Phedre
Prologue
Darkness is woven of shadows, and the Hall of the minor Hold that lies but a stone's throw from the hand of the Hold itself, is quiet. The song, sung by Ilsevet, shudders to a mournful stop, the notes falling still in the midst of a breath held by those who attend the party thrown by the family of the Hold. Influence a-plenty abounds in the crowd, but there is one in particular that stands out. Cunning eyes peer from a face that feigns at neutrality while caught in the boring conversation of a man next to him.
As Ilsevet steps away from the crowd's center to allow the next harper to come forward, she melts into the crowd, the fingers of her right hand slipping into the hidden pocket as she dons a cloak set aside for her performance. Thin and sharp, the edges of a parchment cut into the bends of her finger, a flash of a memory of her father giving her instructions shows in her minds eye before courage comes in the straightening of her shoulders. To the cruel, dark eyes of the man who's her intended target, she moves with purpose. It is a dangerous game they play, weaving information in song and poem to pass from rebel to rebel, but for her parent's small holdings, it means everything. Her father is not above using the delicate beauty of a daughter who's blood is sullied with the dark features that speaks of trader blood somewhere in their line.
"The falcon rides high this eve, sir," Ilsevet whispers, pressing her ill-gotten parchment to the man's hand, speaking the words told to her while lacking the understanding of what they meant. Expecting to melt back into the crowd, surprise widens dark eyes with the cruel grasp of a hand around the bones of her wrist, grinding them tightly. With the sinking sensation that causes the room to spin, the young lady's realization is complete.
Her father has erred. They have all erred.
Even though her mouth opens to speak, to scream, the man takes her free of the Hold with his cruel clasp, and it is only upon a harsh, cold island that she's to see her father, her mother, her siblings again. The harper training, the intrigue, will be at an end, as will the rest of their known lives.
Description
Hair the color of sable in shadows, of darkness, is barely tamed into a long, single plait. Wisps of hair seep free to curl delicately against skin kissed by ivory, giving hint to the natural curl that's tamed by the braid's neat plaits. Eyes the color of rich bistro bordered in kohl are wide-set and round beneath delicately arching eyebrows of the same dark hue as her hair. Pale of skin, diminutive of form, she stands in the shadow of delicate but no where near frail. Delicacy is bound by a supple form and a strength of slender bones that hint at a hardiness beneath such an appearance. Curves are a subtle hint beneath clothing, of a promise yet to come.
Roughly hewn woolen keeps the chill at bay in the form of a hardy dress. Where appearance tells a tale of delicacy, clothing tells the tale of a hardy life in a rocky, barren land. The skirt is long with a sash about the waist that is often used to catch up the edges to form makeshift pants when necessary to go about chores. It is dark colors she normally wears with feet clad in sturdy boots that protect feet against work and climate alike. Were one to venture under the skirt at their own risk, warm and functional woolen socks of an equally dark color aid in retaining body heat. The only indulgence to frivolity is the crimson ribbon that ties off the end of her braid, woven through the interlacing plaits to wink here and there in the darkness of her tamed curls.
Background
Phedre's family is small with one young brother (eight turns younger) and a mother and father. Her family has survived on this island as fishermen -- her father is a fisherman, her brother will likely be a fisherman as was his grandfather before them. Buried in the family's history is a love of tale and songs that flows through the female line, at least as far as they've always known. Her mother teaches Phedre, not only how to cook fish, and how to keep house, but how to weave tales. With a small lute, songs accompany these far-flung stories. Her mother's skill is in the nimbleness of which she plays said lute, but Phedre's skill lies in the rich timbre of her voice, and her ability to sing the story-songs that they use to pass down bastardized versions of their family history. What's lost to the act of exile is considered beyond the veil.
RP Logs
|
|
|
Mentioned In... Logs
|
|
|
Icons
Icon phedre.png
#1f4770
