Deilakrion

[Deilakrion]

Player Name: Kat
Name: (ooc) Deilakrion (ic) Creature
Age: around 50-60 years old, somewhere
Race: elven
Height: 5'9
Weight: Fluctuates greatly depending on how much she eats.

Physical Description

She's rough around the edges. Black hair, grey eyes, and naked are perhaps the first things that might be noticed about her. The air she carries is feral, wild, and unstable. Her skin is chapped and wind-burned, toughened with much time spent within the elements. Not a square inch of flesh goes unscarred, and traced over the years it forms a map of her experiences and fights.

She is often dirty, smeared with her wandering and the blood of her kills. She bathes when she can, mostly to keep the smell down marginally larger breasts so prey don't catch a whiff of her, but otherwise doesn't bother. Her hair is a solid tangle. She hacks it off with her dagger (it really is such a bother) when it gets too long, but it hasn't seen a comb in a number of years.

She's usually malnourished, and rather bony. Not attractive at all. But do not mistake that for weakness, for the muscles she does have are hard with use.

Possessions

Herself. And a really scrappy belt, and a rather old dagger.

Personality

Deilakarion is a Greek word that I've found, and it translates (so the internet tells me) to 'creature' or 'poor fellow'. Even if it doesn't, its become her name over the years. It suits her. She's bad in the head. Maybe more or less due to outside influences that creep and crawl around her. . .who knows?

The first sign of instability can be seen in her appearance. This is mostly the outward symptom. She hates clothing with a passion. Clothes trap. Clothes bind. They are a unnecessary and donned only by those who hated and hurt her. She won't wear them. If clothing is pressed upon her, she will have an episode in the sense that she'll flip out and hurt herself and anyone around herself.

Next to this, on a greater level of importance, is her hatred of touch. The only allowable touch happens when someone is going to die. Any other touch makes her any number of negative emotions, the most frequently occurring of those being raging pissed. (In concurrence with this, she is not a sexual being in any way shape or form. Think of her as asexual in the sense that she simply does not think of sex at all, nor has any urges in that sense. She recognizes mating as a foreign product necessary for all other species, of which none include her. However, bizarrely, she receives various forms of release/gratification from causing death. You can decide for yourself if it's sexual in nature or not. Heh.)

The only exception to the above rules are belts. Mostly because she sometimes needs to carry daggers, and, well, it's a small enough contact upon her skin that she doesn't feel the urge to freak out.

The next level is how she thinks. There are two categories within her world: The Creature, and Not The Creature. There are sub categories in the Not The Creature section.

She is the creature. There is no room for anything else. She will typically refer to herself as 'this creature' 'the creature' 'a creature' etc., when she feels a point needs to be made, or if she is stressed into further defining herself from those around her, but when calm or amused she will use the usual pronouns.

Everyone else...beasts are animals, of course. But people are categorized further. Note that she measures usefulness on one's ability to procure food and one's ability to kill.

Flesh: General people. Most are put into this category.

Hunter: Someone who kills for necessity, not necessarily out of enjoyment.

Predator: One who kills for sport or fun, not really for necessity.

Meat: Fleshes who have been downgraded. She intends to stalk and probably kill.

Prey: Not even of the quality to be considered meat. A really, really dumb flesh.

She adds names if she finds any real oddities. In most cases she only adds descriptors. Such as: dark predator, fierce hunter, stupid flesh etc.

Her mind:

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schizotypy, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schizoaffective_disorder)

People are a nuisance, but she's drawn to them regardless. She doesn't understand why, and she doesn't want to, but she exists in a twilight of loneliness that is slowly killing her. She so separates herself from others that she does hold the desire, the squashed down need to be with other people and to know familiarity, though it operates in the background of her mind, well away from her consciousness. On the foreground is the Hunt, and it is both her purpose and her religion. The best I can describe it is as an honor code of sorts, and ranges from the necessary hunt to eat to survive to the desire to find something, to wanderlust. It presses on her mind, encouraging and demanding. It is all encompassing.

Built within this is a sort of natural curiosity for everything in an indifferent sort of way. It is an innocent thing, and can skip her mood from bloodlust to interest in a heartbeat, as she is no seeker of knowledge. She doesn't really think so much as let her thoughts beat up on one another, and it shows in how she treats conversations and other people. She doesn't really have the capacity to focus, unless it involves food of some kind. As far as what she eats, it extends to what smells good. Better to say she'll eat about anything that doesn't smell rotten.

She goes into towns and cities so long as she isn't attacked or if no one tries to touch her, but she's skittish at best and will run if she feels the need to. There is no shame in running, and the concept of 'cowardice' holds no meaning in her mind. A lot of 'fleshy' concepts don't really hold much water with her. Compliments and insults alike are just wasteful words that really don't hold any new or interesting information. She doesn't like too many words, as they quickly become confusing. She's as likely to stick around for no good reason as she is to leave at such a juncture, though it depends on how hungry she is and any nearby sources of food.

