Written appearance; Domus La'vala is truly striking in appearance. Ebony hair, carelessly tousled, frames his visage in lazy curls. The cook's not particularly concerned with keeping it tamed and often leaves it tumbling over his shoulders – discerning and driving anyone away who brandishes leather bits to tie his thick, silken hair back. A strong nose lightly curving into a point, unobtrusively pointed ears and softly bowed lips, often open wide in a tooth-baring grin, whether from yelling at his fellow crew-mates, or grinning at some joke, make up the rest of the man's soft countenance. Made up from the softest touches and most delicate palms, it's a surprise to find out that the tips of his fingers are calloused from playing the harp and other string instruments. What most people notice about Domus, though, is his ever present smile and his aura of entertainment and humour. He's rarely down, and seems to have energy for a rhyme, a song or a dance any day. His skin is dabbled a healthy olive creme from all of the time spent carousing the decks and sifting through produce whenever they have time to port – an easily identified lineament from his Persian and Greek birth.

Smelling of lavender flowers and rose petals, Domus exudes the confidence of someone whose readily hygienic and prepared to face whatever challenges smelling pleasantly. Renown for infusing his baths with fragrant cordials and blooming orange flowers, there isn't a day where Domus doesn't smell of some kind of perennial – these decidedly feminine traits have earned him more than a couple hard, stern looks from his fellow crew mates, but he doesn't take it to heart. His customs are entirely different and he understands their curiosity. Much slender than his companions, Domus doesn't pretend to be something he's not. He's no warrior; he's no strong man with bulging, rippling muscles; and he's not about to change his lifestyle to befit another position aboard the Spiteful. His lean musculature is full of soft curves and slopping, defined lines. His build can off set people, because he looks like he's on the rather skinny side. Abysmal hair spikes over an almost perfectly shaped head, which sits upon an almost elegant neck, connected to a body of average height and average build, if a bit on the thin side. Honestly, Domus only stands at five foot eight and weighs one-hundred and forty pounds. An arched brow lifts as large, almond-shaped mismatched eyes regard you with the most invasive curiosity – the kind that leaves you breathless, not because your flustered but because it feels like you're being analyzed and picked apart. Shapely shoulders give way to lightly muscled yet slender arms, capped with scarred hands and long, tapering fingers that give you a shiver just thinking about. These are the succulent traits of a former boy whore.

Appealing or not, the Cook's intentions are clear enough. He wants to cook for you, and asks nothing more; his services had long been terminated when Lieutenant Jallad Faires scooped him up from the dingy streets of the black markets. His body is his own sanction, and he's terrified of being touched. His mismatched oculars are the most captivating trait Domus possesses. It seems to be the only indication that he has ulterior blood running in his veins then his European flavour; his left eye is the brightest Cerulean tinged aquamarine, and his right is a russet orange flecked with pale hazels. Some find them beguiling, while others find them unsettling.

His compositions in clothing is rather peculiar, as well, if not outright flamboyant. There's nothing masculine in the way he dons satin and silks – as if he were truly a noble, but that's unlikely. All of his possessions are likely little nick-knacks he's stolen while perusing the markets. His deft fingers often find themselves plunging into said distracted victims purses, pockets, without truly having the knowledge of it. Well, he understands well enough that he's stealing, but he'd hurriedly admit that it's a bad habit he's having a hard time quelling. His wardrobe consists mostly of leather bits and embroidered soft, boiled cloths. He wears nubuck leather bracers coloured old habana and showing wear around the crimson laces, with reinforced sheepskin gloves pulled up to his armpits and strapped around his shoulder blades with silver clasps. Amidst the scorching stoves below decks, Domus prefers to remain bare-chested. However, when he must appear publicly he dons a thin cotton white shirt with gilded laces and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. He wears a pair of dark brown trousers with slender legs, perfectly tucking into his leather gaiters; the wide brim is decoratively tied with a leather strap, and a studded belt with two silver buttons at the ankle gives the gaiters a noble aspect. There isn't a time where his ivory drinking horn doesn't sway at his hip. A Venetian red sash is wound around his waist with a large, well-crafted brooch sewn into the fabric, depicting a daunting scorpion with it's tail poised in the air.

Personality; “A hungry man makes a thief.”

