Nickname:
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Age: 37
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual
Physical
Description
The last person to call Angharad 'pretty' received a swift rebuttal in the form of a boxing on the ear. Partly because they meant it as a jest, but also for appearances' sake. To be fair, she is not an ugly woman. With that out of the way, it is also worth mentioning she is far from a delicate little flower. Her build is hardy and rugged, made for endurance as opposed to brute strength or briskness. She can dig in like a mountain and bear the brunt of an attack, maintaining her fortitude and barreling through. This philosophy has its drawbacks, and they show like a roadmap of every hunt. The myriad of lacerations and patchwork wounds slice apart and interrupt the uniformity of her musculature. The first scar most see is the ugly gash streaking clear across her face. It narrowly misses her left eye and slices through both lips, finally terminating beside her chin. Yet the fact alone that she still stands is testament to her resilience, and she wears her robustness like a badge. She stands with shoulders squared and head high, outwardly ready for anything.
Her dignified carriage is oddly paired with the dour look often about her countenance. People remark that she is always angry or about to be, like an overcast sky anticipating a storm. Which, as it turns out, is an ample ward against most everyone not worth her time. A very fitting simile as well when taking into account the bitter grey of her eyes. An unkempt mop of cropped blonde hair hangs from her head in a ragged bowl, curtailed just above her brow. Close enough for shade, but short enough not to obstruct her view. Its color is so fair that it almost appears a snowy white, even paler than her flesh. Having been born on the surface her pigmentation is warmer than native denizens of the pit, but it seems stunted. She has not been bathed by the sun in years, and thus her coloring has not grown any darker.
Appearance
Hair
A shock of short, unruly blonde hair so fair it almost appears a snowy white.
Facial Hair
N/A
Eyes
A grim, foreboding grey.
Build
Not delicate by any means, her musculature is well defined, but not overbearing.
Skin Tone
Ostensibly pale, but with enough coloration to suggest a more terrestrial background.
Height
5'11
Voice
Low and husky, with a smokey timbre.
Handed
Though fully capable of fighting with either hand, her right is predominant.
Body Markings
A tattooed totem descending along her spine depicts a gandaberunda perched atop a tigris, itself enthroned on a re'em's head.
Cicatrix
Various tracts of her flesh are devoted to healed scars. Rake marks down her side, puncture points aligning on her back and clavicle, and an ugly wound streaking across her face to name but a few.
Psyche
Personality
The popular notion contends Angharad is cynical, acerbic, and antisocial. All are true to some extent, with the notable exception of the latter. She trusts very few people, and most of those are naught but business associates. As if people were nothing but obstacles, or sources of remuneration. If they are not about to hand her a chest full of stamped coins, she usually hasn't the time for them. This has rather logically led to the impression of her being avoidant, but the truth is not quite so simple. Beneath her caustic indifference, she has nothing against interacting with her fellow denizens, it's just rare that she finds someone interesting enough to merit her attention. Pique her curiosity and maybe, just maybe, you can actually get something of a rapport going. Despite being an avowed pessimist, the reality is she's more 'preach not practice', as her actions tend to thwart her words. Instead of moping in negativity and indolence, she is ever inclined to stand up and fight. She calls it 'acknowledging the odds', and claims it makes the whole deal even more impressive upon its favorable resolution. You could try and ask where her qualms stem from, but the most likely answer would be considerably less civil than the query.
She is a rock, weathering wind and rain without any sign of bending. Words do nothing to her, often not even registering anger. Many have strung together highly imaginative insults for her, and gained only acknowledgement of their creativity. Predictably the same can be said in reverse. She has no misgivings with speaking her mind, thoughts utterly undiluted. Her honesty is brusque and unequivocal, and she is doggedly unapologetic.
Creed: “Nature is violent, why should I be any different?”
Motivation: “Only one thing's better than carting a kill to market: Hauling the gold back home.”
Goal: “Bagging a nasty basket and walking away on both legs is good enough for me.”
Fears:
Likes:
- Spirits – A strong drink, even if it's just the local mushroom vodka.
- Smoking – What better way to unwind after an arduous day?
- Honesty – Pure, unfiltered opinions without silly sentiments getting in the way.
- Privacy – People who mind their business are more easily tolerated.
- Money – It makes the world go 'round.
- Hunting – Of course. It's important to love your job.
- Teetotalers – Honestly, how could anyone deny the finer things in life?
- Stupidity – Very little is more infuriating than an idiot.
- Politics – The machinations of society's higher echelons, and those populating said lofty shelves.
- Snooping – People who pry too much into her personal affairs are bothersome at best.
- Idealists – Whether they're starting problems or aggravating them, they are always problematic.
- Shikari – Her skills have been honed across years of hunting large, dangerous prey.
- Survivability – You learn a thing or two about how not to get killed when you constantly throw yourself in harm's way.
- Case-hardened – She is not troubled about what others think or say. Usually.
- Perceptive – You don't get to survive very long in her profession by being heedless.
- Flower Power – She possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of flowers. Especially the pink ones. Go on, test her.
Kit
Head
Helmet with a thick leather base, overlapping steel plates bolted to the top. The plates are angled, with pronounced ridges to aid in deflecting blows sideward. The face plate can be removed, exchanged for lighter or heavier variants as needed.
Neck
A personalized gorget. When necessary it can be heavy and stiff, or lighter and in the fashion of a falling buffe.
Chest
A constant lamellar base, together with steel scales around the clavicle and shoulders, acts as a form of armored jacket or shirt. Angled steel plates may be added and exchanged for extra protection as needed.
