Shayde

Child of the Shadows

• • Name: Shayde
  • Gender: Female
  • Played by: NyxDelux
  • Race: Human
  • Age: 28
  • Body Type: Athletic and lean, like a gymnast or dancer
  • Height: 5ft 5in
  • Weight: 120 lbs
  • Complexion: Fair
  • Eyes: Pale gray
  • Handedness: Ambidextrous
  • Scars: Branding scar on the back of her right hand resembling a crude Oroboros with a symbol in the middle.
  • Personality: Oppertunistic, hypervigilant, cynical, sarcastic, mischievous

• Games And Groups

• Ghosts of the City

  "We chose our profession in defiance of the greed of the monarchy. We will not live for the sake of taxes to fatten the nobles pockets. We choose to live the only life available to those who would be truly free. We are thieves."
  
  The words echoed in the recesses of her memory like the faint rumble of distant thunder after a passing storm. Such was the credo of what had once been her guild; her family, but as the city transformed, their numbers dwindled, their influence faded, and the world moved on.
  Sure, a few affiliates of the Obsidian Serpents still remained scattered here and there as fences, freelance informants, or drug peddlers but most had abandoned their true ways for fear of winding up like so many others before them: Strung up and swaying from hoisting beams around town square like macabre ornaments after a short drop and a sudden stop. Clearly, confidence without discretion didn't pay.
  The pale moon was a luminescent smudge against the black night sky, obscured by the gossamer veil of clouds and smog that drifted on the mild winds of the season. It would have been almost pleasant if it weren't for the sour, acrid quality of the air that clung relentlessly to this corner of the city. Shayde pulled the hood of her well-worn cloak deeper into her face. The garment's hem that swayed tattered and weathered at the back of her calves had doubtlessly seen better days. The feathery mess of chin-length hair tickled her right cheek. Once she was absolutely certain that the cobbled street below was as devoid of life as the corpses in the bone yard, Shayde crouched at the ledge where the rudimentary masonry of the building's roof overlooked a dark, narrow alleyway. City guards rarely patrolled here...and why should they? The people who lived here were either dead or dying; waiting eagerly to finally find rest in a plotted bed of their very own. They had given up, like slowly drowning once you've stopped struggling. They had surrendered to the voracious undertow of the city; something Shayde had no intention of doing.
  
  With feline grace she descended along the jutting ledges and footholds of the facade until the soles of her supple leather boots touched solid ground. There, right at eye level, a parchment plastered to the stained brickwork featured a very familiar portrait in bold, black strokes of ink. Fair complected and dark haired. It was her own.
  
  WANTED for Larceny, Treason, and Murder. 500 Gold Coins.
  
  „Tch!“ The noise passed between her lips with a sharp, agitated breath of air. Although it appeared that the poster had only been there for little more than a day, its corners were already beginning to peel away from the gritty, grimy surface perhaps in reluctance or disgust. Shayde reached out and peeled the inked page from the wall with a broad diagonal swipe. Would it really make a difference? She couldn't help but think to herself while she turned away and started toward her destination. For every one of those posters she had torn down, a dozen more seemed to take its place...and if they were starting to turn up in these urban wastelands now too... The thief stilled her reeling thoughts and tucked the now crumpled page away into folds of fabric within the textiles of her cloak.
  
  While one end of the narrow back alley opened up into into a broader street, the other was a dead end of mudded wood and windows. Within one of those windows on the second floor the, faintest candlelight shone out with warm radiance into the choking darkness. That was her destination and marked the second act of her two-part performance for the evening. A route to reach it already formulated in her head. Families here were stacked like sardines, haphazardly stowed away and eventually forgotten. How and why anyone with a shred of dignity would want to remain in a place like this was a mystery to her, and the fact that the city charged residential tax for it was downright criminal. Refuse piled around every corner. A feast for rats. Everything wooden swelled and shrank and leaked and moaned, laden and rotting with stagnant moisture. Metal rusted and crumbled, producing jagged little edges to snag your elbow on. A novice might have found it challenging to move noiselessly through this environment, but Shayde was no novice by any means. She had spent the past 20 years of the 28 she'd been alive, doing the same thing she'd been doing on this night. What was at first a mere means of survival had evolved into an act that now fulfilled a much deeper need....and she was good at it.
  