Her greeting/farewell is as follows: "Good hunting." Also rather a blessing from her, of sorts.

Powers or Strengths

The biggest power she has is the ability to collect magic. She doesn't use it consciously, understand, but she has the innate ability to store it. Just as other magic users have magic for the purpose to use it, she has it with the purpose to hold it. The reason? Other magic users who can sense it can take the power from her, but it does leave her very weak. (I have used it before in 'tight situations' but only when some idiot decided to godmode. Over time, with proper experimentation, she does learn how to undo magic and store it within herself, but other than her own unnaturalness when you think about a naked elf surviving in the forest, she is not able to consciously use it) Amazingly, however, it seems that there is only a limited amount of magic that she can hold. She is constantly storing magic, but after time what she currently holds seems to disappear from within her, whisked off to some other place.

She knows how to fight with daggers.

She's got an ability to survive the elements. Likely an unconscious use of said stored power, since there's really no other explanation. One might surmise there is an outside force protecting her,

Pretty much immune to insults.

Has very high endurance. She is capable of running/traveling for long distances, and going without food for a good long while. As well, she pretty much has a very strong desire to live. She's had to learn how to survive in the forest, through learning how to cope with territorial wild animals to dealing with wounds etc on her own. She's a tough...lady.

Can eat a lot. A looooot.

She is capable of living after being thoroughly beaten up. Though she might spill a lot of blood, or be bruised from head to toe, still she persists in life. That's not to say that she cannot die, but she has built up her toughness over the years, and learned to survive against anything not a mortal wound(mortal being having her throat slit, disembowelment, having a couple limbs chopped off, sword through the heart etc etc. Without some mumbo jumbo type of crazy healer, she'd be given to death).

Weaknesses

Pretty much doomed to remain lonely, despite whatever companionship relationships she might build, she's at a constant struggle between wilderness and civilization, and it tears at her.


Being that her primary ability to fight concerns animals, she isn't very experienced when it comes to armored people who are skilled with blades. In that sense she's more of a dirty fighter. There is no such thing as being honorable in a fight; just living and dying. But still, against a fighter trained to fight other humanoids she wouldn't have the upper hand. She tends to avoid it at all costs, or take many wounds in the process.

Touch and clothes pretty much undo her.

Sex. It is undesirable, and very uninteresting. Plus, it involves touch, which is icky enough by itself.

Easily distracted, especially by food.

Food is a big weakness. She'll eat until she gets fat, and then she'll eat more. Its happened before. This only happens when someone is feeding her, though, as out in the wild it's slim pickin's. She takes food from strangers, though likely she'd trust raw meat more'n anything else. If she can't smell an abnormality in it, she'll eat it, which could very well equal dead Deil.



History

Why do people fear the dark?

Deilakrion didn't really know the answer to that. She didn't know why they feared it. She never had. She didn't much care. But since she was a baby, she was all the reason her parents needed to hate the dark. That was, after all, the time when she really acted up. At first, it was just that she wouldn't shut up. Sundown, sleep time, she'd start crying. She'd wail, and hiccup, and whimper, and sob, until her mother had her own tears to share with the baby.

Her two older siblings had never cried so long, nor so hard. There was no given reason why the new child should be so finicky. Arguments would erupt between mother and father, and the two other little children would huddle in the corners and escape outside whenever possible. Tension and misery took up residence in the tiny, skin-draped hut. Other members of their tribe avoided mother and father, and a black mood slowly seeped into them all.

This lasted until when Deilakrion was seven months of age, and mother killed herself.

Deilakrion was hastily passed onto mother's parents, whom took the child in to save her little neck from being wrung by father's angry hands. Baby seemed to calm after that, though occasional nights of weeping discord still did occur, by the time she was returned to her father at age two she had thoroughly learned that crying was not the way to go. Ever.

Her father had taken a new mate, and had popped out a younger sibling by the time Deilakrion returned to their little hut. The second oldest son had died from a fever, and the toddler slid neatly into that vacated position. New mother was happy to try to raise this new daughter, as she was the only daughter, and viewed it as a means to prove her own worth to father. The only thing that separated Deil from her sibs was that at sleep time she'd often lay for hours on her mat, silently staring at her family members with wide grey eyes.

She was learning words quickly, as toddlers sometimes do, and she seemed to be quite mirthful with this new ability. But, that didn't seem to stop her from using it for some toddler-brained ill, and one night new mother was restless with backache, and she heard something curious.

"Stupidmumstupiddastupidbitchnewmumstupiddumbrottenda" and so on and so forth, vicious simple-worded whispers that, after a long moment of frozen listening, seemed to come from Deilakrion. New mother was quite shocked by this night-time revelation, and next night it returned. New mother woke father quietly, and it only took a few minutes of listening for father to rouse to anger.

