Farah Ashbel's page

Perception: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 2 = 18

Farah heaves out a sigh as her eyes fruitlessly scan the crowd. Nothing.

She readjusts her veil, her curiosity unsatisfied. It looks like this would be a mystery for another day. Her stomach growls, reminding her of how little she had to eat since the morn.

"It sounds like it is time to feed more than just your interest. Leave this now. There will be other chances to find trouble."

As much as she hated to concede it, the blade was right. She was too hungry and too tired to be chasing phantoms.

Farah will find somewhere to eat and rest until the day cools.

Will be using bold blue text for the Black Blade's voice, at Twigs' suggestion.

~

"Do you see them, Farah?" The Black Blade's many-tiered voice is little more than a soft whisper in her ear.

"I do." The dancer replies, her voice lost in the market sounds. "What do you make of them?"

"I could not say." It replies flatly. "Trouble, no doubt."

"Then let us welcome it." Farah finishes her routine with a flourish, dismissing her Dancing Lights. She collects her meagre earnings, pouring the coppers into a small pouch before melding into the crowd.

Stealth: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (9) + 5 = 14

She moves purposefully, moving through the crowd in a lazy arc as she closes in on the hooded figure, hoping to get a glance of its face.

Twelve feet. A monkey screeches in the distance, rattling the wooden bars of its cage.

Nine feet. A small whirlwind whips about her, jingling the dancer's bells upon her waist.

Close now. Almost close enough to touch. A pot-bellied merchant moves before her, obscuring her view, straining beneath the weight of a tremendous ceramic vase. His brow gleams in the sun-light, drips of perspiration running down to his greying mustache. Farah cranes her neck to look past him, trying to keep sight of the man beyond...

Does Farah notice anything strange? Perception checks are spooky.

Though Farah's mind is blank, her senses remain keen - In the dance she is completely in tune with her surroundings.

Farah finishes her meditation, savouring the feeling of fresh magic rippling through her body. The power was invigorating - It was no substitute for real flesh and bone, but it would do. Magic was her lifeline now. She could not live without it.

She transitions from her meditation to her warm-up routines, slowly rotating four orbs of light around her as she stretches and turns. (As Dancing Lights) A wooden bowl sits on the ground before her, should any passers-by be feeling charitable this day. Stranger things have happened.

It takes her a while for her to get her mind and body in sync, the movement of the orbs slowly shifting to match those of her arms. Within a few minutes she is there, every finger tingling with magic as she manipulates the glowing orbs like a master puppetteer, a whirling dervish of ivory, crimson and gleaming light.

It was doubtful that she would make much money at all; she never did. She didn't need to, either. Her seldom mercenary jobs often earned enough to keep her on her feet for weeks. Sometimes even months. No, this was not for the money. This was for her.

Her mind goes blank. There is no pain. No crippled limbs. No hideous scars. In the dance there is only beauty, and light.

Farah will perform for most of the day, occasionally moving spots. Just taking 10 on it. Will earn 1d10cp over the course of the day, provided nothing else happens.

Farah seeks out a patch of shade somewhere by a near-travelled path, getting herself ready to perform during the lunch hour. It would be nothing special, some twirling and dancing lights perhaps, but with any luck it might be just enough to pay for her evening meal.

"Don't push yourself." The blade speaks aloofly. "It is a wonder that body has lasted this long."

"Your concern is noted." Farah says dismissively. The blade was right, though. Even now as she limbered up, she could feel it in her bones. Her muscles felt taut. Every movement she made felt like they were being pulled beyond their limits. The flames had done more than just mar her beauty. It had crippled her. She was brittle, like charcoal. At any moment, she might just crumble away...

"It is not you I am concerned about." The blade replies. "Even the sharpest blade is useless without a hand to wield it."

Typical.

"Enough of that now. I am not so weak that I cannot stand to spin." She reaches into her pack, retrieving a small book. "Now quiet - I must concentrate."

She prepares her spells for the day. That'll be about an hour, unless something happens.

