|Hometown||Qunandar, Par Vollen|
|Residence||Wandering the Wounded Coast?|
|Affiliation||Uncertain, for now.|
|Occupation||To follow, and remain herself.|
|Behind the Mask|
Verena is a slender Kossith, with light grey skin and violet eyes. Her snow white hair falls to the small of her back, and is usually swept past her shoulders. She has high cheekbones and a thin face. Her stiches cross over plump lips that are of a darker shade of grey than the rest of her skin. Her eyes are a little large and slightly rounded. Her nose has a narrow, straight bridge and a small, button-like tip.
Verena is clad in the traditional constraints of a Saarebas. Heavy chains, a large collar, tattered robes hang from her waist. And no, her chest is not covered. This is not for a sexual reason, but due to the fact that saarebas are treated like things and not males and females. She wears a golden mask, as well as gold caps on her clipped horns, as her lips are stitched together, lest a demon ride her words and poison the minds of others.
Verena has known little but being restrained. She is not very sociable, and does not trust very quickly or easily. She is very much like a child, learning about the world around her. Being free of her restraints will be an odd sensation. It will take a long time for her to allow herself to be more.. relaxed.
This one was supposed to be a craftsman. This one was supposed to remain in Qunandar, and make sure this one's mentor's goods were properly distributed, while learning to craft as they did. But now, this one is collared, as she should be. The foul curse of magic.. The Qun demanded this one be kept bound and among her kin. This one happily went.
She did not want to lose herself to a demon, and corrupt all of those around her. She did not want to be lost forever. So when her Arvaarad and karataam were ordered to the Arishok's flagship, which crashed on this land called the 'Free Marches,' she followed, as did the rest of the karataam. She had no choice, and would not dare choose against her Arvaarad. She was a dangerous thing; something pitied and honored. She needed to be led, lest she lose herself to the demons that prowled about, laying in wait, prepared to leap upon her mind once she drops her guard.
But now, something was wrong. Her Arvaarad lay dead and cold, and she lay in bitter crimson pools, surrounded by the remainder of her karataam. She could not remember what had happened. She only knew the searing pain in the exposed sect of her side, the numb twitch of her fingers. She growled in pain, before she pushed herself up. Her Arvaarad was not moving. None around her seemed warm. She drew her legs in, and she clasped at her side, her head tilting down.
She had no lead.
She was exposed.
How long would it take?