Post by Weaver Bellamont on Apr 24, 2009 18:00:27 GMT -5
Name: Weaver Bellamont
Race: Mage
Age: 2768
Likes: Beaches, quiet
Dislikes: Mortals, White Mages, plus a whole long series of things (Small and large) that she doesn't so much dislike, but desperately annoy her. She doesn't have a lot of patience.
Magic: (If approved) Master Dark Mage: Earth and Water; Minor: Growth
Appearance: Weaver looks no more than 16, with wavy chestnut hair that hits her shoulders, and bronze skin. She's stands tall for someone of the age she appears, and has deep mahogany eyes, with more red than brown. Her features are sharp and expressive.
History:
Weaver's father had been a sailor: a traveling man by nature, but she still loved his home. It was a small island off the coast of a much larger continent: he knew every time her returned from a long voyage his lovely wife, Ayla, would be waiting for him. It was the routine of his life, kiss his wife goodbye, trek to various ports along the mainland, innumerable, immemorial journeys, and then return to the smell of his wife's cooking. He would wrap his arms around her, the smell of fresh baked bread still on her skin and in her hair, and remember what home meant.
But then, there came a night with no smell of meats and potatoes and vegetables stewing. No Ayla greeting him at the door. The world suddenly became a strange place. He walked inside and found her sitting on an old rocking chair, wringing her hands nervously. I'm home, he greeted her. She looked up at him, and smiled, just a small little smile, I'm pregnant, she replied. She said it quietly, barely over a whisper. He stared at her, momentarily speechless. Then he laughed, a pleasant happy sound. He was going to have a family.
Two days later, he set sail again, this time with everything they could find to sell. With a baby on the way, they needed all the money they could get. A week past, three weeks, two months: Ayla didn't hear from her husband. It wasn't unusual for him to be gone for that long, but he hadn't even written. Five months: the local healer said the child growing inside of her was a girl. Eight months: their rapidly thinning savings had finally run out, Ayla got a job as a seamstress. Nine months: the baby was late; it was August and hot. Ayla could barely move for the size of her.
Two weeks later she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. She hadn't even picked out a name yet. Her husband had always said if they had a little girl, he would name her after his grandmother. What had her name been again? Ayla couldn't remember, she was so tired, a little nap wouldn't hurt. The name could wait.
Heartbroken and depressed, Ayla started to drift away from the real world. She worked various jobs, enough to get by, but she never seemed entirely 'there'. She learned to sleep a lot, never really aware of how much she wasn't there for her daughter. Weaver, known then simply as the Bellamont Child, or Little Mountain, didn't blame her for it, but instead spent a lot of time with the next door neighbour: Rachel. She was a kind, but strict older woman who ran the local library.
As Weaver grew older, she helped out more and more at the library. She enjoyed spending time there, amoung the piles of books. When she was twelve, Rachel caught her with a book of magic, and decided she would train the Bellamont Child. The older woman had spent centuries training as a fire mage, and had no children of her own to pass her knowledge on to. Weaver's mother died a year later, she moved in with Rachel to continue her education full time.
She learned about the sky and the stars, the scorch of fire, the smell of the earth, and a thousand other things, but what fascinated the child the most was water. She had never thought about it before, how essential it was.
For over 500 years the Little Mountain, and the Mage worked together. The become close. At first, Rachel was her mother, the sister, and finally best friend. In their 535th year a fight broke out amoung the villagers, Rachel tried to quiet it before it got too out of hand. Someone accidentally stabbed her. She bled to death before anyone realized what had happened. The beloved librarian, the town's Mage, a kind word for everyone, and an open house for any of the villagers children. She could make even the most misbehaved children listen. There was a riot that night, a riot no amount of compassion or reason could quell. Weaver, in a fury of sorrow, anger, and fear, fled the village for the main land. Terrified by what these people she had known her whole life were capable of. Sometimes she ran across the surface of the water as she fled, sometimes she let the gentle waves carry her.
