Thar Shaddin

Name:

A'munet (Ahh-m-younet) Shaii' dao (Shay-Doe)

Race:

Elven

Gender:

Female

Height:

Five feet, nine inches.

Weight:

One hundred and thirty five pounds to one hundred and forty, depending on sustenance availability.

Age:

One hundred and Fifty seven years.

If asked outright, she would tell you quietly," One does not ask a lady her age."

Occupation:

Amunet will offer to read palms, or faces (by use of touch) for a minimal fee to earn random coin for sup and shelter during the coldest times.

Appearance:

Amunet appears the standard of her race. Tall, thin, and bones which are sharply angular. Pale eyes shaped them selves in an almond like oval, exotic and slanted with heavy upper lids. Her most unique, memorable feature is her pupil and iris.

Pale and almost liquid white, it would be the common observer's first conclusion that she is, indeed, almost blind. Around exceptional eyes, lashes of pale silver ivory framed flickering shadows and blobs, the only objects Amunet would recall ever seeing during her life span.

The elfin woman chose to dress herself in a manner archaic and nondescript. Pallid grey tones were dyed in simple woolen or cotton kirtles and skirts, heavy sleeves are bell shaped and draping. Gray, of course-because it is the only color she has ever known... Her garb is worn; the edges of her dress and simple matching grey cloak is mud and grass stained from weary travels, a humble appearance does she create.

Her hair is thick and not maintained, long past the shoulders to fall in tangles about her waist. Matching the same, pale shade of ivory silver as lash, it is often drawn and hidden, alike her face, inside the shadows of a tattered grey hood.

If the hood is withdrawn, her skin is also, the common shade of most elfin folk out of the sun. White and translucent, stretched thin against long boned frame from simply being absent minded about eating schedules. It creates the illusion of a slightly ghostly look that hangs about when in her presence. However, a grasp of a warm and rough hand will assure even the strongest doubters that she is, in fact, very real.

Lips are pallid, and heart shaped. Where the upper is slightly thinner than the lower, while certainly not plump or as enchanting as a human female, Amunet, in her own right, had a strange, unique beauty. Ethereal, she is of course, not human.


Personality:

There are those whom have gentle ways and hands, and thusly would many consider Amunet one of them.

Soft spoken and demure is the outward appearance given to the world. Hood is often drawn in order to spare the shock or questions that arise with the vision her eyes may invite. One speaks softly, for she believes those who will listen, those who should hear, will. It would be, indeed, a grave matter for her to raise her voice, or shout loudly.

She does not frequently raise her head to try and meet eye to eye when conversing, though if she does, it creates an odd sensation to the companion she speaks with, for her eyes rest only in the general direction she estimates the voice may be coming from.

Violence is not her way, nor will it ever be. Preferring the gentleness of nature, she will persuade, guide, and talk too in hopes of dispersing aggression and anger, if all else fails, and she may try to flee.

Her hands and feet, along with her walking staff are used constantly. It wouldn't be unusual to witness Amunet walking with one hand upon a building, the other tapping the stave against the ground, and her body stopping motion from time to time for her to outstretch a toe and curiously inspect the ground beneath them. A strange sight for many, but an invaluable tool to a woman who relies upon many other senses to "see." Repeatedly, she will go barefoot in warm climes to further enhance what she can feel beneath her feet.


Powers:

Amunet is both cursed and blessed with the erratic, seldom power to give Prophecy, or foresee small bits of the future in eclectic images or spoken words.

There is nothing else spectacular she can do, she cannot Prophesies on demand. Some times, if the need is great, or the danger looming-simply being in contact with flesh(touching a person) can, and may send her spiraling into vision-speak.


Her father had imbued Amunet's staff with a simple blessing for protection. Not a spectacular spell, however, it is a holy one, marked in the wood with the runic carve glyphs and praises to a long forgotten God. Should a creature with evil intent grasp the stave with bare hand- one may receive either a short, quick, blast of energy much like electricity. ( Only enough to stun for the briefest moments), or a short burst of pure, bright, holy white light. It may temporarily blind an attacker, or lightly burn undead creatures.

These are not powerful in any way, and designed only to give Amunet time to run if she can.

The spell can only be triggered once, in a cycle of twenty four hours. Therefore; once discharged, it cannot be used again until the stave can gather energy once more during that period of time.

Strengths:

-Amunet has been granted the power to Foresee, to prophesies, to speak and allow the powers that be to give prophecy through her body.

-With the lack of vision, logically, her senses of touch, taste, and smell are heightened. Though this is restricted, for concentration must be handy. A crowd of unwashed people, an unfamiliar place are all circumstances which can negate the feasibility of such advantages, reducing her to rely on instinct more than anything else.

Weakness':

-Amunet can only determine shadows and movement, barely, in good to strong light. It is easy for one to perhaps; if they wished it, deceive her if this truly be their intention.

