Sjakk
06-09-14, 07:52 AM
Lady Clarissa Montague (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6VYxL8nF5o)
http://fc03.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2010/057/5/1/Dark_Lady__s_Chosen_by_OmeN2501.jpg
"Until death do us part..."
Name: Sjakk
Alias: Lady Clarissa Montague
Age: Unknown
Race: Old God
Gender: Female
Height: 5’10”
Weight: 140lbs
Eye Colour: Blue
Hair Colour: Brown
Once fallen to darkness, few remember the light. It engulfs even the brightest of hopes and leaves them squandering. It leaves them to fester in societal evil, corrupted by the very forces they fought so long and hard to defeat. If one is still falling, however, there is yet hope.
There are not many places on Althanas where a woman can truly find peace. There are many where she may find respite, a brief glimpse of solitude, but never absolute, indefinite security of the mind. There are always people, places and callings to tend to. There are always errors to correct and lives to save. The eternal demand on the altruism and patience of a woman is both the driving force of her success, as well as her downfall.
Lady Clarissa Montague was the one exception.
Since a young age, she had refused to let anyone rule her actions. People were her currency, and she traded their lives to keep them distant. In her vicious mercantile selfishness, she had carved out a sanctuary all of her own. She was by all measure of merit a highly successful woman. Her business, her political prowess, and her domineering spirit had driven her there and she had not relied on any other to reach her station.
She had relied on nobody, except one man.
“Leopold Winchester…” The incitement of her age-old adversary came with a lack of observing his proper title. “What the devil are you up to now?” she whispered, a pensive thought falling from her lips into the howling winds of Berevar’s tallest peaks.
From her vantage point on the small cliff overlooking the pass, Clarissa counted the number of wagons trundling through the deep snowdrift. After she reached eight, she stopped caring. She was not here to take the cargo; she was here for the drivers and the horses. They, in Berevar’s harsh tundra, were worth more than their weight in gold.
“Jackson, I think we can begin.” She glanced over her shoulder at the huddled members of her Brigade. Her face remained expressionless as she counted them too. When she reached only eight, she vowed to account for the loss of one of the mercenaries later, and to offer one of her slaves an opportunity to ‘further’ their career within her household. The snow of the wild lands had taken another investment from her.
“Yes, my lady,” the moustached man jittered. He tightened the hood of his cloak over his head and unsheathed a cruel looking short sword. In the dusk light, it reflected the moon that loomed ominously over the distant snow-capped peaks. The ring of steel thrilled him, and Lady Montague finally smiled at the prospect of striking a blow to her bitter rival’s enterprise.
“See to it that you come from the rear, and have your associate Mr Whalen perform one of his…tricks from the outcrop to the east.” Without waiting to see the man’s enthusiasm for departing, she looked back down the cliff.
For three weeks, the Montague Brigade had followed the caravans of the Winchester Rose Trading Company through the broken Salvar landscape. They had scattered in Knife’s Edge to watch from the sidelines, sneaking through the junket bazaars with eyes firmly set on their target. When the caravan had departed the city on the north side, to advance into the Ahyark Mountains, the Brigade had reformed and vanished into the Cliffside maze that lined the flanks of the enclosed pass.
Now, they were ready to put their burgeoning frustration to good measure. Clarissa had learnt that Thomas Jackson was anything but a patient man. She had subsequently learned how to exploit the mercenaries’ peculiar talents by plying anxiety to every waking moment of his life. He had become an excellent tool in her armoury in no time at all.
As the Brigade shuffled along the cliff face, clinging to the iced granite for dear lives, their benefactor checked her bandoleer. Satisfied that she had brought enough vials for the poison she required to ply to her betrayers’ lips, she adjusted the spider silk of her gloves and flicked her hair back behind her ears. The blonde strands shone with a charismatic and spurious glamour in the moonlight.
“<Salshan minnari!>” she roared.
The power in the syllables of her words shot across the canyon with the force of a thunderbolt.
“Whatever it is my old friend,” she said, dropping her eyes from the distant peaks to the wagon at the head of the caravan. She remained deep in thought for several prolonged and awkward moments before she cleared her mind. “It will not save you from my wrath.”
