - 220 years old
Uridia Ourobora - Older Sister - 205 years old
Enrora Ourobora - Younger Sister - 172 years old
Luqa Ourobora (née Airiessus) - Grove Partner - 179 years old
23. Is their family alive and are they still in contact with them?
To Orphea’s knowledge they’re all alive in the Pallid Grove, but she hasn’t seen them since. Her older sister had been among the chosen elves to explore the world too, but Orphea always assumed that, being the dutiful daughter she was, she actually fulfilled her task and returned. She does hope Uridia made it home safely. Presumably her family believes Orphea is dead. It’s been nearly eighty years since she left them behind.
24. Where are they from? City, nation?
They’re from a plighted area in Anari, a sunken, forgotten valley they call the Pallid Grove that is inhabited by mostly pale creatures, petrified trees, and grey grasses. There are a number of pallid elven settlements within the grove. If asked, Orphea will simply say she’s from a village in Anari.
25. Did they have a childhood best friend?
Yes, another pallid elf named Hurrul. She thrived in the shadows and opposed leaving the Grove.
26. Have they had any pets?
They had a half-feral white squirrel as a child, but after it irritated her parents it vanished mysteriously. She desperately wants a pseudodragon to befriend, however.
27. Did they grow up rich or poor? What were their living conditions like?
Money wasn’t something she grew up with and the comparative monetary value of things still baffles her. She grew up in the more elite class of the Pallid Grove, but still fairly squalid. The status of her family as skilled individuals didn’t earn them special treatment, if anything it earned them more work and responsibility. There was very little to hunt in the area and even less to trade. Even water could become scarce. As a result, everything had value.
28. What is their educational background?
No standardized education. She was taught everything her people’s sage’s and elders had to teach, but it wasn’t much beyond what could or could not be eaten, how to purify water, etc.
29. As a child, what did they want to be when they grew up?
They wanted to be a bird so they could fly out of the valley and never come back.
She also wanted to be a singer and a writer before she even grasped what those were.
30. What advice would they give to their younger self?
“Find a way to escape earlier and look back less.”
31. Growing up, were they ever bullied or were they the bully?
It was survival of the fittest in their village, but they also knew that they survived by banding together and teaching everyone what everyone else knew. Because of her desire to escape, some of her fellows grew irritated with her, but it never grew to animosity.
32. Who do they look up to/who is their role model?
The pirate captain, Captain Wrinch, who taught her the value of ambition and the allure of freedom.
PRESENT
33. Do they currently have a place of residence?
No. She used to live on the ship, The Parting Roar, with the rest of the crew, but with its destruction she’s been drifting from city to city. Eventually she’ll find a proper apartment to settle in. For now she bounces from inn to inn or stays with friends or happy acquaintances.
34. What is their most treasured possession?
Her many, many journals that survived the sinking of her ship, her captain’s old wide-brimmed hat that she gave to Orphea when they parted ways, and her ornate lyre. Her lyre had once belonged to an illustrious wife of a noble, but one of her crewmates stole it for her for her birthday when they made port.
She also has a necklace of black polished stones that her mother gave her for her coming of age ceremony when she turned 100. She wears it beneath her shirts.
35. What is their drink of choice?
Almost anything. She prefers mixed drinks with a lot of flavors.
36. Which king/queen are they loyal to, if any?
None. She doesn’t have a foot in the political race, but she despises the slavery and abuse used by both twins.
37. Have they ever killed anyone?
She’s killed a few other pirates during territory and trade disputes, but not many. She threw up after the encounters and had to be consoled by the captain.
38. What was their last promise and did they keep it?
She promised Captain Wrinch that they would write her better songs. She thinks she’s kept the promise, but she can’t be sure.
LOVE
39. What was their first kiss like, if they’ve had one?
They kissed their best friend as an experiment. It was rushed and was done for as a practical experiment to see if they liked it. They did, but Orphea now knows how terrible they had been at it.
40. Are they in a relationship/have a love interest?
Soon after she turned 100, and became an adult within her community, Orphea was bound to another young pallid elf around her age. It was her people’s custom and done out of practicality rather than love. Luqa was a dutiful, diligent, patient, and obedient elf that Orphea had liked before he’d been bound to her. When he became Luqa Ourobora, and part of her family and her grove partner, she grew to resent how comfortable he was in the Grove. She wasn’t particularly kind to him, despite neither of them having a choice in the matter.
