Amelia Cyrixiar's page

Amelia slowly turns her mismatched gaze toward Cenenviel, giving the elf a long, blank stare before shifting her attention pointedly to the rest of the group. A sardonic smirk pulls at the corners of her mouth as she dryly quips, "Oh, right. The monolith. The one we all absolutely know everything about. Clearly." Her eyes sparkle sharply with irony as she looks at her companions. "Well? Are we here to stop this monolith or what? I certainly hope someone brought along our comprehensive guide on unexpected monolith management."

Amelia's mismatched eyes flash sharply—her stormy grey eye briefly crackling with eldritch electricity—as she swiftly gestures toward the enemy closing in on Seelah. Her raven familiar bursts from her shoulder, wings slicing through the air as it darts behind the foe, harrying and distracting with precise, relentless movements to aid Seelah's strikes. Simultaneously, Amelia channels a surge of magic through her outstretched hand, unleashing a jagged bolt of lightning that leaps toward her foes in a fierce electric arc, illuminating the battlefield with brief but vivid brilliance.

2 actions used on:

[dice=damage]2d4+1
electric arc

Free action used on:
Patrons Puppet which results in 2 actions for the raven:
Used on flying up to Seelah and to enable flanking. (?)

1 action used on Evil Eye
to extend the frightened condition on Wolverine (Blue) by 1 round

Amelia Dream Sequence:

Amelia finds herself standing in a landscape stripped of color, an endless expanse of shifting grays and muted twilight. Above, the sky churns like ink in water, shapes forming and dissolving into half-suggested figures that vanish just as she begins to grasp their meaning. A cold wind whispers around her, carrying half-remembered sorrows and faded grievances, teasing at her awareness without ever becoming clear.

Ahead, perched upon a leafless, twisted tree, sits her raven familiar—an absolute blackness amid the faded world. Its eyes glimmer with unsettling awareness, watching her with silent intensity. With a sudden movement, the raven lets out a single piercing caw, the sound resonating deep within her bones, evoking an unnamed urgency.

Compelled Amelia steps forward, and the raven bursts open violently, twisting grotesquely in midair. Flesh tears open, erupting into sprays of feathers that writhe and shift impossibly, melting and reforming into disjointed shapes—a mad cascade of chaotic transformation, senseless yet mesmerizing. Her vision blurs with the shifting forms, shadows and feathers merging and separating in dizzying patterns.

The darkness gathers itself, vast and indistinct, a presence felt rather than clearly perceived. Cold needles brush lightly across her skin, sharp yet strangely comforting, each sensation ambiguous, provoking emotions she struggles to define. Fragmented visions flicker through her mind, images of turned backs, fractured bonds, tastes bitter and metallic lingering at the edge of perception.

As Amelia tries to parse those sensations the visions converge on her - between one dreaming eternity and the next - they coalesced into a cocoon of Darkness and Flesh and Want with her in the center as the moth-to-be.

Amelia gasps as one can only gasp in dreams as she is entangled, cradled and wrapped tightly by living shadows and textures the human mind is not meant to parse, pressing against her more intimately then any lover she ever had.

It tightens, forcing her breath short, until something intangible brushes against the core of her being, gently yet invasively touching what feels like a hidden, vulnerable piece of her soul.

As Amelia awakens, her skin prickling with lingering, vivid impressions of unspoken truths, unsettling encouragement, and the undeniable presence of something deeply familiar yet utterly alien entwined with her soul.

Her Raven silently answers her waking, bewildered gaze. It tilts its head slowly, its eyes meeting hers, inscrutable and profound, leaving Amelia grasping at its meaning.

Amelia lets out a long, weary breath, shoulders slumping slightly as she meets Nelket's questioning gaze. "Yes, Nelket, we found him. Dolok is—" she pauses, searching for words, voice tired and thin, "alive and well, and just as frustratingly dramatic as ever. He says he's ready to reclaim his bond with you, if you're willing." Her voice grows more strained, bitterness seeping in. "Apparently he requires your patience because gods know mine ran dry years ago."

She shifts her gaze pointedly toward the children, eyes darkening with hurt as she notes their open fear. "As for this place," she adds more sharply, exhaustion sharpening into acid clarity, "some things never change. You're brave enough to face down plague, madness, and monsters, but a woman with mismatched eyes is a step too far, isn't it?"

