Post by Laurelin Hawthorne on Dec 10, 2020 19:20:57 GMT -6
LAURELIN HAWTHORNE
I'll rise, hell or high water
And you'll remember me when I'm underground
And you'll remember me when I'm underground
I. BASICS
FULL NAME:: Laurelin Hawthorne
NICKNAMES:: —
TITLES:: Black Mage of Light, Black Wizard of Light, Black Sorcerer
GENDER:: Female
AGE:: Ninety, looks twenty-one
ORIENTATION:: Bisexual
GAME OF ORIGIN:: Final Fantasy I, elfheim
ALIGNMENT:: Heroic
HEIGHT:: 6’2½”
HAIR/EYES/SKIN:: Laurelin is an attractive, slender elf with golden hair, sharp blue-gray eyes, and a fair complexion.
DISTINGUISHING MARKS:: Elfin ears, high cheekbones, a willowy figure, and possessing an unnatural grace make Laurelin stand out. She has long, agile fingers and has a habit of twisting loose blades of grass into knots one handedly. Lichtenberg figure scars litter the left side of her waist, forearm, and the back of her hand, resemblant of the Thundara spell she endured from the Lich.
EQUIPMENT:: Laurelin favors her Judgement Staff, an elegant quarterstaff of polished wood with an amber crystal topper. A rare artifact, hers by rite of passage, tied to her very essence, said to ease the conjuring of Flare. When not in hand, the staff rests securely in a bandolier.
She also carries an ornate Mythril knife, often a ceremonial weapon, gifted from the Circle of Sages to noteworthy mages or passed through familiar generations. As of late, these weapons are being mass replicated, much to the dismay of spellcasters. Thankfully, Laurelin carries an authentic one, inherited from her father the day the Earth Crystal chose her as its champion.
Often entwined in her hair is a silk teal-blue ribbon. It wards off special attacks by offering resistance to elemental magic and its statuses.
Laurelin wears a Zephyr cloak over her black mage robes. The robes themselves offer no combatant purposes, yet the cloak is said to hold the spirit of the wind and offers defense and evasion to the wearer.
As a sign of friendship, the Mount Duergar dwarves fashioned her a brooch to house the Earth Crystal. It also keeps her cloak fastened.
She also carries a leather satchel, nestling her grimoire of collected spells, ink vials, a Pyrolisk quill pen, within its spacious pouch alongside echo herbs, elixirs, and dry ethers. And while I'm sure she could swing the satchel as one does a war hammer, she prefers not to.
NICKNAMES:: —
TITLES:: Black Mage of Light, Black Wizard of Light, Black Sorcerer
GENDER:: Female
AGE:: Ninety, looks twenty-one
ORIENTATION:: Bisexual
GAME OF ORIGIN:: Final Fantasy I, elfheim
ALIGNMENT:: Heroic
HEIGHT:: 6’2½”
HAIR/EYES/SKIN:: Laurelin is an attractive, slender elf with golden hair, sharp blue-gray eyes, and a fair complexion.
DISTINGUISHING MARKS:: Elfin ears, high cheekbones, a willowy figure, and possessing an unnatural grace make Laurelin stand out. She has long, agile fingers and has a habit of twisting loose blades of grass into knots one handedly. Lichtenberg figure scars litter the left side of her waist, forearm, and the back of her hand, resemblant of the Thundara spell she endured from the Lich.
EQUIPMENT:: Laurelin favors her Judgement Staff, an elegant quarterstaff of polished wood with an amber crystal topper. A rare artifact, hers by rite of passage, tied to her very essence, said to ease the conjuring of Flare. When not in hand, the staff rests securely in a bandolier.
She also carries an ornate Mythril knife, often a ceremonial weapon, gifted from the Circle of Sages to noteworthy mages or passed through familiar generations. As of late, these weapons are being mass replicated, much to the dismay of spellcasters. Thankfully, Laurelin carries an authentic one, inherited from her father the day the Earth Crystal chose her as its champion.
Often entwined in her hair is a silk teal-blue ribbon. It wards off special attacks by offering resistance to elemental magic and its statuses.
