Whitlen
02-19-09, 08:38 PM
Name: Whitlen Hadley, or Whit for short.
Age: 17
Race: Human
Hair Color: Deep fire red.
Eye Color: A soft, uninterrupted cornflower blue, lacking flecks of any kind.
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 120 lbs
Occupation: Artist, budding healer
Personality:
To the casual onlooker, Whitlen can be perceived as coldly separated from the outside world; her reticence taken as haughty rejection, particularly because of her steady, unsmiling gaze. In reality, though, she is not so much introverted, but rather awkward and even a bit paranoid. With no self esteem to speak of, she has difficulty expressing herself socially, and does not easily believe in the kindness of others. When presented with hardship, she is stalwart, accepting whatever fate has in store. Whit is kind to a fault, quickly giving what she cannot afford to give for those in greater need, with a special heart for children.
Appearance: [click (http://www.althanas.com/world/picture.php?albumid=57&pictureid=356)] Long, thick, fiery locks frame her heart shape face which still holds the softened edges of youth. Soft, translucent skin hugs her elongated frame, with no obvious scars or blemishes – those she hides, however, are hideous. Her wide, cornflower-blue eyes are framed by long, thick lashes, and express a tender sadness, a timeless wisdom, and unending patience at odds with her years. She has a generous heart-shaped mouth, her lower lip adorned with a single silver hoop that hugs the rosy flesh – a coming of age present from her foster-father. Taller than many girls, she has the slender almost-boyish frame of a dancer, and carries herself with an easy grace, though she lacks any hint of sensuality.
History: Whit’s earliest memories are of the orphanage. Sitting alone in a small, poorly lit room. Impressions of sounds, of people coming and going. Vague impressions of doing chores – feeding the livestock, scrubbing floors, making beds. Around the age of seven or eight, her surroundings changed, though she could not have said why exactly (though there were whispers of a less-than-reputable clergy and children going missing).
At her new orphanage, the house mother Miss Agnes became the bright spot in her childhood when she presented the quiet Whitlen with a small collection of oil pastels on her 9th birthday. Well, she assumes it was her birthday… But those pastels sparked the first passion she had ever felt. With parchment squirreled away from her lessons, she created her own little niche in the hayloft that doubled as her bedroom. Hour after hour, day after day, she poured her imagination out onto the pages. Every moment she wasn’t at lessons or doing chores was spent perfecting her new obsession.
Things changed the summer Whit turned 12. A new master came to the orphanage, a gentleman of advanced years with small, dark eyes that gleamed dully with something indefinable whenever his gaze caught hers. By then, nature began its scheduled transformation, adding curves that hinted at womanhood, however meager. Master Kellerman, having taken offense to her very existence, decided to lecture the girl nightly on the evils of breasts, hips, and feminine beauty. At first, she would scream, beg him not to hit her, but that only seemed to increase his wrath, which in turn increased the number of times he hit her and how hard. She learned quickly to be silent, and eventually not to even cry. In response, he chopped her waist-length locks almost to her scalp with a shaving razor. Soon he moved from a paddle, to a crop, and eventually invented cruel tortures involving other tools, both sharp and blunt.
Her drawings lost their color during that time, and instead of dreams she expressed her silent terror.
After three years (and the return of most of her hair’s length), her life was altered again during an orphanage trip to town. One of the other children, a small, mischievous blond-haired boy with dark skin and an easy smile, lagged behind the group, bringing the wrath of the master down on him. Whit flinched as the boy cried out against the punishment, and paled when he begged to be let go. Dragging the child into a nearby alley, Kellerman beat the boy black and blue, until he finally lost consciousness and fell to the ground. Disgusted, the master turned his back on the child and ordered the rest of the group to leave him.
As they left, Whit found herself unable to move, frozen in place by conflicting emotions. Though she feared the punishment if she didn’t do as told, she was overwhelmed by an unbidden desire to do something. Not really understanding what was happening, she walked to where the boy lay, his body frail and riddled with cuts and bruises. Kneeling, she lifted his head into her lap and stroked his hair gently. A sense of warmth filled her, and she willed that warmth out of her, wanting to take his pain away, to see his impish smile again. To her utter shock, the boy’s bruises seemed to fade before her eyes, his cuts to vanish! Before she could do so much as smile, a horrific pain flooded her senses, and she fell over unconscious.
