Vyn, The Palebinder
| Age 32 |
| Gender Female |
| Origin Nomadic Devahni |
| Occupation Busker/Traveler |
„Even the most spectral touch leaves prints.“
— Vynella Audrin, Pathlight of the Wagons of Elum
— Vynella Audrin, Pathlight of the Wagons of Elum
Appearance
| Height 6' |
| Build Slender |
| Hair Dark, Straight, Long |
| Eyes Yellow |
A slender figure, tall even among her own people, her horns can often be seen sticking out from afar. Constantly clothed in loose fitting and well-worn travel robes, her attire rarely accounts for the weather. The dress was red once, but now it seems faded, worn and stained in uneven splotches. Her eyes don't catch too much attention during the day, but as they glow after dusk - their yellow tint and elongated pupil remind of a predator. Long dark hair almost melds into two horns of similar tint. Starting at the temples, they curve back under her hair only to stick back out, crowning her head.
Personality
Vyn lives on a line between shadow and spotlight. Skipping between them as the world demands.
When met by strangers she's warm and quick-witted. Magnetic in a practiced way. A performer who earns her bread by juggling fire and knives as well as telling stories. She works hard at being likeable, because those who are liked don't get accused of what she's doing. Vyn throws and spins distractions while watching everyone just a bit too closely.
Underneath, there is another one. The one who measures everything. The one who cannot afford distraction. She measures how much color the Pale have consumed. How much blood can she spare before they start getting ideas.
She is not a fighter. Not really. She works her magic like an elder teaching numbers to the younglings. What she does must be exact. A drop of blood too much or a word out of place could lead to a horrible outcome. She binds the fiends by ritual. But not only them. She also binds herself in caution and habit. She no longer lies, but omits instead. Just enough words and smiles for the gaps to be filled unassisted. Lie to a fiend long enough and it wanted more. Continue and it learned to lie back. Never again.
Among her own kind she is in a curious spot. Envious of those who could obtain their primal form where she couldn't - and they in turn envy her, for not many can weave.
The spirit of Loneliness she hides. There is no need to mention it. It lives in her eye, a reminder when the crowds disperse. It doesn't try to barter with her like the others, it simply keeps company. She's learned not to fear it. Respects it even. Sometimes she even talks to it. Sometimes it answers.
When met by strangers she's warm and quick-witted. Magnetic in a practiced way. A performer who earns her bread by juggling fire and knives as well as telling stories. She works hard at being likeable, because those who are liked don't get accused of what she's doing. Vyn throws and spins distractions while watching everyone just a bit too closely.
Underneath, there is another one. The one who measures everything. The one who cannot afford distraction. She measures how much color the Pale have consumed. How much blood can she spare before they start getting ideas.
She is not a fighter. Not really. She works her magic like an elder teaching numbers to the younglings. What she does must be exact. A drop of blood too much or a word out of place could lead to a horrible outcome. She binds the fiends by ritual. But not only them. She also binds herself in caution and habit. She no longer lies, but omits instead. Just enough words and smiles for the gaps to be filled unassisted. Lie to a fiend long enough and it wanted more. Continue and it learned to lie back. Never again.
Among her own kind she is in a curious spot. Envious of those who could obtain their primal form where she couldn't - and they in turn envy her, for not many can weave.
The spirit of Loneliness she hides. There is no need to mention it. It lives in her eye, a reminder when the crowds disperse. It doesn't try to barter with her like the others, it simply keeps company. She's learned not to fear it. Respects it even. Sometimes she even talks to it. Sometimes it answers.
Skills
Dancing
Juggling
Storytelling
Shroudweaving - Summoning
There are always rules. Vyn knows them well. Not because she fears punishment, but because she's the one stuck with the tab. Always paying the price.
The summons:
The Pale
Vyn's summons. She calls them The Pale because that's what Loneliness said about them. No warning or explanation. Just a name and fear in its voice. Milk colored shapes, hungry for color and blood. They can only be summoned with a blood sacrifice. She has since learned that it doesn't have to be her blood - but it must be sentient and it must be freely given. Blood of the sick, old and dying seems to be valued less than the blood given under duress. This blood in turn less valuable than her own. Her thoughts have wandered more than once - how much would the blood of children be worth? She remains sane enough to know some theories should never be tested. It seems that they value not only true consent, but the lifeforce of the one giving the blood differently. As they gorge on the blood, they become more colorful. The more color they hold, the more willful they become. The more blood they ask in turn. So far they seem to be split into two groups:
Most of what they offer is physical in nature. A fighter. A beast of burden. A scout. Another pair of hands. With each resummon stronger and smarter than before. With each return less obedient.
She keeps trying to alternate between the groups as she needs assistance, worried what might happen if one group became much smarter than the other. She thought she heard a beast call a humanoid sibling once, but only for a passing moment. She almost mistook it for a grunt. Almost. It has never happened again.
