Post by thistle on Oct 25, 2007 14:51:52 GMT -5
Name: Thistle, The Nettling Wind
Gender: Female
Race: Faerie
Corner Preference: no preference
Age: 12
Description: A faerie with glowing eyes like the full moon and two gossamer butterfly wings that blossom from bellow her slim shoulder blades; she can be as shockingly beautiful as she can be naïve and stubborn. Compared the other races, Thistle is remarkably small. Even amongst her own kind she is considered to be petit, able to sit comfortably on a spring leaf or dance on dust motes. Despite her wings and the two small curls of bone that flower from her skull, Thistle looks like a human, though a little more mature than her age (since she is a faerie she matured much sooner than a normal human would). She is a wildflower, lithe, fleeting and untamed; she was named after the thistle plant because of her personality and the mane of sable hair that slid down her back in gentle downy tresses in a way that reminded people of the flowers of the thistle, before tapering away just above her buttocks.
Personality: If her name didn’t serve as warning enough, the nickname they gave her should have: Thistle the Nettling Wind. Armed with a tongue that could make a scourge look like dentil floss and a temper to match it, she can be a handful for anyone. Emotions wash over her face like sunshine and moonbeams, the last vestiges of her fast fleeing innocence along with the slight babyish accent in which she pronounces words. Impulsive, nosy, and mischievous, she loves nothing more than flying out at daybreak and not returning till dusk, covered in dirt and scratches. Despite being a brat she does have a few redeeming qualities, most of which stem from a pure and good-natured little heart.
Skills: armed with a wicked tongue and blessed with the ability of flight, Thistle’s greatest strength and weakness stems from her small heart. Only time will tell if she has any other powers at her disposal.
Sample Post:
In a Dead Wood:
The child faerie swayed slightly as she walked between smoldering towers of ash, her bare body painted in streaks of soot and sweat, her wings held fragilely out behind her. A mane of sable hair hid most of her face, sliding down her back in gentle tresses that tapered away just above her buttocks. In ever way, shape and form she looked like a human child except for her size, the two curls of bone that blossomed from the sides of her skull. Beneath the strands of her sooty hair her eyes burned like two miniature moons. Quietly her lips mouthed the words to a song.
Fire, ash,
Water, ice,
I know your star
Held it here
In these hands…
With a flicker of wings she flew amongst the dead trees and alighted on one of the many petrified branches. Randomly stretched out an arm, brushing it against a stone leaf, watching as it crumbled to dust beneath her fingers. At some other point in life she would have cried about it, she would have felt something, but all she could feel now was a stirring deep inside her soul, a hollow ache inside her rib cage. “There’s a tyme for love und anger,” she whispered to herself, trying to sound mature. Quietly she flew from the tree and deeper, into the forest, completely unaware of the eyes that stalked her amongst the branches.
She was too innocent to know, to care about letting other’s eyes fall on her naked body, and for all her short life she had never know the decorum of society. Her birthright had been thistle and down, her home wherever her bare, callused feet could carry her, and it would always be like that. The humans caught her and tried to take her in, cleaned her off and gave her scratchy cloths to wear and called her Thistle the Nettling Wind but they would never bend her to their society; “They’ll never tame me!”
one eye, one horn, flying purple people eater...
Gender: Female
Race: Faerie
Corner Preference: no preference
Age: 12
Description: A faerie with glowing eyes like the full moon and two gossamer butterfly wings that blossom from bellow her slim shoulder blades; she can be as shockingly beautiful as she can be naïve and stubborn. Compared the other races, Thistle is remarkably small. Even amongst her own kind she is considered to be petit, able to sit comfortably on a spring leaf or dance on dust motes. Despite her wings and the two small curls of bone that flower from her skull, Thistle looks like a human, though a little more mature than her age (since she is a faerie she matured much sooner than a normal human would). She is a wildflower, lithe, fleeting and untamed; she was named after the thistle plant because of her personality and the mane of sable hair that slid down her back in gentle downy tresses in a way that reminded people of the flowers of the thistle, before tapering away just above her buttocks.
Personality: If her name didn’t serve as warning enough, the nickname they gave her should have: Thistle the Nettling Wind. Armed with a tongue that could make a scourge look like dentil floss and a temper to match it, she can be a handful for anyone. Emotions wash over her face like sunshine and moonbeams, the last vestiges of her fast fleeing innocence along with the slight babyish accent in which she pronounces words. Impulsive, nosy, and mischievous, she loves nothing more than flying out at daybreak and not returning till dusk, covered in dirt and scratches. Despite being a brat she does have a few redeeming qualities, most of which stem from a pure and good-natured little heart.
Skills: armed with a wicked tongue and blessed with the ability of flight, Thistle’s greatest strength and weakness stems from her small heart. Only time will tell if she has any other powers at her disposal.
Sample Post:
In a Dead Wood:
The child faerie swayed slightly as she walked between smoldering towers of ash, her bare body painted in streaks of soot and sweat, her wings held fragilely out behind her. A mane of sable hair hid most of her face, sliding down her back in gentle tresses that tapered away just above her buttocks. In ever way, shape and form she looked like a human child except for her size, the two curls of bone that blossomed from the sides of her skull. Beneath the strands of her sooty hair her eyes burned like two miniature moons. Quietly her lips mouthed the words to a song.
Fire, ash,
Water, ice,
I know your star
Held it here
In these hands…
With a flicker of wings she flew amongst the dead trees and alighted on one of the many petrified branches. Randomly stretched out an arm, brushing it against a stone leaf, watching as it crumbled to dust beneath her fingers. At some other point in life she would have cried about it, she would have felt something, but all she could feel now was a stirring deep inside her soul, a hollow ache inside her rib cage. “There’s a tyme for love und anger,” she whispered to herself, trying to sound mature. Quietly she flew from the tree and deeper, into the forest, completely unaware of the eyes that stalked her amongst the branches.
She was too innocent to know, to care about letting other’s eyes fall on her naked body, and for all her short life she had never know the decorum of society. Her birthright had been thistle and down, her home wherever her bare, callused feet could carry her, and it would always be like that. The humans caught her and tried to take her in, cleaned her off and gave her scratchy cloths to wear and called her Thistle the Nettling Wind but they would never bend her to their society; “They’ll never tame me!”
one eye, one horn, flying purple people eater...