Laurelin wears a Zephyr cloak over her black mage robes. The robes themselves offer no combatant purposes, yet the cloak is said to hold the spirit of the wind and offers defense and evasion to the wearer.
As a sign of friendship, the Mount Duergar dwarves fashioned her a brooch to house the Earth Crystal. It also keeps her cloak fastened.
She also carries a leather satchel, nestling her grimoire of collected spells, ink vials, a Pyrolisk quill pen, within its spacious pouch alongside echo herbs, elixirs, and dry ethers. And while I'm sure she could swing the satchel as one does a war hammer, she prefers not to.
II. PERSONA
Born with strong lungs, a feverish touch, and a spirit as bright as a wildfire, Laurelin handles life with vigor only elves could possess. From humming while performing mundane chores to raising her voice in song ‘round a roaring bonfire, she reveals her elvish heritage to a stereotypical degree. She is ever tireless, quick to laugh and quicker to quip, demonstrating a genuine, biting wit. As a conversationalist, Laurelin finds herself comfortable just about anywhere, thus can command a room with little effort, and has developed an uncanny knack of gathering information.
Artful at herding chaos into order, Laurelin could easily secure herself a leadership position. Well-spoken and diplomatic and an active listener, giving her a talent at forging alliances, she has an elfin way that draws folk in (most likely the result of her chancellor mother’s tutelage). She self-proclaims second-in-command in favor of strategy; should she fall, the alliances could flounder, and it could be the fall of them all.
People liken cordialness to weakness; while gentle, Laurelin is not entirely soft-hearted. With a strong sense of will and bold in proportion to her need, Laurelin does not shy from stating opinions or confrontations. As a result, she is prone to playing devil’s advocate, even at the near cost of her life. Confident and valiant to the teetering point of arrogance and self-sacrificing, Laurelin will go up and beyond to defend the defenseless.
Passional and ambition make a potent mixture. Laurelin has more than once has become intoxicated, being one to thrive on intrigue. Inventive, she pushes herself to new heights, new depths, itching to push the boundaries of her black magic. Arcane lore and history have become her favorite subjects as a result. Yet, at her core, there lingers a budding polymath with a selfish gain: seeking answers and mastery of communication with the dead and undead.
Laurelin conceals her insecurities and fears like a dragon guards its hoard. Her scars are a haunting reminder of mortality, and how she should treasure it. That, and the frightening realization one day she could turn and see familiar faces threaten to break her heart. She, the maven of black magic, could succumb to her own talents if unmastered on that day.
Artful at herding chaos into order, Laurelin could easily secure herself a leadership position. Well-spoken and diplomatic and an active listener, giving her a talent at forging alliances, she has an elfin way that draws folk in (most likely the result of her chancellor mother’s tutelage). She self-proclaims second-in-command in favor of strategy; should she fall, the alliances could flounder, and it could be the fall of them all.
People liken cordialness to weakness; while gentle, Laurelin is not entirely soft-hearted. With a strong sense of will and bold in proportion to her need, Laurelin does not shy from stating opinions or confrontations. As a result, she is prone to playing devil’s advocate, even at the near cost of her life. Confident and valiant to the teetering point of arrogance and self-sacrificing, Laurelin will go up and beyond to defend the defenseless.
Passional and ambition make a potent mixture. Laurelin has more than once has become intoxicated, being one to thrive on intrigue. Inventive, she pushes herself to new heights, new depths, itching to push the boundaries of her black magic. Arcane lore and history have become her favorite subjects as a result. Yet, at her core, there lingers a budding polymath with a selfish gain: seeking answers and mastery of communication with the dead and undead.
Laurelin conceals her insecurities and fears like a dragon guards its hoard. Her scars are a haunting reminder of mortality, and how she should treasure it. That, and the frightening realization one day she could turn and see familiar faces threaten to break her heart. She, the maven of black magic, could succumb to her own talents if unmastered on that day.