The Loneliness Spirit
The second spot is always taken. Loneliness is not like the Pale. Older, calmer, more patient and less hungry.
It is not a beast or a man. It is not cruel. Sometimes it even feels kind. But it hungers.
It wants her time and small pieces of her life.
And she is just lonely enough to keep paying.
Their contract is three renewals deep. It used to require relinquishing her body two days a season. Now? Once a fortnight. She is unsure when it will ask for more, or if it already is.
Loneliness does not take without giving.
Wherever she rests, the food is fresh. The water is clean. Her fire steady. Animals avoid her camp. Her sleep dreamless. She has not had a rough awakening in years.
Sometimes she wakes in the correct place. Sometimes she doesn't. The change in her location betraying the trade.
But her wounds are always bandaged, her camp made, her money untouched. Sometime she finds notes, jokes or recipes in her own handwriting. New Faces in her sketchbook. Maybe strangers, maybe not.
Sometimes people on the street act like they know her. And they might. Loneliness doesn't allow her to question. The only true dominant trait it has.
She is not afraid of it. Not yet.
But the more she gives, the more is taken. One day the question will change. Not "How much?". But "What's left?".
Juggling
Storytelling
Shroudweaving - Summoning
Explanation of her form of magic:
There are always rules. Vyn knows them well. Not because she fears punishment, but because she's the one stuck with the tab. Always paying the price.
1. Only two Summons may be active at once. One of these places hasn't been empty in over a decade.
2. The longer they return the more they demand.
3. The more they learn, less they resemble what first came through.
The summons:
The Pale
Vyn's summons. She calls them The Pale because that's what Loneliness said about them. No warning or explanation. Just a name and fear in its voice. Milk colored shapes, hungry for color and blood. They can only be summoned with a blood sacrifice. She has since learned that it doesn't have to be her blood - but it must be sentient and it must be freely given. Blood of the sick, old and dying seems to be valued less than the blood given under duress. This blood in turn less valuable than her own. Her thoughts have wandered more than once - how much would the blood of children be worth? She remains sane enough to know some theories should never be tested. It seems that they value not only true consent, but the lifeforce of the one giving the blood differently. As they gorge on the blood, they become more colorful. The more color they hold, the more willful they become. The more blood they ask in turn. So far they seem to be split into two groups:
1. The Beastkin - all of them very similar in shape and size to animals found around the world, but somehow slightly off. A fish with added tentacles and walking around, a snake with three ends, a bear with five legs, or a bird with two heads - something is distinctly off and foreign about each of them. They seem to hold a joint memory. Fears and knowledge transferred between different shapes visiting. It often makes her question if they are really all just one amorphous shape. An alien creature doing its best impression of the local wildlife. They never speak. Until they do.
2. The Humanoid Pale - They always seem to resemble people she knew in life, possibly stealing from the memories of the blood she fed them. Much better replicas than their animal counterparts, only slight imperfections in their mimicry. A little bit cross-eyed. Arms just a bit too long. Face slightly blurry. Similar enough to pass at a glance, but different enough that they raise hairs at the back of your neck in uncanny terror. They too share knowledge - but seemingly only among their own group. Whatever one knows, the others do. Neither group, animalistic or humanoid, seems to be aware of the other's experience.
Most of what they offer is physical in nature. A fighter. A beast of burden. A scout. Another pair of hands. With each resummon stronger and smarter than before. With each return less obedient.
She keeps trying to alternate between the groups as she needs assistance, worried what might happen if one group became much smarter than the other. She thought she heard a beast call a humanoid sibling once, but only for a passing moment. She almost mistook it for a grunt. Almost. It has never happened again.
The Loneliness Spirit
The second spot is always taken. Loneliness is not like the Pale. Older, calmer, more patient and less hungry.
It is not a beast or a man. It is not cruel. Sometimes it even feels kind. But it hungers.
It wants her time and small pieces of her life.
And she is just lonely enough to keep paying.
Their contract is three renewals deep. It used to require relinquishing her body two days a season. Now? Once a fortnight. She is unsure when it will ask for more, or if it already is.
Loneliness does not take without giving.
Wherever she rests, the food is fresh. The water is clean. Her fire steady. Animals avoid her camp. Her sleep dreamless. She has not had a rough awakening in years.
Sometimes she wakes in the correct place. Sometimes she doesn't. The change in her location betraying the trade.
But her wounds are always bandaged, her camp made, her money untouched. Sometime she finds notes, jokes or recipes in her own handwriting. New Faces in her sketchbook. Maybe strangers, maybe not.
Sometimes people on the street act like they know her. And they might. Loneliness doesn't allow her to question. The only true dominant trait it has.
She is not afraid of it. Not yet.
But the more she gives, the more is taken. One day the question will change. Not "How much?". But "What's left?".
Last edited: