Name: Esaliyon (must I tell you this again? A little strange...)
Sex: Female
Age: Appears to be in her mid-to-late twenties
Race: Elven crossbreed [sun elf father x Moon elf mother]
Weapon of choice: Her katana, Findarato, meaning "Lastwish," and her tanto, which has no name
Fighting tactics: Esa is an assassin by trade, operating by writ or by gold. Her lifestyle has molded her into a swift, agile, cunning fighter, but she prefers to avoid unnessesary violence (bad for buisness, you know). However, if she has been selected to kill you, or if you do something that warrents your demise, I promise you, it'll be over soon.
Personality: Quiet on the outside, but easily excited or angered. She is cool toward most men, sometimes blatantly disrespectful, and she has a reason for that too, but that is for her to know, and you to learn. It is hard to ally yourself to her, because of her profession, but if you do she will never betray your trust... usually.
The door swung open, and in walked an elf, or rather an elvish crossbreed, judging from her midling complexion, skin no pure elf had, and her hair, a dark blonde at the roots and fading to platinum at the ends. She walked over to the bar, ordered wine, and sat down at a table near the fireplace, and momentarily eyed the others. The blonde elven crossbreed woman reclined comfortably in her seat, her feet booted in sturdy black leather atop another chair and she was dressed in a pale, faded blue top with the sleeves shorn off to make a "tank top," hemmed rather clumsily and simple black pants. At a slight angle on her slim hips sat a black belt, also of leather, or similar, with a katana sheathed on her right and tanto sheathed on her left. Her glass of wine rested on the wooden tabletop. The drink hardly looked as if it had been touched and in fact, it hadn't. The half sun elf-half moon elf had more on her mind then the booze in the tavern, and her fine-featured face was pensive, bright hazel eyes staring at the woodgrains unseeingly, mouth set into a slight downward curve, and her alabaster brow was faintly furrowed in thought. She reached up absently to tuck away a strand of her whispy pale locks behind her pointed ears and paused as her tattoo caught in the firelight. It was a strange mark in ink manufactured by arcane means, invisible except in a flame's direct glow. It showed a rather serpentine black dragon coiled around a white rose, both figures painted scarlet by blood, and her name was hidden in a blade that could have easily been any one of the single handed weapons in the Akaviri style, decorated lavishly, but she saw it perfectly. The name Esaliyon, dead in the center, running down the bright steel. The elf sighed, and dropped her feet below the table as she propped her head on her hands and elbows. So much change now, so much turmoil, so mach pain, and so much grief. And all of it was hers. Her gaze drifted lazily toward the bar and the other patrons onece more as she sank back into her infathomable thoughts, delicate but strong hand fingering the glass of liqour.
Introductions
in Roleplaying
Posted · Edited by Rose Wyrm
Introducing: Esaliyon
Name: Esaliyon (must I tell you this again? A little strange...)
Sex: Female
Age: Appears to be in her mid-to-late twenties
Race: Elven crossbreed [sun elf father x Moon elf mother]
Weapon of choice: Her katana, Findarato, meaning "Lastwish," and her tanto, which has no name
Fighting tactics: Esa is an assassin by trade, operating by writ or by gold. Her lifestyle has molded her into a swift, agile, cunning fighter, but she prefers to avoid unnessesary violence (bad for buisness, you know). However, if she has been selected to kill you, or if you do something that warrents your demise, I promise you, it'll be over soon.
Personality: Quiet on the outside, but easily excited or angered. She is cool toward most men, sometimes blatantly disrespectful, and she has a reason for that too, but that is for her to know, and you to learn. It is hard to ally yourself to her, because of her profession, but if you do she will never betray your trust... usually.
The door swung open, and in walked an elf, or rather an elvish crossbreed, judging from her midling complexion, skin no pure elf had, and her hair, a dark blonde at the roots and fading to platinum at the ends. She walked over to the bar, ordered wine, and sat down at a table near the fireplace, and momentarily eyed the others. The blonde elven crossbreed woman reclined comfortably in her seat, her feet booted in sturdy black leather atop another chair and she was dressed in a pale, faded blue top with the sleeves shorn off to make a "tank top," hemmed rather clumsily and simple black pants. At a slight angle on her slim hips sat a black belt, also of leather, or similar, with a katana sheathed on her right and tanto sheathed on her left. Her glass of wine rested on the wooden tabletop. The drink hardly looked as if it had been touched and in fact, it hadn't. The half sun elf-half moon elf had more on her mind then the booze in the tavern, and her fine-featured face was pensive, bright hazel eyes staring at the woodgrains unseeingly, mouth set into a slight downward curve, and her alabaster brow was faintly furrowed in thought. She reached up absently to tuck away a strand of her whispy pale locks behind her pointed ears and paused as her tattoo caught in the firelight. It was a strange mark in ink manufactured by arcane means, invisible except in a flame's direct glow. It showed a rather serpentine black dragon coiled around a white rose, both figures painted scarlet by blood, and her name was hidden in a blade that could have easily been any one of the single handed weapons in the Akaviri style, decorated lavishly, but she saw it perfectly. The name Esaliyon, dead in the center, running down the bright steel. The elf sighed, and dropped her feet below the table as she propped her head on her hands and elbows. So much change now, so much turmoil, so mach pain, and so much grief. And all of it was hers. Her gaze drifted lazily toward the bar and the other patrons onece more as she sank back into her infathomable thoughts, delicate but strong hand fingering the glass of liqour.