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Author Topic: [Hobbit + LotR] Vashti Ada Tohrein  (Read 3887 times)

Vashti Ada Tohrein

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  • Alias: Reis
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Vashti Ada Tohrein
« on: May 27, 2013, 07:03:00 AM »

Vashti Tohrein

NAME:  Vashti Ada Tohrein

NICKNAMES (IF ANY): Vashti has received her fair share of nicknames over the years, but if asked about them she will distinctly recall three. Vash is a term of endearment reserved to those having been able to grow close to the mercenary over the years - or rather those that have been able to stand her for such a long time. Collegues and clients, whether they respect or loathe her, have come to refer to Vashti by her surname, Tohrein. Vashti does not particularly seem to mind, however, finding it relatively helpful when being referred to someone else, especially since it takes her gender off of the equation. However the name that never fails to bring a satisfied grin on the woman's lips happens to be one the majority would take as insult. Seeing it as a sign that her job has been done, or that she has roused the desired reaction, pain in the arse will continue to be a term Vashti holds dear to her heart.

DATE OF BIRTH AND AGE (AS OF T.A. 2941): November 9th, 2889 | Fifty-two
RACE:  Dúnedain
GENDER:  Female

HAIR COLOUR AND APPEARANCE:  In many ways, the woman’s nature is reflected by her hair – a wild, untamed coffee-colored mass that does as it pleases whenever it deems it wise; if she ever decides to subdue her hair, Vashti pulls it into a messy bun that continues to show the same defiance.

EYE COLOUR:  Set above high cheekbones you can see a set of impish eyes. The sprites are the color of an undisturbed autumn sky, eager and bright, but do little to tell what exactly is capturing the mercenary’s thoughts. The impossibly dark lashes that surround the eyes increase their impish nature, drowning them with a devilish lilt. 

BODY TYPE AND HEIGHT:  Vashti stands at a rather unimpressive height of 5’5’’ though she does not seem to be particularly dismayed by it. A result of hours spent engaging in arduous practice with bow and blade, Vashti’s body is lean and fit, though by no means masculine.

OVERALL APPEARANCE:  Her unusual character is further emphasized by the clothing she sports – an array of patterns and fabrics from different realms of middle earth, most of which males generally reserve for themselves one should note. Finding dresses and full skirts to be a hindrance, Vashti has long since replaced them by dark, slim breeches that have seen better days. A simple cream blouse protects her upper body, though it generally remains hidden underneath a heavy fur vest she picked up in her travels. A thick leather belt, which has dried and begun to crack, holds the vest in place and often finds itself holding a bag of coins that jingles merrily on her side. Her boots are worn and soft, a warm sand tone, and often find themselves covered in muck and grime. Leather bracers and matching grieves provide her with some protection while still allowing her the comfort and mobility her job requires - the only part of her outfit recognized as armor.
DISTINGUISHING MARKS: The most easily noticed mark on Vashti’s face is the mole that sits idly in the middle  of her forehead, though some would say it is not her most memorable trait. A rare number of people have seen the discolored remnants of scars that her body sports – memoirs of the fights she has been involved in, of her old life in Ithilien, and a constant reminder of why she hates herself. While time has taken most of the scars and dissolved them into her skin, the place where an arrow pierced her shoulder and came out through her shoulder blade remain as visible as the day she first received them. A jagged line that begins at her left hip and drags back towards her spine is visible as well, but generally remain protected from prying eyes. The third scar, and the one that people generally note, becomes only visible when she picks up her hair -- a thin line that grows considerably in width before it disappears into her hairline.

