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ㅤㅤㅤTrinity had long since resigned herself to the undeniable fact that she was forever bound to Draven; she was eternally his, until death did them part. But even death would not free her. Were she to perish, he would resurrect her. Another number in his undead horde; however, she was special to him. In his twisted mind – ailed by a sickness that’s festered over centuries of undeath – Draven was convinced she was his darling Gisella come back to him. And Trinity understood all too well that he wouldn't release his beloved this time. Maybe he would bestow upon her the curse of consciousness, or he would lavish her with special treatment, as he always had. And perhaps, among those capable of such feelings, envy would simmer like it did among the clergy years ago. After all, she was his ‘favourite.’ They did not know ‘favourite’ was a way of saying ‘his most valued possession.’ In the lifetime and unlife that she has spent under his thumb, she learned that he regarded her not as a person, but as an object : a pretty thing to ogle, to push around and touch as he wanted. Being his ‘favourite’ did shield her from his wrath, or spare her from beatings; it didn’t grant her any more influence over the men she referred to as ‘brothers.’ He paid her objections no heed, much like he disregarded their attempts to curry favour through flattery.ㅤㅤㅤFreedom only came with Draven’s death, his utter annihilation, his complete erasure from the realms. Killing a lich required destroying its phylactery that tethers its corporeal form to the Material Plane with it. Fail to do so and the lich will be reformed within a tenday. Draven was a clever one, having broken his phylactery into three shards that he then hid in the hard - to - reach corners of Faerûn.ㅤㅤㅤOne fragment was with Trinity’s father, the exiled protégé of House Meliscient, Kiirion. He fled north, to the quadruplet peaks at the Spine of the World where the sky and snow became indistinguishable. The bitter chill and unforgiving terrain of the tundra stood in stark contrast to the temperate shores of Evermeet, yet Kiirion was prepared to adapt. Stories of dragons veiled as clouds and formidable barbarian tribes that lived along the Wall, deterred any pursuit of him, granting him uninterrupted solitude for the past one - hundred and twenty years.ㅤㅤㅤAnother shard of the lich’s phylactery lay hidden within the blighted marshes of the Mere of Dead Men, concealed amidst the hoard of the dracolich Xylbesdi. It was Draven who orchestrated Xylbesdi’s transformation into undeath, only to later seize control of the dracolich and pilfer its own phylactery. Shielded from prying eyes by powerful illusions and safeguarded by intricate magical wards, the dracolich’s home is an impregnable fortress even seasoned adventurers cower from exploring.ㅤㅤㅤWithin Trinity beats the third shard, powering her mechanical heart, the pulsating core that sustains her existence. Removing the fragment would bring the artificial organ to a standstill, so. . .ㅤㅤㅤ“So, to slay Draven, you have to die?” Zakn’rae’s furrowed brow betrayed his troubled thoughts as deftly twirls an ornate dagger between his practised fingers. He angled the blade toward Trinity’s chest, its pointed tip hovering perilously close to where her heart beat with hesitant anticipation.ㅤㅤㅤThe half - elf was never the type to hide the truth in pleasant falsehoods, answering the with a firm “Yes.” Her gaze funnels to the dagger’s honed edge, throat bobbing as she swallows the knot of unease that threatened to choke her, stifling her dread.ㅤㅤㅤFace betraying no emotion, Zakn’rae offers a slow nod in reply, and wordlessly presses the dagger into Trinity’s hand, a silent agreement sealed between them in steel. Her slender digits tighten around the hilt and she observes her warped reflection in its polished metal.ㅤㅤㅤOver the course of her travels alongside Zakn’rae and their companions – stalwart Loa, valiant Erik, and ever faithful Thallia – Trinity, like to a raven collecting shiny baubles, had gathered a trove of mementos : a white peppered feather plucked from Loa’s noble brow; a silver coin, minted in the kingdom Adelaide was meant to rule, a kingdom now darkened by a pall of uncertainty and upheaval; and a dried flower taken from the Aerwood Glade, its petals still faintly fragrant, tenderly preserved between the yellowed pages of her weathered journall. . . Several meaningless items that hold little sentimental value to the average person, but were to her tangible memories that, when arranged together, created a recollection of their time together.ㅤㅤㅤIt’s been a little over a year since she first met them. To one for whom time holds no sway, such a span might seem infinitesimally brief; but, she lived more than one year than she had in one - hundred fifty years spent under Draven’s enthrallment. The closer they came to confronting Draven, the clearer the true essence of living became to her; life’s beauty lay not in its longevity, but in its intensity. Every laugh shared, every tear shed, every heartbeat counted – these were the currency of being. Trinity couldn't deny feeling disappointed by the modest sum she had amassed over her lifetime, especially considering how many others she had outlived. She, however, was grateful for whatever amount she had, whether it was one, a thousand, or even a million.ㅤㅤㅤPart of her yearned for just a little more time, perhaps another year, to neatly tie up the loose ends she knew she would leave behind. Yet, such mercy was not granted. With the end looming ever closer, Trinity knew there would be words left unsaid, conversations unhad, and embraces left unfelt. She refused to burden her companions with any more sorrow than absolutely necessary. Some secrets, she resolved, would accompany her to the grave, all in the name of sparing them further pain. Sacrifices had to be made. If her death meant freeing the tormented souls, like her, ensnared by Draven’s cruelty and saving others from his malevolence, then she would meet death willingly. For she had grown to value their happiness above her own, ready to set aside her wants for the greater good.ㅤㅤㅤThe floorboard protests with a soft creak under the pressure of her boot as she strides across the room, closing the distance between herself and Zakn’rae, who stands poised by the window, his gaze fixed upon the starry expanse above. Silvery eyes mirror the twinkling diamonds strewn across the night sky, slivers of moonlight filter through the emerald foliage, dabbling the forest floor with specks of muted ivory.ㅤㅤㅤ“I have one request – a dying wish if you will,” though her tone is hard, it’s easy to tell her words are a poorly masked plea. “When I’m dead and buried, do not let me be remembered as a tragedy.” 

[ CONTEXT : The party stopped in Waterdeep on their way to the Ardeep Forest to stock up on supplies before continuing their search for the Aerwood Glade. Trinity was recognized by a Harper agent who had once worked with her mother, Buchra, a former Master Harper. The agent took Trinity to Buchra’s former lodging. Loa, Trinity, and Thallia decided to investigate the room to see if they could find any valuable gear, but instead uncovered a dark secret that led to Buchra coming out of retirement and ultimately led to her demise. A prequel to this piece. ]ㅤㅤㅤ Shafts of sunlight filter in through tall windows, with heavy curtains billowing gently in the breeze. The windows needed dusting, with motes of dust dancing lazily in the air, captured in the streams of light as they floated on invisible currents. Two figures entered through an aged door, its hinges protesting being opened after years untouched, the aged floorboards groaning beneath the weight of their footsteps — Loa's hurried and excited, Trinity's slow and uncertain.ㅤㅤㅤIn one corner of the room loomed a towering bookcase, its shelves packed with a collection of well-loved leather-bound tomes, their spines worn from consistent use. Against the opposite wall stood a sturdy oak desk, its surface cluttered with faded parchment. A jar of dried ink sat at the far edge, with an upright quill poised within, undisturbed still even years later. Along another wall stood a grand four-poster bed, draped in faded linens, their colors dulled by years of exposure to the elements. Loa gravitated towards a sizable wardrobe nestled against the westernmost wall, while Trinity remained in the room's center, her eyes captivated by the intricate embroidery of the threadbare rug beneath her boots.ㅤㅤㅤThe salty tang of the sea hung in the air, mingling with the faint whisper of brine carried on the breeze that tousled Trinity's cowl, teasing her hair. She tucks an errant curl back into place, and her attention briefly flickers to Loa, who is engrossed in searching through the wardrobe. Unearthing a trove of worldly trinkets and small treasures, the aasimar's turquoise gaze is bright with fascination as she pulls an old instrument from a hidden corner of the armoire. It bears a resemblance to a lute, with a long body and strings stretched taut across its frame, but there is something distinctly different about it, something that sets it apart.ㅤㅤㅤ"Trinity, come, you must see this," Loa beckons the other woman toward her with a quick nod of her head. She presents the unique instrument to Trinity as she approaches, giving its strings a tentative pluck. A warm note plays and the blonde wonders aloud, "I wonder what manner of imaginative luthier crafted such an oddly... shaped lute."ㅤㅤㅤBefore Trinity can voice her thoughts, a tiny figure flits into the room, hovering near her shoulder. "That's not a lute, dear," Thallia chimed in, her wings fluttering iridescently in the sunlight. "That is a kora. Commonly played by bards from the Vilhon Reach – a way ways from here."ㅤㅤㅤ"Oh," a small, surprised noise escapes the aasimar, who gives the kora a second look over. "Do you s'pose that means your mother may be Vilhonese, Trin?"ㅤㅤㅤ"A native of Turmish or Chondath, maybe," Trinity muses. The indifference in her tone suggests her thoughts were elsewhere as she had drifted from the small gathering of girls in favour of purusing the papers left behind on the desk. Her mother's desk. Late mother's desk.ㅤㅤㅤTrinity had never given much thought to her mother; the thought of her never stirred much emotion within her. She had grown accustomed to her absence, familiar with the void that maternal love should occupy; however, speaking of her in the past tense caused a pang, a fleeting stab of ache to her heart, leaving a tender hollow in its wake.ㅤㅤㅤIn another life, perhaps, she would have had the chance to know her — the Buchra beyond who chroniclers wrote of. To know her not as a figure of myth and legend, a conqueror of both land and sea, but as her mother, her flesh and blood. Not a single word had she shared with the woman, but Trinity mourned the loss of her. It was a loss not just of the woman her mother was, but of the future they could have shared together, had Draven not stolen it from her.ㅤㅤㅤHer fingers glided over the scratched surface of the abandoned desk, sifting through the scattered parchment left behind by Buchra, until they brushed against the rough texture of tanned hide beneath the pads of her gloved digits. Eyeing the journal, the warlock lifted it with care, sliding her hand beneath the cover and gently nudging it open. The yellowed pages carried the faint perfume of ink, and she absentmindedly thumbed their moth-eaten edges as she turned through entries scrawled in heavy-handed strokes.ㅤㅤㅤBuchra was no poet – her writing was absent of any embellishments or flowery prose – but she was thorough. Though Loa said something, her teasing voice became a static buzz in Trinity's ears as she was completely absorbed in her mother's world. She found herself swept up in tales of adventure and daring escapades, broken up by the occasional draft of a song or rushed sketch, poorly rendered with charcoal. As the remaining pages dwindled, Trinity's pace slowed, her gaze lingered on a particular passage containing the beginnings of a song. Incomplete, like many others in the book, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that this one was not meant to be left unfinished.ㅤㅤㅤ "Through tempests fierce and tranquil morn,in mirth and woe – my love for thou, my precious, shall everlast. . .Stride forth, dear one, with head held high,know in thy soul, I'm by thy side. . ." ㅤㅤㅤThe gentle caress of Loa's taloned thumb left a tingling sensation on Trinity's skin, drawing her out of her reverie. She's met with Loa's round eyes, her own gaze unfocused from tears she hadn't realized had fallen. Trinity pivots on her heel, her back now turned to the paladin and Loa casts Trinity an apologetic glance, taking several steps back, observing silently as the half-elf clenches the journal tightly.ㅤㅤㅤA soft sniffle escapes her, prompting Loa to gently inquire, "Are you alright?"ㅤㅤㅤCollecting herself, Trinity steadied her breath and blinked away any lingering moisture that gathered in her waterline, nodding curtly in response. Thallia and Loa exchange an uncertain glance, with the former offering a shrug while the latter's lips wilt into a frown. Trinity's tumult is forgotten with the turn of a page, dog-eared and left for later review. The next few entries unfold abruptly, with mentions of a man named 'Kiirion' littered throughout. Ample context clues provided Trinity clarity regarding Buchra's relationship to this Kiirion. Short descriptions evoke imagery of a dark-skinned man with pointed ears, chiseled cheeks, and a forked tongue. He is depicted as a liar, a serpent who cruelly tore her daughter away, pretending she would have a better life among the more civilised folk of Everska - the 'folk' being elves like himself. But he and Trinity never reached Everska. There was no sanctuary as promised, only the grim reality of a man who had dallied with forbidden magic — a practice his own kind had warned him against for years. A man who was acting on the whims of a lich, a man who traded their child for his own freedom; a betrayal that cut deeper than any blade. Sketches accompanied the terse entries, depicting a gemstone with dark, angry lines of ink carved through it, severing it into three distinct fragments. The earlier reference to a lich was no coincidence; this drawing is of Draven's phylactery.ㅤㅤㅤHer stomach plummets, twisting in knots, as she fights back the bile rising in her throat. Images of her hand stained crimson with the warmth of blood and the heady, metallic scent of it permeating the air thrust themselves to the forefront of Trinity's mind. Trembling arms encircled her waist, drawing her close in a feeble embrace. The insertion of her dagger into the woman's back was quick and merciful. A sputtering breath escaped her victim, her eyes fluttered shut, and her figure slackened against hers. In the haze of that moment, the inexplicable emptiness that filled Trinity as she cradled Buchra's lifeless form made no sense, as if she was trying to decode a cipher written in a foreign tongue. But now, with the cruel clarity of hindsight, the truth revealed itself – that embrace was the first and final time she held her mother close.  ㅤ

