Lucia Patafica
Lucia Patafica
Pride and its competing desire to live have haunted Lucia for years now. She yearns for freedom, but her illness has limited her choices. She could become a devotee of a Demon-God cult, and be rid of it, if that were even true. Had she given up her dreams of studying the sword to exclusion of much else, and consorted with demons in Roseland perhaps they would have kept her alive... if they didn't disown her for the illness anyway.
She made her living roaming through towns and dueling for money, getting into too many alley fights, and run out of town from time to time from dueling accidents. The money was short and never enough. Her possessions and life slowly deteriorated, and so she joined the Band of the Unfettered Dawn hoping for a greater pay to keep her condition from getting even worse.
Though war makes ill use of a soft-spoken duelist.
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Thin and light, she appears weak and fragile, as well as sickly and wasting.
Body Features
Pale, pallid skin, especially when she has been a while without Lotus of Dream
Special abilities
Stabbing
Apparel & Accessories
Tends towards covering dresses, and heavy rain cloaks, with a lighter one in the summer. As her need to spend money on Lotus of Dream has risen, the fashion and colour of her dress has dimmed and dulled.
Mental characteristics
Personal history
“Despite everything and least of all you, I am still yet here. And here I will yet remain In a few minutes.” Lucia’s words barely reached past her lips in the stormy alley that hammered rain. Two footpads lay on the ground already, blood so outnumbered by water they looked more sleeping than dead, and two more stood with the aggrieved man still waiting between her and the street.
This wasn’t uncommon anymore, but the fights themselves were but the barest of inconveniences. The men who took the greatest offenses to the loss were often the weaker fighters. Fighting in an alley was even more foolishness. She stepped forward with her left foot, and felt it give way, falling against the wall as the ever-persistent fever blurred her vision. Her three opponents seized the opportunity with a mingle shout she couldn’t hear over the ringing in her ears. The mistake they made; the mistake that led to their death was thinking her weak, not weakened. Muddying her dress even further she continued her fall straight to the ground, avoiding a rapidly swung sword from the first footpad. Even over the rain she could smell his stink. A blind quinte with her main-gauche parried the second swing into the dirt. The third man, the Wonly slightly more dangerous one, took his passot in both hands and swung it down at her. Her rapier came to meet it and turn it aside with quatre, rising to a knee. With almost negligent riposte she pushed past her quatre blade-to-blade and sunk the rapier into the man’s heart. A rising prime from her main gauche matched the withdrawal of her rapier to deflect a wide swing from the first footpad who had swung to the wall, and she had her feet back to whirl around and past the second man in a passing fleche. Before the heart-struck man even fell dead, she had sunk her rapier into the second foodpad’s spine and withdrawn. Now her back was to street and the last footpad was trapped. Blood dripped from her lips as she managed a sad smile at him. Not from any injury, but illness. With her dirtied dress and rain plastered hair, pale as death, she imagined she didn’t cut an imposing figure, but nevertheless she would have spared the man who likely was only in this for gold, probably the crowns in her very purse. She would have, at least, had he dropped his weapon when he attempted to flee. There was no stroke towards her, but she could not risk it. As he ran at her blade in hand, her motion was far swifter. Through his sword-hand the main-gauche went, pinning through his wrist, and her rapier up his chin as his running towards her never stopped. Both blades withdrew before his body made contact with hers, and he fell behind her, limply grasping towards the rainy street. The two footpads might live, maybe, if they were lucky. One would certainly never walk again and the other never speak even if they did. They were crying in pain in the alley as she carefully cleaned her blades and putting them back through the loops at her waist. Well, she wanted to live through something many would give up on, why finish them off? They could take their own lives or struggle to survive like her, assuming they lived the night. Her boots splashed through the muddy, bloody puddles with deliberate steps as she half-stumbled into the street proper, using the wall for support as she headed back towards where she was staying, where her medicine was. “Should have brought an umbrella.” She muttered to herself as she pushed herself along the empty street. No sane person would be out right now, and she could see some children gawking at her from a leaded streetside window, pulling back as her forearm pressed against it for support. This wasn’t working. Dueling fops and braggarts for money, sharking them with her sickly appearance. Towns and cities caught on quick, and she had to move frequently, or was forced to ahead of pursuants. Almost every penny she won went to the Lotusmasters. And those too caused her to have to move constantly, depleting their stores, or at least their willing stores after not long. In the most desperate of times she had stolen the precious flower from them to survive. The truth was this fever and their accompanying fever-dreams were killing her as surely as they were without the Lotus of Dream, just slower and more lingeringly. She needed something better. Not one of those two-faced cults who lied for obedience, dripfeeding their members the flower in return for little more than abject slavery. Her mouth felt so dry. She leaned against the wall, sliding down it from her legs giving out again. She grabbed into her purse, reaching for a small water flask, containing her last dose of now cold, days old tea. She drank it with only a small amount of hesitation; first she had to survive today. And to quench her thirst she let it fill after with rainwater while she waited for the Lotus of Dream to take effect, sitting on the cobble in the midst of a cold storm. At least water was free.
