An insane sorceress with aspirations of godhood and Creation-wide destruction.
Name: Sarin Wahkliri
Motivation: To become a spirit god
Str: 3 Dex: 4 Sta: 2
Man: 2 Cha: 1 App: 5
Int: 5 Wits: 3 Per: 3
Valor: 5 Temperance: 2 Conviction: 5 Compassion: 1
Archery: 0 Martial Arts: 2 Melee: 4 Thrown: 0 War: 0
Integrity: 0 Performance: 2 Presence: 2 Resistance: 2 Survival: 2
Craft: 0 Investigation: 0 Lore: 5 Medicine: 0 Occult: 5 (Spirit Beckoning 1, Warding 1) Athletics: 4 Awareness: 2 Dodge: 3 Larceny: 0 Stealth: 3
Bureacracy: 0 Linguistics: 0 Ride: 0 Sail: 0 Socialize: 0
Esoteric Knowledge: 2, Familiar: 3 (Kufi, an incredibly intelligent pit viper), Cult 2, Followers 3, Resources 2, Manse 5
Merits: Daredevil 3, Past Lives 2
Flaws: Sterile 1, Climate Sensitive (Cold) 2, Enemy 3, Dark Secret 3, Wanted 2, Intolerance 3(Guild Merchants), Beacon of Power 4, Permanent Caste Mark 2, Throwback 1
Intimacies: Her true past, Animals killed only for fun, Her Infertility
Items: Longspear, Dagger, Black Jade Breastplate, various herbs and medicines for rituals.
Spear: +8 4L/7L Dagger: +8 2L
PDV: 5 DDV: 5 MDDV: 7 MPDV: 3
“You will be great one day. A leader of our people, a shaman like none before, who will keep the land hale and hearty, and our people safe upon it. You will…”
Sarin awoke with a start. The visions had returned. Whenever Elder T’chali appeared in her dreams, powerful events followed. Kufi hissed and nuzzled her hand, a warm feeling of power flowing from the viper. He hated it when she had the visions, for they pulled at her emotions and frayed her already fragile state of mind. Kufi had come to her during a vision quest, when she had been driven all but mad, and never bothered to explain why.
She smiled at him, and stroked his head. “Time to get breakfast.” She opened the door of her rooftop hovel and sniffed the air. It would rain today, the first time in a while. The rain reminded her of home, it beat down the disgusting smells of the city and for once, the air would smell clean. Then after the rains the city would smell even worse, but it was a small price to pay. In her mind, shit smelled like shit no matter how much of it there was, and the city smelled like shit.
For now, the city was dry, and she was hungry. Na’T’chali would feed her. She always had. The old woman had found her twelve year old body broken, battered and nearly drowned, and nursed her back to health. Sarin had had a vision of her, when she awoke from her injuries, and saw that she was not just an old woman, but the spirit of Elder T’chali, guiding her even beyond the grave. Na’T’chali never admitted she was T’chali, but Sarin knew, and she humored the Elder. The spirits worked in strange ways, and enjoyed their games of subterfuge and subtlety, and Elder T’chali had always told her to play along.
Sarin’s life was full of spirits. Sometimes she would see them, animals or people twisted in strange ways or made of strange colors, and sometimes she would hear things, whispers in languages she did not speak, the cries of creatures from home or places even further and more frightening. Na’T’chali had once told her they were hallucinations, that there was something wrong with her mind and she should go to a healer, but Sarin had merely laughed, the idea that the spirits were not there was too impossible a thought.
A Que’chuak floated by, its multicolored wings lazily dragging its serpentine body along the air. A good spirit to see, as she climbed the vines down to street level.
The street was filled with carts and people, busy selling wares from glass beads to meat and fine dresses. She knew all the merchants on this street, knew which were ranked in the Guild, and which were here by permit. Very few in this area were real Guild members, she had made sure of that.
“Slaves! Slaves! Brought from the far East, I bring barbarian slaves now TRAINED to do civilised work! Not civilised enough to hold a conversation, but enough to do the dishes! Slaves! Slaves!” The voice rang out from behind her. The beautiful spirits scurried away. No spirits spoke to her when there were slavers, just whispered commands to kill. The slaver was fat and balding, but dressed in finery, gold rings and a dark purple silk cloak. The slaves were manacled and most were bruised and sullen. She did not recognise their tribes, but she saw some still wore their paints, from war or celebration, and their tattoos proudly proclaimed their victories in the hunt. A good load of men, all older than she when she stood in those manacles and was sold as meat, but just as beaten, just as poor, and probably, just as scared.