She sighs heavily, turning back to Nelket with a softer, more resigned tone. "You've always been the stronger one, Nelket. Dolok needs you—frankly, this village needs you. I hope you're ready to put up with his eternal gloom, because I've had my fill."

roll Fortitude: 1d20 + 4 + 2 ⇒ (18) + 4 + 2 = 24

Amelia exhales softly, folding her arms as she regards Dolok with guarded skepticism. "I can't speak for Nelket—I don't presume to make decisions for others—but knowing her, she'll likely agree. She always did have a penchant for patience, and you might just be the sort of project she'd find appealing."

Under her breath, though still audible enough to be heard by those nearest to her, Amelia mutters wryly, "Gods bless the woman's patience, because I swear, I'm well and truly done with all this nonsense."

Amelia arches a sardonic eyebrow at Dolok's furious lamentations, her voice cool and thick with sarcasm. "Yes, clearly staying stuck in the past, drowning in your eternal guilt, has been so productive. Letting go is the only real way forward—but I'll grant that a bit of vengeance can help grease the wheels. A touch of bloody grease, perhaps?" She shoots a quick, quiet inquiry at Laszlo: "What's your recon, blood, guts or fatty tissue greases best?"

She pauses, taking a slow, measured breath before continuing sharply. "But enough theatrics, Dolok. Spit it out already. What cursed grove or dark cavern draws your mind back to your failure? And exactly what is it you need done there?" Amelia adds, quieter but still quite deliberately audible under her breath, "Gods, you're as useless as ever..."

roll Cult Lore: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24

Amelia stands very still, her mismatched eyes fixed cautiously on the imposing figure of Dolok. Her voice is steady but sharpened with guarded wariness and bitter accusation.
"I'm Amelia—one of the apprentices you orphaned when your sorrow overtook your sense. I disturbed your eternity of grief because there comes a point when mourning becomes nothing but self-indulgence."

Her lips twist into a brief, humorless smile, but her voice grows colder, edged with quiet anger. "And let's be clear—I have every right to disturb you, after what you've done. Farheaven may be lost, but there are still those who remember—and still those owed answers from the guardian who betrayed us."

Amelia leans slightly toward Laszlo, her voice pitched softly enough for only him to hear, a subtle warmth hidden beneath her usual dry humor. "Relax, Laszlo. If ghosts appear, I'll glare at them until they reconsider their unlives." Her mismatched eyes briefly meet his, and for once her smirk seems more reassuring than mocking. "And I appreciate the offer—if we encounter any particularly vengeful vermin, you'll be the first one I call."

Amelia watches quietly at first, her gaze unreadable as Kalla begins carefully clearing the debris and dust from Dolok's toppled statue. There's a brief flicker of conflicted emotion across her face—nostalgia, sadness, perhaps even bitterness—but it softens into something gentler as she steps forward to help.

"Dolok always did take pride in appearances," Amelia remarks dryly, brushing grime and fragments of moss from the bear’s carved fur with practiced fingers. "Even mad, I'd wager he'd appreciate being cleaned up a bit before we disturb his rest."

When Sajan and Kalla brace themselves to right the statue, Amelia steps back, arms crossed loosely, her voice quiet but approving. "Careful, now—he never was fond of rough handling. Even less so lately, I'd imagine." Despite her sardonic tone, the faint hint of affection in her expression betrays deeper respect for the god she once revered.

Amelia glances at the scattered bones with an unreadable expression, letting out a soft sigh before turning back to the group. "Truthfully, we're not picky about funerary rites—most Sarkorian dead were either burned on pyres or left to rest in burial mounds. Shovels and digging rarely came into play unless you were setting traps for foolish outsiders."

She pauses, lips curving in a darkly humorous smirk. "Though I should mention that burial mounds here tend to serve as something of a walk-in, all-you-can-eat necromantic buffet—occasionally complete with a vengeful wight or two. So... pyres." She gives Laszlo an exaggerated look of reassurance. "No trowels required."

Turning back toward Seelah and Kalla, Amelia nods quietly. "A small ceremony would not go amiss, if you're determined to offer these bones some dignity. And afterward—yes, searching everything thoroughly would be wise. Dolok's shrine especially." Her gaze briefly darkens at the thought. "Though let's try to avoid poking at any hornets' nests until we've collected all our honey, hm?"