-As with all abilities;they come with a heavy, heavy price. With the Gift, comes the Pain and uncertainty. Amunet holds no control over where or when her Gift will manifest itself. She could be in a vulnerable position when it strikes, or in the midst of fleeing from foe.

-Each rare moment of Prophetic visions leave her reeling in pain and bodily weakness. Feelings of nausea, extremely painful headaches, and unsteadiness can occur, or she can, and often has been, completely incapacitated by a single vision; leaving her unconscious and weak.

-The Gift is not always accurate. What is spoken may not come to pass. The images can seem random or make no sense, the words given to her to speak are often unclear and definitions are hazy. There are many paths mankind can take, and many roads which are given and not accounted for in life which can change the visions outcome given to her.

-She will not, and does not allow strangers to touch upon her walking stave, and often becomes upset (never wroth) with those who attempt too, and may be caught trying to do so, by her.

History:

It was a night of winter….A night of frozen nightmares and frightening frosts, when, through blood and tears-

…Amunet Shaii’dao was born to Illthiri and Ennannya Shaii’dao. In the midst of howling winds that thrashed tree limbs and flung snow into the air alike an angry child, the babe, squalling and weak, small and thin, was wrapped into fresh linen by the mid wife and finally placed upon mothers breast. The mid wife blessed the child hurriedly, picked up her things and left in a flurry, but through all her pain and hardships, Illthiris worries, Amunet's parents saw this naught.

Ennannya glowed with pride, and lifted the babe to feed when Amunet opened her eyes to the world for the first time.

Silence…

Ennannyas look of horror spoke louder than the sudden slack in her arms, as she put the babe upon the bed as well as looking away. Illthiri, concerned, came to his wife’s side, quietly demanding to know what the matter was. Without words, and her face cast away from Amunet, she simply pointed. Brows furrowing, Illthiri picked up the daughter, the child they had so longed to have.

Amunet opened her eyes once more. And her Father saw.

Her eyes were pale, and white, bizarre and milky, as if she would see the world through liquid. Imperfect; the elven couple had born a child with flaw.

Illthiri did not care. He had a child, after so long...He had a child! He would turn, and look upon his wife with disgust and tell her:

“And what is wrong with that? She is a child, our child…Woman, you are her mother, so be that…And look to her life, not her appearance!”

Thus, the beginning of the end loomed upon the love of Illthiri and Ennanya, and between mother and daughter, for Ennanya refused to touch the babe, or feed it regardless of her husband’s angry words or soft coaxing.

Her father, desperate, took milk from the small, woodland tribes Nanny goats, fashioned from skins and crude carving, he made the child a apparatus with which he could feed her with, and because of his love and determination, Amunet would live. Though through the care in addition to patience; of her Father alone.

Time passes, seasons pass, the sun burns and moon rises and falls many times to chase days away to months, to years….

Amunet would grow into a toddler of confusing, yet sheltered dreams. Her Father sought to comfort her, sought to teach her ways to rely upon the senses which were functional. He gave her a walking Staff in which to “see” with, carved upon it the spidery and beautiful runic words of an Elven blessing to protect-For she was rejected by the other children and Elven kind midst her own tribe. She was not, “normal”; she was not, “perfect.” Her mother sought to avoid her at all times, and became nothing more than a shadow of angry resentment Amunet would call ,”Mother,” only out of barely earned respect.

Tension in the house hold of Shaii’dao was prevalent, night and day. Father and Mother did not speak, did not touch or laugh or take joy in the day to day things. Illthiri resented his wife and her rejection of their only child, Ennanya resented Illthiri’s love and attention Amunet received. It was not a happy home, but it was…essentially…home.

From toddler years to adolescence, some seventy years later, Amunet would grow from experience and home influence into a shy and reclusive creature. Taken to places and visions within her mind by an overactive imagination, the harshness of surviving in the woodlands were easily fled from.

The late eve’s shouting and quiet weeping was another story. Memories to haunt, as haunting as pale white ghostly eyes….

Simplistic life toughened hands and feet, carved wiry muscles and thin figure of a soon-to-be woman that Amunet rested on the verge of becoming. While the elves around her courted and danced, celebrated life and what little they had, Amunet remained upon the edges never spotted. Love and dancing, heartache and growing, lessons she would never be taught.

Upon the morning of her one hundred and tenth birthday, what would have been a joyous occasion and a second naming day to celebrate her passage from child to adult, became a day that would shatter some of the naivety of Amunet.

Struck by an unknown ailment, she would fall to the floor of their small home and proclaim clearly between fits and strange movements the death of her own Father. Weakened and dazed, she would hear the fluttering of her own heart, the screaming of her mother in the background, smell the scent of her father leaning over her in concern. The last thing she would remember, drowning in this odd swirl of visions and voices, was the grey and black shifting mass that must have been her fathers face before she lost control, and slipped into unconsciousness.