WEAPONS:  Vashti is well-versed in a multiple array of weapons and considers herself to be a good marskman with a bow, however she seems to be most comfortable with Ahura and Manyu in her hands. A pair of Haradrim blades she acquired during her early years in Ithilien, it is rare to see the woman without them secured on her back. Lightweight, versatile, and with a biting sharpness, the curved blades are her first and last line of defense. A nameless hunting knife is included in her repertoire and remains hidden on the inside of her boot for the most part.  A recurve bow made of a single sheet of yew finish her gamut. Named Ilmatar, Vashti’s longbow is constant companion to the woman and a gift she received long ago. While nothing of extraordinary beauty or rarity, Ilmatar is a bow to which the mercenary entrusts more than utilitarian purposes. Usually, it is her bow that delivers the first blow for the mercenary – action which brings momentary confusion and has granted her the upper hand in less than ideal situations.

FACE CLAIM:  Lauren Cohan

STRENGTHS:  Highly resourceful, Vashti has been known to use improvised weapons whenever she becomes unarmed. Vashti is also an experienced tracker and a prudent tactician - if one can call her that. Vashti is a virtuoso of escape, evasion, and stealth, techniques which she has used in more than one occasion. She is alarmingly good at lockpicking, a skill she takes great pride in even if it makes other relatively weary.

WEAKNESSES:  While the mercenary has an uncanny ability to travel the wilds without difficulty, the same cannot be said about cities. Whenever she enters a man, dwarf, or elven made structure, Vashti becomes confused, overwhelmed, and generally lost. On her last visit to Perlargir, she had to rent room in three different inns as she was unable to remember where exactly she had stayed the last night. If a friend is ever placed in a precarious situation, all sense of self-preservation escapes her and Vashti has been known to rush blindly to their aid, which generally leads to her endangering herself and making costly mistakes. While the mercenary seems to take pride in her ability to disregard seriousness with flippant comments or playful jabs, her inability to remain serious for long periods of time has gotten her in more trouble than she would like to admit. With a tendency to mouth-off even when her life is in the line, Vashti never knows when to quite ‘shut it.’

ASPIRATIONS:  To escape her lifestyle or embrace in its entirety.
FEARS:  Facing the harsh reality of who she has become, how the once proud ranger of Ithilien has devolved into a sell sword who will do almost anything for a weight in gold. Drowning, however, seems to be her more openly acceptable fear and the only one she will share.

PERSONALITY: Vashti Ada Tohrein sticks out like a sore thumb. The woman is anything but typical, from her attire to her appearance, to the way she furrows her brow in deep thought, there are few things about Vashti that can be ignored. From a warm, gregarious soul, to a mischievous sprite with spit-fire replies, Vashti is spirited, truly passionate – someone who envelopes herself fully in whatever she does.

Under normal circumstances, Vashti comes short of a con artist - someone who tells people exactly what they want to hear when they want to hear it. She smiles knowing smiles and throws artful glances behind a carefully turned up head. She  grins when she speaks, measured jabs included between careful words that make it seem like she knows more than she actually is letting go. When meeting someone for the first time, Vashti says little more than what she sees fit, dodging questions and turning them around with particular ease. When met with hostile words the woman remains unmoved, disregarding insult or threat with a flippant wave of her hand. Snarky comebacks and spitfire replies follow her careless gesture, coming as easily to her as breathing comes to her counterpart. Generally, Vashti means no spite by her piercing words, regressing to this behavior when she feels particularly distressed.

Her constant interaction with less than trustworthy characters has made Vashti terribly weary of others, especially those she feels share common qualities with her.  When met with kind words or those of genuine concern, the woman quickly becomes guarded. As far as she has seen and has come to know, interest is only shown when others hope to attain something in the process. To Vashti, the world is no better than she, and is quick to keep anyone else at bay. As a result, if the mercenary feels threatened by anything around, she is quickly reduced into a ticking bomb – ready to go off with the slightest provocation. While difficult to get close to Vashti, it is not an impossible feat, a handful of friends being the clearest sample. Those she has come to trust and rely upon are those she is willing to do anything for – including laying down her life for their well-being.