Farah glances at him for a moment with her good eye as she readjusts her veil, staring him down as he turns away.

"Khanzeer..." Farah mutters under her breath, pulling her veil up over her nose. "That's right, keep walking..."

Her Black Blade tuts, clearly unimpressed by her disrespect, but says nothing.

Farah lets out a small sigh as the ceremony draws to close. For a while she stands there expectantly, waiting for something to happen. But as the crowds thin and the citizens of Solku return to their lives, nothing does.

"Was that all you wanted me to see?" Farah folds her arms, listening expectantly. No reply comes. "La afham... I will never understand you."

She shrugs and turns, disappearing once more into the scattered throngs of Solku.

Farah will head towards the closest source of clean water for a drink and to refill her waterskin.

Farah pauses, curiously looking past the crowd to peer inside the store. She only lingers for a but a moment before carrying on, giving in to her Blade's prompting.

"What is so important that we cannot spare a single moment?" She speaks softly, not wanting to draw any attention, but her question is met with silence. Whether the Blade did not hear, or if it was ignoring her, she could not tell. "You are most difficult to deal with."

"Shukran! Thank you!" Farah calls after the man, watching him as he goes. She cannot help but smile.

She rises sluggishly, her ragged blanket sloughing from her body onto the dusty ground as she staggers upright. Her body is stiff and sore, limbs gripped by a sense of overwhelming tightness, as if her skin were pulled taut across too much space. It was nothing she was not used to.

Slowly she gathers her belongings. A worn pack and a leather scabbard - between them, they contained everything she owned in this world. Both are slung over her shoulder as she stoops down to take the bread. She lets out a sigh as she breathes in its scent and feels its warmth.

"Sabāh el-khai, Farah." A voice greets her in a welcome tone, seemingly emenating from herself. It is neither wholly male nor female, but some layering of both, spoken in perfect unison. "You have had a visitor this night."

"I know. I saw." Farah converses little beyond that, wearing a blank expression as she goes through her regular morning rituals. She cleans the dust from her ivory-banded armour. She wraps the linen bindings around her arms. She ties her hair back, pulling it into a tight bun. And she dons her veil - a crimson hijab wrapped with care and deliberation - her only key to civil interaction.

The voice speaks once more, gently urging her haste. "Yalla, we must go."

"Patience." She says. "There is still time."

The reply comes after a moment of silence.

"Not as much as you think."

Farah is ready to head to the Lambent Citadel, as per her Blade's request.

Will do.

Oh yeah. Relevent languages? I get a bunch.

Still hunting for an avatar...

Farah tends to avoid large crowds of people when at leisure, very rarely staying at inns or public houses. This means she often finds herself staying on the streets, curled up in a tattered blanket while her sleepless Black Blade watches over her. Thankfully, her reputation keeps all but the boldest thieves and ruffians at bay, and a quick display of power usually serves to scare those ones off as well.

At one point she found board with the Serpentine Blades, but she left due to a growing sense of guilt as more and more clients refused to hire her (Though she still tries to get work there when she can).

So in short - she'll be staying wherever you deem most convenient, waking with the morn wrapped in a ragged shawl and caked with dust.

To expand on above:

There are many rumours that have popped up amongst the common folk of the city. Superstitious individuals believed she is cursed, bringing ill luck to those who assosciate with her. Others believe she consorts with dark powers (No doubt due to the sinister appearance of her scimitar), and that in the past she was struck down by the wrath of the Dawnflower, giving her her current appearance. Countless stories with endless variations surround her and her past, none of them positive. At best, people view her with pity. At worst, they actively drive her away.

I should ask now what your thoughts are with using Arcane Mark with the Magus' Spell Combat ability. While perfectly legal, many regard it as cheesy (Though in truth it's actually worse than two-weapon fighting), so I'd like to know your thoughts on it. Either way it doesn't change my build, but it does change how I full attack. I do like the idea that my Black Blade can brand those I strike, though.