III. BACKGROUND
Her father once said the day she was born her skin was feverish, magic burning within her veins, tied to her very essence. For as long as Laurelin can remember, magic has been a part of her life, red hot as steel ready for forging, as she sat at her father’s feet, listening to him read volume upon volume of spells, carefully annunciating every syllable. Given time, she’d become a reputable Black Mage.
One must be willful when bending destructive forces, and Laurelin’s willpower is her greatest asset. She is not one to buckle under the stressors, observant and adaptable, able to concentrate and calculating in the height of combat. Preferring a distance, Laurelin strategically places herself behind stronger allies, earning her plenty of time to intone spells. She refrains from casting recklessly in favor of seeking nicks for leverage and, when her opponent makes a mistake, she strikes fast and hard.
Laurelin is bold in proportion to her need. While not one to necessarily charge the frontline, Laurelin’s not one to back down from offense or stepping up to protect others, brazen enough to cast a spell in the means to end a match before it begins. She is prone to sweeping her quarterstaff to keep foes at bay and when pressed into close combat, Laurelin is adept at wielding her Mythril knife.
After taking a direct Thundara spell for her allies, the Lich gave her acurse "blessing" for besting It in her final moments, resulting in her ability to communicate with and see spirits. Laurelin strives to make sense of it. The most she can conclude it is a lesson to appreciate all forms of life.
One must be willful when bending destructive forces, and Laurelin’s willpower is her greatest asset. She is not one to buckle under the stressors, observant and adaptable, able to concentrate and calculating in the height of combat. Preferring a distance, Laurelin strategically places herself behind stronger allies, earning her plenty of time to intone spells. She refrains from casting recklessly in favor of seeking nicks for leverage and, when her opponent makes a mistake, she strikes fast and hard.
Laurelin is bold in proportion to her need. While not one to necessarily charge the frontline, Laurelin’s not one to back down from offense or stepping up to protect others, brazen enough to cast a spell in the means to end a match before it begins. She is prone to sweeping her quarterstaff to keep foes at bay and when pressed into close combat, Laurelin is adept at wielding her Mythril knife.
After taking a direct Thundara spell for her allies, the Lich gave her a
III. HISTORY
An elfling should not be surrounded by death. Her father’s words echoed in her ears, even as she all but skipped toward the outskirts of Elfheim, her destination clear. The cemetery was subnormal by human standards, at odds for a race known for their immorality, thus often forgotten by her kindred. As elven children were a rarity, given the longevity of the race, it provided some semblance of company. Even her brother, Silas, named for their heir, had little interest, for he had crossed the threshold into his awkward adolescence, where he sprang up like a sequoia, all knees and height without the grace.
So lone Laurelin, with her head full of heroes and her fingernails caked with soil, would prattle about her day to the gravestones she tended. Perhaps, she reasoned as she polished the gem fixed in Link’s marker, they appreciated the company. The day a soft voice reached her ears solidified her theory; unbeknownst to her, it was the day she sealed her fate.
Black magic ran rampant in her veins, her father noted that night after she mentioned her experience. Her calling had to be channeled properly, lest it run rampant. From that point on her visits dwindled.
In a blink of an eye, Laurelin found herself in her graceless teens, then she was on the cusps of ninety, marking her as a young adult. She often babysat her nephews while Silas was busy in the shop, and their mother was in much need of a break. Azalea was fair with a deep well of patience, albeit unusually delicate for an elf. Birthing twins had nearly drained her, and, with each passing year, it became obvious she required aid with the mischievous duo. The day should have been like any other.
Fate had other plans.
Something called to her. Halting, Laurelin sought the wood line, with its overgrown path and hallowed land beyond, her grip slacking on her nephews’ hands. A voice, distant and faint, setting her nerves aflutter. She was dimly aware the twins, Linhart and Eriol, shared a look as she slipped her fingers from theirs and urged them to go home. She followed urgency of the voice without looking back.
And found herself in the cemetery. The gem embedded in Link’s grave marker glittered with an otherworldly light that stole her breath. She felt no fear. Head high, she approached the structure and grasped the object, her heart fluttering in her chest. With the faintest of pops, the gem came loose, and she held it aloft.
