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Description

6.15.2018 // Reference uploaded.
The Storm

If you were my God I'd believe.

Name...Hex
Age...18 years
Gender...Woman [she/her]
Voice...Deadpan, stiff and cold [Melanie Risdon as Shizuru Fujino]

Breed...Common
Conformation...American Shetland Pony x Pyrenean Donkey
Height...11.2 hh
Weight...Completely Average
Coat...Fleabitten Gray
Teke Color...Ghostly blue

Herd...Bloody Flanks > Vagabonds
Rank...Weather Witch > Cultist

Family...None
Friends...None
Enemies...Cultists, Vindicators, War-Forged
Significant Other(s)...Vidalia
Orientation...Lesbian

Drive...Keeping what belongs to her.
Alignment...Chaotic Neutral
Zodiac Sign...The Peryton

Ideology...Do whatever you want, whenever you want.
Patron Gods...Digend, [amused by] Cascade, Alya, Kaia
Blessings...None
Talents...Scavenger [locked], Tidemaster [locked]

Familiars...None
Inventory...Cloak, Bones, Prosthetic Leg, Book

Personality
Hex is hateful towards the world beyond her little personal bubble, but bears an envy of those who lie beyond it. Critical and cruel, her upbringing in the Cult is evident even in the way she moves. Holding herself in the highest esteem, precious few register as even blips on her radar. Those deserving her attention are met by varying levels of disgust and desire.

Unpleasant by all accounts, Hex puts no effort into satisfying others' expectations of what she should be. Her every act is backed by her selfish whims, and when those inclinations happen to align to another's benefit, so be it. Personal preservation is chief among her motivations, and that includes protection of her possessions. As one having few friends or positive acquaintances to speak of, she places great importance on things: clothing, books, paperweights, even a rock if she so fancies it. A childhood devoid of attachments manifests in a need to own anyone and anything that will allow it. This is a simple assertion to make over objects, however she has begun extending this classification to the living as well.

The unnatural acceleration of her aging has proved itself overwhelming. At least in the Cult she had the familiarity of isolation to comfort her. Now, surrounded on all sides on a ship for who knows how long, she can only dream of such solitude in which to weather the storm. Fits of rage punctuated by days of eerie calm have become the norm as she struggles to adapt. Her body's newfound needs are a nuisance and a blessing, as they force her to remain cordial with one of her prison's occupants at bare minimum. Socially stunted, she will accept acts of kindness towards her, but doesn't understand that she should respond in gratitude. She is far more comfortable in relationships that involve converging interests than those built on charity.

History
Her reasons for leaving the Cult are obvious, but less so is what circumstances drove her decision to cast her lot with the Bloody Flanks. It's possible she thought they might afford her safety; after all, the very horses she once loosely called family were now gunning for her hide. Maybe she knew there was no running from the inevitable, and she let the dice fall as they may. Or the reason is trivial and she merely joined on because she saw something she liked, figuring that she might as well take the plunge because she had nothing else to lose.

The spawn of nameless disciples, unworthy of remembrance, her suffering began as a Nothing. Thrust into a life needing no more hungry mouths to feed, the foal was reared only by the collective negligence she experienced at the hooves of the adults around her. Motivated only by the instinctual desire to live, she was a tender ten years when the Cult granted her participation in a Proving Ceremony. She didn't have strength, skills or tools to fight, but she did have the body for getting in and out of tight spaces. So they used her, sent the untried Nothing into the throngs of Sunken Hoof Bay with the order to snatch a shipment of stolen goods or die trying. The spoils of a bout between the Cult and the Vindicators, it was being sent off to who knows where, and the Cult wanted it back. She wasn't made privy to the contents of the cache when she snuck into the shipyard that night. Despite the near absent moon, every corner was lit by artificial light as traders and smugglers bustled about, bartering their wares. Weaving through gaps in the crowd, then through stacks of stored inventory, she spared only cursory glances at the horses in her way: enough to avoid their gazes and move on to the next. She found the crate in question, set to the side and conveniently unattended. Prying the top off, she inspected the contents warily. There was nothing of note in the pile of broken idols and unidentified bones, save a strange tome hidden among them. Objective in her care, the nothing sought to make her escape, but was cut off by an irritated soldier who demanded the book's return. She managed to escape despite the Vindicator's protests, but also injured a leg in the process. When she delivered her prize to the disciples they only laughed, saying that the book was naught but jibberish. She grew up that day, in more ways than one as she gulped down the bitter aging brew and passed out.