  Somewhere in the distance, a dog yowled desperately for companionship. Shayde approached the dead end and quickened her step. The crude catwalk below the row of second story windows was a bit too far to reach from the ground, so she ran straight at the jagged face of the perpendicular wall. Like a skilled traceuse, she pushed off the ground, ran two steps along the vertical surface, pivoted her body toward the catwalk, and pushed off again. Her leather gloved hands reached out and gripped the old wood planks of the catwalk. For a moment, she swore she could feel the rot-riddled wood start to crumble away under her weight but a couple of seconds later, she was up and crouched beside the window without making a sound any louder than the rats rummaging through the filth below. Shayde listened, still as a statue, and heard nothing. Carefully peeking through the warped glass pane from the bottom left corner of the frame, her steel-gray eyes observed a tragic, yet all too common scene. A bearded man in grimy patches of sleepwear sat slouched, dozing against the mudded wall of the room. Mismatched stitches and scraps pieced together the crude straw mattress on the bare floorboards. On it, a young child, a girl with matted golden hair, lay curled against the body of her mother who had undoubtedly nodded off from sheer exhaustion. A pale cotton rag covered the girl's forehead. Her chest rose and fell with heavy, labored heaves under a knitted blanket. Fever dreams haunted her innocent imagination. Tiny fingers clutching at her mother's gown twitched briefly, then lay still. The only other movement in the room was a moth that flitted clumsily in the candlelight around the table beside the window. The girl was very ill. Her right foot was tainted with coal-rot. Emerging from the mines just outside of the city, the recent occurrences of this strange affliction trickled through the working community like heartsick whispers passed from mournful lips to fearful ears. The girl’s foot would need amputation before the blackened lesion could grow, harden and finally crack open like charred fat on a broiled roast weeping sick blood laced with an otherworldly luminescent tint of blue. Her pain must have been inconceivable but money for a physician was lacking. The hopeless labour of their long, grueling days yielded greater panic than proceeds. Every coin of their combined earnings was devoured by the cost for their unsanitary tenements and the meager quantities of food they could afford. Now that the man had to leave the mining camps with his afflicted daughter to return her to the city, they had literally nothing left to spare; no pewter mug or cooking pot, no glassware or washtub. Even family heirlooms with precious sentiments were pawned off to the highest bidder. At this rate, bound by abject poverty, they would loose their daughter and their home within the month. He might as well have brought her home to die...at least they were finally together.
  
  
  From a secure place inside her right boot she produced a metal tool about 2 inches wide and 8 inches long. One end curved up slightly and had a tapered edge: A prying tool. The steel-eyed thief slipped it into the frame and applied careful pressure. Most of the windows in buildings such as these had broken over the many years and one by one, replaced by planks or covered with patchwork drapery. The pane stuck in the warped frame. It would have been impossible to open without breaking if it hadn't been for the prying tool. At last, with a bit of patience and finesse, Shayde managed to slide it upward just enough to be sufficient for all intents and purposes. The tool was slipped back into the confines of her snug-fitting boot. No one stirred. What she proceeded to do next would have had more than a hand full of individuals confused and tilting their heads. From a little pouch secured to one of her belts, she pulled a tiny drawstring sack sewn from moleskin and filled with coins of varying value: A little involuntary donation from the High-Constable himself. Like a serpent, her right arm slithered through the cracked window into the room, up to her shoulder. The little fabric coin pouch was deposited on the scarred surface of the little candle lit table. She let her arm recoil, pulled yet another object from the multitude of pockets on her person, and then reached back in for a second time. Shayde placed a tiny, cork-stoppered glass vial beside that coin pouch with as much care as its fragility demanded. The nearly opaque liquid contained within almost gleamed as pale as milk or moonlight. Creation of a small batch of this potent narcotic had taken her a bit of time and resources. Due to its increasing popularity with physicians and addicts alike, the clandestine synthesis was as illegal as it was lucrative. In other words, Worth It!
  
