Anski

Anski Solarclaw
Player	Anski
Title	<Wandering Warrior>
Gender	Female
Race	Blood Elf
Class	Swordmistress Rogue
Age	1100
Height	5'4"
Weight	109lbs
Eyes	Standard green, the right eye is heavily damaged from a large, vertical jagged scar. It consistently flickers in and out of the normal glow, indicating whether or not Anski is able to see out of it.
Hair	Orangered, cropped hastily into a down sloped short cut.
Affilliation(s)	The Sisterhood
Occupation	Warrior, Mentor
Relative(s)	Taelir Solarclaw, Father [Deceased]
Companion(s)	Camillia
Status	Alive

Apperance

A single, brown layered robe, tied at the waist by a hanging red sash.

Her face, however, is covered in hundreds upon hundreds of tiny, faded scars, and a handful mixed in of much larger, deeper, and more vibrant scars, all along her visible skin, enough to move with each change of facial expression. Her right eye has a particularly large, deep and red scar that reaches her hairline and ends at her lower cheek, jagged in all ways and clipping the eyebrow in the midrange.

Personality

Alignment: True Neutral

Anski is quiet, as quiet as they come. She does not speak unless she has something meaningful to say. Through this, she is silent and calculating in combat, and with others. Only to a select few does she "warm up" and begin to speak more, but only in privacy. She is a fighter, and believes in the concept of a warrior-at-heart. The world is but a battlefield to her, always, and there is no time for emotion to get in the way. Underneath her bitter and stoic persona lies a motherly woman who has a moving sense of compassion for those like her or close to her, which are few and far in between. Because of this, she is often ashamed to be herself and sees it as a weakness when revealed. It shapes the way she battles and looks at the world, but only far behind the scenes of her normal warrior ways.

History

A man left home that night, never to return.

A child had been born years earlier, and was growing to understanding, in the woods of Eversong, free from anguish and despair that plagued the lesser races. A simple childhood, raised to the mother and father in the profession of woodcutting, as many of them were. Just before she had grown of age, Anski Solarclaw watched her father leave the home in the dead of night, as her mother wept openly, and in great horror. The youth ran out into the woods, but Taelir Solarclaw had vanished, leaving behind his widow and daughter. Her mother said nothing other than her father was not returning.

The quaint high-elves took little notice to his disappearing, but those living in that part of the woods knew. As Anski grew into a woman, she was taught how an axe was swung, and how to cut through trees using magic. This was of little interest to her, as each day she walked into her home she had passed the stump where her fathers ax was still cut into, and each day she pressed her mother for answers. All she knew was that her father had left to meet someone in the dead of night, and did not return. Anski asked around the community, but nobody would talk, though many of them knew. In defeat, the high elf packed and left for Silvermoon at behest of her mother. Finding anyone she could with the little money she had, Anski spent the next two hundred years in training for forging swords, particularly thinly bladed ones. Folding and refolding of metal, straight hammer sharpening, she spent her days selling her blades to the public and her nights perfecting them to the best of her abilities. As the years grew on and the woman grew older, she had stockpiled enough money to run on independently, no longer needing to sell her swords. She returned to her mother. She crossed through the wind breezed forest at sunset, and arrived at night, walking barefoot into her own home. Her mother rose from the table to greet her, it had been years since they had spoken. The two sat down, and Anski listened in silence. When pressed by her mother over why she was not talking, Anski asked the question she had come back for. Her mother, through repeated questioning and a fit of tears, responded to her that her father had gone to settle a debt on his name with the man they owed gold to, in a duel. From what the locals had said, the man had snuck up on him and cut his throat, robbing him and leaving Taelir Solarclaw to perish in the river, found two days later. Anski consoled her crying mother and left again, returning to Silvermoon in the early peak of the morning, as people just started to get up for the day. Within her grip was a scroll of parchment with the name of the man on it, almost crushed to dust by her grip in anger. Sinior Feathersword.

