Cassia
Cassia Hadalia (a.k.a. Cass)
Stoic and scarred, Cassia has definitely been through it. She carries herself with resolve and dignity, most of the time, and finds a deep satisfaction in healing the ill and injured, or, when appropriate, helping them transition to whatever lies beyond life (usually it's mushrooms).
Enjoys walks on the beach, hearty meals, and succulents.
Isn't wild about heights; loves water but distrusts boats.
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Cassia is a human-presenting woman, somewhere in her mid 30’s. She’s not particularly tall - 5’6” at the most - and her frame, while a bit slight, seems capable of comfortably bearing her breastplate, which latches at her shoulders. Her hair, long and dark, is bound in a loose braid thrown lazily over a shoulder, long wisps distractedly pushed behind her ears.
She’s attractive, certainly - eyes the color of the sea at dawn, strong hands, a full mouth - but there is no escaping a clear sadness, a heaviness behind her gaze. Difficult to say if her beauty is sharpened or obscured by the scar, but the scar is unmissable. Running from her right temple down across her face, then down her neck before disappearing beneath her plate, the scar is thick, unsettled - the knotted flesh glows with a dull metallic sheen, burnished gold in the low light of the gloaming.
The pendant hanging from her neck occasionally *clinks* against the metal of her breastplate; when she pulls it out, its large face and dark beaded strand is obvious, maybe even ostentatious. In the center of the silver disk is a carefully wrought snowflake, flanked by a waxing and waning moon. Above these symbols stretch two large wings, etched in black, hovering protectively over their charge. To either side of the necklace are strung black beads - pearls? Onyx? Difficult to say - which make the faint sound of a distant bell as they jostle and caress their neighbor.
At her waist, a long, thin dagger rests, rarely used. Its hilt bears the snowflake and moons of her pendant, but there are no wings. Hanging beside it, and quietly ticking, is a latched locket, its lid wholly covered in intricately detailed gears.
Latched to her arm, or thrown on her back, is a most unusual shield: in its center a large, sprawling tree reaches branches upwards, as its roots crawl down; in the center of the trunk, a single eye, now closed. At the base, clusters of mushrooms huddle close.
Stepping close to her, you get the distinct smell of the healthy rot of the forest, a sweetness beneath decay, and, unmistakably, patchouli and salted air.
Mental characteristics
Personal history
Definitely has an air of the religious about her, but you've never seen her pray.
Gender Identity
She/her, but also, quite literally, they/them.
Sexuality
Yes and lots of it.
Education
She probably had some form of education as a child - she's a quick reader, anyway, and good with languages.
These days, she's a druidic student of medicine, decay, and balance.
Employment
Has certainly had a job or two before; that breastplate looks valuable.
Failures & Embarrassments
Was once shamed for over-packing for a camping trip. Has never lived it down.
Intellectual Characteristics
Resilient, skeptical, resigned. Rueful.
Taboos
Not a big fan of necromancy or its practitioners; believes that the dead should, generally speaking, remain dead. Wishes people would stop fetishizing life.
Personality Characteristics
Motivation
Used to be, she had none. These days, things seem to be changing.
Vices & Personality flaws
Easily loses days in a pleasure house.
Tendency towards skepticism and pessimism.
Grumpy in the mornings.
Hygiene
She smells great and her hair is always just the right amount of disheveled.
For "great," read "a slight warm decaying odor, patchouli, and the ocean."
For "disheveled," read "that braid is a mess."
Social
Contacts & Relations
Gustavo, her closest friend (who doesn't live in her head) and former roommate/landlord.
Religious Views
None of your business.
She's tough, she's hot, she's wounded: she's Cassia.
View Character Profile
Alignment
Neutral Good; Horny Chaotic.
Honorary & Occupational Titles
Formerly well-respected devotee in the service of the Lady of the Frozen Night.
These days, a druidic student of medicine, decay, and balance.
Age
Mid-30s
Birthplace
Shallow Reach
Children
Current Residence
On The Road, Sorta
Eyes
Pale, faded blue
Hair
Dark, warm brown.
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
Olive, fair.
Height
5'6"
Weight
140
The Search Begins
21st of Utrindir, Utrixia's winter
The three we seek to kill: Emilio Carreira, Godfrey Zuul, Rumlar Quinn.
The four we seek to protect: Matthias Valdez, Xavier Salazar, Inez Costa, Lucia Barbero.
After the basement, what was necessary became clear, and we set out to hunt. The basement, and what it meant, was shocking, obviously, but perhaps not surprising. I've often wondered why I ended up abandoned in a temple, and this…scene…offers a possible explanation. Hidden and safe and far from people like the three we seek. But of course, there's no way to know anything about why I was left where I was. That I was, is enough.
