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Amyra ( 'Am-ee-rah' ) is a character coming to a campaign near you soon! ( Assuming that is you're going to be playing in the sequel to Candle. ) From the person who brought you Xarak.

Amyra is a Chosen of Endings. She is deaf, and cannot speak. She only eats fruit which has fallen from the tree, or otherwise eats such as to avoid harming any living thing. She has a little Wood spirit blood in her on her mother's side.

Amyra looks about 20. She is quite short and very thin, with long deep red hair, amber skin and mulberry eyes, which sparkle like the night sky like those of most Sidereals. Her hair and clothes are adorned with various flowers, leaves, butterfly wings, etc. Quite often she looks as though she has just been crying. She wears fairly simple clothes in various shades of purple, and carries a blue silk shoulder-bag which contains almost all of her few posessions, including a large number of various beautiful flowers, various assorted fruits, a little wooden box containing her butterfly collection, a watering can and a conch shell. She also carries a three foot long crimson feather on her back, tucked into her sash. She wears no armor; in fact, she carries nothing metallic at all.

Comments very welcome on the description/story.
New artifacts below.

Amyra

The slavemaster spat, and hit the girl square on the cheek. She looked young, no more than twenty, and didn’t even come up to his shoulders. She was beautiful, in a fragile way; like a dead butterfly. Her hair was long, a little unkempt, but shining a vibrant rose-petal red, and adorned with flowers, twigs and feathers. Her skin was tanned the colour of amber and her eyes sparkled a deep mulberry like the sun coming through the leaves of the Eastern forests in autumn. The man’s spittle slowly dragged its way across her skin. She bowed her head, closed her eyes, saying nothing, standing perfectly still. She was wearing simple flowing robes, and a long woollen coat, in various shades of purple. They were tattered and stained in a few places with mud and blood. She had a little blue silk shoulder bag.
All the eyes of the dark, cramped market hall were fixed on her. The slaver looked down with frustration and a hint of scornful pleasure. Who was this girl that she thought she could stand between him and his property, snatch the whip out of his hand as he kept his stock in line? She was certainly a fast one, and a pretty one too; she was poor, no one who mattered would mind if she “went missing”. She’d certainly fetch him a pretty penny, or perhaps he would keep this one for himself, at least for a few months. He sold to anyone, no questions asked; wealthy dynasts buying personal servants or concubines, mine owners and merchants looking for cheap labor, delegates from the Guild who bought in bulk, and sometimes brought stock to sell as well, and occasionally one of those things from out of a delirium, which took the shape of a man when dealing with men and took their purchases back to their distant courts and fed on their dreams. He didn’t care what happened to his stock after they were sold on. This saved him much unnecessary anguish.
After a second of the girl’s calm quiet, his already thin patience wore through. “Who d’you think you are?” She ignored him; a faint wave of amusement spread around the hall.
“Ah asked you a question!” He roared this time, tensing his muscles, getting ready. She stood still, serene. Someone laughed.
“You don’t like how ah do business? Well, we’ll see about you!” He reached forward with his huge, hairy hand. She looked up into his eyes. She was crying. He laughed.

Amyra could see the malice on the man’s face, his feverish desire to cause her pain and his delight that it was about to happen. She was thankful for her deafness; she couldn’t hear his laughter, and could only tell what he was saying by reading the movements of his vile lips, but she could sense the pain in his eyes, the desire to inflict it but also the pain that he felt himself, every hour. She was crying, out of compassion, the tears streamed down her face, mixing with his spit. Clumsily he reached out his hand and tried to catch her by the shoulder. Poor little thing.

She leapt backwards and up into the air, flitting away from the slaver’s sweat-dripping hand, like a leaf suddenly caught in the wind. She somersaulted and had landed a few yards away from him in the middle of the market hall by the time he had even started to register what was happening. His hand went for his sword and he stepped forwards, grinning.
Before he could draw his blade she had taken a flower from her hair and delicately plucked a single petal. It was a daffodil; the petal was large, fiery yellow, fresh as the moment it was collected even though it was several weeks old. She took the petal between two fingers, feeling its warm, soft tissue next to her own, kissed it, and then she threw it at the slaver in a savage, stylized slash of her arm.
The petal seemed to cut through the air in slow motion, radiant like the morning sun was shining on it even in the torch lit gloom of the hall, followed by a faint trail, a hundred gloaming ghost-flowers that hung in the air before fading from view. It spun like a steel throwing disc, harder, sharper, than any product of nature should have been. The huge man didn’t even have time to try and dodge. The petal cut through his leather apron, his filthy clothes, ripped apart his itching, inflamed skin, dissected one of his ribs and punctured his heart before coming to a rest inside it. As he fell backwards with a groan, his blood sprayed out in a scarlet shower. He hit the ground with a crunch and a tinkle as a pocketful of gold coins spilt out. His blood seemed to hang in the air for a second, floated to earth like falling leaves at the girl’s feet.