Relentlessly, Anski had whittled away all of her money, making blade after blade. They stockpiled in boxes and barrels in her workshop, slaving night after night. None of them were good enough. As they finished and cooled, she struck them with all of her might against a target, most of them broke, a few bent, and a few cut, but never good enough. The next three hundred years, Anski meticulously made and sold blades, all of them imperfect to her, yet people still kept wanting them. She kept out of contact with nearly everyone, preferring the solitude of her work. She slept in her workshop, in a small room above it all within the city. Through this, her anger grew great from consistent failure. She smashed swords continuously, none of them good enough. With inherent determination, Anski gathered the best quality materials she could, pure silver and slivers of rare titanium, all of the metal went into the melting pot as she slaved over a handle of steel, spending hours on its balance while the metal heated. With the passion of revenge on her mind, the sword took nearly sixteen years to perfect, working slowly. The blade was destroyed and reforged multiple times. She sold her stockpiles of weapons, funding until the very last drop. Soon, the handle was wrapped and done. All it needed was the exact weight of the blade. The reforging took months, the melting and purification longer. She had nothing but time, like the rest of her race, to do these things. She struck and folded the blade with all of her rage, the parchment hanging on the wall with his name, and eventually his location and looks added to it. The dishonorable dog would die in dishonor, as did her father. After great lengths, the blade was done. It felt perfect in her hands, swinging back and forth, both hands gripped tightly. It was thin, and straight edge, with a blue wrapped handle. The blade shined in the light, polished over a hundred times before it was just sharp enough. With the weapon and the will, all Anski had lacked was a way. In the breadth of the evening, she locked up her shop and left to the forest in a hush of silence. Arriving at the home of the Feathersword, she watched. It was a small home, barely enough space for just one person. Outside was Sinior Feathermoon, smoking quietly in the dark. She rose from the hill overlooking the hut and walked calmly downward, dressed in a simple red robe. He stood up as she approached.

He asked what she was doing here, and she questioned him on whether she knew his father. He nodded and said he did know, and again asked what she was doing there. The only words she could choke out were revenge before she drew her quick blade and charged him. She tackled him through the open door into his home, smashing onto the edge of a table. He struck her across the face and she stumbled back, not used to fighting a real opponent. He charged her, and pushed her against the wall. Drawing a nearby cooking blade, he brought it up to her face, pressing against her throat. She was paralyzed, having dropped her blade in the clash, staring in fear. He pulled her up on the wall, one hand on the lower of her neck and the blade on the beginning curve of her upper neck. A flash of light struck outside as a nearby Mana Wyrm exploded, having reached the end of its lifespan, and he turned to look. Anski raised up her legs and kicked at him, Sinior falling backwards. She scrambled, grabbing her own blade and swinging just as he retaliated, the two weapons clashing loudly. They pressed to one another with all of their strength, Sinior eventually overtaking Anski in power. She slid downward and he brought up his swift dagger, cutting the left side of her face deeply, scratching the eye by a nanometer. She cried out, falling backwards and scrambling as blood gushed from her cheek and forehead. She held up one hand to her eye, crimson seeping between her fingers. He approached, ready to kill, as she swung wildly, the attack being blocked and the dagger catching her face one more time. In a rage of pain and mindlessness, she speared him through the chest with her thin, sharp blade, and Sinior dropped his blade. He hung there, suspended on the blade, looking at the younger elf in exasperation. From his chest pocket, he withdrew a small book. He tossed it to her weakly, before doubling over, perished. She tossed the sword and that it speared through to the side, pain becoming all she could feel. She blacked out soon after, collapsed from the intense pain.

When she awoke, she was in Silvermoon, surrounded by the guards in blue. The informed her that they had just barely saved her eye, and she could see from it, but it wouldn't ever be the same. As for the rest, she was also told in the infirmary that they were looking at two hundred years of imprisonment, for unjust murder. She protested, but they had none of it. On her possessions, of little she still had, Anski carried the book that the man had tossed to her in the last moments of his life. She opened in, trying not to move her face, and read. Sirion owned a great deal of land across the elven lands, including the home of Solarclaw. And, as she read on, her father owed a great deal of money to Sirion, in which he had gone to speak with him in the dark of the night. Taking his finest blade he could, Taelir Solarclaw challenged Sirion Featherblade to an honorable duel of blades, the winner absolved of all debt, having paid the greatest price. From the writing, Anski Solarclaw understood immediately. She had slain an innocent man.