Awakening to a self 8 years older, an unexpected and unplesant surprise awaited her. The hurt leg had taken badly to the potion. From the joint on it lay limp, underdeveloped and useless. She chose her name that day. A label to suit the curse her life would be.

Hex returned to the port, to see her first heist through new eyes. Her hobble was noticeable, but not enough to draw too much attention. Rather than avoid the looks of the crowd, she met them head on. A strange confidence took hold of her, and she knew that she had to look out for herself. Then by chance, she caught a glimpse of the Trespasser's defiant crimson sails and that was it.

A newly realized being, she found meaning in existence among the Bloody Flanks. They were a far cry from the impersonal structure of the Cult. Theirs was a tightly-knit family, and one in which she had no place. So she made one for herself. She reached out to one close in age, and in her found companionship. Following Vidalia's lead, becoming dependant on that crutch, she became a member of Vidar's crew to stay close to the one she considered her own. In time her lame leg had to be amputated and replaced. Hex expected to be burdened by the limb for life, but a Medic offered to remove it, and a prosthetics expert provided a leg for her to stand on. Hex didn't know how to react to such kindness, so instead she decided that it was high time she got what she deserved. It was her reward for surviving. And a means for her to live on.

Reluctant to engage in any task that would involve frequent and prolonged social interactions, Hex devoted herself to learning the trade of a weather witch. The unruly winds and waves pose a unique challenge, as do storms and their effects on the ship, due to her still lacking experience with such variables. Her travels aboard the Trespasser are few, but each new journey has provided much needed instruction to further her education.

Other
- Her prosthetic leg was made by Sigyn and her amputation was the work of Rose.
- Her fashion sense is informed by her upbringing in the Cult, hence the bones and edgy cloak.

art (c) @/Queerly
character (c) data-bull

Description

6.15.2018 // Reference uploaded.
The Storm

If you were my God I'd believe.

Name...Hex
Age...18 years
Gender...Woman [she/her]
Voice...Deadpan, stiff and cold [Melanie Risdon as Shizuru Fujino]

Breed...Common
Conformation...American Shetland Pony x Pyrenean Donkey
Height...11.2 hh
Weight...Completely Average
Coat...Fleabitten Gray
Teke Color...Ghostly blue

Herd...Bloody Flanks > Vagabonds
Rank...Weather Witch > Cultist

Family...None
Friends...None
Enemies...Cultists, Vindicators, War-Forged
Significant Other(s)...Vidalia
Orientation...Lesbian

Drive...Keeping what belongs to her.
Alignment...Chaotic Neutral
Zodiac Sign...The Peryton

Ideology...Do whatever you want, whenever you want.
Patron Gods...Digend, [amused by] Cascade, Alya, Kaia
Blessings...None
Talents...Scavenger [locked], Tidemaster [locked]

Familiars...None
Inventory...Cloak, Bones, Prosthetic Leg, Book

Personality
Hex is hateful towards the world beyond her little personal bubble, but bears an envy of those who lie beyond it. Critical and cruel, her upbringing in the Cult is evident even in the way she moves. Holding herself in the highest esteem, precious few register as even blips on her radar. Those deserving her attention are met by varying levels of disgust and desire.

Unpleasant by all accounts, Hex puts no effort into satisfying others' expectations of what she should be. Her every act is backed by her selfish whims, and when those inclinations happen to align to another's benefit, so be it. Personal preservation is chief among her motivations, and that includes protection of her possessions. As one having few friends or positive acquaintances to speak of, she places great importance on things: clothing, books, paperweights, even a rock if she so fancies it. A childhood devoid of attachments manifests in a need to own anyone and anything that will allow it. This is a simple assertion to make over objects, however she has begun extending this classification to the living as well.