Domus La'vala is an natural actor, born to defy a lie detector because he does not consciously know the truth. He has no memories and no past, he cannot tell you his heritage or his location because he has never known them, he keeps herself in the dark to keep others in the dark. Beyond that he has the innate ability to tune out anything he does not wish to pay attention to, from ambient noises to the sounds of another’s voice. These are the abilities he's attained in the brothel when things were too burdensome and too traumatic to deal with, and it's a useful ability he still utilizes to this day whence he's faced with troublesome situations. Despite a hard life growing up, the boy's youth displays itself in a perpetual state of playfulness. However, his means of displaying such things have a higher risk of bodily harm to those he isn't very familiar with. Put simply, the boy likes to test his limits with each person he stumbles across, and he does so by slamming on the obvious 'NO' button, and progressively working backwards. His playfulness is nearly guileless, innocent of its' travesties and constantly brightening up the room. He's most definitely what you would call the loud type. He speaks quite a lot, and his facial expressions are just as expressive. He doesn’t believe in idle chatter, but he is quite willing to talk at length if the situation calls for it.

Domus' ever-present soft side comes from the womanly nurture of his sisters in the brothel. He feels a strong sympathy for the weak and less fortunate, especially after having been born in such impoverished times himself. He can understand their pain. Oft times, Domus had posed as the 'Robin Hood' of his time, taking from the greedy and giving to those deprived of enough to survive. Benevolence is demonstrated to both women and children, as well as the common man; he is one of the few remaining warriors to uphold chivalry. His sleight of hand is the only useful gift he's attained from living amidst the slums – if it ever turned awry, he'd have no choice but to run rampant through the streets, alleyways and rooftops to escape bodily harm. He doesn't know how to fight and prefers to keep his cranium right where it belongs, safe and sound amidst a sea of tumbling, shaggy hair.

Human interaction is a complicated and altogether awkward affair with the Cook, which is a direct contrast to his former occupation. Well, at least he finds that he's a bumbling idiot whenever he's thrust into social niceties. He can be very thoughtlessly tactless, even when attempting to be polite. His outlook on the world - that everything, no matter how subtle, should be obvious - supposedly fuels this. Life is about taking risks, for without these endeavours man would not progress and forever be trapped in a state of stupor. Inventions and new ideas would not come forth and due to such we would essentially just be monkeys, in a mental regard, and so Domus takes as many small, minuscule risks as he can manage without endangering himself. He prefers to keep out of any aggressive spouts and will duck his head like a coward, opting to return back to the ship as opposed to lending his ineffectual fists. His athleticism grow by leaps and bounds simply because he refuses to let himself fail at anything. He has no desire to be the best, only to be the best he can, not letting anything stand in his way. His desire to live another day rules and defines him as a person – thus far, he's been rather astute with keeping his hands firmly intact on his wrists and his head from rolling away at a headsman's stone. There's nothing else he can really ask for.

Domus La'vala's social cues seem to be rumpled and ass-backwards. He would crack a joke at the most inappropriate times, and not understand why no one else is joining him. When he thinks of something funny he'll just bust out laughing no matter where he's at and has a hard time composing himself when he bursts into one of his fits – though, his jingling laughter is often contagious if not endearing. He doesn’t understand the word "hardwork". If it doesn’t have anything to do with his culinary finesses, capping buildings in his pass time or lazing around the confines of his bunk, he won't even attempt to do it. He'll do anything in his power to weasel out of said duty, until he faces punishments, then he'll pull out the puppy dog eyes and pout. He's really willing to help anyone who needs it, so long as in the end he'll gain something from it. That's what most of his little strategies revolve around, anything to further help him out. Oft times behaving feminine, he's slightly bubbly and happy as well, and often has that effect upon people. He always acts unexpected, his actions just as spontaneous and flashy as his artwork. Never try to guess what Domus will do next because he never repeats himself; providing a refreshing change each and every time.

Honour and bravery is only held so important in the Spiteful's cook. Recklessness and an unwavering honour that leads to beheading, loss of limbs, or hangings is immediately sneered upon, because Domus knows better than he remain standing when he's being asked to bend his knees. Because of his unwillingness to pass opportunistic positions, he has a hard time refusing people. He can be unwittingly taken advantage of by companions who would use this personality trait against him, and is especially accommodating towards women and children. He is loyal, faithful, and dependable, for whatever short time he's working beneath you.

You do what you do out of necessity.