When she finally opened her eyes, she found herself in a small but cozy room with a strange bear of a man, his face half-hidden by a bushy beard the color of honey. Confused and more than a little alarmed, Whit tried to sit up, but was knocked back by a sharp wave of pain. The stranger, who introduced himself as Gard Chandler, gave her an herbal mixture of some sort, which lessened the pain enough that she could remain awake. That settled, he raised a bushy eyebrow and asked how she came to look like a bloody rag doll. Though she feigned amnesia, she recognized the pattern of the cuts and bruises on her skin as an exact match to those of the boy. With great awe, she realized that she had actually transferred his wounds to herself. Such a gift was rare, but to her it was just a freakish curse to be hidden. Gard shook his head, disbelieving, but did not press the issue. Instead, he took her under his care.
For a while, things went very well for the budding young lady. Her artistic ability wowed her foster-father, and he taught her how to use it for monetary gain. A few pieces, though, were hung in honor around the small home. A year into her stay, she was in attendance at the public hanging of the hated Kellerman, who was caught abusing his wards (go figure). Even as she burned with hate for him, though, his lessons never left her. Neither did the scars. The flesh on her back ached with remembered pain, and was slightly stiff, making some movements more difficult than they should have been at her age. And no matter what anyone said, or what kindness they showed her, she was unable to fully trust anyone, not even Gard, or pass a mirror without feeling ashamed, even ugly.
Eventually, she convinced herself that it was the town holding her down, shadows of her “master” haunting her every waking moment. With Gard’s cautious support, she packed her art supplies, what clothing she could carry, a week’s worth of food, and a small purse heavy with coin (thanks, Dad), and left the only place that had ever been home.
Skills:
Artistic Ability
Whitley is an artist with admirable raw talent. Her range includes sketching, painting, and pastels, all of which fetch a decent price from the average buyer. She lacks the refinement that an art-related school would bring, though, and would not be considered worthy in high society.
Transfer Wounds
With an effort of will (and enough sympathy) Whit is able to transfer basic injuries from another person to her own body. This effectively heals the other person of cuts, bruises, and abrasions, but those injuries replicate themselves exactly and instantly to Whitley. This can put her into shock or a coma. Though she cannot absorb enough to actually kill herself, she could bleed out or die of related trauma if not attended to.
Equipment:
Basic traveling supplies, including:
Several changes of clothing
Two pair of shoes
Small coin purse
Cutlery
Art supplies, including:
Small canvases
Oil pastels
Paints
Brushes
Parchment
Charcoal pencils
Age: 17
Race: Human
Hair Color: Deep fire red.
Eye Color: A soft, uninterrupted cornflower blue, lacking flecks of any kind.
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 120 lbs
Occupation: Artist, budding healer
Personality:
To the casual onlooker, Whitlen can be perceived as coldly separated from the outside world; her reticence taken as haughty rejection, particularly because of her steady, unsmiling gaze. In reality, though, she is not so much introverted, but rather awkward and even a bit paranoid. With no self esteem to speak of, she has difficulty expressing herself socially, and does not easily believe in the kindness of others. When presented with hardship, she is stalwart, accepting whatever fate has in store. Whit is kind to a fault, quickly giving what she cannot afford to give for those in greater need, with a special heart for children.
Appearance: [click (http://www.althanas.com/world/picture.php?albumid=57&pictureid=356)] Long, thick, fiery locks frame her heart shape face which still holds the softened edges of youth. Soft, translucent skin hugs her elongated frame, with no obvious scars or blemishes – those she hides, however, are hideous. Her wide, cornflower-blue eyes are framed by long, thick lashes, and express a tender sadness, a timeless wisdom, and unending patience at odds with her years. She has a generous heart-shaped mouth, her lower lip adorned with a single silver hoop that hugs the rosy flesh – a coming of age present from her foster-father. Taller than many girls, she has the slender almost-boyish frame of a dancer, and carries herself with an easy grace, though she lacks any hint of sensuality.
History: Whit’s earliest memories are of the orphanage. Sitting alone in a small, poorly lit room. Impressions of sounds, of people coming and going. Vague impressions of doing chores – feeding the livestock, scrubbing floors, making beds. Around the age of seven or eight, her surroundings changed, though she could not have said why exactly (though there were whispers of a less-than-reputable clergy and children going missing).
At her new orphanage, the house mother Miss Agnes became the bright spot in her childhood when she presented the quiet Whitlen with a small collection of oil pastels on her 9th birthday. Well, she assumes it was her birthday… But those pastels sparked the first passion she had ever felt. With parchment squirreled away from her lessons, she created her own little niche in the hayloft that doubled as her bedroom. Hour after hour, day after day, she poured her imagination out onto the pages. Every moment she wasn’t at lessons or doing chores was spent perfecting her new obsession.