A faint smile appeared on Amyra’s face, and she turned her back and walked. The market hall was silent, agape; there were no voices for her to not hear. Violence, even murder, was common in such places, but death did not usually take such a harmless looking form or come quite so suddenly. As she reached the door she turned and gestured, smiling, to the five pathetic looking things that the brute had been hawking. He hadn’t even bothered to chain them up. They looked around the hall; people made a path to let them out, the guards had fled. They followed her, some of them limping, out of the black wood hall.
She walked with them out of the city, through the gate, through meadows and woods and up onto a hill. No one said a word. They were stunned, they were so hungry, so tired. She gave them fruit from her bag, new as the day she gathered it from where it had fallen from the tree. They sat on the hill and ate, in silence. It was a chilly, cloudless night. She looked up and saw her star, shining violet in the constellation of the Sword.

She sat down next to one of them, a young man. He looked like a northerner, and despite being dressed in rags was not shivering in the freezing still air. He was tall; he would have been a strong one if he hadn’t been half starved. She knew what had happened to him; he’d been a warrior not long ago, a brave defender of his people. He had fallen in battle, defeated, dishonoured, but he had lived. He was captured, humiliated, sold to the nearest slave train. He had failed his tribe, and had not even had the courage to end his life of servitude by his own hand.
In the north, when they captured a dishonourable foe they would stake him out on the ground, pile rocks on his chest and leave the life to be crushed out of them. This boy’s existence was like a crushing weight, unbearable, and yet he clung to it so tightly; he was crushing himself. It was not just this one. Men, Exalted, the gods themselves; their lives were full of such pain and yet they would do anything to prolong them. Some even refused to let death relieve them of their existence, they dug their claws into the world and clung on to a kind of half-life even after their time had come. They were the greatest beings of the world, the pinnacle of creation, the master races, and they were no better than beasts. The animals lived pointlessly, most of the time in hunger and cold and pain, ripping each other apart just to continue their own agony. They knew no other way; man had no such excuse.
This was why she had cried herself to sleep every night for the last two hundred years, and slipped away into the misty arms of opium each day. But try as they might to condemn themselves to eternal torment, all things had an ending. Nothing lasted forever. This was why she smiled sometimes. Everything came to an end. Endings made her happy. One day, when all the men and gods and beasts were gone, the curse of intelligence broken, one day the world would smile as the simple things, the growing things, were all that was left in the end. The trees never suffered; the reeds harmed no one; the flowers did not struggle and cling to life when their time had come. The grass would pull down the walls and the towers and there would be no more pain. They had been created to be the lowest of all life but they were truly higher than all the gods.

Amyra looked again into the young man’s eyes, blinking back the tears from her own. She leant close to him. She could see the fear, the exhaustion, as well as a primal, yearning, meaningless lust towards her. She wanted him to have a happy ending. She kissed him, as she reached behind her back and took a dove’s feather from her robes. It had been made as sharp and hard as a dagger forged from meteoric iron, but it was not cold like metal. She played with it between her fingers. The feather had been white once. It had been red for a long time.




Mmm.  Shiny and violent story.  To quote the jazz man - Nice.  --Vitenka

Oh, nice. Very nice, indeed. I approve. --Requiem

Artifacts :

the Bountiful Cannikin - Artifact 1*

This is a small watering can ( a capacity of about a pint ), fairly crudely carved out of wood. If it filled with water and a single mote of essence spent to activate it, the water becomes clear and pure, takes on a greenish tinge and begins to glow very slightly. Any plant watered with this water will be protected against pests, disease, frost, drought etc. for a year and herbivores will not eat it. Any non-living plant material dipped in the water will be perfectly preserved against decay or drying out for a year, including foodstuffs, but only if they are unprocessed. The water loses the magic after a few minutes outside the can, or if it is at all diluted.

the Singing Shell - Artifact 1*

This is a small conch shell. Anyone who attunes to it ( instant ) for a cost of 1 mote gains the ability to alter the pitch and volume of the sound produced when blowing into the shell at will. If they are more skilled, they can make it resonate at multiple frequences at the same time, forming chords. This makes it a compact and unique musical instrument. It adds a +1 bonus to the player's Performance when they are using it.