  The moth flitted more frantically. 'Stupid thing...' She thought to herself. 'The window is open and still you're too hypnotized by that dazzling flame to seize your own freedom...' The poetic metaphor made her smile as she reached for the candle, pinching the wick between her fingers to snuff out the flame. And just like that, her work was done and the thief withdrew back into the shadows of the sleeping city. Come dawn, the family would surely wake and thank the gods for their merciful blessing of charity. Shayde didn't care whom or what they would thank. Her thoughts already moved on to other matters; namely, the speech the High Constable was tasked with giving at the Nameday celebration of the Viscount tomorrow afternoon.
  
  Oh, there was much to be said about the Viscount Lucien Bothwell of Tarea...much best left unsaid too, she supposed.
  
  
  Home was an old playhouse near the market district of town. Once known as The Wild-Rose Theater, the place was shut down a decade ago. Its productions mainly featured acts of a rather politically satirical nature, the eccentricity of which (according to the Viscount) drew ill-mannered crowds and promoted insurrection among the lower class citizens. When the owner forged a business partnership with a certain entrepreneurial M'Dame , the end result became one of the most renowned Brothels in the city: The Rose Garden. The young actresses found work there after their stage careers had ended so abruptly and now...they performed acts of a different variety. From the rooftop of the condemned old theater, the Rose Garden seemed little more than a long stone's throw away. People watching was one of Shayde's favorite pass-time activities. Leaned slightly forward, she rested her arms on top of the decorative, chest-high parapet that rose up over the edge of the flat rooftop, creating an impressive facade for those who would pass on the street below. At her feet, her bow, quiver and satchel were placed neatly beside one another. The thief felt safe here, safer than she could anywhere else, at least. Especially now, when allies were few and far between and might turn on her at any moment for that bounty on her head. While her eyes were focused on several flimsy pages of jagged script gripped firmly in her right hand, the fingers of her left idly tapped the rhythm of a tune in her head. Beyond those pages, the twinkling lights of the sprawling city looked deceptively enchanting, like a carnivorous plant might appeal to a fly. Shaydes lips were drawn into an amused smirk beneath the hood of her cloak because the words she was quietly absorbing were the High Constable's congratulatory speech for the Viscount. Boasting the city's cleansing of criminals and promises of an approaching reformation were scribbled down in partially cryptic shorthand. Some phrases were scratched through, re-written, and furiously scratched out again. Clearly, he wasn't a man of many choice words. No matter, though... Now that Shayde had relieved him of this ghastly collection of verbal filth, the good High Constable would be spared his embarrassing, scripted sermon and would simply have to rely on his quick wits to help him improvise.
  
  Beyond the parapet's crest, beyond the red gas-lights of the Rose Garden, and even beyond the little shops and shanties that followed, the hollow, metallic twang of the Clock-tower's bell rang out again. Twice this time. Strangely, the hands of the tired old mechanism never told the correct time, but that bell continued to toll with persistent accuracy every day and night. At the end of the second stroke, just before that resonant, metallic hum dispersed onto the cooling breeze, a flutter of feathered wings broke Shayde's concentration. Just out of arm's reach, a large, stately raven had landed beside her with a smooth, black pebble clamped in it's beak. When their eyes locked it regarded her with a calculating stare, pacing in a sanguine strut along the parapet as if to flaunt its fine plumage with confident pride. Shayde smiled at the bird and shook her head a little. „Corax. As conceited as ever.“ The raven ceased its strut and stared back at her with gleaming, fiercely intelligent eyes. The thief let out a soft sigh though retained her youthful smile, amazed by the bird's level of comprehension. „Pardon me, good sir. I meant to say that you look exceptionally lovely tonight.“ Her words had come out in a rather playful manner, yet the Raven seemed appeased. It laid the pebble down, gave it a gentle nudge toward her, and then fluttered away into the night with a flash of ebon feathers and a hoarsely cackled farewell. 'Fickle creature. Just like your master...' She thought and started to reach for the little smooth stone, but before she could do so, the arm of an unseen individual shot over her right shoulder and hooked around her throat. Shayde let out a gasp of surprise. Her left wrist was seized in the grip of strong fingers. Adrenaline flooded her system. The pages she held were surrendered to the wind.
  