This wasn’t uncommon anymore, but the fights themselves were but the barest of inconveniences. The men who took the greatest offenses to the loss were often the weaker fighters. Fighting in an alley was even more foolishness. She stepped forward with her left foot, and felt it give way, falling against the wall as the ever-persistent fever blurred her vision. Her three opponents seized the opportunity with a mingle shout she couldn’t hear over the ringing in her ears. The mistake they made; the mistake that led to their death was thinking her weak, not weakened. Muddying her dress even further she continued her fall straight to the ground, avoiding a rapidly swung sword from the first footpad. Even over the rain she could smell his stink. A blind quinte with her main-gauche parried the second swing into the dirt. The third man, the Wonly slightly more dangerous one, took his passot in both hands and swung it down at her. Her rapier came to meet it and turn it aside with quatre, rising to a knee. With almost negligent riposte she pushed past her quatre blade-to-blade and sunk the rapier into the man’s heart. A rising prime from her main gauche matched the withdrawal of her rapier to deflect a wide swing from the first footpad who had swung to the wall, and she had her feet back to whirl around and past the second man in a passing fleche. Before the heart-struck man even fell dead, she had sunk her rapier into the second foodpad’s spine and withdrawn. Now her back was to street and the last footpad was trapped. Blood dripped from her lips as she managed a sad smile at him. Not from any injury, but illness. With her dirtied dress and rain plastered hair, pale as death, she imagined she didn’t cut an imposing figure, but nevertheless she would have spared the man who likely was only in this for gold, probably the crowns in her very purse. She would have, at least, had he dropped his weapon when he attempted to flee. There was no stroke towards her, but she could not risk it. As he ran at her blade in hand, her motion was far swifter. Through his sword-hand the main-gauche went, pinning through his wrist, and her rapier up his chin as his running towards her never stopped. Both blades withdrew before his body made contact with hers, and he fell behind her, limply grasping towards the rainy street. The two footpads might live, maybe, if they were lucky. One would certainly never walk again and the other never speak even if they did. They were crying in pain in the alley as she carefully cleaned her blades and putting them back through the loops at her waist. Well, she wanted to live through something many would give up on, why finish them off? They could take their own lives or struggle to survive like her, assuming they lived the night. Her boots splashed through the muddy, bloody puddles with deliberate steps as she half-stumbled into the street proper, using the wall for support as she headed back towards where she was staying, where her medicine was. “Should have brought an umbrella.” She muttered to herself as she pushed herself along the empty street. No sane person would be out right now, and she could see some children gawking at her from a leaded streetside window, pulling back as her forearm pressed against it for support. This wasn’t working. Dueling fops and braggarts for money, sharking them with her sickly appearance. Towns and cities caught on quick, and she had to move frequently, or was forced to ahead of pursuants. Almost every penny she won went to the Lotusmasters. And those too caused her to have to move constantly, depleting their stores, or at least their willing stores after not long. In the most desperate of times she had stolen the precious flower from them to survive. The truth was this fever and their accompanying fever-dreams were killing her as surely as they were without the Lotus of Dream, just slower and more lingeringly. She needed something better. Not one of those two-faced cults who lied for obedience, dripfeeding their members the flower in return for little more than abject slavery. Her mouth felt so dry. She leaned against the wall, sliding down it from her legs giving out again. She grabbed into her purse, reaching for a small water flask, containing her last dose of now cold, days old tea. She drank it with only a small amount of hesitation; first she had to survive today. And to quench her thirst she let it fill after with rainwater while she waited for the Lotus of Dream to take effect, sitting on the cobble in the midst of a cold storm. At least water was free.
Gender Identity
Female
Education
Neglected her parents education once she discovered her love for the sword. She can read and write, but her level is somewhat low.
Employment
Duelist-for-money, Mercenary (recently)
Morality & Philosophy
Survive
Personality Characteristics
Likes & Dislikes
Likes: Teas, wines, swordplay, music, sport, long baths in warmed water, the smell of rain and loam, the smell of spices and fragrant soups
Dislikes: Having to shout, the smell and smoke of black powder, the smell of oil-torches, gouging Lotusmasters, being extremely... 'visible' or the center of attention for a group of people. Being in front of others in a duel is fine, but all eyes being on her in specific rather than on the event makes her uncomfortable
Dislikes: Having to shout, the smell and smoke of black powder, the smell of oil-torches, gouging Lotusmasters, being extremely... 'visible' or the center of attention for a group of people. Being in front of others in a duel is fine, but all eyes being on her in specific rather than on the event makes her uncomfortable
Hygiene
As cleanly as possible
Social
Family Ties
Severed when she refused to even be interested in magical talents and demon consortation to focus on swordplay and bloodsport. 'Stained-daughter'. This severance was seen as the correct move when she shortly came down with Dream Fever afterwards.
Even her last name reflects the loss of her family
Even her last name reflects the loss of her family
Religious Views
They're just greater demons with swollen heads. Serving them and being religious doesn't suit Lucia. She is far from an athiest or agnostic, she's just ambivalent.
Hobbies & Pets
Dueling, and similar athletics. Running was a hobby of hers till she started to have to be a lot more focused on her footwork. Things that rush her fevered blood, and make her feel alive, forgetting her deterioration. She is a moderately skilled harpist as well.
No pets, though she does like animals. Her traveling doesn't suit more than a beast of burden or a horse and she can't afford them
Speech
Soft-spoken, Lucia's voice is very quiet.
Wealth & Financial state
Poor from constantly having to buy Lotus of Dream to keep herself alive.
Ethnicity
Age
26
Birthplace
Roselands
Children
Current Residence
The most comforting patch of moss on the ground, with a bedroll spread overtop
Gender
Female
Eyes
Brown
Hair
Blue (Blue-Black)
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
Caucasian, especially pale
Height
5'3
Weight
99 lbs
Aligned Organization
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