Who I oweHereHereHereWho Owes me:Alorah last April 22nd, 2024here here updated owes on April 24th, 2024

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Winter had come early that year.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Though the stone walls confining her offered no glimpse of the world outside, Trinity knew by the chill that surged through her like a shock that winter had arrived. The unforgiving cold seeped into the marrow of her aching bones, clawing at her bare skin with icy fingers.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Sleep provided no solace, for it was unnecessary. Reprieve arrived only when her injuries overwhelmed her, succumbing to unconsciousness induced by loss of blood. But even oblivion couldn't free her; as her body surrendered, he besieged her mind, conjuring illusions of indescribable agony with a pain so tangible that she could no longer discern between reality and fiction.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀She did not know how long the gaps were between her screaming and waking; between the cessation of pain and its resurgence. Days, months, years — they bled together, indistinguishable like the red of her blood from the red of her hair. Time lost its meaning within his lair, a fortress of perpetual torment. A stronghold that might well be fake; another trick of the mind, spun by his dark magic.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The searing pain in her back, the fiery welts left by the lash of a whip — were they even real? And what of the warm blood running down her limbs like crimson rivers, flowing from where the flesh of her wrists and ankles had been devoured by the iron cuffs? Has she gone mad, and is this torture just a manifestation of her fractured psyche?⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀A jerk of the shackles binding her. They jangle, but hold firm. Metal chafes against her raw skin, old wounds shrieking as they tear anew. Trinity inhales sharply through her teeth, swallowing her cry. Her eyes squeeze shut, then flutter open again. She turns over her bloody palms to gaze at them, flexing her fingers. Surprisingly, they still retain function even though her tactile sensations had dulled. Real.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Awake, are we, Gisella?” Dread coils in her stomach at that voice. Crooning and cold.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Trinity, my name is Trinity, she wants to correct him.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀She had forsaken every part of herself that his hands had ever touched, and now she had nothing left but her name. Trinity.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He emerged with a swish of robes, flanked by two wights that shambled in after him, pulling two grand oak doors at the chamber's opposite end shut. The only exit was sealed.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Draven towered over most, his gaunt face wrinkled with age. A shock of gray streaked through his ebon-hued hair, his scraggly beard equally dark. He appeared human, with flesh, bone, and blood. Fake. A façade no easier on the eye than the skeletal lich Trinity was more acquainted with.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“You know,” he drawls, stepping toward her. Trinity instinctively recoils, but her restraints hinder her movement. “I wonder if you recall, Gisella—” The name grates on her ears. She hates it, but particularly loathes when it's spoken by him.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Trinity, Trinity is my name, she reasserts. A fierce fire blazes within her, its origins unclear; she ceased resisting him ages ago, perhaps years past. Yet, an unyielding flame persists deep within her, burning with the ferocity of the sun. It rages with such intensity that, were it not for the iron muzzle fastened to her jaw, she believes she could spew fire like a dragon, wild and untamed.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀With the swiftness of a viper, he strikes, seizing her throat with a bruising force. “That night, when everyone deserted you, abandoned you to the merciless waves,” he hisses, drawing near to her ear. “Who was it that came to your aid? I. It's by my grace alone that you stand here now, by my intervention that you were granted a second chance at life. Yet still, you dare defy me? To deride all that I have sacrificed so that you might thrive?”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Trinity’s eyes narrowed into slits and though her tongue was forcibly held, her disdain is palpable, etched into the sharp lines of her face. With a short gesture, Draven beckons one of the wights to come forth, and the half-elf’s mechanical heart palpitates as she watches him retrieve a slim blade from the undead creature’s grasp. He maintains a firm hold on her face, eyes boring into her, alight with fury, “You forget your place.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He grazes her temple with the flat side of the dagger. “You owe me everything, yet you repay my generosity with insolence,” his lips press into a hard line. “You have squandered my mercy for the last time. It’s time you learned the true cost of disobedience.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Lifting the dagger, the man angles it toward her eye, its metal glimmer catching the flickering firelight of a nearby brazier, reflected in the inky depths of her pupil. Just as the blade threatens to plunge into her socket, Trinity wrenches her head to the side at the last moment. The razor-sharp edge catches on the bridge of her nose, slicing a deep gash across her cheek as she twists out of his grasp, collapsing to the ground.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀That was the match that ignited his anger into an all-consuming inferno, her continued resistance stoking the flames of his wrath. Futilely, Trinity tries to break away, thrashing wildly against her restraints as Draven white-knuckles the dagger. With a guttural roar, he reaches out, grabbing Trinity by the hair and yanking her back with a savage force that sends shards of pain radiating through her skull.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Hold me in your tempest, Stormbringer. Trinity silently implores, her soul reaching out to Talos for deliverance, for liberation. She begs, begs and begs. But beyond the cold stone walls, the world lies tranquil, undisturbed. There is no tumultuous storm, no wailing wind to either exalt or condemn Draven’s savagery. Talos remains silent; he, like so many of his divine kin, remains indifferent to the plight of mortals, their pleas falling deaf on divine ears. In the face of such divine apathy, Trinity’s hope wanes. There are no gods here, only barren halls that reverberate with the hollow resonance of her screams.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Neither god nor mortal will come to her aid; if salvation is to be found, she must find it in herself. ㅤㅤㅤ