Soon after the ceremony she, Luqa, and a few other strong, young elves were sent out of the valley through a narrow, steep cliff face to explore the world around them. She’s technically still married to him, but has no intention of ever returning to her partner or the Grove. In their community the elves are only meant to take one partner and, if he follows their laws, he’ll always remain alone. She doesn’t know if he even survived the trip out of the valley.
41. Have they ever been in love?
No.
42. Have they ever had their heart broken?
Not romantically, but the loss of her ship and her crew, the people she considered her family, has broken her heart.
SPIRITUALITY
43. Do they follow a god, if so who?
Celestian.
44. What do they think happens to them after death?
She believes the dead become stars. In the Grove she pictured her ancestors struggling to push their light into the Grove to illuminate her way.
Time: Early Afternoon, March 2nd
Location: Khaggon, A small cafe outside the Academy of Arcane
Status: Open.
When one of the librarians at the academy had suggested that Hanna rent a cart for all the books they were checking out, Hanna had almost considered the idea before it became apparent that the librarian had been joking. Now, as they settled down with a cup of coffee at the closest café to the academy, a towering stack of books obscuring them from the streets, they were relieved they could get some reading done without the oppressive and claustrophobic walls that the campus seemed to have as of late. They were just taking their first sip of coffee, ready to indulge in bright, bitter taste, when the screeching noise of a chair being pushed backwards startled them just enough for their elbow to shoot out as their head turned towards the noise. With a clatter, the tower of books on Hanna’s table went tumbling down, cascading across the dirty stone street and flopping open on their bellies like lazy cats in the afternoon sun.
Gasping, Hanna put their coffee down and got to their feet, panic in their eyes. They should have known what a bad idea it was to take so many books out at once. The risk of one of them getting lost or damaged only grew the further away from the academy that Hanna took them, and Hanna could not afford to pay for most of these books if they were destroyed. Scrambling down to the ground, Hanna quickly tried to gather them up into their arms, checking them thoroughly for any tears or stains.
Orphea had to dance back a step to avoid having her toes crushed by tumbling tomes. She’d intended to sidestep the mild disaster entirely and claim a table for her own, but the half-elf’s stricken look made her pause. With a petulant sigh she set her own cup of coffee down beside the stranger’s and ducked to carefully retrieve the books. She ensured all the delicate, yellowing pages lay flat before shutting the covers and stacking them up one by one. The covers were dusty, and perhaps some of them bore a few more scuff marks than before, but they didn’t seem to be particularly worse for wear.
Orphea’s eyes widened as she read the title of the top book. “Oh, wow. That’s quite a topic.” She eyed the half-elf quizzically and straightened. She didn’t know much about academia, but the stranger seemed like the type. They didn’t seem like the diabolical academic, but looks could be deceiving. Maybe behind the cute wire-frame glasses lived a mind full of dark, dreadful machinations. Or they simply had breathtakingly odd hobbies. She presented the stack of dusty books out to their rightful owner with a bright smile. “What do you have all these for?”
“Yes, come to my room and play until I fall asleep.” Ventis could feel themself falling prey to her spell. The way her strings sang out through the air and cradled the parts of Ventis that weighted them down. They felt lighter with every cord. “A private performance would be worth your while.”
Ventis could feel the excitement brewing, waiting on an answer from the talented woman. Would she say yes? If she did, would she ask questions that Ventis couldn’t answer. “What do you say, sugar?” Ventis winked as they turned the name back to the musician. “I’m dying to hear more sweet melodies. I’m afraid I haven’t slept well in some time. Maybe all I need is a fallen Angel to bring me peace.”
She simply laughed, high-pitched and bright, in response to the genasi’s calamitous flirtation. Orphea was a baby bird when it came to romance: she needed to be delicately tended to, her petulant whims had to be seen to, and when she was stiffly slapped with barbarous attention she was liable to start wailing rather than return the affection. “I’m afraid I’m not looking for anything quite that sweet tonight,” she said and swiftly turned to the next audience member. When she repeated her question, this time with a wink she knew would make the man blush, she got a proper song request.
