Ysabrylla caranthe Irian

still a Work in Progress!! but this is an in-depth backstory of a character that I play in a game, write about in other mediums. I'll be back in to add/edit as things progress.

WIP

*Rin almost drowning
*getting the boys clothes from the tree
*Ysa breaking her leg
*the dance around the fire
*the elven attack
*attacked on the road to Segav
*Vampires attack
*Irians save ‘em
*They get turned
*training
*into the courts as Chevalier

*turned into Sophs
*sold

Two girls ran up the hill, similarly figured and featured, though so different in bearing and coloring it caused no small amount of confusion. One of the pair ran with a bit more grace. Red curls and brown eyes contrasted with the black hair and lichen eyes of the other who ran with longer strides.

“Ysa... Ysa wait up!”

The black haired girl stopped and turned, watching her sister come bounding up the path with far more agility than she had managed.
“I don’t know why you insist on this, Ysa” The one with russet curls demanded, crossing her arms.

The first girl grinned and reached into a hollow in the tree and drew out a small bundle tied in oil cloth. Untying the bundle revealed a pair of brown breeches and an oversized shirt. Scrambling out of her own green smock, she pulled on the breeches and yanked on the shirt.

“What? this is far more comfortable and more practical than that dress” she said, kicking the offending garment on the ground.

“But you’re so much prettier in green than you are in... that” her nose wrinkled in distaste.
Ysabrylla grinned as she tied her hair back with a length of string. As she finished the knot, she leaned forward and kissed her twin on the nose “donning blues and purples doesn’t make the rest of us as pretty as a flower they do you.” she straightened “and if I can’t be as pretty as you, I don’t want to bother being pretty at all”

She gathered the discarded garments and rolled those now in the cloth, which she replaced in the tree. Stretching until she stood on her tip-toes, she relaxed and looked down at herself, musing.

“There is one thing I am glad of”
“and what is that?”
“that thus far it looks like you and I might keep our more...” she gestured suggestively in front of herself “simple... forms” she finished a bit lamely. “I like not having to worry about curves and shifting. It looks uncomfortable” her own face wrinkled in dislike. Mirrina sighed, crossing her arms in front of her own chest.

“I do hope I grow any” Ysa groused. Rin stifled some chuckles which Ysa tried to ignore, but a heartbeat later a sheepish grin crept across her face. Turning on her heel and running off into the woods, Mirrina sighed “but you are pretty, Ysa”

