3. Loriana~ Scion of an Ancient Bloodline

Loriana~ Scion of an Ancient Bloodline

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    Name: Loriana
    Age: Decades Old
    Race: Elf

    Hair: Long, spiraling locks of golden dust hair
    Eyes: Golden eyes, little speckles of red zig-zag around her pupil

    Appearance: Standing approximately 5'0. Long, spiraling locks of golden dust hair cascaded against her back, slight strands brushed against her face; the strands curved around her astral complexion. Her face was as pale as the lunar moon; Complementing her beauty was her petite, lithe shape, covered in lax, hoary robes. At the waist she was tightly bound by a sash.

    Background history: She was born into a bloodline, the daughter of a god of which few know of, even herself. Few decades ago she was bound and taken captive to the underworld to be given as a barter of a decrepit mage and his trader, a demi-god of which later findings was Loriana's own brother. He wanted to use her against their father in a battle of power.

    Loriana was saved by a man named Kleabolt, and later fell in love with him. But not being able to be with him for all eternity for she had to go back with her father… she asked for one gift. Her father granted her the wish to live among the mortals but without ever knowing of what she was or where she came from. Kleabolt remembered the kind words of her father and him being trusted with her, he never told her of what she was.

    Thus beginning her story.

    Prologue
    It was several seasons ago on Kleabolt’s twenty-sixth birthday that he first saw her; her hauntingly beautiful eyes shone directly on him. Her wrists were bound with shackles. A single glance at her and his head filled with wonder; she was the epitome of elegance. Long, spiraling locks of golden dust hair cascaded against her back, slight strands brushed against her face; the strands curved around her astral complexion. Her face was as pale as the lunar moon; a face that was imprinted in his mind for the rest of his seasons. Complementing her beauty was her petite, lithe shape, covered in lax, hoary robes. At the waist she was tightly bound by a sash. A gut feeling told him she was in dire need of help, and as he started towards the foliage that held her captive, she disappeared as if she were a mirage on a steamy day.

    “She has to be a goddess,” he would think. Every time he would bring her up in conversation with the locals of Nesmé, every time it would be the same— “Kleabolt, sir you are as loony as the bards that claim they have seen and lived to tell the tall-tale of those dark elves.”— Shaking the thoughts from his head, Kleabolt closed his dark, auburn eyes, sheepishly grinning as he pictured her once more.

    Her eyes stayed shut as her captors raised their whips; one by one each struck her against her back, the leather of the whip tearing slight wares into her robe. Long, narrow bulges formed on her now bare back. Tiny streams of blood arose from the bulges, staining her hoary robes. Clinching her jaw was all she could do, for they had silenced her with silencing spell concocted up by the only mage of the captors. All of the others were twenty times his size, bearing horrid snouts and tusks but he was just a mere old mage, a little hunched over with stringy off-white hair. He gripped his wooden staff as he walked in front of her, kneeling slightly he lifted her cheek with his staff.

    “My my my… one would of thought of you to be a fighter,” he licked his crusty lips, and used his free hand to rub his stubbly chin. His face didn’t age too well, and was covered with wrinkles, overlapping his beady obsidian eyes. She spat into his face, turning her chin from his grasp and looking to the ground. He slapped her across her face, leaving an imprint of his hand; showing that even with his age, his arms still had enough strength to redden anyone who detested him.

    “Tighten her bounds…” he stood up, straightening out his long, navy robes. He tightened his grip onto his staff, and hit it on the ground. “I will not let even the daughter of the God Corellon Larethian treat me as a mere mortal,” he grinned knowing what his prize would be once he brought her to her demise, “for once she is handed over to Ye'Cind, greatness and immortality will be mine.” He brought his hands together; smiling diabolically he started forward on the long trek to the underworld of which that is Hell.

    (this was just an inside view of her story of being, IG she has no remembrance of any of this, just a background to give you a general idea of her... she has no memory and in Narfell will be played according to RP and rules. :)) (This is a novel I am writing for Wizards of the Coast... soon as I get it done it will be sent in. Woo!)