Things changed the summer Whit turned 12. A new master came to the orphanage, a gentleman of advanced years with small, dark eyes that gleamed dully with something indefinable whenever his gaze caught hers. By then, nature began its scheduled transformation, adding curves that hinted at womanhood, however meager. Master Kellerman, having taken offense to her very existence, decided to lecture the girl nightly on the evils of breasts, hips, and feminine beauty. At first, she would scream, beg him not to hit her, but that only seemed to increase his wrath, which in turn increased the number of times he hit her and how hard. She learned quickly to be silent, and eventually not to even cry. In response, he chopped her waist-length locks almost to her scalp with a shaving razor. Soon he moved from a paddle, to a crop, and eventually invented cruel tortures involving other tools, both sharp and blunt.
Her drawings lost their color during that time, and instead of dreams she expressed her silent terror.
After three years (and the return of most of her hair’s length), her life was altered again during an orphanage trip to town. One of the other children, a small, mischievous blond-haired boy with dark skin and an easy smile, lagged behind the group, bringing the wrath of the master down on him. Whit flinched as the boy cried out against the punishment, and paled when he begged to be let go. Dragging the child into a nearby alley, Kellerman beat the boy black and blue, until he finally lost consciousness and fell to the ground. Disgusted, the master turned his back on the child and ordered the rest of the group to leave him.
As they left, Whit found herself unable to move, frozen in place by conflicting emotions. Though she feared the punishment if she didn’t do as told, she was overwhelmed by an unbidden desire to do something. Not really understanding what was happening, she walked to where the boy lay, his body frail and riddled with cuts and bruises. Kneeling, she lifted his head into her lap and stroked his hair gently. A sense of warmth filled her, and she willed that warmth out of her, wanting to take his pain away, to see his impish smile again. To her utter shock, the boy’s bruises seemed to fade before her eyes, his cuts to vanish! Before she could do so much as smile, a horrific pain flooded her senses, and she fell over unconscious.
When she finally opened her eyes, she found herself in a small but cozy room with a strange bear of a man, his face half-hidden by a bushy beard the color of honey. Confused and more than a little alarmed, Whit tried to sit up, but was knocked back by a sharp wave of pain. The stranger, who introduced himself as Gard Chandler, gave her an herbal mixture of some sort, which lessened the pain enough that she could remain awake. That settled, he raised a bushy eyebrow and asked how she came to look like a bloody rag doll. Though she feigned amnesia, she recognized the pattern of the cuts and bruises on her skin as an exact match to those of the boy. With great awe, she realized that she had actually transferred his wounds to herself. Such a gift was rare, but to her it was just a freakish curse to be hidden. Gard shook his head, disbelieving, but did not press the issue. Instead, he took her under his care.
For a while, things went very well for the budding young lady. Her artistic ability wowed her foster-father, and he taught her how to use it for monetary gain. A few pieces, though, were hung in honor around the small home. A year into her stay, she was in attendance at the public hanging of the hated Kellerman, who was caught abusing his wards (go figure). Even as she burned with hate for him, though, his lessons never left her. Neither did the scars. The flesh on her back ached with remembered pain, and was slightly stiff, making some movements more difficult than they should have been at her age. And no matter what anyone said, or what kindness they showed her, she was unable to fully trust anyone, not even Gard, or pass a mirror without feeling ashamed, even ugly.
Eventually, she convinced herself that it was the town holding her down, shadows of her “master” haunting her every waking moment. With Gard’s cautious support, she packed her art supplies, what clothing she could carry, a week’s worth of food, and a small purse heavy with coin (thanks, Dad), and left the only place that had ever been home.
Skills:
Artistic Ability
Whitley is an artist with admirable raw talent. Her range includes sketching, painting, and pastels, all of which fetch a decent price from the average buyer. She lacks the refinement that an art-related school would bring, though, and would not be considered worthy in high society.
Transfer Wounds
With an effort of will (and enough sympathy) Whit is able to transfer basic injuries from another person to her own body. This effectively heals the other person of cuts, bruises, and abrasions, but those injuries replicate themselves exactly and instantly to Whitley. This can put her into shock or a coma. Though she cannot absorb enough to actually kill herself, she could bleed out or die of related trauma if not attended to.
Equipment:
Basic traveling supplies, including:
Several changes of clothing
Two pair of shoes
Small coin purse
Cutlery
Art supplies, including:
Small canvases
Oil pastels
Paints
Brushes
Parchment
Charcoal pencils