▏her moniker. ㅤㅤㅤSHE entered into this world nameless – for who would name a commodity bartered for peace between men? ‘Father’ had christened her under another name, and she was reborn. But that girl died too, when she was only twenty summers young; in the embrace of the unforgiving waters of the Sea of Swords, she breathed her last sigh, a memory swallowed by the depths of Umberlee’s wrath. It was not that girl who climbed her way up from the sea's depths, nor was it she who washed ashore, coughing and sputtering, lungs filled with brine. She did not look into the faces of her ‘brothers’ and saw the horror in their eyes – the disbelief, the fear, the realization that death had been denied its rightful claim. It wasn’t that girl who killed them, either. No, the hands that wrought such devastation belonged to another – the tempest incarnate; a creature who skirted the very edge of oblivion, born again amidst the carnage of her previous self’s kin.ㅤㅤㅤA collection of heads – lowered, with clasped hands touched to foreheads –raise in unison, turning to look upon her; the very woman who they cast away to the sea stood before them. Bare feet shamble over cobblestone as she crosses the distance of the sanctum to the altar. Thick silence hangs heavy in the stale air, broken only by the rhythmic echoes of her footsteps. Anxious glances dart among the clergymen, their murmurs of prayer fading into uneasy whispers. For this was not their sister, the docile acolyte they once knew. No, she is something else entirely – a being of unadulterated rage, with eyes ablaze with fervor, her body running on the fumes of a euphoric high, beset by the escape from death’s cold grip.ㅤㅤㅤBehind her, she leaves a trail of damp footprints as she ascends the steps heading up to the altar. Above her, the stony countenance chiseled in the likeness of Talos looms, a silent witness to the impending chaos she intended to carry out in His name. Differently colored eyes lower to the sacrificial dagger before her, caked in coagulated blood, her blood. The same blade used to carve wounds that still ache now she holds, white - knuckling the hilt, the metal cool against her skin.ㅤㅤㅤSwiftly pivoting on her heel, the half - elf approaches the priest leading the sermon. He cowers under her intense stare, taking two paces back as she advances two forward. The dagger, held aloft by trembling hands, rises with lethal intent. Her arm becomes a blur of motion as she brings the dagger down with a decisive strike, its blade catching the flickering candlelight, a silver streak promising death. It finds its mark in the back of the man who, in attempting to dodge the incoming strike, made the grave mistake of turning his back on her. Steel bites into the Storm Herald’s flesh, drawing forth a spray of crimson that stains his pristine robes, body crumpling to the floor with a guttural cry from deep in his soul.ㅤㅤㅤHis vision swims as he staggers away, reduced to crawling on hands and knees – like a wounded animal, making a futile bid at fleeing from the predator that shadows its every move. She saunters at his side, her gaze, as frigid as the ocean that threatened – and failed – to consume her, remaining fixated upon him. With a deft hand and determined stride, Trinity removes the blade embedded in his back, its edge slickened with his blood. A weak groan escapes the priest’s lips, parted in a supplication of mercy that goes unspoken, as his body slackens, his head hitting the stone floor unceremoniously as he succumbs to the pull of unconsciousness.ㅤㅤㅤTalassan clerics understand structure through acts of violence and fear, their hierarchy maintained through the ruthless assertion of power. In an instant, the balance of power can shift, and those once revered may find themselves cast down, their authority usurped by a new order more ruthless than its predecessor. Blade clutched at her hip, the woman lifts her chin, eyes sweeping across the silent throng of clergymen with a predatory gleam. A look that dared anyone to challenge her, and face the same fate as the one that lay dead at her feet; seeking not approval but defiance. How they react matters not, though. She acts as she has learned from them, unwilling to extend to them the courtesy they had so callously deprived her of. Her submission to their authority had not spared her from their cruelty, nor had her pleas for mercy ever fallen on anything but deaf ears. And so, she had decided : they are all marked for death this night.ㅤㅤㅤIt was a bloody baptism; the most macabre of metamorphoses. The serpent molts, shedding her scales; the ashes of her former self are scattered to the wind, and from the embers rises a new being. No holy waters sanctified her, no solemn rites marked her passage, but the storm itself bore witness to her transformation, the roar of its raucous applause thundering in her ears.ㅤㅤㅤAnd it was then, as the storm clouds parted, the heavens opened, and the space between the Prime Material and Outer Planes were bridged, that she – fresh from the womb of slaughter – looked into the singular eye of Talos, the Storm Lord. Within his divine gaze, she beheld the tempest’s fury, the thunder’s roar, and the lightning’s flash. It was as if Talos himself spoke to her in the language of the elements, and she was enlightened with the understanding of her new name – TRINITY – and the divine mandate thrust upon her. She was to be his judge, tasked with discerning truth amidst onslaught, to be the eye of the hurricane. His jury, weighing the deeds of those who defy her Lord’s creed and rendering verdicts with an unbiased heart, echoing the impartiality of wildfires that care not who they burn, of floods that sweep away both the rich and the poor, the good and the evil. His executioner, wielding His wrath as her righteous blade, delivering swift justice to the deserving.ㅤㅤㅤTrinity : the embodiment of Talos’ will, threefold. His most loyal servant, whom would do anything to satisify Him; for in Talos, she was convinced, lay her redemption.ㅤㅤㅤBut, bitterly, she recognises that, no matter how she tries to separate herself from him, she has become exactly what Draven wanted of her : a thing of wrath and malice – an agent of chaos, capable of killing without remorse. His influence runs deeper than any biological connection could ever hope to achieve; he may as well have sired her himself, for his mark upon her is indelible, a brand that will forever mar her soul and flesh; scars, painful and raw, that are both metaphorical and literal. For her body will forever remember his shape, and his teachings are deeply engraved in her brain. In an ironic sense, she owes to him credit for her reckoning; he crafted Trinity from his malevolence. Trinity is his masterpiece, his magum opus – his open love letter to the Storm Lord he praised so highly. 