When Amunet awoke, her childhood world would be crumbled.

Awakened by pain, she would open her eyes to smell and hear her mother’s banshee screaming, blows upon Amunet’s face would prompt her to instinctively raise arms to protect herself. She'd scramble from the floor, and away from her mother.

Soft questions and tear filled pleads to stop did nothing, her Mother was livid, wild…mad…

“You KILLED him, you killed him…” Smack.

” You freak of gods..”

Crack. Snap.

” You curse of my womb! It was YOU, you spoke it and he passed…He is DEAD, you little deformed –“Pause, “Bitch…Dead because of you!”

Smack.

Shouting over her mother’s voice, she tried to explain…She begged for forgiveness. She offered her heart. And her Mother would hear, or accept any of it. Reeling from blows and a broken spirit, Amunet would never know where her Fathers body now rested. She would never be able to thank him for the only love she was given. She would never know. A regret that would, over time, grow to a wound only she would feel.

She saw nothing, and knew nothing but the angry shadow of her mother gone insane, felt the salt upon her lips of blood and water.

In fury and abhorrence, Amunets mother proclaimed her hatred for her own daughter. Cursing her, she pushed Amunet with more violence toward the door. Tangled in her own robes, her daughter's feet caught upon the threshold, and Amunet was sent to the dirt spinning, limp, and beyond caring. Tasting the earth, tasting warmth which welled inside her mouth.

“And you stay there! Worm! Stay in the dirt and the filth you were born from! You took the only man I loved, you whore…You filthy whore. Get out..GET OUT of my sight and my home and stay away..You disgust me, you are no elf…”

Her mothers shrill voice faded floated away…Only to become strong again.

“Take your stick, and be gone from here. Go and find filth like yourself.”

You never loved him. You never loved him!

Amunet remained silent.

A sound of fabrics, a quick snap, and the hollow tones of wood hitting flesh as the walking Stave, the walking stave her father had carved for her out of love so many years ago landed upon her legs and stung flesh.

No more words, as the door to a place she once thought home shut forever, she reached out with tremulous hands to grasp it, and draw her self to a stand.

Silence…

How Amunet would grow to hate silence one day, even her own.

The forest still, not a soul would approach her as she would blindly depart the solitary sanctuary she had known, turn her face to the sky, and follow the warmth of the sun in hopes of….anything…better than this.

With no education, no sight, and the continuance of the odd sickness that plagued her, none would hire a cripple to labor for them. Nevertheless, she learned that through pity an open hand or a kind heart, coin could be found.

Days of erratic stumbling brought her out of the forest, and into the world. Wandering the streets and sleeping where she could, she would become wary, distrustful, and even more drawn into herself than previous. She learned to eat when one could, and as much as one can hold in her stomach; she learned how to beg proper from those without homes that took pity on the blind woman, she learned how to take what she could, when ever she could…

And finally, she learned to never open her heart. Life on the streets never extended long for those around her. Death, disease, starvation, poor health and the general view that homeless lives were expendable made it hard to form bonds of friendship . Amunet took great pains to become, “invisible”, insignificant and one of the best shadows on the wall.

Ingenuity, and common sense, however, told her that she would not last much longer as she was. With a quick flash of insight, she had decided to use what little she could to her own advantage.

Roving the taverns, Inns, or establishments that would let her in, she offered to, “Fortune Tell” for a small fee, or in exchange for food and shelter, to anyone who would listen to her soft entreaty. It took great courage for this thin shell of a woman to do this…Yet she did, and prevailed. Above all else, surviving came first. It worked well enough at times to provide her a place to keep out of the cold winds during winter.

She would become known, affectionately, or in whispered, frightened tones as: “The Grey Lady”, whom suspicious wives and bored ladies of higher stature would visit for their amusement. Amunet kept her, “Fortune telling” small. Clues and voice cues, simple little rhymes that anyone could make anything of , satisfied those who paid her for her services.. She took great pains to hide any true sense of her greater ability from everyone.

Perhaps she hoped to stave off any further “attacks”, or perhaps she knew that humanity, and those like it, only wished to hear what they already knew.

And thus…Does she live her life, never expecting more or less, never knowing that there can be so much more.

Constantly wandering, constantly closed to those about her..A heart guarded by memories, and a mystery in grey…

This is Amunet.

Cursed, or gifted?

Only Fate knew, and she remained silent….


Equipment:

This odd elven woman carries naught much more but a large satchel used for storing a bedroll and food, supplies she may need and various personal grooming items.

In her hands, none the less, at all times present, is an eldritch and eerie staff. As tall as she, and round, up and down the weathered wood reside strange runic carvings. It is tapped upon the ground and swung back and forth in controlled, measured paths to encounter any obstacles which may lay before her feet. Thusly, helping her to "see" more than she would with hands or toes.