She was jailed at two hundred and fifty years, alone. Her routine became daily, she rose, read, meditated and ate, as the cycle grew on. Her constant thoughts became about what she had done and the consequences of the actions. She took in multiple books about honor and humanity within the elven race, before writing everything she could in the remainder of the book that Sirion had given to her. The years fluttered past, as talk of new races being explored outward and confronted filled the prison dungeon. She heeded no mind, legs crossed and hands to her knees, eyes closed. Anski kept on in her quiet solace, the youthful drought of revenge was but a mystery to her, no longer tainting her heart or soul. She sat, and contemplated. Silence became the only thing she could trust in this day and age. Eventually, the arcane construct came and opened her cell door, without much warning, and the elf stood. She knew, the days were counted. Grabbing her few mortal remains, she was risen to sunlight, for the first time in years. Squinting, she was returned all of her possessions upon her arrest and released into society. At this point, the city had forgotten the name, the crime, her business. Using this, Anski slipped away into their seclusive lands, practicing with her blade and living off of the land, as silent as ever. As the High Elves came to an alliance with the rest of the races on their continent, Anski wandered from her forested lands and began to challenge the youthful races to combat. Scars of defeat grew upon her, as she slowly rose in capability. Soon her face and front were a roadmap of sealed cuts, the natural elven grace disparaged as they gapped her lip color and eyebrows. Through her failure, Anski had shed any armor of hinderance and began to move faster, the next grouping of years spent in almost constant combat. Growing tired, she began to make her return to her Elven lands, just as the Scourge fell on Silvermoon, laying waste to the city and the lands. She fled, as many did, narrowly escaping certain death at the hands of Arthas. As their Sunwell was corrupted, she returned to fight for the city, succumbing to the demonic energy and vowing out the avenge of their fallen race in war, swiftly moving around the mindless, slow Scourge, cutting waves around her. As the Scourge simply moved south, the city resettled and began rebuilding, she was released from the short military grip, as they lost touch with the Alliance and found new solace in the newly founded Horde.

This was a prime opportunity, however, to travel overseas where the Scourge were not ruining the land, and find new opponents. She took many a warrior, learning from all of them, as her own style solidified in purpose. From this, the Swordmistress grew, as she began to write and collect her tactics into solidification. She took to the open world as a field of battle, and to use it's power and capability accordingly. Dressing in a light robe, she returned to the Eastern Kingdom as the war against the Scourge ended, and tremulous peace began again. The scarred elf continued to wander around the Goblin Bay to the south tip before meeting a like-minded elf in search of training. From this point, she took on Camillia Breakblade as an apprentice in the same style as the her, a new Swordmistress from a veteran. Together, the two soon set off in search of others to begin a grouping, a society, of female warriors to dominate the battlefields of life. She now spends her days doing as she did before, challenging all to combat and searching for more to join her open-fielded warrior ways.

Skills and Abilities

To put it simply, a swordmistress is one who's been trained in being adapted with a single, thin blade and being a faster combatant, shedding all armor and defenses in lieu for speed and alternate fighting styles. A swordmistress with any other weapon or in armor is unapt and incompetent with it. In addition to abilities, the Swordmistress carries around a swift sash of her choosing, each with different properties.

[Black Blade Sash] - A sash to be worn around the waist loosely, its purpose is to be slid off quickly, the thin edges being razor sharp and used for quick cuts or a last ditch effort to survive. Excelled warriors can use it adamantly as a weapon.

[Green Holder Sash] - A long, wide sash, used to wrap around the opponent and lock their limbs into place by complexity of folding or wrapping, if even for wrapping their arms together to disable them momentarily.

[Red Steel Sash] - A hanging red sash of woven steel fibers that is highly resistant to breaking and is used to stop incoming weaponry. Will deter slashing blade if caught or blocked by the sash.

The Swordmistress is also an excel at speed in one-on-one combat, but suffers if it is a group contest.

[Speed Combat] - The mistress has put all of her focus into being a faster combatant with her sword, and it shows. They use this capability to be more open for options of attack and defense, as well as possible combat acrobatics.

[Shock Combat] - The mistress is able to rush into combat with diligent silence, sword raised high, and performs excellently due to their quick and threatening nature if they are in an open area with a lot of space between the opponents.

[Hidden Combat] - The mistress is now able to effectively conceal multiple blades on her persons, anywhere from one to ten daggers, and can draw them quickly and sharply off of her for a fast strike or defense.