It weighed light as air yet solid as the earth, flickered like fire even as the ocean roared in her ears. The voice she had heard many years ago—the voice she thought her younger self imagined easing the sting of loneliness—resonated from the crystal, pulsing with life. Laurelin, stricken, could only stare.
Silvanus crossed the graveyard before coming to a halt. Clutched in his daughter’s hand was a stone, alight with inner fire, reflective in her demeanor. A line formed between his brows. She stood stock-still, shoulders squared and much like a…
Their eyes met and he saw. Gone was the rambunctious, idealistic child; before him stood a solemn adult, bearing the weight of the world. No. The first inkling of a father’s fear swept over him. Let it not be so! Yet when Laurelin spoke, Silvanus’s blood ran cold.
The knife felt right in her hand, as if intended to be hers from the beginning. Laurelin marveled at the craftsmanship predating her time before sobering as reality of her burden struck like lightning. The world was in peril, and she, its champion. A Warrior of Light. At the hollow of her throat, secured by a leather cord, the newly identified earth crystal thrummed in agreement.
(Yet there was another voice within her crystal, that sent a chill down her spine. It warred with the light, threatening to extinguish it.)
The Chaos Shrine only amplified the second voice. Garland fell, and a bloodcurdling shriek nearly ruptured her eardrums that was not the rogue knight’s. With ears still ringing, Laurelin and the others escorted the rescued Princess Sarah safely home. Her heart soared. Perhaps, she reasoned, they had what it took after all.
They set forth on their quest. Not even a dark elf could sway them from their paths. It would seem they would manage unscathed.
The Lich shattered their conceived foundation.
The harbinger loomed. Despite her world rapidly fading, Laurelin raised her hand—her clammy, trembling hand with red vines blooming across the elsewise unmarred skin—and channeled her spirit into one, final Fira spell. Should she die, she would give her allies a chance at life, at victory. The spell rang true even as the frigid fingers touched her skin, and the world went dark.
(It was the second voice and, despite it all, Laurelin found herself unflinching in death's gaze. The Lich, moments prior a threat, judged her as the scales teetered. She was too hasty to throw her life away, even if it meant jumping before a strike destined for another. Perhaps, It rasped, gravely and ancient, she was meant to live. To break the Cycle. Its empty eye sockets boring into her very soul, weighing Its decision. Perhaps it best she return, for the dead need their voices heard by the living, and she should be more grateful for longevity she failed to acknowledge. With Its blessing, she would awaken.)
The white mage let out a strangled cry, before enveloping Laurelin in a hug, their cheeks touching. Laurelin’s brow furrowed at the dampness. Tears. The other had wept. Silently, she wept too. She should be dead, buried and forgotten; yet she would rise instead, both in life and in legend.
(The first wisps appeared, claw-like hands reaching for her robes. Despite the pain coursing through her body, Laurelin insisted on reaching the surface. Elves were not made to be underground, she claimed. Death would dog her steps.)
Leaning heavily on her mage staff, Laurelin trekked the Citadel stairs. Her body ached; her left hand twitched against her will. Despite her friends voicing their concerns, she insisted they continue up the mountain. She needed to become stronger. They needed to become stronger. The Lich and Marilith were proof of it.
After that night, she would be crowned a Black Wizard. Their journey continued. The remaining Fiends fell.
It began with Garland; it would end with Garland. A thousand-some years before their births, they stood, battle-hardened, before the entity known as Chaos. After an agonizing, drawn out battle, they managed to break the Cycle. She turned to go home. Home is not where she found herself.
So lone Laurelin, with her head full of heroes and her fingernails caked with soil, would prattle about her day to the gravestones she tended. Perhaps, she reasoned as she polished the gem fixed in Link’s marker, they appreciated the company. The day a soft voice reached her ears solidified her theory; unbeknownst to her, it was the day she sealed her fate.
Black magic ran rampant in her veins, her father noted that night after she mentioned her experience. Her calling had to be channeled properly, lest it run rampant. From that point on her visits dwindled.