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Magneto's personal universe is set in 2024. It's similar to X-Men 97 just modern with a few changes here and there.Genohsa has not been created.Sentinels are being built but have not yet been used. The world is filled with Mutants and Humans. Avengers, MCU, spider-verse and others would come under a multiverse. I am open to hearing ideas. Pitch them to me.Magneto's universe is dark with the two sides fearing each other.The X-men try to keep a balance while the Brotherhood wants to fight for their rights.Magneto is smart yet manipulative. He is not afraid to twist words in his favor and get his way. Manipulation, fear-mongering and charm are his strongest techniques.Essentially he would be considered a cult-like leader. 

Thread Tracker.https://www.roleplayer.me/THESTORYTELLER"These are the ones that I owe or those who owe me." ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧Discussing With: • None⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧I owe starters for: • None ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧I owe replies to:• None ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧I’ve written to:  •  @Bloodseeker (Damon Salvatore) [x] ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧RPG Stuff: • None⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧Drabbles: • None⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧ "These will be updated as soon as there is need too." template credit.

the RULEBOOK.https://www.roleplayer.me/THESTORYTELLER"Rules are rules, follow them and we will be fine!"•  Verses & writing style | I am a literate and write in the First-person Limited View Point (Meaning it will be told from Imara's perspective, she is telling stories from her viewpoint. What she sees, hears, feels, and such), para to Novella. That is about 200 plus words. That is around (3 plus Paragraphs). I prefer multi-paragraphs that are detailed and move the storyline onwards. One-line paragraphs with supporting paragraphs are allowed. No straight up one-liners or semi-para writers, you will be denied-or blocked. I am a heavy supernatural themed rper. Anything to do with Vampires, werewolves, and more, are what I go for. Crime, gore, torture, and other crossovers are highly looked over and either denied-or blocked. I will however, not do smut-until she is of legal age-anything illegal or harmful will never be allowed on my page. Anything rl that has to do with illegal or harmful stuff will be reported. If you send me inappropriate content, You will be blocked immediately.• Literacy | Literacy is not mandatory. But it is appreciated. Please try to write in complete sentences, proper spelling and proper punctiataion. • Introductions | Please don't come at me with just "Hi, whats up, or anything like small talk. Introduce me to your chearacter or give me a rundown on the character's you do have, and how they can possibly interact with Imara. I will look it over and we can go from there.• Mistakes | I know mistakes happen. People who don't feel well, or have just woken up. Mistakes of simple words are forgiveable. But if it's in every part of your storyline and I can't understand the reply, then I will talk to you about it. If it happenes three times in a row. I will just block you. •  Age requirements | My Character is a 16 year old girl/Werecheetah. She is a teen so any NSFW Content is currently not allowed, Not until she is 18 years old or older. •  30 day Policy | I am inacting a 30 day policy. If you have accepted my request or I yours. You have 30 days to read my information and sign my rules. Sign with this:  *Failure to sign will get you a deletion. Three times? It will be a block* If you need more time then please let me know and I will give you time. However no communication will result in you not being on my page.•  Communication | Talking to me about plotting and getting things going is a must. No random starters or pictures with NSFW Content on it in your first message to me. Gross. Grow up and be an adult, introduce yourself to me as though meeting a new person or co-worker. Simply saying "hi", doesn't cut it. You can call me "The Storyteller".•  NSFW Content | There will be no smut until she is 18 or older, however, there can be blood, gore, horror, some torture involved in her stories. I'm not comfortable with writing sexual themes until she is an adult. Sorry.•  Collaboration | It takes two to come up with a storyline. If your not willing to help give me some ideas after i give you some of mine, then you will be gone. I will not deal with people who can't help get a sl going with me. It's not a one way street, it's a two way. We both - you and me - need to work together to start an epic journey with each other.•  Place of writing | All out of character and plot discussions will be done in messages. It is easier for me to keep track that way. Storylines however will be seperated and put into a group forum along with drabbles and other writings. This is so I can track all my stories in one place and my discussions and plotting in another.•  No hard feelings | If you lose inspiration for our thread or you want to change something about it. Tell me. If you want to leave and end our story-interaction with one another-message me and we can talk and then you can go on your way. No hard feelings. Just don't dump me or our story without an explaination. It is rude."Look for the Phase to sign. It's bolded and underlined!" template credit.

1. No minors. I am 35 in real life and no thank you.2. Don't rush me through replies. Sometimes life gets busy and you just have to deal with that.3. Not that there is anything to steal, but if I have something displayed for others to see on here, do NOT jock or "steal" it from me. Chances are that I put some WORK into creating or designing it.4. Put some effort into your posts. I don't want to be the only one coming up with ideas that have to do with the story that WE are creating.5. I prefer messages over comments and please DO NOT ask me for personal information INCLUDING DISCORD. I do not give it out for obvious (or not obvious) reasons. 

