The civilization of the drow is a strongly hierarchical one, with a
sharply divided caste system. The rigid structure and the myriad rules
dictating the positions in drow society cannot be fully fathomed by
outsiders. In the upper echelons, a drow's name may be tied to a House that
winds back in the annals of time. The descendants of each House are proud
creatures, reared in the nobility of the Underdark.
In the depths of the Unlit City, shrouded in darkness and cut off from the
main paths by overgrown brambles, a curse as old as time enshrouds the House
with no name. The mansion has been stripped of its splendor, and cobwebs
drift from the decrepit, ornate moldings. Lurking in the shadows of the
main hall, the ancient, blind Matriarch grips the arms of her forgotten
throne. The glow of Zhadenmir's pillar heralds the beginning of the third
Eon of her solitude.
"The One will come this dawn," the Matriarch whispers ferociously, as if
trying to convince herself in the stillness. Her claws dig splinters into
the already etched grooves beneath her fingers. A pattering is heard
outside and her wrinkled lips twist into an eager sneer.
A high-pitched shriek is heard, followed by sobbing and frantic scrabbling
as a pretty child, cocooned in webbing, is dragged into view. An army of
spiders the size of small ponies pulls it along, each with a silvery strand
connected to its busy spinnerets. The girl - seemingly of a noble line,
with black, almost bluish skin now covered in a dull sheen of the dust
through which she was dragged - whimpers and cries. The Matriarch's
withered, leering face contorts into a vicious grin.
"Yes... This soul will do."
The spiders scuttle closer, sliding the body-shaped sac to the Matriarch's
feet. The girl's violet eyes widen as the Matriarch leans over her, tracing
a blackened fingernail down her tear-stained cheek, then to the corner of
her trembling, plump lips, forcing her mouth open. The helpless creature
lets out a petrified whine that suddenly curdles in her throat as her tongue
is deftly slit from its root and her mouth fills with blood. Her eyes roll
back in her skull as she mercifully fades from consciousness.
The Matriarch plucks the still-writhing flesh victoriously and holds it
aloft, admiring it in the crimson pillar's light.
"You will sing for me, and me only, my pretty little nightingale."
The cackle echoes in the cavernous hall, filled with the insanity of
loneliness.
The voice of the mute
The girl awakens as the crimson light creeps in through the bars over her
only window. There is a dull throbbing pain in her mouth, but worse than
the physical pain is the hollowness. The emptiness. The lids of her eyes
flutter, revealing listless, pale lilac orbs.
A small port on her door clunks open and something metallic clatters to
the floor.
"You will learn this. It will be your voice... For now."
Her gaze slides over to the battered flute lying there. It conjures the
memories of her old music teacher, her proud parents, the intricate melodies
she had once performed before throngs of guests at the balls they would
host. As she played, she would observe the political maneuverings of her
mother's rivals in the crowd. No one ever paid attention to the performers.
They were simply embellishments of entertainment. The life of court
intrigue had filled her with a sense of excitement - an expansive realm of
discovery and exploration for a drow matron's daughter bound to filial
duties. Her mother had only just begun to appreciate her talents and was on
the cusp of offering her entrance to the shadow guild, from whence she could
pursue her passion for espionage.
But that life has been torn away from her. Now, she is nothing. Her
mother would never accept a cripple to represent her perfect lineage.
The girl despairs. She had been taught to maneuver in political circles in
high society, not fend for herself. She crawls from the bed and picks up
the flute, cradling it in her hands. This was now, could only be, nothing
but an echo of the past. Did she wish to remember? Could she even play it,
with her mangled mouth? She brings the brass mouthpiece, freckled with
spots of rust, to her swollen lips with a wince.
Despite the pain, the cool metal feels familiar, like a friend. Long years
of practice and muscle memory rise to the surface, and she begins to play.
In her mind, her voice sings:
The waiting dark sings to the soul
Where troubled light had been.
Let soreness go and wounds subside,
Let life renew within.
She feels the smallest hint of pain ebb with the melody, barely
distinguishable. But it is enough to give her hope.
The voice of the nameless
The crumbling walls echo mockingly with each step as the girl ventures
nervously down the great hall. Screes of dust spill in the eaves as
something scuttles there. Eyes are upon her; she can feel them prickling
the back of her neck as a breeze chills the cold sweat that beads forth
unbidden.
A great crystal window at the end of the hall focuses four beams of light
from Zhadenmir's Pillar upon an ebony stool, illuminating it in a crimson
spotlight. Upon it lies a new instrument. A silver flute, with a row of
silver spiders scuttling across it - each protruding abdomen a key. The
girl feels drawn to it immediately, her hand snatching it almost pleadingly
from the seat as she takes her place beneath the lights. In the silhouette
of the throne framed in the great window, She speaks.
"Play, pretty child, play..."
The girl puts her swollen lips to the mouthpiece and begins the song. At
first, the piercing tones of the flute reverberate around the hall
forlornly. Then, from somewhere in the shadows, a woman's voice - clear,
sweet, what a priest might call the voice of an angel, but tinged with an
indescribable darkness that pulls at the fraying edges of one's soul.
The feel of shadows move behind,
Waves of chills run down your spine.
Ghostly voices echo in your head,
Only to find emptiness instead.
Under the bed at night they hide,
Or maybe it is just in your mind.
Something stirs in the darkness. A skittering, a tapping, a shuffling,
a dragging. A choking sound. And then silence.
The girl cradles the flute in her hands, wondrously, oblivious to the
struggle, fully entranced by the music.
The Matriarch gestures impatiently, imperiously.
"Play!"
So she does.
Description:
You see a young drow maiden with striking blue-black skin and a cascade
of silver hair tied back in an elaborate braid. Her face is perfectly
proportioned with high cheekbones and fine features. Her eyes are a light
lilac color, the irises almost as pale as the whites of her eyes, with
dilated red pupils at the center, framed by lush, starkly white lashes that
seem to glint under certain rays of light, like snow under a winter sun.
Her lips are colored a bright, blood red, drawing your attention. There is
something slightly strange about the slope beneath her chin and her throat,
as if her sculptor's chisel slipped and chipped away just a bit more of the
obsidian than she should have. Her body is soft, slender and supple, with
feminine curves just beginning to appear. She carries herself with the
sinuous grace of a dancer.
Wow, sorry to see this! Ravia was a really cool character with an intriguing backstory and lots of great RP. Hope you can come back some time and look forward to whoever you play next.
Ravia! Wish you'd hesitated!
This gnome is devastated!
In all seriousness Ravia was a great character. Enjoyed every interaction I had with you. Hope you find time to roll your next sooner rather than later!
Oh nooo! This is devastating. Such a wonderfully intricate character that I was looking forward to more interactions with. I really wish you all the best.
After our disagreement, I felt like we were on track to become real rivals. Seemed like we were alike in all the right ways for some good social conflict. I hope everything works out for you IRL and we get another dose of your roleplay soon.
Kalist19 
2 , 0 , 0 . Good luck with everything IRL, I hope that everything is ok and that things calm down for you.
[reply to Ravia]I was thoroughly enjoying this character and always looked forward to interacting with her.
[reply to Avenar]
[reply to Trillian]
Come back soon!
[reply to Vorsacen]
This gnome is devastated!
In all seriousness Ravia was a great character. Enjoyed every interaction I had with you. Hope you find time to roll your next sooner rather than later!
[reply to Foggledonk]
a little spider, burrowed deeper.
Now, without warning,
I'm here in mourning--
though by now you know I'm a weeper.
[reply to Valindra]
[reply to Jhollim]
[reply to Tsabnar]
[reply to Ilromie]
[reply to Davairus]