  The scent of well maintained leather rushed her senses. Although the scent was very akin to her own, this individual did not possess the subtle, clinging hints of toxins and chemicals that brewed in the confines of her home. Instead, their bouquet carried lingering undertones of fresh rainwater, copper, and a personal musk associated only with a very sepcific man she hadn't encountered in weeks. Shayde began to relax against the rear-choke hold that this familiar man had ambushed her with. He'd spout some smartass quip and let her go before lecturing her on her lack of vigilance... She opened her mouth to say something playfully provocative, but found herself silenced by the gradually increasing pressure against her throat and a sudden, harsh shove that pinned her firmly between the parapet and the man's own body. Her gray eyes widened, struck by the harrowing realization that he hadn't come with friendly intentions. Apparently she had waited around this City long enough to finally witness the manifestation of one of her greatest fears. She felt her heart beating furiously; tried to move her left hand, but couldn't break it free from his grip. She hooked the fingers of her right hand into the crook of his elbow and pulled his arm downward as much as it would give. He tried to fight against her, but she succeeded at getting herself enough wiggle room to turn her head slightly and tuck in her chin. This would buy her some time. She pushed back against him, but couldn't get enough leverage. Despite his slender, angular physique, he outweighed her by roughly 25 lbs of lean muscle. Her left wrist was starting to be twisted painfully while he continued to press flexed forearm and bicep against her throat. If he couldn't manage to cut off her air supply, he would probably try to keep her trapped and subdue her with painful force.
  
  Shayde, of course, had no intention of giving in to her assailant so easily. Her survival instincts took over. With a renewed sense of determination, she formulated her retaliation. Biting into his arm would prove useless since he sported protective leathers much like her own. Instead, Shayde lifted her right leg as much as she could, and plunged her heel down on the top of his foot. Despite being less forceful than she wished, the man at her back shifted slightly to avoid another attack like this. Her lungs grew tight in her chest as he pressed himself even closer as if trying to smother a fire. If it weren't for the hood covering her black head of hair, she undoubtedly would have felt his breath against the back of her neck. Shayde released the grip on his arm, jabbing her elbow back into the side of his rib cage. The death-grip on her left wrist shot terrible pain up the length of her arm with a single, punishing twist. She struggled to choke down a scream, clenched her teeth, and jabbed again. This time she felt his abdomen contract against her back and the constraining hold lessened slightly around her wrist and throat. She was definitely making him uncomfortable.
  Her free hand returned to his arm once more and pulled. It wasn't much to work with, but it was the only opportunity she would have, and with that, her head tilted forward as far at it would, then snapped back and struck him square in the face. Had his head not been turned to the side, she would have likely broken his nose, but instead, the fairly vicious strike landed just below his right eye. Concussive pain radiated through his skull like a migraine. That definitely did the trick though. He released his hold on Shayde and backed away before she could turn her lithe body around and kick him in an even more uncomfortable place. She was fighting back harder than he anticipated. She spun around immediately after the entrapping force of his body was gone. With her back now against the rough structure of the parapet, she momentarily froze and watched as the stygian figure continued taking slow steps in reverse. They were almost like mirror images; one simply the gender-opposite counterpart of the other. His features were obscured under his hood much like Shayde's, but she didn't need to see his face to know with certainty who she was dealing with. But why? Both the question and the likely answer pained her terribly. When he finally stopped a safe distance away, his right hand rubbed at the tender, swelling spot under his eye, checking for blood. There was none and again, his gaze lifted to focus on Shayde.
  
