Physical features —— her hair.
Caelan’s hair is long, thick, and full, even a tad fluffy. A basic colour at first glance, the hair piled upon her crown looks like an intricately braided mass of brunette, with nothing worthy of further examination. However, it is only upon further examination that you see the warm, subdued hue hidden within the brown entanglements, a dark red that highlights individual follicles to set them apart from the rest and overall frame her face and the plaits of her hair —— like slivers of a rich maroon running through a dark brown; it’s striking and bold when light hits her hair and it makes her stand out. In terms of fullness, her hair is extremely thick and as such it can be very difficult to maintain (seeing as she spends most of her time by herself, and thus can’t implore anyone’s assistance in taming it) which, coupled with the cultural customs to which she adheres, means that it’s easiest for her to maintain by pulling it into a braid.
The braid in question is thick as a rope and trails down to mid-back (her hair is longer when it is not braided) while her bangs —— which run down to her collar bones —— are left loose and braided half-down their length before being pulled up and pinned to the top of her head by weaving them together and clasping it with a small metal ringlet. In fact, throughout her hair there are tiny, delicate chains which have metal ringlets attached, and they are braided into her hair as a sign of status. It’s an ❛I Am A Warrior❜ statement to her. All-in-all, her hair is built up and highlighted scarcely but in such a way that it draws the eye since she has the metal threaded throughout her hair. It is powerful and proud in appearance.
In addition, her hair is semi-rough to the touch, pleasant enough to run your fingers through but overall overwhelming because she has so much hair she could probably strangle someone to death if she were to wrap it around their necks and apply a liberal amount of pressure for a minute or two.
He needn’t spare breath in reprimand for that which she is cognizant of her foolishness. Silence, that language in which she is fluent, he extends now in scolding ire whilst gloved hands stanch the flows of carnelian straits and restrain them and their ilk to stains ❜pon garment and flesh alike. The gaping maw of a wound is sealed by his care, and ❜tis this sentiment of his that evokes physical manifestation of her humiliation, ashen cheeks dusted sour by reflection of the hue imbrued upon the skin of her abdomen; it graces her visage in palpable chagrin (thoughtless girl: you know not the value of your life, do you?) and in so doing must avert her gaze elsewhere.
Her body is an open nerve, and each careful ministration delivers a jolt of searing pain, yet she durst not wail in pain (nor anguish that she had failed at obtaining death for herself, try as she might) and lies prone as she had fallen, contenting herself to the shock of agony as a self-inflicted torture, retribution for her deed. Iwis, had she nary thought to vanquish their foes on her lonesome, there would be no cause for the current state of affairs.
By silence and averted gaze, the gentle shakes that rack her body convey her response: I am sorry.
Vague ascension of brows mirror the gentle dip of lips as they curl into a frown fraught with meekness, an expression of apposite consternation thusly donned: she does not understand.
A silence then affixes itself to a gasp unbidden, mouth held agape, eyne of muted silver shining their disbelief as fingers instinctively coil inwards on callous-ridden palms with a force reflecting that which freed organ from rib cage. Eyelids flutter a butterfly’s beat, staring at the inconceivable act thusly committed before her … What had she done to solicit such action? Such barbaric retribution? For what reason would he so willingly break bone and rip flesh to pull at the heart beating beneath his breast? Sense cannot be warranted from it, and where once she would have thought no more of it than a fly feasting upon carrion, to her very core is she racked by harrowing dubiety, a shiver passing through the entirety of her person.
(Stop. Bring no further harm upon thyself;
force me not to lay witness to thy self-destruction.)
In a flurry do arms swing wide, and she reaches forward desperately, unawares of sinew already weaving together and reconstructing that which he held in his palms so casually; sole intent on stanching the wound with her own hands if need be and deaf to all else.
How cruel was Fate, to taunt her once more, to bear forth that damnable reminder that all that is mortal will die and will one day fade into obscurity —— nonetheless, to turn a most beloved friend into a vessel for such a lesson dries her mouth and taints her internal wails sanguine.
Not again.
Stalwart mien is thus tainted by her heart, visage contorted and twisted as she vehemently —— voicelessly —— protests the image of that life-sustaining organ cradled in his palm, desperate not to be helpless once more to the death of one much belovèd. Luiseach died for Caelan’s own folly; carelessness which spelt penance by the wresting of her sister’s soul and subsequent squandering of any life that flickered within her honeyed eyne (and, mayhaps, ❜tis that very memory which thereafter caused for the dulling of steel irises, made cause for them to become dead and irreflective of any light: for she had lost her light as Luiseach’s own was extinguished) and ripped her from the world so callously. For one held so dear to inflict such a wound upon themselves … She is distraught, overcome by her own ineptitude and inability to repair what was lost.
