E U R I P I D E S
Name: Lee Moira Euripides
Race: Human/Siltori
Racial Ability: Witchborn
Sex: Female
Age: 21
Height: 5'4
Weight: 90 lbs
Birthdate: Glacial Dusk 30
Birthplace: Kalzasi
Profession: Conscripted Legionnaire
Housing: None!
Partners: Deceased
Titles: n/a
Factions: The Dead Legion
Fluencies: Common & Silandris
Conversationals: Synskrit
Ineptitudes: None
Race: Human/Siltori
Racial Ability: Witchborn
Sex: Female
Age: 21
Height: 5'4
Weight: 90 lbs
Birthdate: Glacial Dusk 30
Birthplace: Kalzasi
Profession: Conscripted Legionnaire
Housing: None!
Partners: Deceased
Titles: n/a
Factions: The Dead Legion
Fluencies: Common & Silandris
Conversationals: Synskrit
Ineptitudes: None
Personality
She can’t really be blamed solely for this point of view. Fate has dealt her the worst hand, and she can’t do much more than hate it. She doesn’t have many options and the pessimism that had been part of her charm is now her bane. So, she relies on faith. She would have snorted at the notion, but not disregarded it entirely before. Now, though, there’s no reluctance to pray to one of her mother’s gods — her gods, now — for another day. Another hour. Another minute if only it brought her closer to the end of her sentence, to the end of all things. While every day is not promised, it was much so a reward to see the end of one and the start of another. In the dark spaces of her mind lingers the thoughts of waiting for the next big thing to devour her. For the next creature to rend her flesh from bone and drain the life from her.
Beneath it all, in the hollowest parts of her, is a loneliness that only seems to eat at her the more time passes. Even with all these doomed souls to accompany her in each harrowing trek into the Warrens, she feels it. It has made its home in her, and she is no more than a vessel carrying it around. She doesn’t remember when it had started, but it had been planted like a seed within her. Euripides would rather not acknowledge it. That would give it too much power, and she’s prayed to every mistlord she knows to get rid of it. Only time will tell if it withers.
Or if something worse will take its place.
Mental State
At the current moment, Euripides isn't doing too well. In fact, it can be noted that she experiences both visual and auditory hallucinations. Other legionnaires assigned to her team have counted this as liability, hence her numerous restationings around the Warrens.
As of this thread (12 Frost 120), Euripides has developed severe anxiety and PTSD.
As of this thread (12 Frost 120), Euripides is healing from a concussion.
As of this thread (14 Frost 120), Euripides is walking on a sprained ankle. This wound nearly completely recovers before worsening in this thread (91 Frost 120).
Appearance
If anything, she resembles a skeleton more than a living person. Her skin stretches taut over thin limbs, too think now to considered more than a sticky. Curves have been gone from her for some time. She looks like a particularly strong breeze could knock her right over. And it would. Her eyes have sunken deep into her skull, two bruised spots on her face. The two dark pools — almost black now in some lights — glow faintly as her mother’s once did, stronger when the despair hits her particularly hard. It’s really the only light about her. She’s teetering on dangerously underweight, much like she teeters on the brink of life and death.
From cracked lips comes not a voice of cheerfulness and optimism, but one of repeated misery and monotony. Her voice has taken on a flat quality that knows neither excitement nor joy, spiked only be a new fear based upon the horrors she witnesses. She sounds as if she grumbles, and there’s the slightest wheeze to her words. There may be concerns about that. When she sings, if she ever does loud enough for others to hear anymore, it’s the croning of a woman lost and far gone.
History
She started it with joy. For her lowborn status, she had a childhood wrapped in warmth and happiness. Her parents were not rich in money, but rich in health and kindness. She grew from a tiny bundle of joy to one of ambition and a muted wonder hidden behind the protective glamour of caution. Euripides would never hate them — could never hate them — but sometimes she wondered if they hated her now.
If they wondered what they had done wrong for her to have come to this.
She was fourteen when her heart beat too fast for the first time and she felt hot all over. Sixteen, and so helplessly in love with the pretty merchant’s daughter that lingered at the edge of their stall when she went to market. Her palms would sweat, her pulse would race, and words would be too hard to form when the girl looked at her, and she knew that it was the beginning of the end. The end of life as she had always known it. She would confess, and she would be shot down without hesitation, and then she would be comforted by the boy next door who could share her pain.
Until he left when they were sixteen, gone to the Midden because his father had become a Volunteer Legionnaire. She can’t remember his face now, but she remembers the squeak to his voice as he fought back sobs. The careful way he’d tried to seem nonchalant with a sack slung over his shoulder. The cock of his hip as he tried to make it seem like any other conversation. She remembered the way he fell apart when she hugged him, clinging to her friend as if it would make him stay.
When he left, though, she learned some level of independence. She took up a hobby to fill the gaps of his company, and soon she was never without a guitar. The instrument felt right in her hands and she yowled like the cats in the alley to haphazard melodies. But she got good. Good enough that people would stop and take notice to the practiced strumming and careful picking of the guitar’s strings. Some people would toss her coins or jest that she ought to be a real performer.
She took that last part to heart.
At seventeen, she made it her mission to be the greatest guitarist she could ever be. That could be — period. Her parents were supportive, if only to get her to stop playing in the house at all hours of the day and night. They asked only that she helped around the house and in the market. And it was in the same market that she had experienced her first love, and it was her second that accompanied her.
All her playing had drawn the attention of the same girl that had turned her away before. Shy explanations of misunderstandings, and the sore spot had turned tender. Secret meetings, hushed whispers became Euripides’ lot. Her songs of ambition turned to phantoms of love songs, youthful achings compared to tragic lovers and legendary courtships. It drew a crowd, it drew attention, and drew the affection of the one she wanted.
By nineteen, she knew she was in deep. Too deep to find her way out. The childish meetings of the years before were an illicit affair that carried on for more years than she would have liked. A consummation of their relationship was made in secret, silenced by the light of day. Her song turned somber, sorrowful and aching with a desire to bare all, but hidden under the weight of what was right. By twenty, she wandered and hoped that maybe things would change each time she came back.
She was wrong; it’d gotten worse.
At that start of the new year, the joyful turn of the season, she was met with tragedy. The woman she’d loved had toppled over, and the blame went to her even before she could rise from her feet and truly mourn her. The body was still warm when they carted her away. The man her lover had married watched in cold apathy as she endured trial and sentencing, as she was carted away. Three years. Three years for something she hadn’t done, and it was to the Dead Legion. She knew of the volunteers and she knew of those that would never wish it upon anyone. She would have never wished it upon anyone. She had thought that the mines would have been bad, but the Legion was worse. So much worse.
And thus her life has tumbled into tragedy, with no hope in sight. Just the faint light of the sun above her and whisper of memories of happier days to keep her company as she sloshes through the Warrens and hopes that this would be the day that she dies.