In a blink of an eye, Laurelin found herself in her graceless teens, then she was on the cusps of ninety, marking her as a young adult. She often babysat her nephews while Silas was busy in the shop, and their mother was in much need of a break. Azalea was fair with a deep well of patience, albeit unusually delicate for an elf. Birthing twins had nearly drained her, and, with each passing year, it became obvious she required aid with the mischievous duo. The day should have been like any other.
Fate had other plans.
Something called to her. Halting, Laurelin sought the wood line, with its overgrown path and hallowed land beyond, her grip slacking on her nephews’ hands. A voice, distant and faint, setting her nerves aflutter. She was dimly aware the twins, Linhart and Eriol, shared a look as she slipped her fingers from theirs and urged them to go home. She followed urgency of the voice without looking back.
And found herself in the cemetery. The gem embedded in Link’s grave marker glittered with an otherworldly light that stole her breath. She felt no fear. Head high, she approached the structure and grasped the object, her heart fluttering in her chest. With the faintest of pops, the gem came loose, and she held it aloft.
It weighed light as air yet solid as the earth, flickered like fire even as the ocean roared in her ears. The voice she had heard many years ago—the voice she thought her younger self imagined easing the sting of loneliness—resonated from the crystal, pulsing with life. Laurelin, stricken, could only stare.
Silvanus crossed the graveyard before coming to a halt. Clutched in his daughter’s hand was a stone, alight with inner fire, reflective in her demeanor. A line formed between his brows. She stood stock-still, shoulders squared and much like a…
Their eyes met and he saw. Gone was the rambunctious, idealistic child; before him stood a solemn adult, bearing the weight of the world. No. The first inkling of a father’s fear swept over him. Let it not be so! Yet when Laurelin spoke, Silvanus’s blood ran cold.
The knife felt right in her hand, as if intended to be hers from the beginning. Laurelin marveled at the craftsmanship predating her time before sobering as reality of her burden struck like lightning. The world was in peril, and she, its champion. A Warrior of Light. At the hollow of her throat, secured by a leather cord, the newly identified earth crystal thrummed in agreement.
(Yet there was another voice within her crystal, that sent a chill down her spine. It warred with the light, threatening to extinguish it.)
The Chaos Shrine only amplified the second voice. Garland fell, and a bloodcurdling shriek nearly ruptured her eardrums that was not the rogue knight’s. With ears still ringing, Laurelin and the others escorted the rescued Princess Sarah safely home. Her heart soared. Perhaps, she reasoned, they had what it took after all.
They set forth on their quest. Not even a dark elf could sway them from their paths. It would seem they would manage unscathed.
The Lich shattered their conceived foundation.
The harbinger loomed. Despite her world rapidly fading, Laurelin raised her hand—her clammy, trembling hand with red vines blooming across the elsewise unmarred skin—and channeled her spirit into one, final Fira spell. Should she die, she would give her allies a chance at life, at victory. The spell rang true even as the frigid fingers touched her skin, and the world went dark.
(It was the second voice and, despite it all, Laurelin found herself unflinching in death's gaze. The Lich, moments prior a threat, judged her as the scales teetered. She was too hasty to throw her life away, even if it meant jumping before a strike destined for another. Perhaps, It rasped, gravely and ancient, she was meant to live. To break the Cycle. Its empty eye sockets boring into her very soul, weighing Its decision. Perhaps it best she return, for the dead need their voices heard by the living, and she should be more grateful for longevity she failed to acknowledge. With Its blessing, she would awaken.)
The white mage let out a strangled cry, before enveloping Laurelin in a hug, their cheeks touching. Laurelin’s brow furrowed at the dampness. Tears. The other had wept. Silently, she wept too. She should be dead, buried and forgotten; yet she would rise instead, both in life and in legend.
(The first wisps appeared, claw-like hands reaching for her robes. Despite the pain coursing through her body, Laurelin insisted on reaching the surface. Elves were not made to be underground, she claimed. Death would dog her steps.)
Leaning heavily on her mage staff, Laurelin trekked the Citadel stairs. Her body ached; her left hand twitched against her will. Despite her friends voicing their concerns, she insisted they continue up the mountain. She needed to become stronger. They needed to become stronger. The Lich and Marilith were proof of it.