the Merciful Plumes - Artifact 2*

These beautiful weapons are feathers, treated magically to the hardness and sharpness of starmetal, although they appear entirely normal. The longest feather is approximatly three feet long, and about three inches wide at maximum; it was once white but is now stained blood red. It has the stats below. It counts as being made of starmetal for the purposes of resisting damage. It provides no attunement bonuses, and requires 2 motes to attune to. There are also a number of smaller feathers in the collection with various colors and sizes, these have lower stats, and might count as knives or throwing knives.
Speed 4 Accuracy +3 Damage +4L Defence +1

Minor comment, the essence costs seem a little low in places, the watering can and the attunement cost of the Plumes. Given a diaklave (L2 artifact) has approx the same stats costs 5 motes to attune. I accept that diaklaves are massive weapons but still it seems a bit cheap espiecally as the plumes are very easy to hide and not an obvious weapon. - Artan
The watering can is really only a flavor enhancer. It lets her care for plants and carry around flowers and fruit etc. In terms of actually providing her any benefit, it doesn't. I'm sure Terrestrial sorcery could do the same thing for a whole field of crops for like 10 motes. But maybe it could be 2 or 3 motes...As for the feather, it doesn't provide any attunement bonus, so it should be cheaper. It is concealable, true, but you can always conceal a daiklaive with charms. Maybe 2 or 3 motes, again. -- Xarak
Remember also, no material bonus. I'd say 2 motes for the feather. One mote for the watering can is fine. Also - I'm sure I don't need to say this - but the conch is not usable with Defence of Shining Joy. --Requiem
Of course :) -- Xarak
The watering can is unlikely to be used in Combat situations... -- Senji

Martial Arts Form : "Indigo Butterfly Form" here Under development, comments welcome.

Linked hereby to Requiem/Candle --Requiem

Nice work Jamie. Now I need to put the finishing touches to Mercucio my Eclipse Caste solar wheeler and dealer. -- King DJ
Absolutely storming profile Jamie. Hard to believe it came from the same person as brought us Xarak. Also, do you name all your Exalted after Shakespearian characters, Jack? :) --ConradZ
I did have another name lined up but then I thought it might be nice to get a thing going with Shakespearian names. A sort of signature if you will. Before I came to Cambridge I had characters who's names started with M. -- King DJ
My characters (and NPCs) have names which appear completely random to me; it's usually someone else who points out that I've accidentally copied a name from elsewhere. This is the case with most of my creative impulses. --Requiem
I get that to with NPCs. I also have trouble avoiding using names begining with R for NPCs for some reason. King DJ comes from the name of my first ever pet cat. There was a good program I watched which illustrated that everything we do that appears random is actually stuff we have subconciously absorbed from our surroundings. Interesting stuff. -- King DJ
Ledaal "Moriko" for example. Have you ever seen the film "Battle Royale"? The 'heroine' is called "Noriko". "Amyra" came from the word "Amaranth" which is a word I discovered, if I recall, in one of the old Warhammer books, it's a type of real world flower too I think. And a restaurant in New York... -- Xarak
All things are but copies of other things... -- Senji
...oh, and "Xarak" came from the name of the tranquilizer "Xanax". Don't ask me why... -- Xarak
Yeah. The last time I saw Battle Royale, it was without subtitles, and I was not sober enough (and don't really speak enough Japanese) to follow it. I chose Moriko as a random Japanese-sounding name. "Amaranth" is a plant with blood red leaves and flowers, according to Google. I know it best from VampireTheMasquerade, where it's an archaic term for the worst crime a vampire can commit. And other randomness. --Requiem
You speak any Japanese? Impressive! -- Xarak
Not nearly enough. At one point I could also read kana, and I still know one of the about ten kanji I learnt. I'm attempting to re-learn Japanese for anime reasons, but I don't have the time really. --Requiem

Thanks, guys :) Yes, she's about as far from Xarak as you can get. For one thing, no more quips, because she can't talk. She's simelar to Xarak in only one respect : deadliness. -- Xarak
Oh - and a massive concentration on attack over defence and combat over all else. But then, the party will need someone that can fight, even if it's explicitly not a combat-focused campaign. --Requiem
Her primary stats are Social, and she has far more non-combat Abilitys than Xarak. But she is primarily a combat character, true. -- Xarak

Could be worse.  Hmm, what should one deduce from Alicia, Kira and Vasily (having created Omari, Anila, Milos, Alexey and Sofia in the process (all Nellens)) -- Senji.
Oh, in case anyone cares, Vasily is Twilight Caste. -- Senji

/OldStuff here.



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