Mirrina chased after her sister anyway.

~~~~

Ysabrylla had been climbing trees. It was her new favorite thing to do when father chased her off. As time passed he seemed to tolerate her tomboyish tendencies less and less and rather than argue or fight, Ysabrylla retreated to the forest and tree tops. Sitting in a particularly favored oak, one leg hooked over a branch as she sat in the crook of the trunk and another branch, she thoughtfully munched on an apple. Rin was playing with some of the others their age, down at the pond. She had declined, insisting that she had other things to do besides hang out with other ‘knee scrapers’ she had managed to exclude Rin in all that, though thinking back on it, she had perhaps been a bit harsh. Getting down to the core of the apple now, she looked at her own knees, which were perhaps more bruised than most of the other lad’s knees there. The girls had also been terribly affronted and refused to speak to her. Only one of the boys had shyly tried to defend his honor and that of his friends before she had skulked off into the underbrush.


_____
As the newest procurement on the DuVale farm, Ysabrylla was brought in front of the others. Very few even looked up, only two years of slavery and so many of them seemed broken already... these creatures that were centuries old masters of the night and death reduced to bent-backed sycophants. She pitied them... and fervently vowed to never become broken as they were. Though a few looked up, one or two even recognized her, elbowing their neighbor, who in turn scowled at the former Irian. More than a century of practice kept her expression an unmovable mask of neutrality.  It seemed here that some old prejudices remained. She stifled a sigh as she was shoved in line with the others to receive their evening meal, served in a small poorly made vitar. No one spoke to her... she could hear the whispered conversations around her... though to most ears nothing would be audible. One aspect of their previous existence they retained was the ability to speak through their blood via proximity. It was these whisperings that she heard, though she could not make out what they were saying, exactly. After they’d been fed, she was ushered to a small bunk house which she would be sharing with a few other women... all of whom ignored her as she climbed into the empty bed, returning the favor. Curling up on her side, she stared into the dark room, oblivious to the others present and tried to focus on her sister... on memories... anything other than where she was...

The years went by slowly and bleakly, the time spent was grueling and filled with hardships and beatings. Her... owner, Bolric DuVale, was a hard, cruel, and shrewd man who had managed to father children much like himself upon a poor woman who quavered like a mouse at her husband’s approach. She herself was kind, and good... but so scared, wilting at the slightest tremor of her husband’s temper. Though two children seemed to be decent and good, the eldest , Gavin, and one of the younger, Leonard... or Leo as he preferred. The few youngest were still too little to tell... but over the years, most of them turned cruel. But not Gavin, who seemed to strive to be a hero of sorts to the slaves of his father’s farm. Helping some to escape, aiding others when she could not, even sneaking them extra blood when Bolric forgot to feed them, or denied them intentionally. She never spoke to him, and he seemed to barely notice her excepting a single instance- once he came by with some ointment when she had been beaten particularly severely after having been accused of breaking a dish and spilling the contents on a favored rug of Bolric’s. Truthfully it had been a child who had done this thing, but she had sent the young girl scurrying off while she picked up the pieces, kneeling in soup, and taking the blame.Gavin said nothing after hearing the story from the girl and the few who had seen it. Ysabrylla was lapsing in and out of awareness, grateful for the times when she wasn’t awake and aware that her back had been shredded by a whip... she heard nothing of this exchange, only dimly coming to her senses as Gavin knelt and helped to ply the poultice; his eyes met her eyes and something of a grim understanding passed between them, and then he left. Not much longer after that incident he left the farm for good. That day she had watched as Bolric had drawn the fangs from several Crueans... he tried to ostensibly have a reason other than pure delight in cruelty and anger at his son, but that thin veneer didn’t last long once the howls of pain filled the air. She felt hot tears threaten to gather in her eyes as a lump rose in her throat... there was nothing she could do to help them, not this time. She only hoped that they knew that.

In her near 20 years of being their guardian, there was scarce an inch on her back that was not scarred. Scars meant little to her late at night when they’d stop by and offer thanks as best they could in their circumstances... on the rare occasion that thanks were even offered, but the knowing glances were enough most of the time.

The day Brooks was hired as an overseer was a dark day indeed. He was as cruel as his employer, and loved to braid broken glass into his whips, which he would use without any provocation. But the worst of it was when he would corner the women alone at night. When this first started, the anger and helplessness she felt nearly made her physically ill and it was not long until she and a few of the more brave souls started to make plans, however desperate they were, but fear stilled their hands until it was too late . It was dark, and late, and Ysabrylla was finishing up the stables when hands grabbed her from behind and threw her into a stall. Looking up at Brook’s face she knew what he aimed to do to her, and something snapped. seemingly seconds later, she was held by some of the other overseers, restraining her. Brooks lay in a bloody heap on the stall floor, cradling his face and whimpering. Something was pressed over her face and darkness took over.

When she woke the next morning, she was chained to The Ring. The Ring was a solid metal hoop behind Bolric’s house that had a chain and a collar. They were of gnomish make, and if any pressure was exerted to try to break either the collar or the chain, the collar would crush the neck of whomever was wearing it. The Ring was away from any shelter or anything else that might conceivably be used to either escape or be of comfort. It was seldom used, though when it was Bolric would leave the offender there until nearly starving them, but they were generally released after they’d been made an example of. Nearly a week passed until she woke up one morning, seeing all gathered before her. Brooks was absent. Bolric glared at her, though not without the gleam in his eye. “This” he addressed the rest of the slaves “is what a dead girl looks like” she glanced to him and glanced to the others. They stared back, some of them with tears on their faces. She could feel the pleading written on her own expression.