CHARACTER INFORMATION.https://www.roleplayer.me/THESTORYTELLER"My Journey into the real world is just beginning. Here I am no one. I am not a Princess with subjects." ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧General InfoName: Imara Karama. (Adopted TBD when I have adopted family for her.)Nickname: Ima & MaraTitles: Princess, Little Cheetah.Name Meaning: Imara – ‘strong’ (Swahili), Karama - 'gift’ (Swahili)Name Pronounced: Imara – ‘IY-Maa-aa' (Swahili), Karama - 'Kaa-RAA-Maa’ (Swahili)Gender: FemaleRace: Cheetah ShifterBirthday: March 9th, 2008Age: 16 Years Old ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧Appearance:Height: 5'8"Weight: 100 (Both cat and human form)Hair: brown curly hairSkin: She has a heart-shaped face with fine bone structure.Distinguishing marks:Eyes: Almond-shaped, deep brown eyes with thick dark lashes.Clothing: She will often wear black or clorful clothes. (Depending on her mood or what is going on.)Gear Always has: A pendant necklace.⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧Extras:Personality: Imara Karama can be quick to anger, to lash out when she feels threatened or others are threatened. It's hard for her to let go of her anger.Temperament: She is mild in temperment. On one case she can be sweet and on the other; she can be sweet when she has to be.Religious beliefs: African traditional Religion; Polythesim (More than one Deity)Political stance: Doesn't follow Politics.Hobbies: Lounging in trees, stalking and playing catch me if you can.Habits: She will use trees to get the pent up anger out.⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧Quirks/eccentricities:Likes: Deer Meat, Squirrel Meat, Beef jerky, and her Colition (Pack)Dislikes: Hunters, being bored and High pitch sounds.Strengths: Look at powers and abilities.Weaknesses: Look at powers and abilties.Short term goals: To survive as best as she can.Long term goals: To have a pack and family of her own someday.Occupation: She has none yet.Skills: Hunting, running, tracking and fighting.Secrets: She is a Princess of a Cheetah Coalition.⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧History and background details:My name is Imara Karama. I was born on March 9th, 2008 in Swahili, Africa. I am a Swahili were-cheetah Princess who came to America on a ship. During a war, 2024, sometime this year, my birth parents stowed me away on a ship. I lived in the ship eating rats and other things that people threw on to the floor. Landing in America, I had to learn real quick to stand on my two feet and find a way to fit in. I am currently just wondering around the forests of America. I long for a family to take me in and make me apart of their family. But for now I will wonder the world in my kitty/human form, surviving as best as I can.(Seeking a family to take her in, will add adoption and location, once she has someone.)  ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧  Werecheetah Information:History: Werecheetahs are originally come from Africa. Same thing like there other relatives in the Were 'family'. Werecheetahs also change when the full moon is out. When the full moon is out, it's kinda hard to control themselves not to attack others. A cool trait about the Werecheetah is that there hunting rate is a 50% chance of actually getting what it wants or not getting what it wants. It's kinda luck base, because if the animal or human takes to long to catch they give up. Werecheetahs have been around the same time Werewolves have been. The Werecheetah does trust as many of the were species as other can do. Physical Appearance: When they turn, they turn into a full Cheetah. They slightly, but you can't really notice it, longer tails than cheetahs. One unique trait that the Werecheetah has is when you can, your hair actually stays with. They're eye color is Honey/Hazel. They do have claws, sometimes when the Werecheetah is super angry their claws will grow even longer then they usually are.Powers and Abilities: A Werecheetah possesses a number of physical and passive powers.Super Strength: Werecheetah possess superhuman levels of strength that allow them to break through chains and deadbolt locks, punch through brick and marble walls, and throw grown men across a room with ease.Super Speed: Werecheetah can run much faster than even the most athletic human beings, Werewolves, and being able to keep up with vehicles such as motorcycles that are driving at top speeds. They can also run on all fours (hands and feet) in both human and in Werecheetah form.Super Agility/Reflexes: Werecheetah's possess supernaturally enhanced agility and reflexes that allow them to leap very high and across large distances, jump from several stories up and land lightly on their feet, and perform a multitude of acrobatic, gymnastic and martial feats such as flips, handsprings, and spinning kicks. They can also process moving objects much better than humans can, allowing them to catch projectiles in mid-air and dodge speeding bullets before they can be hit. Their use of this power is usually instinctive, and newly-turned Werecheetah have been seen performing impressive gymnastic routines with no training.Super Durability: Though Werecheetah can still sustain open wounds like any other creature, they are much more durable to blunt force trauma than the regular human, allowing them to be thrown through walls and fall from tall heights without fatal injury. They can also endure a great deal more physical damage for a much longer period of time than an ordinary human, as Werecheetah's have been known to fight through dozens of gunshot wounds, stab wounds, burns, and broken bones that would normally incapacitate a regular person.Super Senses: Werecheetah, like their counterparts, have extremely sensitive senses of sight, hearing, and smell. They can see in total darkness and across large distances with great clarity, track scents for up to several miles and can hear whispered conversations across great distances and from outside of buildings with ease. Using their sense of smell in particular they can interpret the chemosignals that indicate identity and emotional states, a skill that, with practice, can be developed to the point of a supernatural sense of empathy; it has also been revealed that Werecheetah's can even sense sexual desire through scent. These abilities help Werecheetah's fight at night, hear approaching enemies, and locate missing people by scent. A Werecheetah's glowing eyes can also be used to see mystical or supernatural phenomena that cannot be perceived by human eyes, such as a Nemeton, or a Kitsune's aura.Accelerated Healing: Werecheetah possess an extraordinarily enhanced healing factor that allows them to heal from most mild to moderate wounds within moments. They have been shown to heal quickly from gunshots, stab wounds through the chest, abdomen and extremities, and broken arms, legs, and spines, though most cannot heal from a broken neck; while varying among different ranks of Werecheetah's, broken bones can usually heal instantly after they've been reset, and depending on the severity, stab wounds and gunshots can usually resolve themselves in minutes to hours based on how deep the wounds are and whether or not vital organs were damaged in the process. Werecheetah are also immune to the majority of human illnesses and conditions such as colds, cancer, epilepsy, asthma, etc. For