When the echo of her incantation returned to the cliff face, bouncing off the distance rock wall of the pass, she smiled.
The members of the Montague Brigade had come to fear two things in the service of Lady Clarissa. The first was her wrath. When she was angered, you ran, pure and simple. The last man to test her patience had ended up suspended from the walls of St. Denebriel’s Cathedral. This was endearing by the fact he was naked and suspended by his genitals and his feet. People had spoken about that particular incident for months.
The second thing to fear was the rook that kept itself to the rafters and rooftops of the Montague residence. Its eyes, its beak and its feathers were totems for paranoia. They were portent and doom to anyone who dared to try to claim more than their fair share of the Brigade’s fortunes. They said that the rook had a mind of its own, that it knew if you were stealing.
Lady Clarissa spread her arms when she felt a swell of power rise from the pit of her stomach to the temple of her highbrow. A cry left her lips as her spine elongated and her eyes sharpened in the twilight. The delayed reaction of her metamorphosis made her doubt her ability to act quickly in the blasted chill. It was long rumoured that what the rook saw, Montague saw.
She fell forwards into the dark, the howl of the wind drowning out the last notes of a melodic shriek. Just as the Brigade and Jackson screamed out from the swirl of heavy snow and assaulted the rear of the caravan, from above, a great black rook descended.
Skills:
Politics: A thousand years of small talk makes for a keen political mind. Words are Lady Clarissa Montague’s weapon, and she is more than capable of holding her own in the debating chamber and dealing with members of state.
Knowledge (Berevar): The history of the frozen land of Berevar runs quite literally through Sjakk’s blood. She knows its history, its culture, and the traditions of its people as though she had spent half her lifetime in study.
Knowledge (Herbology): Poisons, herbs, poultices. These are Sjakk’s true love. She can concoct basic poisons and restoratives of a natural, holistic nature given the resources and time to do so. She knows which plants are edible and not.
Mercantile: Lady Clarissa Montague has a keen eye for a bargain and is wickedly shrewd. She rivals Leopold Winchester in mercantile skill, and has built a substantial ‘trade empire’ (crime ring) in Salvar’s northern frontier called the Crimson Brigade.
Swordplay: Well-versed in basis swordplay, Sjakk can defend herself with her blade. Given her fear of death and preference for deception, she avoids fighting whenever she can. She trains only with swords, and is useless with a shield.
Abilities:
Old God: Though much dwindled in power, Sjakk is Rook, the Old God of Wisdom, cruelty, and deception. Chained by her mortal body, she cannot take her true form, but still has the following traits.
Metamorphism: [LOCKED] Once per thread, Sjakk can turn into a gigantic rook. This form is spectral so she cannot harm others. She can let out a piercing shriek and fly. It takes a post to change or change back. Not a viable battle skill.
Ageless: Her body is mortal, but she is not. When she sustains fatal wounds, she reincarnates from the Ice Henge. As this brings about physical change, Sjakk does all she can through fear of losing her looks.
Death Lord: Such is her fear of death, that Sjakk will do all she can to avoid it. She fell for Xem’Zund’s sway when his death lords reached out into the farthest corners of the world for allies. She still clings to that dark necromancy.
Blood Chakra: By wounding herself, Clarissa can heal equivalent wounds in others equal to deep cuts, lacerations, and 'moderate' damage. Fatal wounds, poisons, and burns are beyond her talents, however.
Portent: If she possesses a sample of another’s blood, she can divine their location, emotions, current thoughts, and general intent. The visions she receives in doing so may not always be true, however.
Equipment:
Ruka: A heavy bladed short-sword with a silver pommel and cross guard. The blade is steel, and is permanently cold to the touch. It is as old as history remembers, and has an innate sentience that much resembles an enraged, sarcastic barbarian.
Herboligist’s Tack: Clarissa is always wearing a set of bandoleers with pouches over each shoulder. She carries various vials and pouches of herbs in them. Her cloak, boots, and general attire are usually leather as are her gloves.