“This” he kicked her “is what happens when you fight back” he kicked her again.
“You die... alone, hungry, burning” the maliciousness on his face was an intensity she’d not seen before.

“Anyone... and I do mean anyone, who helps her, will die too. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” He thundered at the rest of them, and they flinched. Ysabrylla looked to their faces, trying to catch their eyes... she’d helped them all over the years, bled for them, been burned for them... and no one would meet her gaze. No one could. She felt despair starting to well up, and panic as the hope drained out her and she started to shake.

“No... oh no”  her mouth went dry as one by one they all turned and left, giving her up for dead already. Dead.

That night was the longest she could recall. The time after that slowly faded into a monochrome blanket of monotony as her fate slowly sunk in.

Dead. She was dead... wasn’t she? Dead.

Another night had come as she lay there, the chain around her neck, staring off into the distance watching the clouds roll in. A storm was coming.

But she was dead, and dead girls don’t care.

Dead.

Four figures approached her body, she eyed them. Brooks leered down at her, his eyes rimmed with blotches of purple from where she had attacked him before, breaking his nose.... and his three cronies. She didn’t know their names. The smiles they wore might have frightened even her, were she alive. But she was dead, and there was aught they could do now. Bolric surveyed her, a disgusted look on his face as he aimed the first kick to her head. The others, grinning, seemingly inspired to such great heights by the initial action of their gang-leader, brought out the boughs from behind their backs and started beating her. The pain was indescribable, bones broke, skin split and blood ran first in rivulets and then in rivers absorbed by the uncaring earth.

Eventually, and for reasons unknown to the deadgirl, Brooks called a halt. He grabbed her by her hair and held her face upwards towards his-

“I want you to lay here, in the dirt, girl” putting all his venom and hatred into that lone word “I want you to rot in the sun, and I want you to regret ever havin’ thought of doin’ anything other than what I wanted you to do” he dropped her face. He made a noise of disgust, rose, spat on her and turned to leave. One of his cronies started to make a noise of protest- taking a big long stride over to her he started to edge up her skirt with his boot in an obscene manner

“aw, Brooks... ye sure we can’t have... a little fun?” He whined.

“I said NO” apparently this had come up before, though why Brooks would care about the desecration of a corpse was beyond her. Eventually they left, leaving her broken body to throb as the storm broke overhead.

The thunder rolled over her as the wild lament that she could not herself utter...
dead girls don’t cry over corpses.

And then the rain came.

---

Time passed. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. What was time to the dead? Since the night of the storm, it had not rained and no clouds came. She had not shifted from that spot, moving only to lay on her stomach. She had not moved since.  
Dim

The sun sought to cleanse her by fire... though it was too late. Her pale Irian skin had burned, blistered, festered and bled, peeled and blistered again. The blood had run and dried in tiny rivulets down her limbs, drying in striations that offered variance from the rest of the dirt that had collected on her while she decomposed in the heat of the noon.

Sad

The only living thing that came near since that night was a crow... or was it a raven? she couldn’t be sure. She must not have been putrid enough to tempt it yet, for though they were carrion birds, they would not touch her body.... her flesh tainted by that man. Those men.

Dead

But yet the bird returned, day after day to watch until the flesh fell from her bones. How much longer would that take? She’d been dead for long enough now, and left to rot in the sun, shouldn’t she be nothing but ooze?... The bird hopped closer. She met its gaze with her own cloudy corpse-stare. It cocked its head at her and cawed. She blinked.

Damn

Another day rose, this one might be the day her soul finally left this hell... she could feel the shell breaking... maybe today she would be food for the crows and fade away until nothing was left... just her sister and a smear in the dirt.

Noises and shouts came from over the hill, perhaps another body would soon be made near hers. She paid it no more mind, until a shadow crossed her blurry vision. She didn’t redirect her gaze or flinch when someone came over and cried out. The shadow left and more angry voices could be heard.

“no, she’s alive, if only barely”
Quiet comments and hushed whisperings, anger. Footsteps crunching over towards her body.

who could they be speaking of?

Bolric stood above her, nose wrinkling at the smell.... cannot stand the stench of death, the b*****d. She gave some thought to haunting him when her soul shook loose. But to her surprise he bent down and unlocked the collar about her neck. And then someone else picked her up gently, so as not to let a limb fall off... or shatter a bone, and carried her to some with the markings of hospitallers on them
To bury me... I’m being granted a burial. How...foolish.  

They all took one look at her and went to work, applying poultices, wiping away the worst of the grime... she didn’t understand it. She was dead, just wind her in a sheet and drop her in a ditch and be done with it.

Dead.

A bottle was held to her cracked lips and tilted up... some far off voice told her to drink, and her body seemed to obey, a vast cavern opening up inside, parched river beds cracked from neglect- suddenly the moisture down her throat wasn’t enough. That bottle was soon empty, and another in it’s place. Countless it seemed, her hunger and thirst grew as more and more blood was forced back into her... bringing her back to life through the blood and life of others, she drew her first breath again, shuddering and painful.

“how is she?” a voice came from over her shoulder... she did not see who, nor did she care.

“improving, Marquis” came a hesitating, tremulous reply from a thin wisp of a woman. The figure moved around to stand over her, his face impassive. Their eyes met a moment before he nodded and turned on his heel towards his carriage, seemingly satisfied with what he saw.