Amelia lets out a quiet breath, the faint trace of resignation in her expression growing more evident. "Well," she begins slowly, glancing toward Kalla with a guarded respect, "I suppose knowing might do more good than continuing to stumble around in the dark. Maybe there's something left worth salvaging after all."

At Sajan's pointed question, Amelia's gaze becomes evasive, her eyes momentarily shadowed. "Let's just say gratitude isn't a currency you'll find in abundance around here," she replies dryly. "The more you try to help, the less welcome you might find yourself—especially if your methods or appearance give folk something to fear or misunderstand." She flicks a glance briefly at Laszlo, as if acknowledging a shared outsider's plight. "But go on, keep asking questions. Perhaps you'll have better luck."

Without waiting for further debate, Amelia moves away, grabbing a sturdy leather satchel from beside a cluttered shelf and begins packing supplies with practiced efficiency—small vials of herbs, a weathered journal, and various odds and ends clearly selected for traveling. She speaks over her shoulder, voice casual yet edged with sardonic amusement, "After all, if we're going to chase demons, plague, and bitter memories, I might as well join you. Someone has to keep you from making asses of yourselves."

Amelia tilts her head slightly, the corners of her lips twitching into a faintly amused smirk. "That's the popular theory, yes. Given our proximity to the former Worldwound it's hardly a stretch to assume our neighborhoodly plague—and Dolok's breakdown—were gifts from the Abyss." She shrugs lightly, spreading her hands in a gesture of sardonic helplessness. "But then again, assumptions are only a couple syllables away from making an ass out of yourself. Your guess is as good as mine."

Amelia arches an eyebrow sharply at Laszlo, her mismatched gaze glittering with a faint irritation that cuts through her composed exterior. "Presumptions don't just run rampant among villagers, I see," she remarks dryly, tapping one finger against her crossed arms. "Believe it or not, Professor, I haven't abandoned my people—they're simply better at abandoning me."

Her voice softens, though her wit remains sharp. "As for your request, if you truly wish to help, you'll have little use for humours, bile, or any mundane plague theory. Rather than consulting an alchemist, you'd fare better seeking out an expert of the lower planes—someone intimately familiar with the cheerful horrors of the Abyss." She gives Laszlo a pointed look, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "But by all means, concoct your preventative—perhaps a good tincture will keep demon-born maladies away."

Amelia lets out a soft, humorless chuckle, shaking her head gently. "Ah, Nelket. Still can't resist trying to help everyone else, even when she can't help herself." She steps back, pulling the door fully open and gesturing the group inside with an exaggeratedly welcoming sweep of her arm. "Come in, then—I've no tea brewing, but I promise the Evil Eye won't bite."

Once they're inside, she closes the door with a soft click, folding her arms as she leans casually against the wall. "Let me guess—you'd like to hear the sad saga of the Farheavens? Well, it's a charming story, really. One of our woodcutters decided to pick the wrong tree to hack into and promptly unleashed a plague from hell. We coughed, we rotted, we died—typical tragic fare." She tilts her head, lips twisted into a sharp smirk. "Our beloved god Dolok Darkfur, in his great wisdom or madness—take your pick—decided mercy killings were the latest fashion, starting with our mentor, Roga. Nelket and I fled with the little ones before we became bear-food ourselves. And thus ended the glorious Farheaven Clan." Her voice drips with dry sarcasm as she meets each of their eyes, daring them silently to flinch or look away.

The purple door creaks open just enough for Amelia's pale features to appear in the sliver of shadowed doorway. Her mismatched eyes—one a deep, fathomless blue, the other a stormy, cautious grey—flicker warily over each face with a calculating edge, lingering briefly on Kalla's concealed gaze, then narrowing ever so slightly at Laszlo's monstrous visage. Raven-black hair adorned with dark feathers frames her thin shoulders, as though wrapped in shadows and omens. A faint, bitter smirk flickers briefly across her lips, carrying the weight of old wounds masked by practiced indifference.
"It's early to be bothering witches," she remarks dryly, her tone measured and guarded. "But something tells me you're not here for pears or pleasantries. What business do Pathfinders and their... curious company," she pauses pointedly at Laszlo, "have with Amelia of Farheaven?"

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