Without dallying any further, as her stomach grumbling was becoming persistant, she started up a song once more. This song came a bit stiffer than the last. After so many hours playing her fingers danced a little clumsier. That and the strange genasi’s intensity had shaken her. Advances that strong rarely resulted in anything particularly pleasant. She finished the song and a few more coppers were tossed into her lyre case by her feet. “Thank you and goodnight,” she sang out with a small wave.
As she put her lyre away, and tucked her earned coins into her bag, she caught the eye of the stranger once more. “Wouldn’t I still have wings if I was fallen angel?” The words fell out of her mouth before she could choke them back down. She probably should not have provoked further conversation. She knew she was right, though. They’d probably be bloody, bent-up wings if she’d actually fallen from the sky.
Ash had arrived in Myrefall that afternoon and had quickly found themselves at the place where their parent’s theater troupe was settled. The House of Meridian was smaller than some of the great noble theater halls in Myrefall, but among the common folk it was the biggest and best of its kind. Joss had been delighted to see their child, even though it had been but a few weeks since they’d last seen each other. Not that Ash had minded the extra affection.
Now she found herself, having taken on the comfortable guise of Mairead, on a corner street of the way she’d been heading. She had been out with Joss, but while Joss was fond of the city at night, Ash preferred it during the day. It was easier to get lost in the busy surroundings that daytime tended to bring, unlike the relative calm and quiet - depending on where you found yourself, of course - of the dark. She had gone out this way not expecting anything in particular to happen.
On the way back, she had stopped to watch a street performer, a lovely elf with fair hair and the sweetest of smiles, whose eyes likely hid her true wit and cunning as was the case with most bards. But when she suddenly found herself being the center of attention, having been addressed by the lyrist directly among all the remaining listeners, she nearly found herself at a loss for words.
“Oh, I… um…” Her cheeks turned slightly red at the sudden attention being drawn to her, but she recovered from it enough to go on. “Are you acquainted by Ilya the Wanderer, by any chance? It’s an obscure one, I know, but… It’s an old favorite of mine.”
It was strange for Ash to be acting this shy, but Mairead wasn’t one for the dramatic sort of speech and she did honestly feel a little taken back by the sudden shift in attention. It wasn’t often she was caught off guard, but the music had been such a wonderful listen when she’d passed by. She knew the lyre by heart herself, but it was so different to hear how others made use of it.
One of the many beauties when it came to music.
Orphea just smiled all the wider as her chosen audience member stuttered out her request. It was always sweet when she got the nervous ones—the people who, if it had been a bigger crowd, would have been hiding on the outskirts. They sometimes had the best, or silliest, songs stuck in their heads and she adored teasing them out. “Ooh, a wonderful choice. I love the obscure ones,” she said with a voice like wind chimes. Her deft fingers danced over the strings of her instrument and plucked the first few notes of the song experimentally. “It shakes up the tedium of all those big hits, you know?”
Without waiting for an answer, Orphea began to truly play and sing. In an instant she swept herself back into the role of performer and likewise swept her audience back into her song. She hadn’t played the song Ilya the Wanderer herself before, but she’d heard it enough to make do. Her strumming fell into an easy rhythm, albeit with a few of her own creative liberties, and in a moment it felt as though she’d always been playing the song, as if she’d been born in the Pallid Grove with it intertwined with the marrow of her bones. She hadn’t, of course, but the drama of the imagery only helped her fall deeper into the performance. She hit the last note, one last deep thrum, before letting both the note and the final words peter out and drift away on the chill evening air.
She waved the lingering crowd away in response to the smattering of applause, but her wide smile belayed any feigned irritation or faux humility. She knelt to empty her lyre case of coin before stowing the instrument and standing. “How’d I do?” She turned back to the one she’d called on. For a moment, a spike of anxiety stifled her breath. She’d said it was an old favorite of hers, maybe it was important, but Orphea had twisted parts of it to be happier and sweeter. She didn’t care much for melancholy. The performance had been immaculate, she knew, but it had also been different. “I hope it ended the night well... And did your favorite song justice, too.”
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