“more” she croaked, and another bottle was pressed to her lips. Her limbs were still too heavy to move, but she could feel herself improving... gaining will and iron back into her body. She pushed herself up into a sitting position and drained another bottle. They offered her another, but she pushed it away, trying to stand to the sounds of protests. She bore her fangs at them and they retreated a small distance away as her weak knees gave out. Trying again yielded success, and she stood, shaking. She stared unseeing out at the holdings before, speech falling on deaf ears... somehow, through twists and turns and darker happenings, she was alive once more. The crow settled in the branches above her, she paid it little heed, only coming back to the present when someone pushed a small bundle into her arms... they had been her things before she had died. She felt the weight in her arms and slowly looked down at them, as everything was cast in a surreal light. Someone tried to speak to her, and she ignored them. Ignored them all.

The Marquis had mentioned traveling to New Haven as a gathering point for the sopheratu, that perhaps they could soon have someplace to call home... perhaps... perhaps eventually. First she knew what she had to do.

“Which way towards Talos?” someone pointed in a vague direction, puzzlement on their face. She nodded and started walking with heavy steps. Voices called out, some pleading, others questioning. She ignored them all, turning her back on them as they had on her. The Ysabrylla they had known died. She was another being entirely. And as she took those heavy steps forward, determination solidifying her ambition, she knew that she would not know fear again... she would be the knife in the dark, and they would fear her.

And oh, how they would tremble.

Epilogue:

The few months she spent training in Talos had been brutal and terrible. But she survived, a few new scars meant nothing. She was faster, darker, deadlier. That meant nothing, nothing did... except the hunt and the kill. She sat hunched in the darkness, crouching and waiting... Brooks would be leaving the tavern soon... soon... soon... she whispered to herself within the vaults of her mind, a rhythmless lullaby. She unsheathed her dagger and tested the edge once more.

More time passed and soon her quarry left the tavern, wavering slightly. She felt the predatory grin of delight slide across her face like a curtain closing. Running her tongue across her fangs she flicked a coin out of her hand and watched it bounce and roll down the alley and across the street, catching Brook’s eye, and then continue rolling into the alley across the way. The man’s greedy eyes watched it bounce and roll and soon stumbled after it, going into the shadows opposite. Ysabrylla stood and silently like the shade she’d become, moved to follow the man into the alley, away from eyes and those that might raise voices in alarm. She came up behind him and threw him down, knocking the wind from his lungs. He tried to gasp and call out, but all he did was wheeze as his watery eyes fell on her, sudden recognition and horror blooming on his face. He tried to scramble away, but she fell on him, catching him easily as she kicked his support from under him, pressing her weight on him. He regained his breath, but before he could scream, she grabbed his neck and pinched, twisting... she knew where now, and how. She crushed his windpipe and the panic that had been there on his face left, leaving a base terror so complete it was almost a palpable sensation as he writhed in pain and horror. She smiled, almost benevolently as she broke his leg... and then the other. Pushing him down further, she started to carefully snap his ribs. He tried desperately to defend himself, trying to piteously to call out and plea. She stood, watching his face turn purple as he clawed at his throat, striving for that breath that would save him. It would never come, not now... picking him up and throwing him down onto his front, she knelt over him, pulling his head up by his hair as she took her dagger and slit his throat from ear to ear, letting the blood spray down the alley. Standing she watched as Brooks twitched and spasmed, dancing his own corpse’s dance. Finally, when he lay still she dragged him back to the end of the alley and lay him with the other three bodies.

As with the others, she sliced a button off of his coat and tucked it in with the others in her pouch. She watched impassively a moment, and then turned to walk out of the alley. A dark bird had been perching, watching, the beady dark eyes marking her as she left. She watched back, smiling-

“Good... let them watch. Let them know.”

She threw down her sleeping roll some miles outside the small town off in the woods. She built no fire and made no other preparations, such would leave a footprint larger than the one she was already making. When she woke in the grey pre-dawn light there was a small bundle that had not been there prior. On top was a gilded card of Fire Seoban make, upon opening it she saw that is was an invitation to a ball... tucked inside the invitation had been a note on plain parchment written in non-descript lettering:

“Here you will meet others on the same path as you”

it was unsigned. Did the note refer to her path towards New Haven? Or... perhaps her talonic path? It might also be a trap. Either way...

She undid the bundle and found some Seoban style clothes that would suit for a ball... and within her own bag she had a mask she had kept from the courts. Puzzling over this change in plans, she rose and slung her bag across her back, making way towards this new destination. She would come back for Bolric later...

She would find her sister yet, and her path would continue to reveal itself in due time. Massagon was not done with her yet, nor she with it.

The sun broke through, blinding her a moment. It was the start of a new day.

In the Present:

She sat, perched rather, upon a bough in an ancient tree overlooking the town. Her wings shrouded around her, the tendrils of shadow eddying in the wind that gently pushed past the branches. It carried with it the scents of the forest, and of some of the other encampments- smells of earth, loam, plants, fires, masses of bodies... she opened her mouth slightly to taste the air letting it roll over her tongue. She slowly breathed it out. There was an increasing amount of activity on the Maw, and troubling news... troubling events. She sighed and shifted the heel of her boot some, the branch creaking in reproach. Months later, and the dual memories from her dual lives still rolled and roiled in her head. Some days she could almost make sense of the pandemonium, others it seemed as though one side must be lost for the other to thrive and yet this is what neither wanted. Claerwen’s cool, more stately logic held firm in those moments, while the human in her reeled angrily for some sort of answer, someone to hold accountable to fix this situation and the injustice they had been subject to. The only answer she had was the sadness and resignation from her other half. Tonight both were at peace- they were reaching the end of this, and things needed to be settled once and for all.

Her eyes strayed to the tower in the distance, lingering there for

Author's Note

not edited. Not even a little bit.
Not even done yet.