Not again.
wounded. my heart certainly did not just jump into my throat. REALLY YOU ALL ARE TOO KIND TO ME and I literally deserve none oF THIS KINDNESS I never do drafts and I’m always short and REALLY LATE ldskfnsdlfn I’m so dumB WHY EVEN I JUST lkdsnflk I haven’t put up Caelan’s revised about page yet are you joking
Perhaps it is a brand of mercy (albeit stained by amusement) which bends umber brow, lips pursed in slight whilst arms are held aloft, crossed o❜er her chest and maintained in patient repute,
❛ Ie. ❜
Fingers, calloused and rigid from constant grip on the pommel of a sword, part the ebon streak of hair running along his back, sifting through the strands with a ghost’s touch (it can be argued as to whether or not she’s doing this at all) in an extension of comfort.
Shhhh, she’s here. Just rant to her and she’ll listen and make you some tea.
Lays prone and crushed beneath the tree.
She may be 157 kilograms when clad in armour, but that does not mean she is capable of bearing the weight of an entire tree. However, she is flattered, in a sense, and utters no breath of protest as her lungs slowly fail her and begin to collapse.
The human question mark pauses a moment to stare at her armour, a moment afforded to observe its condition. Failing armour simply would not do.
Had I been born a vegetable, I’d be useless, however?
Sparkling wonderment and crooked elbow, tilted chin and eyne brimming wonder; please, entertain her more with stories. She knows not what you speak, but is captivated nonetheless.
Silence fixates itself like sutures into the flesh of carmine lips bitten raw by absentmindedness as itinerant gaze lingers ❜pon the dull edge of the horizon afore it drifts towards her companion, brows swiftly bent in critical dissection of statement made.
Killer though she may be (blood has turned to rust and it clings to her skin, her hands, her tongue; there’s only ever more to be had —— it cannot be stripped away) there must always be reason for the act; whether it be coin (mark well that gold stirs no heart cloistered within her breast), an order as an act of war, a favour. She deals death like a peddler his wares, and just as a merchant expects payment in exchange for his goods, she, too, expects but one thing in order to deliver the sigh of blade —— reason. And reason he does not provide.
Nay, he bastardizes that which she does and calls upon her to end life for no reason at all —— insult comes to bear in the narrow of steely eyne and the recoil from him, reacting as though she had been physically assaulted instead of an idle comment having simply made.
Fingers, calloused and worn (her hands are all battlescars and tired palms, war does not so easily leave once it was gone; it lingers and makes itself distant yet everpresent —— there is ne❜er any escape from It, not even in the mundane) extend delicately towards the peculiar bread only to retract afore fingertips touch the crust, umber creased in deep furrow upon Warrior’s physique. If the owner had erred and not collected the bread, she should be a thief if she were to so much as lay a hand upon it; nay, she simply cannot bear to take such a grievous action.
It is hardly a second thereafter that she sits beside the bundled square of bread, awaiting the return of its owner, and resolved to make sure that it could be properly returned. No thief durst attempt steal that which was under her protection.
Half-assed emotes repair naught when muscle is sheered from ligament and blood quenches the Earth’s thirst; please, I implore thee to act more than simply stare disapprovingly —— ❜twould be no hindrance if thou wouldst extend a hand and help me to mine feet.
There is no forewarning, nary a preceeding shout of contempt to allude that any person mayst have qualms with her, and thereby ❜tis by a fair measure of surprise that she should turn and witness a projectile being slung towards her. Having appropriately gauged the trajectory of the rogue dessert the warrior narrowly evades the attack by allowing it to fly past her scarred visage; eyne are closed, and breath lingers still ❜pon her tongue, bated and drenched in resulting dubiety.
Who would throw a pie? Would not a knife better suit their purpose if they sought to take another by surprise?
A pause, broken only by the susurrus of shifting weight and scuffing boots upon the ground as the itinerant thereafter gazes upon the remnants of the would-be weapon, umber brows drawn taut. She blinks, understanding little of what has betided, and shrugs any care for the happening at all with a simple roll of her shoulders, the cold hiss of steel reassurance enough as she begins to walk as though she’d never been hindered to begin with.
