'There is Something Wrong with that Bun.' - A caravaning merchant in regards to Shroud.

~ A Brief Description ~

Snow to fall upon a mountains peak, the hues of hair that clad the face of the leporidae featured woman. Dancing down flesh near ashen white, two crimson eyes gaze forth with all the palatable demeanor of Gehenna's dark mounts. Ever latched to lips black as midnight with a smile ever so sardonic in its smirk, playing out as if lost in some personal but wonderfully cynical jest.

The silhouette of the figure itself lanky and graceful, that of a dancer or perhaps athlete, graced with muscle and supple tone, while more feminine grace seems to have been at some point honed. Steps that hold a light and patient pace, of the creature that looks ever so touched by vampire or wraith.

The graceful neck and firm shoulders play out down over a full chest, supple, firm, and sculpted as the rest of her somewhat unnatural figure. Generous and malleable, leading down towards a toned belly and a complementary set of athletic hips, a pert firm rear to set the figure to silhouette of perhaps a dancer better upon a pole and catwalk then walking down a street.

The lips that remain quirked, showing a hint of fangs within, while fingers adorned with claw like nails, all add to that certain uncanny unpleasantness of the unnatural or perhaps simply the predatory.

    ~ A Meaningless Story ~

  Once upon a time, there was a world, bathed in the light of the crystals. In that world a heroic warrior used the power of light, to do... well most anything. No power fantasy would limit their absolute heroicness or allow any to outshine or even shine at all in contrast to their importance. That world existed only for that hero to display they were not a worthless degenerate failure with no friends that no one could ever love due to their narcissism, stupidity, and angst.

Shroud wasn't from that world. There was no omnipotent plot armored hero solving all the problems and tragically watching anyone who received even the slightest merit die or become part of their harem like party.

 A World where people were not afraid of attaining immortality, did not view being miserable as some sort of desirable attribute to find joy in good times. A world where gods were not simply objects to defeat while making ridiculous proclamations about mankind's destiny. A world where people see nothing wrong with the desire to have the ability to bring the dead back to life and do not view supplicating before true power as wrong.

 Shroud was from a world where both good and evil prospered, where kind and cruel struggled for their plenty, and anyone with any measure of importance had blood on their hands. A world with bitter treachery being rewarded and stalwart valor entering the history books at the peak of glory. As if the person who had penned that world, was less interested in stroking someone's ego or imagined morality and more about having a world.

 In that world great city states using strange magical powers --fueled by study and not blowing up random critters outside of town-- where fortune favored the bold, the clever, the cruel, and the determined. Clashed with each-other and clashed with rivaling empires that surrounded them. As tribes of savage beasts summoned strange god-like beings with dark arts to defend themselves and to kill for the sake of their barbarism.

 The Lands of the World from which Shroud came, were lands where it took more then 'fighting fiercer' to win the day. Where moral as often as not was a bane or a boon. A World where imperialistic powers clashed with their isolationist neighbors and armies of hired mercenaries wielded magic and magitek alike. Where noble slogans born of truth and lie filled rhetoric echoed upon battlefields and in tavern halls. A world with lands that knew prosperity and hardship, peace and war, but not an easy world.

 It was a world with both kind and cruel and Shroud was a Sellsword, from a guild of Sellswords. One who had watched and learned, good and evil both prosper and hard work doesn't always pay off. She preferred history books to illusions of grandeur for preteen angst. She watched true heroes rise, succeed, fail, or even find victory only to be assassinated by their benefactors once they were no longer needed.

Shroud's family were those born of shared battle, less so than shared blood. Those that came, joined the company, who sold their services in clearing the land of nuisances or facing others in the battlefield. Such families soon become a company of strangers and with it Shroud had become a lone wolf, seeking clients with long term ambitions.

 Black Robed and Red Masked, no one didn't know that lot was up to no good. But for the right price Shroud couldn't care less, yet another cabal of mages dressed in a ridiculous outfit, but if the pay was good she could watch over their rituals. She would learn of their strange religion, of ancient secrets, or whatever they told their latest recruits while they played politics with scheming lords of the cities. They paid well, she didn't buy into their gibberish, and avoided situations where she might be expected to ask questions.

 Her arrival in the Isles, as simple as a job. A bag of coins, a contract written in blood, and a deal with a dark cloaked figure wearing a crimson mask. Not the first she had made with the organization, not the last either, 'Tossin Convocation ponces pay up front, portal was worst class though'. It made no difference, she had traveled the length and breadth of her world, if this was another star it was no different. The contract called.

 Her world, wherever it was, would go on without her just fine. She wasn't the chosen one which that world revolved around, it probably wouldn't even notice her absence outside of a few prostitutes that just lost a regular client.

A meaningless story, of a world far away, that holds no bearing on the present.

Lights: A Taste for the Feminine.