After that night, she would be crowned a Black Wizard. Their journey continued. The remaining Fiends fell.
It began with Garland; it would end with Garland. A thousand-some years before their births, they stood, battle-hardened, before the entity known as Chaos. After an agonizing, drawn out battle, they managed to break the Cycle. She turned to go home. Home is not where she found herself.
IV. AUTHOR
PLAYER ALIAS:: Argent
OTHER CHARACTERS:: Edward Chris von Muir
ROLE-PLAYING EXPERIENCE:: Long-lived.
HOW YOU FOUND US:: Multiple friends.
NOTES FOR CONSIDERATION:: In Final Fantasy Echo Herbs go by Echo Grass, but for the sake of avoiding “echo grasses” I substituted for the Final Fantasy III item listing. Also! The RP sample is one of several potential routes I've debating on taking her character arc. This particular route revolves around Laurelin losing the ability to differentiate spirits from the living, thus becoming obsessed with challenging the Lich in hopes to reclaim her power as hers once more, and it may also bridge her magic with the arts of Necromancy. Simply said: a potential dark route, so take it with a grain of salt. c:
FACE CLAIM:: Finrod Felagund, The Silmarillion
ART CREDIT:: Xyshu and Egorit.
MISCELLANEOUS CHARACTER NOTES::
• Laurelin is attractive to those she acknowledges as strong or well-versed in fields, also known as powersexual.
• Laurelin was born on May seventh, the height of the blooming season for Elfheim laurels. In Zephon, she would be born under the spectral vulpine constellation, Carbuncle.
• Having taken an interest in Zephon’s mythos, Ramuh has become Laurelin’s patron saint.
• I’m aware Lichtenberg figure scars tend to fade, but I figured a deity-like being could permanently scar an elf. She also does have flareups, where she suffers from aches and her left hand twitches outside of her control.
• Laurelin has one older brother, Silas, named after their heir. As the result of his marriage, Laurelin has two nephews named Linhart and Eriol.
• Having travelled, Laurelin has learned to identify plants without the need of a field guide.
• Laurelin bearing the Earth Crystal is an allusion to the Final Fantasy I novelization. I took creative liberty and gave another reason for the Black Mage being connected to nature by writing an elf.
ROLE-PLAY SAMPLE:: Something drew her to this location. An audible whisper upon a feathery breeze, accompanied by a subtle nudge from a life long gone, and the unusual gleam to her otherwise dormant crystal. Ever elfin, Laurelin adhered to the call of the wind, tailing the wisps of apparition robes with nary a care.
Roots protruded from the upturned soil spread across the land like overgrown spiderwebs. Laurelin all but danced around them. Gooseflesh rippled beneath her thick, woolen robes, as tendrils of fog rolled in and a new figure materialized before her.
“Y҉o҉u҉ ҉m҉u҉s҉t҉n҉'҉t҉,” the elder said. He neared in a swirl of robes, gnarled stave in a withered hand. “R҉e҉c҉k҉l҉e҉s҉s҉n҉e҉s҉s҉ ҉b҉o҉d҉e҉s҉ ҉i҉l҉l҉ ҉i҉n҉ ҉t҉h҉i҉s҉ ҉a҉c҉c҉u҉r҉s҉e҉d҉ ҉l҉a҉n҉d҉.҉ ҉Y҉o҉u҉’҉d҉ ҉d҉o҉ ҉b҉e҉s҉t҉ ҉t҉o҉ ҉f҉o҉l҉l҉o҉w҉ ҉t҉h҉e҉ ҉g҉u҉i҉d҉a҉n҉c҉e҉ ҉o҉f҉ ҉t҉h҉o҉s҉e҉ ҉g҉o҉n҉e҉.҉”
Laurelin’s heart lurched. His years measured naught to her own, yet he was more fragile than the most ancient of elves. How fast their candles burned!
“You hear them, too,” she said. “The dead. How is this so?”