Tithing Bands: Silver bands and coronet long ago enslaved Sjakk. They are part of her deal with Leopold, when they gave up their true power to love and live as mortals. Though Leopold broke that vow, Clarissa can never remove them.
http://fc03.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2010/057/5/1/Dark_Lady__s_Chosen_by_OmeN2501.jpg
"Until death do us part..."
Name: Sjakk
Alias: Lady Clarissa Montague
Age: Unknown
Race: Old God
Gender: Female
Height: 5’10”
Weight: 140lbs
Eye Colour: Blue
Hair Colour: Brown
Once fallen to darkness, few remember the light. It engulfs even the brightest of hopes and leaves them squandering. It leaves them to fester in societal evil, corrupted by the very forces they fought so long and hard to defeat. If one is still falling, however, there is yet hope.
There are not many places on Althanas where a woman can truly find peace. There are many where she may find respite, a brief glimpse of solitude, but never absolute, indefinite security of the mind. There are always people, places and callings to tend to. There are always errors to correct and lives to save. The eternal demand on the altruism and patience of a woman is both the driving force of her success, as well as her downfall.
Lady Clarissa Montague was the one exception.
Since a young age, she had refused to let anyone rule her actions. People were her currency, and she traded their lives to keep them distant. In her vicious mercantile selfishness, she had carved out a sanctuary all of her own. She was by all measure of merit a highly successful woman. Her business, her political prowess, and her domineering spirit had driven her there and she had not relied on any other to reach her station.
She had relied on nobody, except one man.
“Leopold Winchester…” The incitement of her age-old adversary came with a lack of observing his proper title. “What the devil are you up to now?” she whispered, a pensive thought falling from her lips into the howling winds of Berevar’s tallest peaks.
From her vantage point on the small cliff overlooking the pass, Clarissa counted the number of wagons trundling through the deep snowdrift. After she reached eight, she stopped caring. She was not here to take the cargo; she was here for the drivers and the horses. They, in Berevar’s harsh tundra, were worth more than their weight in gold.
“Jackson, I think we can begin.” She glanced over her shoulder at the huddled members of her Brigade. Her face remained expressionless as she counted them too. When she reached only eight, she vowed to account for the loss of one of the mercenaries later, and to offer one of her slaves an opportunity to ‘further’ their career within her household. The snow of the wild lands had taken another investment from her.
“Yes, my lady,” the moustached man jittered. He tightened the hood of his cloak over his head and unsheathed a cruel looking short sword. In the dusk light, it reflected the moon that loomed ominously over the distant snow-capped peaks. The ring of steel thrilled him, and Lady Montague finally smiled at the prospect of striking a blow to her bitter rival’s enterprise.
“See to it that you come from the rear, and have your associate Mr Whalen perform one of his…tricks from the outcrop to the east.” Without waiting to see the man’s enthusiasm for departing, she looked back down the cliff.
For three weeks, the Montague Brigade had followed the caravans of the Winchester Rose Trading Company through the broken Salvar landscape. They had scattered in Knife’s Edge to watch from the sidelines, sneaking through the junket bazaars with eyes firmly set on their target. When the caravan had departed the city on the north side, to advance into the Ahyark Mountains, the Brigade had reformed and vanished into the Cliffside maze that lined the flanks of the enclosed pass.
Now, they were ready to put their burgeoning frustration to good measure. Clarissa had learnt that Thomas Jackson was anything but a patient man. She had subsequently learned how to exploit the mercenaries’ peculiar talents by plying anxiety to every waking moment of his life. He had become an excellent tool in her armoury in no time at all.
As the Brigade shuffled along the cliff face, clinging to the iced granite for dear lives, their benefactor checked her bandoleer. Satisfied that she had brought enough vials for the poison she required to ply to her betrayers’ lips, she adjusted the spider silk of her gloves and flicked her hair back behind her ears. The blonde strands shone with a charismatic and spurious glamour in the moonlight.
“<Salshan minnari!>” she roared.
The power in the syllables of her words shot across the canyon with the force of a thunderbolt.
“Whatever it is my old friend,” she said, dropping her eyes from the distant peaks to the wagon at the head of the caravan. She remained deep in thought for several prolonged and awkward moments before she cleared her mind. “It will not save you from my wrath.”