this reason, they cannot get high on drugs or drunk on alcohol—because the "high" is technically caused by the substance inflicting some kind of damage on the body, the Werecheetah can heal this damage faster than the effects can be felt. The only toxic substances that Werecheetah's are not immune to are yellow wolfsbane, mistletoe and the modified canine distemper virus that was specifically designed to kill supernatural creatures. They are also vulnerable to the paralytic effects of Kanima venom, though, with concentration, their accelerated healing ability will allow them to process through the toxin and overcome its effects much more quickly than a normal human.Longevity: Because a Werecheetah's rapid cellular healing prevents them from contracting any human illness or condition and replaces aging cells at a constant rate, Werecheetah have a tremendously extended lifespan. It is unknown what the average life expectancy of a Werecheetah is.Shapeshifting: Werecheetah have the ability to shape their features into that of a partially lupine form, which involves glowing eyes, fangs, claws, a ridged brow, pointed ears and large sideburns. With practice, Werecheetah can learn how to only transform a few selective features as needed, such as only extending their claws to cut something, their fangs to bite something, or simply making their eyes glow to enhance their eyesight or display their supernatural nature.Pain Absorption: Werecheetah have the ability to absorb pain from animals, humans, and other creatures through tactile contact. This is usually done by touching the person who is in pain, or the injured body part and drawing the pain into themselves, which manifests as the Werecheetah's veins darkening as their body processes it. Initially, a Werecheetah can only essentially "take the edge off" of a person's pain level, but with practice, they can eventually learn to take it completely.Weaknesses :Mountain Ash: Since Werecheetah's are supernatural creatures, they are vulnerable to rowan, both in its wood form and its incinerated form known as mountain ash. As a result, not only can they not touch or handle it, but they can also be barred from entering an area that has been warded with an unbroken circle of it, and can also be trapped within a circle in the same way.Wolfsbane: This could possibly be because cheetah's are a feline species, not a canine species like the aforementioned shapeshifters, making them less vulnerable to the herb. It is unknown what effects, if any, other forms of wolfsbane, such as the blue and purple varieties, would have on Werecheetah's.Full Moon: Werecheetah's, like Werewolves and Werecoyotes, are beholden to the full moon, as it is the source of their powers. During a full moon, a Werecheetah's powers will be enhanced to even stronger levels, but also come with a cost of enhanced agitation, aggression, and bloodlust that they will need to learn to control to prevent exposing their supernatural identity to humans and Hunters. Werecheetah's without training will be overcome with such rage and aggression that they will be compelled to attack any living creature they cross who crosses their path.Intense Emotions: Like their Werewolf and Werecoyote counterparts, Werecheetah's transformations can be triggered by increased heart rates, which means that intense emotions such as anger, fear, stress, or lust can cause them to transform if they do not learn how to control their pulse. While pain usually helps shapeshifters remain human instead of transforming, it can have the opposite effect if the pain causes the shapeshifter to become angry.Lunar Eclipse: Since Werewolves and Werecoyotes, who are beholden to the moon just like Werecheetah's, lose their powers during the phase in a lunar eclipse when the moon is in the Earth's umbral shadow, it can be assumed that Werecheetah's will also lose their powers during this lunar phase as well.Electricity (possibly): Electricity is a weakness that seems to be shared by most animalistic shapeshifters, such as Werewolves and Werecoyotes, indicating that it could be a Werecheetah's weakness as well.Behavior: The WereCheetah attends to some short temper problems. WereCheetahs are like this is because if they don't get what the want, need, or whatever it is, they get angry easily. Some WereCheetahs have learned to control there temper, which is a good thing. Most of the time if they are short tempered, they Usally turn. WereCheetahs are very adventurous in the Were 'family'. WereCheetahs love to explore the outdoors, even know there humans, they like the outdoors a little bit better then being cooped up in home or at school. WereCheetahs are protective of anything. Even though it's hard for the WereCheetahs to trust some other were creatures or anything like that, they are always so protective. They are great fighters with there speed and strengths.Favorite Foods: Were-cheetahs eat strictly meat, preferably freshly killed. Their catlike origins show in every aspect of their life. They lounge in the limbs of tall trees, lick their fur clean and even roll in the grass with the innocence of kittens. When it’s time to hunt, however, few can mistake their true natures. They will eat any animal, like, gazelles,  the antelope and the impala. The young of larger mammals such as wildebeests and zebras are taken at times, and adults too, when werecheetahs hunt in groups.⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧Relationship InfoMother: Mrs Karama. (Presumed to be dead)Father: Mr. Karama. (Presumed to be dead)⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧Events and History:Recent notable events: Currently she is roaming America, hoping to find a family of her own, or at least a family who would adopt her into their family. Bad events in the past: A war started in her area of Swahili, and her family moved to a cave to escape it, but she was sent by her parents to a ship and stoewed away, and thus headed to America, hidden on it.Good events in the past: She had a celebration of her coming of age and established her right as the heir to the throne of her Cheetah Coalition. ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧ "I am just a young girl looking for a family and suriving the best I can. A werecheetah navigating the human world on her own." template credit.

                                                          GUIDELINES   Rule#1: This is a highly Star Wars roleplay for my Rey Skywalker. I will only roleplay Star Wars sorry.    Rule #2: I ONLY write with Star Wars characters, others will be selective to roleplay with me.    Rule#3: I write at my own pace. I like to write in story form with our characters. I like to use more detail in my roleplay. I would like it if someone would start the plot first or we discuss it.   Rule#4: DRAMA POLICY. I don’t appreciate people controlling my character. I will block you. So keep it away from here.    Rule #5:Roleplaying : I will write dark themes, sexual content (take this to private (Discord).  You have been warned – I won’t apologize for this. If exploring dark themes isn’t your bag or makes you uncomfortable, I will not be offended if you don’t add me   Rule #6: Connections: Main Connections :Any one who is interested in roleplaying with Rey and getting to know her before Roleplaying dating (that is all not RL Dating)    More to come!  