The cleric only offered a smile that sent a chill racing down her spine. Fear was a near foreign concept to Elfheim elves, yet Laurelin took a half-step back. Blue-gray eyes widened before narrowing as her fingers curled around her quarterstaff. “You are no mortal man.”
The closer she crept to the devastated temple, the harder it became to deduce spirits from the living. Even now, albeit straining her eyes, she could finally distinguish the semi translucence of the figure before her. Laurelin swallowed back a curse the pirates in Pravokan favored at her blunder. She should have been wiser; no breathing man would dare traverse these swamps at night.
“It seems,” she commented, “I am in sore need of a conversation, if I mistook you for the living.” Laurelin gestured toward the hollowed structure with her staff. “While you are not the latter, I welcome your company regardless.”
She trekked onward, hardly hindered by the swales, the apparition tailing, speaking of her travels for the sake of conversation. Much to her surprise, the elder partook in the conversation, adding input when required, and falling respectfully silent as she spoke. For a while, Laurelin could believe she had a worldly companion at her side again. How she missed the days of venturing, the heartening talks ‘round a roaring fire, the strengthening of bonds.
A howl split the air, rendering her thoughts asunder, chilling her blood. The scent of decay and upturned soil threatened to gag her as it lumbered ever nearer. It had its sights on her. Laurelin slipped into fortified concentration. In turn, the zombie lunged forward, having caught wind of prey, working its jaw the way a dog does when salivating.
Golden song, her name meant subtle power, but power nonetheless. Laurelin stood before the foe, feet rooted as the mighty oak. In her hand, the knife she drew forth glinted ice-cold in the rogue moonbeam from an else wise overcast sky. “I shall not be swayed,” she said, voice low and frigid as a deep winter night.
Slipping from its reach like quicksilver, Laurelin raised her weapon. Power flowed from her soul to the tip of the blade. “Firaga.”
The creature fell in a heap of flames, its shrieks echoing about the mutilated landscape. At some point she the ghost had vanished. Perhaps fearing that he, too, might share a similar fate should he remain in her company. Laurelin steeled herself against the rise of unwarranted emotions her thoughts provoked. Only her mission lay ahead. She sought knowledge; she sought power. Despite her efforts, her heart still sped as she descended the catacombs. She sought rebirth.
The soil reeked as the deads’ hushed laments of Lich echoed her steps…
OTHER CHARACTERS:: Edward Chris von Muir
ROLE-PLAYING EXPERIENCE:: Long-lived.
HOW YOU FOUND US:: Multiple friends.
NOTES FOR CONSIDERATION:: In Final Fantasy Echo Herbs go by Echo Grass, but for the sake of avoiding “echo grasses” I substituted for the Final Fantasy III item listing. Also! The RP sample is one of several potential routes I've debating on taking her character arc. This particular route revolves around Laurelin losing the ability to differentiate spirits from the living, thus becoming obsessed with challenging the Lich in hopes to reclaim her power as hers once more, and it may also bridge her magic with the arts of Necromancy. Simply said: a potential dark route, so take it with a grain of salt. c:
FACE CLAIM:: Finrod Felagund, The Silmarillion
ART CREDIT:: Xyshu and Egorit.
MISCELLANEOUS CHARACTER NOTES::
• Laurelin is attractive to those she acknowledges as strong or well-versed in fields, also known as powersexual.
• Laurelin was born on May seventh, the height of the blooming season for Elfheim laurels. In Zephon, she would be born under the spectral vulpine constellation, Carbuncle.
• Having taken an interest in Zephon’s mythos, Ramuh has become Laurelin’s patron saint.
• I’m aware Lichtenberg figure scars tend to fade, but I figured a deity-like being could permanently scar an elf. She also does have flareups, where she suffers from aches and her left hand twitches outside of her control.
• Laurelin has one older brother, Silas, named after their heir. As the result of his marriage, Laurelin has two nephews named Linhart and Eriol.
• Having travelled, Laurelin has learned to identify plants without the need of a field guide.
• Laurelin bearing the Earth Crystal is an allusion to the Final Fantasy I novelization. I took creative liberty and gave another reason for the Black Mage being connected to nature by writing an elf.