He half crawled, half crab walked to his daughter's sleeping mat, and she suddenly swung upright where she lay to stare forward at the window, little mouth rounded in an 'o' and sweat matting her hair and shining on her forehead. "Go to sleep!" Father hissed at her, too close and too angry to see anything more than the gash of his mouth and the darkness of his eyes. "Shut your mouth!"

She did not know why he was so angry at her, and her yet growing brain could not process much more beyond his anger and wild eyes. Cowed, she huddled in her sleeping wools away from him, so he'd take his anger away. He did that night. He brought it back the next night. Every so often, he would come in the night for her, so very angry. He would slap her mouth, her cheek, her head, until the pain did not go away and she developed an odd cast to her face that was subtly alien to her brothers and, later, sister.

New mother was at a complete loss as to what to do.

Deil would become used to this order of things, and brothers and sister would become used to pinning blame on Deilakrion. Soon enough, Deil began to get ideas in her head, ideas that told her things she needed to know in order to survive. By age five, she started sleepwalking. Though she wasn't always caught, enough odd occurences at night let new mother and father know that something wasn't quite right, and that was put squarely upon Deil's shoulders.

At age seven, she quite thoroughly hated new mother, father, brothers and sister. She discussed with herself what should be done about this, but she was so very afraid of father's large hands and rage-gashed mouth that she would cower and tremble and seethe to herself how very much she loathed father-man and his need to hit her for things she knew she hadn't done, because why would she want to set the house on fire, or spoil the salted meat, and who would spend all day catching itch-ants only to dump them on the hut floor so everyone was scratching come morning?

Stupid da. Stupid new mum. Brothers and sisters leered and pinched and laughed and jeered at her.

By age 9, she was quite convinced everyone in the village spent hours and hours staring at her. Her speech fragmented, and broke, and whispers arrived on the winds that she was tainted by evil spirits. Perhaps, they said, she had killed mother's baby in the womb and possessed the babe. Remember how mother had killed herself? Blood, bloody mess everywhere. Taken a good few days to clean up, smell lingered longer. Father was never the same.

Deilakrion was quite convinced of the reverse. She knew they watched and schemed and plotted, waiting and waiting to kill her. She knew so, she told herself so, she was told so, wasn't she?

Only at night, only at night could she get some peace. Only at night was she happy, until the nights when father raged and howled and yelled spittle-flung words that packed and crunched down her emotions into a glazed over nothing that simply stared and ate and waited. Waited, waited. She avoided her family. She avoided tribe. She went off on her own, to do her own things and think her own thoughts, until she had to pay for unwanted misdeeds or misplaced chores that she was never told.

She began to develop the idea that they hated her because she was special. She was better than them. But she was so angry and lonely and sad and obsessed with father and new mother, brothers and sister and tribe that she just couldn't leave, couldn't wander away and never see them, not even their lurking eyes and rage-gashed mouths. And besides, she had the rising darkness that haunted and hunted the others, the other, the one outsider trap who waited with lingering desires to punish and hurt and



she could fix it.


They were getting ready to fix her, shut her up help, stop her dead. Cold. we can help they mouthed and hurt and looked askance leering and whispering behind her back. It was some day near of age should have been happy can't stop, try, help and she turned away from them all and smiled at the encroaching darkness that she knew, knew, you can do something.

They were coming.

She smiled and hummed and they were so happy. miracle, gods blessing, better! And inside she twisted and curled and babbled because she knew the hunt was beginning. The hunt was coming and she could bathe and delight in the running and pouring scarlet of final acceptance.

Raiding party.

And when the end had come and she showed bloody and gibbering and grinning and stumbling stupid blind drunk on giddiness

DEMON! DEMON SPAWN!

holy men and holy oaths, and she showed them! She'd show them. She ran and cried and laughed and crowed and hunted the wild beasts and tore off her clothes and exulted. No touch, no clothes but streaks of blood and dirt. And she rambled and breasts, fractionally larger, wandered and learned to kill with the barest of weapons. The darkness within her grew and receded, and struck a fine balance she and she alone, the creature the hunter, the hunt and sucked mightily the aura of magic about the world, and fed, and fed, and fed.

The hunt, the creature were sated and happy.

By then, things had calmed enough. She was a wild thing, fractured mind and hangdog darkness that always caught her up unseen. She wandered the forests, rolled through deserts, and survived no matter what with a leechlike persistence to life. Perhaps it was not her own will that drove her so, perhaps she was just cracked the wrong way on the birthing floor. No matter, for she exulted in the life she led, in the blood and the existing in the moment.

And that was how she wound up crossing into Thar Shaddin.