Kufi tightened on her arm. He thought there were too many guards.
Her unsheathed daggers told him, she disagreed.
- * *
“The forest gives us everything we need, little shaman-to-be.” Elder T’chali said, her voice soft and loving. “From the animals we eat and sacrifice, to the leaves and fruits of the trees. We are the most holy people, for all we do is done in tandem with the spirits of the world.” The eight year old Sarin held her hand as she was lead through the forest. “This is your destiny, your charge, my child. You will guide our people when I have passed, and be our conduit to the spirits.”
- * *
She was asleep when they came, silently with their nets and sleeping darts, bolas and hunting dogs. Half the village was incapacitated before anyone awoke, and those that ran were hunted down. Her mother ran with her, for their hut had been farthest from the hunters, and her father fought with club and spear – no match for the crossbows and swords of the Guild hunters. Nor, it turned out, were her mother’s powerful legs compared to the speed of attack dogs, trained in jungle hunting.
The spirits took her consciousness away then, and helped her miss the moment when her father and mother were killed. Elder T’Chali spoke to her, and reminded her that the spirits’ whimsy is often as cruel as it is benign.
The ride to Nexus was not something she remembered well. Half in, and half out of consciousness, the ethereal spirit of Elder T’Chali speaking to her, visions of spirits in the sky and terrors on the ground. The reverie in which she traveled was occasionally broken by savage beatings and sexual violations by the slavers. During these times she tried to bring the spirits back to her, to comfort her, but their failure to appear simply filled her with rage. By the time she arrived in Nexus, she was sullen and mostly insane, but strong.
Many men came and looked at her, laughed at her defiant stares and even more when she spoke to the spirits.
Eventually one came to buy her. His name, she discovered later, was Mendicus Monjal Ticthet. He was fat, with a alcoholic nose and stubby fingers covered with rings and jewels. And he liked little girls. The spirits warned her that this was a bad man, a very bad man, worse than the others. She begged other men, nicer looking men, women, anyone she could see, to buy her instead of him. Mendicus Monjal Ticthet laughed as she jabbered – too young to realise no one understood her language.
For the next five years she lived under his roof, occasionally raped and always beaten. She served food, cleaned floors, and pleasured guests, for her beauty, despite beatings, grew as she aged. When she was fifteen, she became pregnant. Mendicus Monjal Ticthet did not want her to be pregnant. Did not like that she was pregnant, and did not like the fact that she was growing up. He beat the child out of her, beat her a hair’s breadth from death, and threw her off a bridge and left her for dead.
She awoke, briefly, to see an elderly woman with the spirit-face of Elder T’Chali, pull her from the cold, dead water. Then the spirits escorted her back to the world of sleep.
Later, she awoke for real – the woman who was Elder T’Chali, but not T’Chali brought her some soup. She spoke kind, quiet words to her, and told her she was safe. Sarin smiled, and thanked her.
Over the next year, Sarin would grow even more, and asked the woman, who refused to admit she was T’Chali, about her life, and about what she should do. There were many times, when she would become dark and brooding. She had seen her master do as done to her to many girls, and none of them survived. A faith began in her, one that the woman attempted, every time, to dissuade her from, but the voice of T’Chali accepted and enforced. She was a hero. She was greater, and would be greater. She would burn this wicked city, and roast Mendicus Monjal Ticthet on a spit of bone. Her people would follow her, and kill.
One day, she left, leaving the woman who Sarin came to call Na’T’Chali, to return East. She paid her way with services, sexual, physical and spiritual. When she arrived in the forests of the East, she searched for her people. She found many tribes, and spoke of vengeance. None were her tribe, but all had felt the sting of slaver’s whips. All learned the name of Nexus, and all learned to spit at its name, and the name of the Guild. For four years she prostelytised, and honed her skills as a hunter, killing great and greater beasts to prove herself. She grew to be a beautiful woman, the epitome of grace, and the avatar of fear. Many tribes heard of her, and shamans all accepted her visions and powers as the truth. Finally, she took a Vision Quest into the Wyld, and learned magics, of summoning spirits and laying wards, to protect and defend herself and her people.
Now, she has returned to Nexus, to kill, and kill again, and again, and again, until she reaches Mendicus Monjal Ticthet.