Vyr

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Information

Player: MoonlightBlossom

Character Full Name: Vyrsallia Scythefall

Character In-Game Name: Vyr

Nickname(s): None

Association(s): The Horde, The Apothecary Society

Alignment: Neutral Evil

Race: Sin'dorei

Class: Rogue

Age: 103

Sex: Female

Hair: Red

Eyes: Emerald

Weight: 98 lbs.

Height: 5'6

Appearance

Her garments consist of worn, tattered leathers and rusting blades; corroded by consistent utility of poisons, venoms, and toxins concocted of her own making. Her hair is always up; and around her hip always rests a worn, battered satchel; which always holds the clinking of of crystal vials within. Several studs and small hoops line alongst her elongated ears, with small, delicate chains linked between one jewel to the next. Her leathers are always in a ragged state, but make the small, emaciated figure appear a bit more full than she truly is.

Personality

Vyrsallia holds the personality of a once-kind soul, turned bitter, resentful and hateful. Every soul she meets is met with a scowl; be it of disdain, disgust, or unrelenting envy. An extremely insecure, fickle soul; adorning a mask of childish mockery and rueful inflection, this fleety rogue's only consistencies are her vague words, half-truths, and always being the first to gloat over the misfortunes of others - naturally, reaffirming herself in the process thereof.

History

Vyrsallia was born to Arion and Astartia Scythefall; the last few of a nearly dead Quel'dorei House. A House bent upon exclusion and magical superiority; the House Scythefall was never truly a House at all, but instead a family which rode high upon delusions of grandeur - perhaps this, is why the "House" Scythefall never emerged to be anything beyond mere faceless servants to the truly prominent to the Convocation of Silvermoon: servants, of servants, of servants to Dar'Khan Drathir himself; a true 'honor', indeed.

Vyrsallia, much akin to her brother, Ando; were striving arcanists that were the beacon of hope for the dwindling family name. When Vyrsallia and her brother were pressured into marriage during the waning years of Anerion Sunstrider's dynasty - it yielded only a deepening sense of despair for the family name. Ando, always having a hidden preference for his own gender, and Vyrsallia; unable to conceive; blossomed twenty years of mutual disdain and abhor, and ultimately drove the final nail into the coffin for what would soon be the end of the Scythefalls, when this family ceases to exist.

Yet, this never interfered with their studies...

Ando, always the far better magister than his younger sister; exuded the pinnacle of the family's pride; from his manipulation of the arcane, to his harness of the chilling cold as well as the searing hot. So beautifully, he could weave the intracacies of ley lines betwixt his fingers; always conjuring something from seemingly nothing. The younger Vyrsallia was never so successful - never an elementalist, never even an arcanist! An illusionist at best; as her only true magical asset was appearing as if she had power; when she in fact had nothing at all.

Like many of the Quel'dorei; the Dragonflights were the center of the studies of many. In the regard of Vyrsallia; her obsession had become that of the Azure Dragonflight - and ultimately, chronomancy. The manipulation of time itself. A lofty goal for a talentless illusionist, but still a trying endeavor regardless. For months, she studied; determined to surpass her brother and husband, driven by his continual mockery and being spoken down to so blatantly. She was determined to create a rift; using a single crystal pylon to assist in amplifying her own power. One, turned into two.

Two, turned into three.

Three, turned into four.

Four crystals around this single mage, who already had little control to real power.

Such immense power focused into her, eventually the lone conductor that, due to her lack of expertise, forced her to absorb all which she had created.

Backlash, burnout. From this came her body's intolerance to mana. Mana sickness in its purest form. Unable to produce any spell, and to be within the very vicinity of magic, would bring feelings of nausea - and prolonged exposure, would ultimately be her demise.

Come forth to present tense; and what is beheld? A silent, near-emaciated figure that stalks about in torn, tattered leathers; which have long since absorbed the malodorous stenches of the Undercity sewers. A small little satchel around her hip; clinking with empty vials, no doubt - and a pair of blades upon her hips, corroded and rough. How quaint a little sight is this, one whom existed of such a 'haughty' upbringing, to now being this nameless little delivery rat for the Apothecarium, deep within the recesses of the chambers of fallen Lordaeron. Her parents must be absolutely proud...if they were still alive after the impetus of Silvermoon's initial falling. Doubly so as she, laden with cowardice as she is; fled from there long ago, prior to those events.

What delectable misfortune now, that her prides have been divest from her, to be this little thief. Rat. Ne'erdowell, even - the names are limitless. Of course, there are still several questions that exist as to what brought her to where she came from...to where she is today.

Now, now; not everything can be divulged so easily, of course. Perhaps, those little tales of deceit, further misfortune and cowardice will become common knowledge.

...in due time.