Back
All modular back plating comes with steel loops to accommodate Durga when the crossbow is not in use.
Arms
The sleeves of her lamellar-and-scale shirt extend down both arms. The scales end just above her elbows, and clasps allow for the placement of supplementary plating as required. An articulated couter protects her right elbow. Her left arm is usually shrouded in a heavy manica.
Left Hand
A thick leather glove, typically backed by the manica worn over this arm. The overlapping plates jut out roughly an inch beyond her hand, and out to two inches below her shoulder.
Right Hand
A thick leather glove, same as her left.
Waist
A heavy-duty belt made to accommodate extra ammunition for Durga and her revolver, as well as suspending the latter's holster.
Legs
Leather pants, generally underneath whatever supplementary armor is needed for the current hunt.
Feet
Sturdy leather boots, may be covered by additional plating when it is prudent.
Accessories
N/A
Memorabilia
N/A
Weapons
Weapon Type: Crossbow
Name: Durga
Information: This custom-built crossbow is one step away from being a mobile ballista. Coming in at precisely one meter in length, crafted from sturdy dark wood and fine steel, Durga looks as lethal as she is. Her form is flowing and organic, with many sweeping curves and recessed edges. These design choices were made with ergonomics in mind just as much as aesthetic appeal. Unlike traditional crossbows requiring the arbalist to place each bolt before firing again, Durga incorporates a feature found in more modern firearms. A steel cylinder containing six bolts is fitted into place, behind the prow and on the belly of the weapon. After being locked into place, a crank located on the rear of the stock simultaneously draws the string and cycles another bolt into position. When not in use, Durga can be put to rest on Angharad's back by means of blunt hooks embedded into the stock. These are slotted into steel loops built into her armor. She carries three kinds of ammunition, including mundane bolts. Stored in red marked cylinders are explosive bolts, enchanted to erupt with a fiery bang upon contact. On the other hand, green banded cylinders indicate poisoned bolts.
Weapon Type: Revolver
Name: N/A
Information: Her 'sidearm' is a heavy hunting revolver with a four-shot cylinder. The holster hangs from the front of her belt, readying the weapon to be drawn into a firing position in the blink of an eye. The kick produced by this gun is significant, necessitating the use of both hands to combat the recoil.
Background
Marital Status: Single
Occupation: Shikari – Big Game Hunter
Biography:
The mighty monster hunter known as Angharad Vardenham, who has slain giant spiders, monstrous bears, fire breathing ungulates, and huge feathered serpents had her origins in the most unlikely of places: A flower shop. Her parents were florists, and damn good ones at that. Some of her earliest memories were of roaming the greenhouses, lost in the blanketing humidity, bathed in the sweet fragrance and entranced by the dizzying colors of the flowers her parents produced. She was a good student, and took to her parents' trade with ease. Though she would later joke her introduction into the 'shikari' subculture came when a swarm of giant bees attacked her house, the truth is a tad more mundane.
Her family was not rich, but neither were they poor. They fit snugly into a quaint little median, with enough in their pockets to get by and just a little extra on the side. Her early life in the City was comfortable, and that was precisely the problem. As she grew older the high walls, winding streets and constant protection provided by the imperial legions began to feel like a collar. The air was being squeezed out of her, and she needed desperately to breathe. When she turned seventeen she set out to find something for herself in the world beyond the City. Something that would let her spread her wings and take flight. She never imagined just what that would be.
One day, in a city called Coberton on the opposite edge of Batheon from her home, she happened upon a shikari at work. These big game hunters, followers of the traditional Rudran art, were invaluable for warding off dangerous beasts. The man, a one Harper 'the Gentleman' Pendleton Esquire, was currently locked into mortal combat with a wayward cockatrice. The menace made a show of its size, puffing out its chest and ruffling its feathers, blustering and generally carrying on. When the shikari proved phlegmatic, the cockatrice decided to call off the show and charge forthwith! It was undone in seconds. With a placid and unwavering grace, Pendleton withdrew a sheet from off a large round object at his side. It was revealed to be a shield, the face polished until it was reflective as a looking glass. He held it aloft, directly in the path of the cockatrice. It took a single glimpse of itself, and- obviously so stricken by its own repugnance- keeled over straightaway. It slammed into the earth and slid a good three meters before finally coming to a halt.
Angharad clung to his coattails for hours before he knuckled under and agreed to train her.
He lived up to his sobriquet quite aptly. Clearly a learned man, he spoke softly with beautiful diction, and treated those whom he encountered with respect. Unfortunately for Angharad, she picked up none of this. What she did glean from Pendleton was his mastery of hunting. He made sure to learn as much about his quarry as he possibly could before engaging, lest circumstances force his hand prematurely. His mastery of arms came second to his ingenuity, as he preferred to end his prey with minimum effort. Traps or other ploys were used recurrently. His pupil, on the other end of the spectrum, proved more partial to the old fashioned approach.
When her instruction was ended, Angharad traveled for two years before she amassed enough money to open her very first shop. She operated in the area around Jotham for five years, accruing both a name and a sizable amount of coin. Then one day, without warning and apparently at random, she decided to pack up shop and move back home to the City. Not to live in Tai'Adaan proper, but within the Excavation Zone. The first few months following the relocation she was seen sporadically, disappearing for days at a time and returning haggard and bloodied. Not bothering to enlighten her company, the strange behavior abruptly came to an end, and normal activities resumed. Ever since then, Angharad has pursued her trade in the darkness of the pit.