Motive/Goal; Lieutenant Jallad Faires scooped him up from the shaky fingers of the black markets, squandering his time picking pockets and displaying his flourishing array of acrobatics whence trying to flee. Domus' fingers found their way into Jallad's unfortunate pocket and before he could withdraw, he found himself staring into the man's soft blue eyes and amused smile, his errant wrist captured in the Lieutenant's hands. Before he could bluster his excuses, the Lieutenant offered a position aboard His Majesty's Ship Spiteful and asked what he excelled at – immediately, Domus proclaimed that he was the finest cook and could mend clothes, as well. The Lieutenant could have doubted his claims and easily ended his thieving life there, but he took his word for it and Domus proved himself to be a capable chef aboard the ship. Now, his only motive is to remain whole along their endeavours and to possibly see the world, collecting rare spices and cooking only the best of foods. His disinterest in saving the Princess is obvious, though he'll make a show of being worried for Her Highness; he's mildly interested in what she looks like, though. His goal is to eventually pay back the Lieutenant for saving his life.

History;  Domus La'vala was born in the Northlands. His family had always been in the fisherman's trade, something that went as far back as his family history could be tracked. This was the future that was laid out for him the day he was born - and as he grew into a young boy he discovered that he was perfectly happy with it. From a young age he'd discovered his deep love for the sea surrounding their small village, and the long hours he spent on his father's old fishing boat, though it was hard work, it was nothing short of amazing. Half of the villages inhabitants consisted of wildlings – and his mother was the self-proclaimed King's daughter, who'd found herself in his father's arms. Her features were entirely European and held a vivacious quality from the deserts; tanned skin, mismatched eyes and a voice as sultry as fine silk. Born in the summer heat of August, Domus La'vala was welcomed into the world by two ecstatic parents and given his mothers' birth name, directly being named the next heir to the clan by rights of birth and gender.

Domus does not really remember his life before her years of being nothing but boy whore most of it is just a bunch of clouded memories he finds to be faded hallucinations. After going through all he has, wouldn't you think that a happy life was just a fantasy you dreamed up? Whether or not his traumas have effectively blocked out all of the bad along with the good remains unknown – but, he doesn't seem to really mind his memory lapses. He has no desired to remember everything. Oft times, cognisance comes in the form of the smell of the lapping sea; the rocking of a boat; the feel of sand sifting through his fingers; his mother's gap-toothed smile; the rugged furs being wrapped around his slender shoulders; and then steel-clad men ripping him from his mother's arms and a spray of warm, metallic blood strewn across the ground with mutilated limbs. Swollen bodies hanging from the doors' thresholds and flayed heads being erected on wooden pikes. Those are the memories he'd rather push away, and so he doesn't speak about anything past his years in captivity.

Travelling the plains surrounding their small town was a daily occurrence. There never really was any dangers as long as you steered cleared of the main roads – and ran upon seeing travellers dressed in mail with unknown banners and colours plastered on their chests. If you didn't recognize their houses, then they were dangerous. Domus enjoyed straying far along the forests edge in search for berries, wild vegetation and checking his traps every now and again; tender and guileless at the age of nine, there wasn't much he truly understood about the world. Clopping hooves and throaty voices bellowed through the underbrush as Domus desperately tried to scramble out of the bushes and flee back to the village. Unfortunately, he hadn't realized that one of the wizened rangers had circled around and snatched his small wrists, dragging him into clear view so that they could identify the rascally eavesdropper. He fought, clawed, tore and bit, but Domus was clearly smaller and easy to detain. Wearing his mother's fine silks and satin from the European wastes, the sellswords took him onto the waggon, strapped and tethered him with hempen rope, and struck out onto the main stretch. He heard them discussing his fate in lengthy discussions – they'd travel across the plains, cross the White Sea aboard the Token Duchess and sell him for a hefty sum. They treated him like an unwelcome pup sniffing around their larders, most of the time, and ignored him when he blubbered like a baby; nothing he said about his parentage mattered.

Nothing would save him. Then all was black and forgotten. His family were mere silhouettes, a small smudge, in the darkest recesses of his brain – their faces were simply blank slates, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't recall any subtly facial feature. No gleaming grins, or sparkling eyes. No tumbling ebony hair, or silken slips hanging off slender shoulders. No clinging smell of salt. There wasn't anything but the stench of fear and sweat clinging to bodies pressing tightly against him; other small boys and girls were added to the waggon and they all pressed together, finding comfort in each others' terror. Their tears smudging like ink down their charcoal cheeks and denting their crumbled lips tasted like cinders and ash; he wanted so badly to wash his body, but the rocking ship offered nothing but darkness. Shivering in the cold and darkness, moving slowly towards the warm, bright lights. The small slit in the wooden bowels offered a Cerulean sky and floating clouds – he often shared his view with the others, entwining his fingers with theirs as they whispered about dreams and goals and wishes. The rags, all that is left of his noble clothes. An older boy used to carrel them in a circle, touching their foreheads with two fingers and whispering things like, “Do not hide the scars, the cuts, the broken bones, or the flat, growling stomach, though the wind hides its sound.”