----Trigger Warnings----Tauriel remembers every detail of that fatal night. A reverent that curled around her mind in her waking hours or sleep, much like the spirited mist that coiled around the surrounding mountains. A pale noose that sometimes suffocated her, taking her every breath and haunted her mind.When the howling of Rhîw splintered between thin blackened trendies hanging from the tree's hypnotized in its cold embrace. It awakened her from her slumber right before the Orcs entered her village, as if the Valar themselves were trying to warn them all before the pillaging began. The swaying of the pendulum in the next room clicked from left to right as swiftly and clear as Quell. The breeze right before the very first scream pierced the air like the tip of a dagger and a deep, resounding thud as the springs bounced off the wooden floor, awakening her parents in the next room.A heavy silence filled the air before her, nadar's voice screamed out for Tauriel to hide, as he had taught her. She slipped swiftly out of the warmth of her covers for the very last time and under the wooden planks under the privacy of her bed. It was a hidden cubby he made for her, and her naneth if trouble every brewed while he was away. He kept it stocked with a week of supplies and weapons in case they needed to stay for more than a day. She couldn't stop shivering as she backed her small frame into the stone-cornered wall and slipped down, holding her trembling knees against her chest as she watched the shadows between the floor boards. And suddenly, Tauriel covered her ears at once when she heard her naneth's gurgling cries and nadar's final roar before a swift steel blade plummeted into his chest. She cannot recall how long she stayed under the floorboards. Tauriel felt as frozen as a gentle leaf in the middle of a catastrophic Rhiw storm. But the scent of rotten eggs, charred flesh, and iron filtered heavily into the air and reminded her she was still alive as cold, sticky droplets of life spilled between the wooden floor.It must have been a few days that passed, and the last dying cries, moans faded away like the torn pages of an old book her nadar would sometimes use when he couldn't find a dried twig to light their fireplace in the colder months. Her naneth would always scoff at him for doing so, lecturing him on the time it took to make that book, and what if that was the last in existence? The words he just burned would be forever lost, she would scoff. Her Nadar would settle back into his old creaky rocking chair with a wooden pipe between his smirking lips and motion for Tauriel to join him on his lap as he snuggled her in his arms listening to his wife lecture him further. “Aye, its the past woman! And the best stories are always held in our minds and hearts.'"They are passed down from one generation to the next. Not some flattened words scribbled a bout with no feeling at all! I'm sure whatever story that was written in that book is still with the loved ones he had left," he said and began to rock softly with her in his arms in his chair. "Plus you fancy freezing to death? Miss I am cold! I am cold!" He chuckled heartly and kissed the top of Tauriel's fiery locks." I'll never know where you got this colour from lass! But I believe its a reflection of your soul." Her emerald eyes welled in tears again as she sniffled and rubbed her tiny nose knowing she would never have another memory of them again.Lost in her thoughts, she barely registered the creaking of the floor, shifting of light as King Thranduil's men found her there. She was catatonic, and they must have called her a million times before one decided to jump down and a loom of dust from the dirt beneath his feet splattered around, awakening her from her dreams as she looked up towards him. "Are you a Maia?" her raspy, brittle voice from lack of fluids asked in a whispered breath. "No, I am not Henig. Odulen an edraith anlen. We come to take you to the palace where you can recover, and we will find you a new home in the inner sanctuary of the Village." He spoke gently and quickly scooped her up, and she didn't realize how weak she actually felt as she slumped into his chest as he crawled out of her family's secret dwelling, she would see her parents again.Their lifeless bodies lay unnaturally on the floor. The skin was as pale as the moon and hung barely on their bones. Their eyes were still open wide but soulless, and their mouths were agape from their silent screams. In that split second Tauriel went from having no strength at all to kicking and fighting away from the gentle soldier that held her and sunk by her naneth's body. And even though there was pools of blood she crawled into her frame like a baby and laced her small arms over her naneth's lifeless heart. "Wake up Nana! Oh wake up! Please! I do not want to leave here I want to stay with you or come back and take me too! Take me too!!!" She sobbed and squinted her eyes tight and perched her lips as her breathing hitched. "You promised you would never leave me! You promised! Come back! Come back!!!” Her voice hoarse, her body feeling the weight of every tears ahs she pounded her tiny fist into her nana's chest before sinking completely into her motionless arms and tried to lace them around her slender shoulders. At first Thranduil's men just stood frozen. Their eyes peeled at the little girl, and they occasionally glanced at the other unsure what to do. But they knew it was only a matter of time before trouble would befall again and they needed to gather the survivors and the dead too. The same soldier who first held her in his arms tired to at first encourage her gently into his arms. But Tauriel resisted and screamed, spatting in his face and clung to her naneth as another soldier had to assist, even though she was just a little lass. "No! Noooooo!!!," Tauriel screamed before finally sinking into his chest again and she felt even more tired than she did before as the world around her muted into nothingness. "We will give them proper burial and you could visit them whenever you wish," he tried to reassure her. But his words felt as lifeless at that moment as her once vibrant village as he carried her away, and that was all she could remember, as she must have fainted in his arms, wanting to dream it all away.When Tauriel awakened again, her old painted walls were replaced by fine, smooth marble, tapestries, and a heady scent of lavender's and myrrh, and the sound of fresh springs spilling over perfectly shaped rocks could be heard in the distance. Skyward lights from the morning star splintered purposefully through an arrangement of mirrors perfectly orchestrated, filling the area beneath, and even the tiny dusting sparkled heavenly in the room, making Tauriel feel as if she were in a dream. But as a shadow blocked out the light that temporarily warmed her skin, meaning to bring her comfort, but instead reminded her of why she was there. It was the voice of the soldier who must have brought her there.The sacred healing springs in Thranduil's palace, and as he spoke with words meant to bring her solace, all she could see and think of was her parents spread across the floor in her childhood home. Tauriel would not even look at him or cast a single gaze his way. It was too painful and too much for her to bear, and she no longer shook in fear but with the thought of never allowing another village to suffer as she just did. Her emerald eyes fixed on the glint of two swords that hung on the wall in the distance, and she drew in a breath, feeling as if it was the first one she ever took in her entire young life, and she swallowed back the last bit of sorrow and spoke in a pristine, clear voice to the soldier. "Teach me. Teach me all you know, so I can fight alongside you one day. I may be young, barely a knee, but my nadar has been training me since the time I began to walk. I will not let your efforts go to waste.”The little girl she once was no longer what laid on that bed now. She stayed with her parents in her childhood home and was replaced by a spirit that would revenge her parents deaths and not allow another family, nor village to be torn apart again. With a look of certainly unwavering resolve upon her face, Tauriel let the last tear she would cry for that day slip past the curve of her cherub face. Her emerald eyes now fixated upon his dark azure's in the healing room, and she spoke once again. But her voice was strong, almost fierce, and he could tell she would not take no for an answer. "Teach me everything you know, and I will bring you every head of an Orc I come across. I assure you of this." He smoothed his large hand over her own and threaded his fingers with hers as he nodded slowly and squeezed it tight, seeing the determination in her eyes and a soul of a fearless warrior in her eyes. "I will teach you all I know and guide you in the best way I can. You have my word. My promise young henig as long as you promise to not waste the life you still have and seek beauty and be fearless in love again."Tauriel could not speak as he spoke kindly to her and with such care, reminding her of her nadar as tears welled in her eyes, so she simply nodded in agreement and squeezed his hand. 

A Prostitute sat on the throne of a King,a bad omen, a twisted blasphemy,golden crown, diamond ring,that was her destiny.