  She closed the fingers of her left hand into a fist, opened them again, and rotated her aching wrist to alleviate the burning tendons. The leather creaked softly. Her thoughts were running a race with her heartbeat. Emotions waged bitter war with one another and built a lead weight in the pit of her stomach that made her want to wretch. The longer she looked at him the more her eyes began to sting with invasive moisture. What was she to do now? Run? Stand her ground? Attack before he could? The night wind rolled quietly over their still bodies, each staring the other down as though it were a standoff at high-noon. The frayed hem of his cloak danced in the ebb and flow of the moving air like tall grass in a summer field. In the street below, the High Constable's speech joined other urban tumbleweeds of discarded paper, helplessly ushered away into alleys riddled with fever-dreams and broken glass. Neither one of them moved to draw their respective weapons. 'Why him?' She thought. 'Why?' Her lids narrowed and dark eyebrows drew together in an expression reflective of the anger building inside her. 'How could he DARE to do this now?'
  Her jaws snared tighter than a bear trap with each desperate inquiry. 'Why?....Bastard....Hypochrite....Traitor!....' „WHY?!“ She finally shouted to him through the stillness, not giving a care in the world who might hear it. No response. He only smiled in a manner that could have been mischief or malice. Shayde's hands tightened to fists. If pushing her buttons was his intention then he deserved a gold medal.
  
  Enough was enough. She couldn't take it anymore. If he'd come looking for a fight, that's what she'd deliver. And if she had to beat the answers she wanted out of him, then so be it. Pushing off the wall, she stalked toward him. „Say SOMETHING!“ He remained still as a ghost. It didn't take her long to close the distance and when she did, she gave him a violent shove with both hands. „Tell me why!“ He stepped back with the force and took on a more solid, defensive stance, silently awaiting her next move. Seeing him move away from her, she followed up with a simple front kick, wanting to push him back even further. „ANSWER ME, GOD DAMN YOU!“ Because he had turned his body at a slight angle, her aim wasn't quite true. He caught her leg by the ankle and calf, pulled her off balance and threw her to the side. Her body hit the stone and slid dangerously close to the side-edge of the roof. As she began to get back up, he closed the distance between them and delivered a kick to her ribs before she could regain composure. Luckily she'd anticipated the move and exhaled sharply to keep herself from getting winded by the blow. The upside to having spent countless sparring matches together in the past was that it made his actions somewhat more predictable. The downside was that it made her's more predictable to him also. With her arms stabilizing her upper body, she shot out her leg and connected her shin with the side of his ankle. He took a step back to correct his balance and Shayde climbed to a crouch. The corners of her lips involuntarily twisted into a vicious smirk as if to say 'I know you' and her male opponent mimicked her all the same.
  
  When he came at her again, her arms became a bipod for her body while she used the leverage to shoot both legs at the core of her oncoming attacker. She would have struck much harder if he hadn't stopped himself from literally walking right into her defensive blow. Still, her boots had struck home, forcing him back a couple of steps. It seemed that he was the one who exhaled sharply to avoid having the breath knocked out of him this time. Shayde got on her feet with swift , liquid grace. Moving toward the hooded man, she used the momentum of her brisk strides for a jump-kick aimed at the side of his head. Her movements were refined and quick, but he was still quicker. His hand shot up to block. Leather met leather with an audible crack as her boot-clad foot struck hard against his glove and bracer. He calmly watched her body twist. The chewed hem of her cloak unfurled and brushed against him. He threw a punch. Shayde dodged, anticipating it by watching the movements of his shoulders. She shot a jab back at him almost mockingly. He moved his head. When he attempted to grab for her wrist not once, but twice, she deflected the gesture with her forearm both times. However, his attempted grabs were only intended for the soul purpose of misdirecting her attention. With his other hand, the man's leather-wrapped fist connected with the side of her rib cage. The place where she'd already been kicked before screamed with pain and she gasped sharply. Any harder and he might have actually managed to break something. Shayde felt her heart pounding like a war drum. He'd left little time for her to recover and was upon her again with the fierce persistence of a dog gone mad with the thrill of the hunt. Shayde shuffled back when he reached for her, attempting another grab. The guy was a formidable opponent. She would have to force him into making a mistake.
  