When the echo of her incantation returned to the cliff face, bouncing off the distance rock wall of the pass, she smiled.
The members of the Montague Brigade had come to fear two things in the service of Lady Clarissa. The first was her wrath. When she was angered, you ran, pure and simple. The last man to test her patience had ended up suspended from the walls of St. Denebriel’s Cathedral. This was endearing by the fact he was naked and suspended by his genitals and his feet. People had spoken about that particular incident for months.
The second thing to fear was the rook that kept itself to the rafters and rooftops of the Montague residence. Its eyes, its beak and its feathers were totems for paranoia. They were portent and doom to anyone who dared to try to claim more than their fair share of the Brigade’s fortunes. They said that the rook had a mind of its own, that it knew if you were stealing.
Lady Clarissa spread her arms when she felt a swell of power rise from the pit of her stomach to the temple of her highbrow. A cry left her lips as her spine elongated and her eyes sharpened in the twilight. The delayed reaction of her metamorphosis made her doubt her ability to act quickly in the blasted chill. It was long rumoured that what the rook saw, Montague saw.
She fell forwards into the dark, the howl of the wind drowning out the last notes of a melodic shriek. Just as the Brigade and Jackson screamed out from the swirl of heavy snow and assaulted the rear of the caravan, from above, a great black rook descended.
Skills:
Politics: A thousand years of small talk makes for a keen political mind. Words are Lady Clarissa Montague’s weapon, and she is more than capable of holding her own in the debating chamber and dealing with members of state.
Knowledge (Berevar): The history of the frozen land of Berevar runs quite literally through Sjakk’s blood. She knows its history, its culture, and the traditions of its people as though she had spent half her lifetime in study.
Knowledge (Herbology): Poisons, herbs, poultices. These are Sjakk’s true love. She can concoct basic poisons and restoratives of a natural, holistic nature given the resources and time to do so. She knows which plants are edible and not.
Mercantile: Lady Clarissa Montague has a keen eye for a bargain and is wickedly shrewd. She rivals Leopold Winchester in mercantile skill, and has built a substantial ‘trade empire’ (crime ring) in Salvar’s northern frontier called the Crimson Brigade.
Swordplay: Well-versed in basis swordplay, Sjakk can defend herself with her blade. Given her fear of death and preference for deception, she avoids fighting whenever she can. She trains only with swords, and is useless with a shield.
Abilities:
Old God: Though much dwindled in power, Sjakk is Rook, the Old God of Wisdom, cruelty, and deception. Chained by her mortal body, she cannot take her true form, but still has the following traits.
Metamorphism: [LOCKED] Once per thread, Sjakk can turn into a gigantic rook. This form is spectral so she cannot harm others. She can let out a piercing shriek and fly. It takes a post to change or change back. Not a viable battle skill.
Ageless: Her body is mortal, but she is not. When she sustains fatal wounds, she reincarnates from the Ice Henge. As this brings about physical change, Sjakk does all she can through fear of losing her looks.
Death Lord: Such is her fear of death, that Sjakk will do all she can to avoid it. She fell for Xem’Zund’s sway when his death lords reached out into the farthest corners of the world for allies. She still clings to that dark necromancy.
Blood Chakra: By wounding herself, Clarissa can heal equivalent wounds in others equal to deep cuts, lacerations, and 'moderate' damage. Fatal wounds, poisons, and burns are beyond her talents, however.
Portent: If she possesses a sample of another’s blood, she can divine their location, emotions, current thoughts, and general intent. The visions she receives in doing so may not always be true, however.
Equipment:
Ruka: A heavy bladed short-sword with a silver pommel and cross guard. The blade is steel, and is permanently cold to the touch. It is as old as history remembers, and has an innate sentience that much resembles an enraged, sarcastic barbarian.
Herboligist’s Tack: Clarissa is always wearing a set of bandoleers with pouches over each shoulder. She carries various vials and pouches of herbs in them. Her cloak, boots, and general attire are usually leather as are her gloves.
Tithing Bands: Silver bands and coronet long ago enslaved Sjakk. They are part of her deal with Leopold, when they gave up their true power to love and live as mortals. Though Leopold broke that vow, Clarissa can never remove them.