For years she traveled from city to city, moving along the coast. Her wandering was aimless, she wasn't searching for anything, just moving, always moving. Her centuries with Rachel had been purposeful, full of knowledge. Now she had more time to think, and realized she had a long time to live, and had no idea what to do with it. [If approved]That is, until she found him. He looked like he could pass for 30, who knew how old he really was though. He asked for her name. Bellamont, she replied. He stared at her for a moment, a gaze so piercing she swore he was reading her mind. For all she knew he really was. You're pathetic, he told her. She didn't know what he meant.
But I can help you.
His name was so old that it had long been forgotten. He told Weaver to call him Tristan. It was as good a name as any. Tristan was an Earth mage, Weaver told him about her village, about her teacher, her friend, how they killed her. He told her how mortals were sad, sad creatures and that they couldn't help their stupidity. Don't be angry, he told her, you just have to be firm with them, the poor animals.
Let me teach you some of my magic, he told her.
So over the next millennium, Weaver began her studies again. She learned about the Earth, it's strength, her strength. She met other people who thought like Tristan, and slowly, their group began to grow, stretch their influence, take over mortal towns, and small cities. Why shouldn't they? They were powerful, the worthy. They had spent generations learning of the world, of things unseen; learning their craft. What did these pathetic people know? Of life? Of power? As far as Weaver was concern their rule was an act of kindness, compassion. For their own good.
But there came about a group of foolish White Mages with a serious hero complex. They believed it was their duty to liberate the powerless humans. There was a war between the two groups. Battle took the lives of many of Weaver's comrades, and in the end the White Mages won out. Weaver's group was driven away, and in the mess of things, she lost Tristan, and has since never heard from him. [/if approved]
Following the years, Weaver traveled a bit more. Feeling the need to make herself scarce, she briefly returning to her village home. She scoured the library wanting to know what had happened since she left. Nothing much it turned out, but she did find a name. Weaver Bellamont: it had been her grandmother's. She took it, a reminder of the father she never met, and the life she could have had. Of the ignorance she could have lived in as just a simple human.
After leaving her old home, Weaver's travels took her to the Kingdom of Celesta. It was new and open, and seemed like a good enough place to settle, for the time being at least.
Approved by ~J~
Race: Mage
Age: 2768
Likes: Beaches, quiet
Dislikes: Mortals, White Mages, plus a whole long series of things (Small and large) that she doesn't so much dislike, but desperately annoy her. She doesn't have a lot of patience.
Magic: (If approved) Master Dark Mage: Earth and Water; Minor: Growth
Appearance: Weaver looks no more than 16, with wavy chestnut hair that hits her shoulders, and bronze skin. She's stands tall for someone of the age she appears, and has deep mahogany eyes, with more red than brown. Her features are sharp and expressive.
History:
Weaver's father had been a sailor: a traveling man by nature, but she still loved his home. It was a small island off the coast of a much larger continent: he knew every time her returned from a long voyage his lovely wife, Ayla, would be waiting for him. It was the routine of his life, kiss his wife goodbye, trek to various ports along the mainland, innumerable, immemorial journeys, and then return to the smell of his wife's cooking. He would wrap his arms around her, the smell of fresh baked bread still on her skin and in her hair, and remember what home meant.
But then, there came a night with no smell of meats and potatoes and vegetables stewing. No Ayla greeting him at the door. The world suddenly became a strange place. He walked inside and found her sitting on an old rocking chair, wringing her hands nervously. I'm home, he greeted her. She looked up at him, and smiled, just a small little smile, I'm pregnant, she replied. She said it quietly, barely over a whisper. He stared at her, momentarily speechless. Then he laughed, a pleasant happy sound. He was going to have a family.
Two days later, he set sail again, this time with everything they could find to sell. With a baby on the way, they needed all the money they could get. A week past, three weeks, two months: Ayla didn't hear from her husband. It wasn't unusual for him to be gone for that long, but he hadn't even written. Five months: the local healer said the child growing inside of her was a girl. Eight months: their rapidly thinning savings had finally run out, Ayla got a job as a seamstress. Nine months: the baby was late; it was August and hot. Ayla could barely move for the size of her.