The unnatural acceleration of her aging has proved itself overwhelming. At least in the Cult she had the familiarity of isolation to comfort her. Now, surrounded on all sides on a ship for who knows how long, she can only dream of such solitude in which to weather the storm. Fits of rage punctuated by days of eerie calm have become the norm as she struggles to adapt. Her body's newfound needs are a nuisance and a blessing, as they force her to remain cordial with one of her prison's occupants at bare minimum. Socially stunted, she will accept acts of kindness towards her, but doesn't understand that she should respond in gratitude. She is far more comfortable in relationships that involve converging interests than those built on charity.

History
Her reasons for leaving the Cult are obvious, but less so is what circumstances drove her decision to cast her lot with the Bloody Flanks. It's possible she thought they might afford her safety; after all, the very horses she once loosely called family were now gunning for her hide. Maybe she knew there was no running from the inevitable, and she let the dice fall as they may. Or the reason is trivial and she merely joined on because she saw something she liked, figuring that she might as well take the plunge because she had nothing else to lose.

The spawn of nameless disciples, unworthy of remembrance, her suffering began as a Nothing. Thrust into a life needing no more hungry mouths to feed, the foal was reared only by the collective negligence she experienced at the hooves of the adults around her. Motivated only by the instinctual desire to live, she was a tender ten years when the Cult granted her participation in a Proving Ceremony. She didn't have strength, skills or tools to fight, but she did have the body for getting in and out of tight spaces. So they used her, sent the untried Nothing into the throngs of Sunken Hoof Bay with the order to snatch a shipment of stolen goods or die trying. The spoils of a bout between the Cult and the Vindicators, it was being sent off to who knows where, and the Cult wanted it back. She wasn't made privy to the contents of the cache when she snuck into the shipyard that night. Despite the near absent moon, every corner was lit by artificial light as traders and smugglers bustled about, bartering their wares. Weaving through gaps in the crowd, then through stacks of stored inventory, she spared only cursory glances at the horses in her way: enough to avoid their gazes and move on to the next. She found the crate in question, set to the side and conveniently unattended. Prying the top off, she inspected the contents warily. There was nothing of note in the pile of broken idols and unidentified bones, save a strange tome hidden among them. Objective in her care, the nothing sought to make her escape, but was cut off by an irritated soldier who demanded the book's return. She managed to escape despite the Vindicator's protests, but also injured a leg in the process. When she delivered her prize to the disciples they only laughed, saying that the book was naught but jibberish. She grew up that day, in more ways than one as she gulped down the bitter aging brew and passed out.

Awakening to a self 8 years older, an unexpected and unplesant surprise awaited her. The hurt leg had taken badly to the potion. From the joint on it lay limp, underdeveloped and useless. She chose her name that day. A label to suit the curse her life would be.

Hex returned to the port, to see her first heist through new eyes. Her hobble was noticeable, but not enough to draw too much attention. Rather than avoid the looks of the crowd, she met them head on. A strange confidence took hold of her, and she knew that she had to look out for herself. Then by chance, she caught a glimpse of the Trespasser's defiant crimson sails and that was it.

A newly realized being, she found meaning in existence among the Bloody Flanks. They were a far cry from the impersonal structure of the Cult. Theirs was a tightly-knit family, and one in which she had no place. So she made one for herself. She reached out to one close in age, and in her found companionship. Following Vidalia's lead, becoming dependant on that crutch, she became a member of Vidar's crew to stay close to the one she considered her own. In time her lame leg had to be amputated and replaced. Hex expected to be burdened by the limb for life, but a Medic offered to remove it, and a prosthetics expert provided a leg for her to stand on. Hex didn't know how to react to such kindness, so instead she decided that it was high time she got what she deserved. It was her reward for surviving. And a means for her to live on.

Reluctant to engage in any task that would involve frequent and prolonged social interactions, Hex devoted herself to learning the trade of a weather witch. The unruly winds and waves pose a unique challenge, as do storms and their effects on the ship, due to her still lacking experience with such variables. Her travels aboard the Trespasser are few, but each new journey has provided much needed instruction to further her education.

Other
- Her prosthetic leg was made by Sigyn and her amputation was the work of Rose.
- Her fashion sense is informed by her upbringing in the Cult, hence the bones and edgy cloak.

art (c) @/Queerly
character (c) data-bull