While Vashti rarely speaks of her life before becoming a sell sword or the hate she reserves to her own being, friends have come to meet a well-disposed, gentle natured over time. Surprisingly, Vashti is capable of giving gentle smiles and soft words when needed as well as stern look and reprimand when required. It is not unusual to see close friends of the woman coming to her whenever they have a problem, knowing with certainty that they will meet nothing else but sincerity and genuine concern.

HISTORY:  The path of the Rangers was never an easy one. It was a future full of uncertainty, full of mysteries and sorrow. War, once a thing experienced only by ancient kings and grand warriors was now a palpable thing. In the blink of an eye, all they had studied, all they had trained on, would be put to the test. The bonds they had shared, the relationships they had formed and had come to rely on, would be bent, twisted, and turned. Some would break under the pressure others would be set in stone. There was a time Vashti knew this well, a time when she had readily accepted this fate, but never once would she have thought her service under the Ithilien Rangers would take her to this place.

Twenty years ago, the woman had it all – duty, family, and a home. She served others selflessly and accepted the terrifying prospect of laying her life down for another. Twenty years ago, Vashti was taken from the lands of Gondor and to Arnor, pursuing a small Haradrim party that managed to pass undetected at first. Months later, she awoke in Arnor, body broken, nothing but endless black and shattered memories as her companion. Everything she had once known and loved, forgotten.

The woman, remembering only her name, built a future around those who had found her, an elder couple that had made Arnor their home for many years, and soon came to accept the peculiar circumstance she lived under. For eight years, she called Alyan and Miriam Gulrihae her family, working alongside them in a farm tirelessly. With them, the woman with the broken mind flourished, finding comfort and security amongst the simple things in life.

The death of Alyan and, subsequently, Miriam Gulrihae is what really pushed Vashti to become the woman she is today. The people that she came to love and call her family for eight years were gone – there was nothing more left for her in Arnor, no familiar faces, no love, no roots. After months of desperately attempting to keep the routine she had acquired when living with the couple and seeing herself fail again and again, Vashti sold the farm. She traveled the lands after that, picking up work whenever she could, but eventually came to realize that all she truly was good at was fighting. It did not take long after that for Vashti to start taking jobs of more questionable nature – from hired weapon, to private security, and spy work, in occasion. As a soldier of fortune, there is little that Vashti did not try.

As years came and went, the woman made a name for herself in dubious circles, Tohrein being a euphemism for precise, fast work. It was as she reached her thirteenth year in this new life that the dreams came. At first they came in quiet bursts, ones that she could barely recall when dawn broke. They were whispers that clawed gently at the back of her mind, ones that left her skin clammy and cold, but ones that when her eyes fluttered open were forgotten once more.  Wild visions that seemed to be brought by nightmarish flights of fancy invaded her, replacing the darkness she had once known with shattered memories of something before Arnor.  There was nothing concrete within the images, only and irrefutable fear. In those fiendish dreams her lungs would squeeze shut and she would claw aimlessly in the dark. Vasthi could feel as pin needles seemed to pierce her skin, her body thrown in the endless dark. She would scream – or would try to, at least – before the darkness filled her mouth and lungs. As her mind spiraled out of control, it would all end with a sharp pain on the back of her skull. It was an oppressive feeling that held her through the night and which often had the woman bolting up straight in her camp, beads of sweat rolling through her body.

Desperate to escape the dreams she could not come close to understanding, Vashti took more work – less time to think, she bitterly thought. But as she neared the end of her fifteenth year in this life, the faceless names and the nameless faces came. Vashti tried her best to forget the dreams the nights brought, blaming them on the result of an overworked body, but she found no reprise. In fact, as the months came, the dreams became more vivid, the whispers louder. And then she remembered. The mind that had once been empty and full of memories of the past thirteen years, was suddenly overrun with memories of a life in Ithilien. Vashti could suddenly remember the face of her gentle mother, the callous smile of her father. She could remember her four siblings, her older brother – a ranger himself – their two younger sisters and their youngest of brothers. She could also remember the oath she had taken, a promise to protect and serve, an oath to the rangers of Ithilien.

