Name: Indira Cassalien
Age: 748
Race: Dark elf
Gender: Female
Power: She can take herself and one other person at a time out of phase with the world around her just enough that she can touch and see it, but it can neither touch nor see her. Cold Iron still causes her some pain when out of phase, but it is a fraction of what it would be, and so long as she remains distant through the duration of the contact, she will not suffer from the Sickness.
Weapon: She is an expert with all manner of small blades, most of which are barely longer than her fingers and thus easily hidden on her person. The size of her weapons guarantees that she'll be close enough to her prey to feel them die.
Bio: No one who knew Indira as a child would recognize the woman she has become, seven centuries later. But then, everyone who could remember the confused, sickly little girl she had been is long since dead. She grew up in a household full of love and felt none of it. From parents who doted on her strong, successful elder brother, she received only resentment for the weakness of the strange disease that all but crippled her through adolescence, leaving her dependent on their care and effectively destroying their lives as they had known them. For decades, she was saddled with the guilt of that, and wanted, in her youth and childish love for her parents, nothing more than to fade away and make them happy.
By the time the sickness ran its course and finally left her, she found that she almost could. Now a young adult, she could choose to interact with the world, or simply step back and let it move on around her. This was a decision she left to her parents, and they were bitter enough to tell their daughter to stop interfering in their lives.
And so she did. For a decade, she existed entirely out of phase, growing further and further away that by the end of it she had to struggle to touch the food she needed to stay alive. In those ten years, she watched people, her parents, her brother. He became a hunter, the most prolific in their town, and he was greeted with adoring praise whenever he came home bearing a trophy from his latest kill. Half the time, the animals he killed were not for food, for any purpose other than proving that he could, that he was stronger and smart and thus better than the creature he killed.
That was a sort of logic she could understand. Embrace, even.
Wanting nothing more than the love of her parents, she killed her brother, proved that she was better, more worthy of their love. But when she brought home his head as trophy, she was met only with horror and rage. There was no joy at seeing their daughter return victorious, stonger now than she ever had been before. They called her monster.
So Indira took the high road.
She killed them, too. But just to make sure she was right. Over and over again, she had to prove to the people she had known that she was
right.
Everyone died, and not a single person among them validated her struggle. Not one justified what she had done by accepting her, by offering some shadow of love. So she kept looking, far and wide, and there were none who would accept the only survivor of the strange blight that befell her home. And she kept killing them to prove that she was better than them, that she had been generous to offer them her company.
Over the centuries, it has become less a search for someone to accept her and more a hunt for a struggle, a challenge. Andivar offered her the place she had been looking for, and in his quest to collect his prizes, she has found her journey to find the one thing she really wants.
A worthwhile death.
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