ROLE-PLAY SAMPLE:: Something drew her to this location. An audible whisper upon a feathery breeze, accompanied by a subtle nudge from a life long gone, and the unusual gleam to her otherwise dormant crystal. Ever elfin, Laurelin adhered to the call of the wind, tailing the wisps of apparition robes with nary a care.
Roots protruded from the upturned soil spread across the land like overgrown spiderwebs. Laurelin all but danced around them. Gooseflesh rippled beneath her thick, woolen robes, as tendrils of fog rolled in and a new figure materialized before her.
“Y҉o҉u҉ ҉m҉u҉s҉t҉n҉'҉t҉,” the elder said. He neared in a swirl of robes, gnarled stave in a withered hand. “R҉e҉c҉k҉l҉e҉s҉s҉n҉e҉s҉s҉ ҉b҉o҉d҉e҉s҉ ҉i҉l҉l҉ ҉i҉n҉ ҉t҉h҉i҉s҉ ҉a҉c҉c҉u҉r҉s҉e҉d҉ ҉l҉a҉n҉d҉.҉ ҉Y҉o҉u҉’҉d҉ ҉d҉o҉ ҉b҉e҉s҉t҉ ҉t҉o҉ ҉f҉o҉l҉l҉o҉w҉ ҉t҉h҉e҉ ҉g҉u҉i҉d҉a҉n҉c҉e҉ ҉o҉f҉ ҉t҉h҉o҉s҉e҉ ҉g҉o҉n҉e҉.҉”
Laurelin’s heart lurched. His years measured naught to her own, yet he was more fragile than the most ancient of elves. How fast their candles burned!
“You hear them, too,” she said. “The dead. How is this so?”
The cleric only offered a smile that sent a chill racing down her spine. Fear was a near foreign concept to Elfheim elves, yet Laurelin took a half-step back. Blue-gray eyes widened before narrowing as her fingers curled around her quarterstaff. “You are no mortal man.”
The closer she crept to the devastated temple, the harder it became to deduce spirits from the living. Even now, albeit straining her eyes, she could finally distinguish the semi translucence of the figure before her. Laurelin swallowed back a curse the pirates in Pravokan favored at her blunder. She should have been wiser; no breathing man would dare traverse these swamps at night.
“It seems,” she commented, “I am in sore need of a conversation, if I mistook you for the living.” Laurelin gestured toward the hollowed structure with her staff. “While you are not the latter, I welcome your company regardless.”
She trekked onward, hardly hindered by the swales, the apparition tailing, speaking of her travels for the sake of conversation. Much to her surprise, the elder partook in the conversation, adding input when required, and falling respectfully silent as she spoke. For a while, Laurelin could believe she had a worldly companion at her side again. How she missed the days of venturing, the heartening talks ‘round a roaring fire, the strengthening of bonds.
A howl split the air, rendering her thoughts asunder, chilling her blood. The scent of decay and upturned soil threatened to gag her as it lumbered ever nearer. It had its sights on her. Laurelin slipped into fortified concentration. In turn, the zombie lunged forward, having caught wind of prey, working its jaw the way a dog does when salivating.
Golden song, her name meant subtle power, but power nonetheless. Laurelin stood before the foe, feet rooted as the mighty oak. In her hand, the knife she drew forth glinted ice-cold in the rogue moonbeam from an else wise overcast sky. “I shall not be swayed,” she said, voice low and frigid as a deep winter night.
Slipping from its reach like quicksilver, Laurelin raised her weapon. Power flowed from her soul to the tip of the blade. “Firaga.”
The creature fell in a heap of flames, its shrieks echoing about the mutilated landscape. At some point she the ghost had vanished. Perhaps fearing that he, too, might share a similar fate should he remain in her company. Laurelin steeled herself against the rise of unwarranted emotions her thoughts provoked. Only her mission lay ahead. She sought knowledge; she sought power. Despite her efforts, her heart still sped as she descended the catacombs. She sought rebirth.
The soil reeked as the deads’ hushed laments of Lich echoed her steps…