The guilt she feels was not immediate – it took two more years for it to finally take ahold of her body. It was in the past, long ago, time changed people, and it definitely had changed her. She was no longer the child she had been when she had first spoken those words. But she could not seem to get the thought of her family out of her head – of the disappointment, the disgust they would feel. Vashti is unsure of when this self-loathe and disgust first came; it came to her so gradually that by the time it had taken her, the mercenary could not remember when she had not felt it. But once the hate had settled, it was impossible for her to escape it. While she sees no way to abandon the life she has built, the name she has made for herself, all she has left is to wish that, fates willing, one day she might do so.

AGE:  Twenty-four
EXPERIENCE:  About ten years, give or take a couple of months :3
OTHER CHARACTERS:  None at the moment
CONTACT:  PM would work best, though pm me for Skype
HOW DID YOU FIND US?:  Happy Google accident!
It was not unusual for rain to fall during the last few days of autumn in Perlargir; in fact, most assumed that it was the season waving goodbye at the peaceful port city as it departed for the year. It was a beautiful sight, this late shower, starting early in the morning and continuing a lazy shadow throughout the day. And, as suddenly as the rain had begun, it would lift as the red sun set across the horizon, giving way to one of the most beautiful evening skies eyes ever had seen. What would happen next, was a welcomed sight amongst all of the citizens of Perlargir. As if on cue, the once bright red fruits that hid behind heavy foliage, shed their greenery. In a visage akin to fire, the chokeberries demanded the attention of all, their ruby forms stretching from their homes, beckoning for all to come near. Birds and raccoons are the first to respond to the call, children, eager to engorge themselves with nature’s sweet delight, soon follow suit.

It was a display the soldier had come to know well, a display that, twenty years ago, he would have readily participated in. Now, Dyri watched with gentle eyes as the young, mischievous sprite he had been granted as a daughter, took his place – fists full of chokeberries in her hands, the rest nestled in a makeshift basket she made with her dress. Often, the soldier would note, how the child would stop her running around, shoving a handful of the tart berries in her mouth, before running off again – and out of his line of sight. Dyri muttered to himself, and with difficulty, the male forced himself to stand, an audible grunt escaping his throat. The soldier stood – a man of incredible stature, but one that did not exude an air of confidence at the time, instead, he showed a faint memory of pleasantness, hidden behind a tired façade.

Dyri squinted through the bright rays that filtered across the clearing, that morning’s rain now replaced by a warm, steady glow. His feet firmly planted on the ground, the soldier raised his head to the wind, breathing in the salt-tainted breeze and with it the intoxicating scent of moistened earth. He breathed out, a gentle breath – Eliana shouted, shattering his quiet reverie, and Dyri turned to the young child that continued to play. “Eliana,” He called, his voice a rumbling sound that was oddly reminiscent of a drum, but the child paid no heed to her father’s call, instead continuing to run around undeterred. He grimaced slightly; well, she had definitely inherited her mother’s personality, he would give her that. “Eliana.” He called a second time, a bit more loudly this time, sound that seemed to startle the children, if only momentarily.

The surprise that had once stained her brow lifted almost immediately, recognition falling unto her eyes. “Baba!” His heart swelled at the word, making a small smile curl at the corner of his lips. He dropped to his knees as the small girl closed in, and in that single embrace, the soldier knew that all was well. “Baba. Baba!” She shrieked in laughs that were stifled against his chest. How good it was to hear that voice again, to see the cheeky grin he had committed to memory. “Aye, I’m home…” He uttered, holding unto his child’s face, his calloused hands thumbing her stained cheeks – smudged with dirt and the juice of the berries she had consumed. He was home; after weeks that felt akin to years, the soldier was finally home.

« Last Edit: March 13, 2016, 11:19:47 PM by Ulmo »


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Vashti Ada Tohrein
« Reply #1 on: May 28, 2013, 10:31:00 PM »
Can I just say that I love the detail you've put into this character? Please, make yourself at home and go play!


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