Two weeks later she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. She hadn't even picked out a name yet. Her husband had always said if they had a little girl, he would name her after his grandmother. What had her name been again? Ayla couldn't remember, she was so tired, a little nap wouldn't hurt. The name could wait.
Heartbroken and depressed, Ayla started to drift away from the real world. She worked various jobs, enough to get by, but she never seemed entirely 'there'. She learned to sleep a lot, never really aware of how much she wasn't there for her daughter. Weaver, known then simply as the Bellamont Child, or Little Mountain, didn't blame her for it, but instead spent a lot of time with the next door neighbour: Rachel. She was a kind, but strict older woman who ran the local library.
As Weaver grew older, she helped out more and more at the library. She enjoyed spending time there, amoung the piles of books. When she was twelve, Rachel caught her with a book of magic, and decided she would train the Bellamont Child. The older woman had spent centuries training as a fire mage, and had no children of her own to pass her knowledge on to. Weaver's mother died a year later, she moved in with Rachel to continue her education full time.
She learned about the sky and the stars, the scorch of fire, the smell of the earth, and a thousand other things, but what fascinated the child the most was water. She had never thought about it before, how essential it was.
For over 500 years the Little Mountain, and the Mage worked together. The become close. At first, Rachel was her mother, the sister, and finally best friend. In their 535th year a fight broke out amoung the villagers, Rachel tried to quiet it before it got too out of hand. Someone accidentally stabbed her. She bled to death before anyone realized what had happened. The beloved librarian, the town's Mage, a kind word for everyone, and an open house for any of the villagers children. She could make even the most misbehaved children listen. There was a riot that night, a riot no amount of compassion or reason could quell. Weaver, in a fury of sorrow, anger, and fear, fled the village for the main land. Terrified by what these people she had known her whole life were capable of. Sometimes she ran across the surface of the water as she fled, sometimes she let the gentle waves carry her.
For years she traveled from city to city, moving along the coast. Her wandering was aimless, she wasn't searching for anything, just moving, always moving. Her centuries with Rachel had been purposeful, full of knowledge. Now she had more time to think, and realized she had a long time to live, and had no idea what to do with it. [If approved]That is, until she found him. He looked like he could pass for 30, who knew how old he really was though. He asked for her name. Bellamont, she replied. He stared at her for a moment, a gaze so piercing she swore he was reading her mind. For all she knew he really was. You're pathetic, he told her. She didn't know what he meant.
But I can help you.
His name was so old that it had long been forgotten. He told Weaver to call him Tristan. It was as good a name as any. Tristan was an Earth mage, Weaver told him about her village, about her teacher, her friend, how they killed her. He told her how mortals were sad, sad creatures and that they couldn't help their stupidity. Don't be angry, he told her, you just have to be firm with them, the poor animals.
Let me teach you some of my magic, he told her.
So over the next millennium, Weaver began her studies again. She learned about the Earth, it's strength, her strength. She met other people who thought like Tristan, and slowly, their group began to grow, stretch their influence, take over mortal towns, and small cities. Why shouldn't they? They were powerful, the worthy. They had spent generations learning of the world, of things unseen; learning their craft. What did these pathetic people know? Of life? Of power? As far as Weaver was concern their rule was an act of kindness, compassion. For their own good.
But there came about a group of foolish White Mages with a serious hero complex. They believed it was their duty to liberate the powerless humans. There was a war between the two groups. Battle took the lives of many of Weaver's comrades, and in the end the White Mages won out. Weaver's group was driven away, and in the mess of things, she lost Tristan, and has since never heard from him. [/if approved]
Following the years, Weaver traveled a bit more. Feeling the need to make herself scarce, she briefly returning to her village home. She scoured the library wanting to know what had happened since she left. Nothing much it turned out, but she did find a name. Weaver Bellamont: it had been her grandmother's. She took it, a reminder of the father she never met, and the life she could have had. Of the ignorance she could have lived in as just a simple human.
After leaving her old home, Weaver's travels took her to the Kingdom of Celesta. It was new and open, and seemed like a good enough place to settle, for the time being at least.
Approved by ~J~