Knotted ropes bound each of their wrists before Domus, carolling them into a shuffling line down the wooden planks. The city itself was large and thriving, thrumming with life and boisterous laughter. It ran rampant with lusty buildings, towering cathedrals and peddlers bellowing their sales in passionate voices. He could barely breathe for the dust that swirls up to coat his face and hair; a density and smell he's never experienced immediately causes him to stagger forward, panting and begging for water. The taste of the city, he can remember, was bitter on his tongue, and it takes all of his meagre concentration to keep from screaming out in panic. But there is nowhere left to run, and a whole empire to fight. Trying to resurrect any calming images of home quickly turn to images of carnage and violence; of hanging limp feet charred black and crying babes being slaughtered. Will history remember the annihilation of his clansman and village, of his family and friends? No, it will not. History only serves the victor. Today, Domus was to be sold to the highest bidder. The eldest boy explained what positions they might have, for he understood what slavery was and Domus clearly did not. Should he hope for hard labour? The brothels? A lonely old nobleman with little strength and even less vigilance? Service in the kitchens?

There is no real choice. Either way, he will be left to the devices of men so far beneath me, they resemble shit and fleas. The other women said as much. It is a quick, hard lesson: slavery does not simply mean a lack of freedom; it means a degradation of the spirit that is so fine and permanent that you lose the ability to even distinguish between command and choice. Noblemen and whores. Masters and slaves. They play their parts without exception. That is all. The woman to his right weeps and her tears make dark marks in the wood, sobbing into her dirty fists. The man to his left stands ever vigilant, lean and strong, and defiantly jutting his chin forward for all to see. Domus tried desperately to imitate the man's brave display, but fell short and sobbed pitifully. A large, gaudily dressed man pointed towards Domus and demanded an immediate price, lest he loses interest. His clothing is simple but obviously expensive; the silk of his robe shines in the faint light. His bodyguard is approaches him with a hand extended to grab my rope, and then suddenly the small boy is shepherded alongside the flamboyant man smelling of lavender – promising him a warm bath with soaps and oils whilst he prepares himself to be presented. The man's alias was Silk and Domus never truly knew his name, but it didn't matter because his life was forfeit.

Bagnios or bathhouses made up the large brothel and it's expensive tastes made it clear that it's fleshy merchandise wasn't for the impoverished. Fortunately, the first few years consisted of learning culinary arts. Each brothel had large kitchens to accommodate insatiable appetites before being pleasured, and Domus excelled with every dish. He soon found that the brothel, the Rouge Duchess, became his personal sanction. All of the beautiful women working in the Rouge Duchess immediately took a liking to the smaller boy and took him under their wings, busying him with the kitchens and teaching him techniques he would soon have to perform in the brothel itself. When he was considered a man grown, his abilities were exercised and profited from – he grew into a handsome, effeminate young man and soon became a favourite.

(Will edit)

Likes&Dislikes;

- He adores exotic spices, sugars, and new cooking utensils.
- He also enjoys expensive wines.
- And perfumes.
- And lavender oils.
- And silken pillows.
And scaling walls.
- And dancing, often.
- And carousing the decks as naked as his name day. Clothing is overrated, but he tries his best to dress appropriately aboard the Spiteful. In his own cabin, he's bound to strip off whatever clothes he can and has already warned his fellow crew-mates so that he doesn't inadvertently offend anyone.
- Domus has a strong connection towards small animals and often smuggles some kind of mammal aboard, hiding it amidst his bunk and feeding it cooked scraps.
- Bathing; it's the most sensual, relaxing feeling.
- He's smitten by his old lute and often sings bubbly tunes he's heard in brothels and taverns.

- Domus doesn't enjoy lengthy questioning about his past and avoids speaking about it with a determined fervour, often excusing himself to the privy if need be.
- He dislikes being used for his athleticism because he's rather lazy.
- Being thrown into the waters while watching the Spiteful sail away.
- Being physically injured or being forced to wield a blade.
- Unhygienic bodies pressed too closely around him
- His hands or feet being severed
- Plain food