  Fighting through the pain in her side, she caught his wrist with a motion resembling a python striking out at it's prey. When Shayde began to pull him into her space he had to shift more of his weight onto his forward leg to adjust his balance. This dance had to end. With fingers still firmly coiled around his wrist, she aimed the side of her shin for the inside of his knee. His leg gave way and he lurched forward. She had him right were she wanted him now and since her weight still rested firmly on her back leg there was little need for adjustment. She leaned in, twisted her hips and thrust her knee hard into his solar plexus. A rewarding groan was heard. With clenched jaws she shoved him away and his legs buckled. He was down. But for how long? Shayde didn't care to find out. Not tonight.
  Reaching back, she unsheathed the twin daggers while she moved toward the hooded man who lay on his side trying to gather strength to get back on his feet. She rolled him onto his back and lowered herself triumphantly with one knee planted on his black leather clad chest. As his hood fell back from his forehead, his face became visible. Fearless eyes like aquamarines met her own gray eyed glare. Her breathing was quick and heavy. She brought the two blades toward his throat, one crossed over the other and stopped just short of the pale, soft skin that moved with every pained breath. She could see his pulse. One nick as innocent as a paper cut and the paralytic toxin coating each edge would leave him immobalized in less than a minute. Fingers which he had previously curled into tight fists slowly began to relax and as he lay there, prone on the cold stone beneath her weight. Finally, he produced a genuine smile.
  „That was fun...“ His words were strained from both the pain in his gut and her knee pressing down on his chest, „I like it better when you don't pull your punches.“
  Shayde's expression was priceless in every aspect. When his words sank in, she looked like bewilderment and relief had personally come and swatter her on the nose. Then, a tiny spark of anger lit up her countenance, mostly because she felt embarrassed about letting herself be tricked by him. She wanted to punch him in the face just for good measure. Though tempting as it was, she returned the weapons to their respective leather scabbards at the small of her back with the same fluidity as they had been drawn.
  „Damn it, Severin! You had me worried for a second, you bastard! Thought you were being serious...“ She put her hands on her hips in that girlish manner, smiling down to the face she'd known and loved since she was a child.
  „Then why'd you wait so long to draw those daggers of yours?“
  She didn't respond, and their smiles began to simultaneously fade. Shayde swept the hem of her hood back from her forehead and combed her fingers through feathery black strands of hair. The touch of night air felt pleasant on her scalp. Her heart had stopped pounding, breathing steadied and finally she moved to sit beside him on the cooling stones. For a moment, she gazed out at the dimly flickering lights of the city while her thoughts lingered on his question. Her side still stung uncomfortably, but she wasn't about to admit it.
  
  „What's this?“ Severin broke the silence, uncrumpling a piece of paper he'd been inconspicuously palming in his left hand. Shayde's steel eyes darted to him, widening. 'No way!,' she thought and instantly reached for the pocket inside her cloak. Empty... He probably could have picked her clean if their little duel had gone on any longer. Unbelievable. She debated trying to snatch it back from him, but the pain in her ribs wasn't worth the effort and so she let it be.
  „Another love note from the constabulary.“ She replied as he studied the black ink on the stained page. He'd seen plenty others. Anyone who had a working pair of eyes would have by now.

• I'll be tailoring these images in Photoshop a bit to better fit her description, but since I'm at work right now, I sadly lack the power of photoshop