Our reconnaissance went smoother than expected. Well, smooth enough, I suppose. The young druid, unusual as she is, is impressively quick-witted and fast on her feet. There were moments, particularly my own foolishness, that may have gotten us caught while we confirmed Emilio Carreira's location, but we managed to extricate ourselves, if only just, and learned quite a bit of value - namely, that he is extremely well-guarded and is looking to hire. Interesting, the hunter who will not even rise to hunt his own prey. Lazy.
Our plan is to leave in a few minutes, return to the alchemy shop we visited earlier today; we plan to lie in wait for Rumlar Quinn, who is expected to stop by regular as clockwork this evening. Undoubtedly they will not be alone, but these two companions have shown themselves to be incredibly resourceful - Li'Lain's competence (and violence) I knew already, but Souxlait is a minor wonder - and I'm confident we can capture this odious woman. The question is: what then? How to extract what we need to know? What lengths will we be willing to reach to learn what we need?
Onward, If Not Homeward
19th of Utrindir, Utrixia's winter
These four people: one my dearest friend, one a brief battlefield companion, one a familiar (and obnoxious) sellsword, one a stranger, have saved me. Or, us; the habit will return in time, I suppose.
So, we are saved: now what?
The talk with the High Priestess at the temple was, in turns, illuminating and disturbing, and while I don't think it's helped *me* very much, it has...recast the way I think about the earlier years of my life. The existence of The Other (I prefer Pretender, but it's not my faith being imitated) - nearly one hundred years of falsehoods hidden behind devotion, countless believers completely fooled - was a hell of a shock. Believers including, well, Cina. I remember when she took me to Granmukata, on our strange trip across the continent and then the sea. We stopped in Ravenhold - such an odd place, it had a coldness I could never shake, regardless of the blankets piled on our bed - and it was brief, but it was, well, sweet. To see her in the place she grew up. Showing me side streets and alleyways she gamboled down as a kid; introducing me to people she'd known back then, all Drow, all very kind, but all guarded in a way she didn't see. Couldn't see.
She was never the most devout of followers in the temple, but she was diligent, and believed strongly in the dignity afforded to those crossing beyond - she never shirked, and that scythe shone every morning when she departed for work. Capable, compassionate, and wholly lacking pity. Her belief was genuine, but her care was weighted towards the followers of the Raven Queen, rather than The Matron herself. It seems cruel, all that dedication to a lie.
Does she know that her belief is a lie?
I feel as though this information should send reverberations across the planes - The Feathered Lady is being imitated. Her worship siphoned away, her teachings hollowed out, puppeted by a pretender. For nearly 100 years! The skies should shatter. There should be something more than the quiet equanimity of a High Priestess in the Shadowfell. There should be fury, and fear; a reckoning.
When I followed Utrixia, especially as a child, I wouldn't have believed her capable of watching, stoically, as her daughter was made to look a bit of a fool. Now I'm more open to the idea, I suppose. She has an infinite capacity to disappoint.
I never thought myself capable of pitying Cina, much less a god, but there it is. Will she ever know?
As for me, the High Priestess - painfully attractive, I must note; while in her presence, I was acutely aware of the long months I spent alone in that desert - added some details to my understanding of what happened to us, maybe. There is a trace we bear, she said, though the ghostly remnants are apparently fading. We carry through us a trail of magic, and, according to the distracting priestess, it is reminiscent of the magic of The Immortals. Still, though, no clue why that magic anchored you, and then me, here.
One final note, one strange, discordant note, before I tuck you away and sink into a dreamless sleep - Li'Lain. I can't get a read on her. Still. She's been an enigma since I met her. My understanding is that her missing brother - missing, no, *stolen* in childhood - has been driving her for years, spurring her forward. And today, Gustavo managed to scry on him, to show him - and he wasn't that far from us, or at least, we were on the same plane. Strangely, I recognized his face - all those years ago in Ravenhold, some high-ranking political figure - and there he was, slitting the throat of some unlucky fool in the sand of the Shadowfell. Draudur Skuggi: a title, I think. Like something in a children's story, meant to scare.
I looked to her face when we saw, and there was so little reaction. Shock, maybe - I've seen it in plenty of wounded, and this must have been a hell of a wound.
On her request, we departed for the material plane; I wonder.
Road to Len Esari
18th of Utrandir, the beginning of Utrixia's winter.
We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.
Diving into the Wreck
Adrienne Rich - 1929-2012
Strange, heading to Len Esari, in this company of devotees of the Feathered One, I feel a certain familiar comfort. As if we aren’t that alone anymore - and we aren’t, of course, now that Gustavo has brought these incredible women to find us, save us - but it’s more than that, of course. She haunts me here. So much so that, when confronted with these strange devotees, without thought I slipped us into her image - she would be most at home here, would understand the expectations and the rituals, the proper way to proceed. I am exhausted, we are exhausted, and I needed to borrow her odd strength, if only for a moment.
This priestess, will she know the name Zel’inthuul? Is that the shadow the one called Neia sensed in us? Or is the shadow something else, the reason you were here, alone, all that time, all those years? Is this something you bear alone, and I bear only because I hold you inside me? I wish you could answer me, I wish I could tell you how whole I am now, how sure I am that we can confront anything at all, now. All these years emptied out, finally over…
This place is so odd, and the familiarity lingers - that trip we took to Granmukata, meeting her family, walking the halls of a temple to their god - and getting the distinct impression that their faith is as much political as it is religious. Visiting the grand temple of Utrixia, which didn’t quite dwarf their temple, though I teased her it did. And the constant press of the continent too close, danger too near to ever truly relax, feeling you inside me, always a target to those monsters who run an empire founded on blood and cruelty. We weren’t born for levity, were we?
Final note, one of annoyance, frankly: must these damn elves be so attractive?
Solitude's End
18th of Utrindir
Low on berries, exhausted by the last of the mushrooms - they carry so little water, their plump gills shriveling in this cursed dark arid desert; under me, the ground rumbles with its footsteps, one after the other, inexorable, inescapable, inevitable. I have one path of escape, one chance to flee, and it takes all my bloody-mindedness not to use it now...or now...or now. There must be something else to draw its attention; I need a distraction.
I've seen that damn giant raven again, briefly, as it wheeled across the corner of the sky. I wonder if it's Hers.
Grateful I've done nothing personally to offend Her. Grateful to have kept my name from Her mouth - though there is that awful twinge, this damned twisting of our lives, still, after all these years. Can't ever quite get away from her, not really, not even crossing a continent, beginning a new life - here I am, in this awful half-light, in a place she would relish, a place she would move silently and without complaint. Yet it's me here, not her - godless in the God-dwelling place.
Plod, rumble, drag, plod. All day, all night. Sometimes I wonder if it's trying to smell me. I stay silent and still, against this crumbling ruin, the only steady companion we have here. How long have I been at this? I can't last much longer. Not sure I want to.
We reach out, we scan, we beg. Sometimes there's a snatch of sleep, but never enough. If I could predict when that damn giant bird is preparing to swoop by, I could activate my last best chance to survive, call up a blinding mount and fly the hells away from here - but here, nothing is reliable.
Wait.
Wait - WAIT.
Gustavo?! Is this possible? STAY BACK - OR HURRY TO ME. HURRY!
Waking to the Shadowfell
18th of Utrindir
I awake, home again, in our bed, whole and warm and safe. The blankets smell faintly of lavender and sex. The pillow beside me is cold; I am alone in a place that is not.
In a home that is gone.
My face is whole, my breast unmarred.
This town is not my town. This place is not real. Faceless creatures pass me, no birds sing, no wind touches me. In the simulacrum of the temple, on the altar: an unfamiliar blade. The altar is covered in blood, sticky, congealing. I reach out to touch the pommel, to examine it, and pain lances through me. Pain, and something else. Holding the blade, that night flashes through me, more than I knew I had seen....
...
...
I awake again, naked and alone, ethereal chains around my wrists. I reach inside me, and the magic is elusive, slippery, like the freshwater eels that would swim past our legs in summertime...
I walk. Darkness around me, and I walk. And I walk. Rest is short, unfulfilling, always disturbed.
I feel my magic coil around my being. I reach for it, unloose the last of my power, targeting myself - *Banishment*. The familiar release, the recoil, and then...nothing.
I don't quite know why, but I'm not surprised. What could surprise me here?
In a stupor, I walk on.
Time passes, walking. Endless walking. Sounds I don't recognize. Unfamiliar, unsettling light. Purple darkness pooling around me.
In the distance, a single, small point of light - the only feature of this landscape. The soles of my feet whisper across the dark powdery ground. I walk on.
Slowly, the light grows.
I walk. I feel eyes on my back; I am not alone, but I am not ashamed or afraid. Not yet.
I walk. Before me, there stands a figure, obscure in the low light, though there is a gleam of plate, of shield. Pace quickens. I approach her - I approach me - my face. My scar. Hovering in front of my chest, a glowing red stone, polished. Beautiful, malevolent, I can't tell. Everything here is strange. It feels cool in my palm; I take a breath with unreal lungs and *pull*. The gem comes away in my hand; I close my eyes. I open my eyes. My shoulders ache, my head pounds, my plate is heavy, my mouth dry. I'm alive. I'm...somewhere. Good enough.
....
My feet continue forward, body heavy, endless forward motion to - where?
Through the fog of this trudging exhaustion, I hear something new, moving slowly, sounding heavy: footsteps, a long gait: big. It’s caught my scent, I think. It's hunting me. I hide. I am so tired, and I hide. I see its outline against the ever-murky sky: massive, colossal, unfathomable. I hide. And hide. And hide.
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