Rasqe

[Rasqe]

Rasqe Appearance Race: Eypharian (four-armed) Gender: Male Age: Twenty-six Birthday: 491 AV Birthplace: Ahnatep Appearance: Rasqe stands at 5' 10" and weighs roughly 155 pounds. He is slender and toned, with lean muscles that are most apparent in his arms and especially his legs, but there is a softness to his face that betrays a gentle nature. His skin is smooth and tanned like melted caramel, while heavily kohled amber eyes glimmer like pools of honey in sunlight, ever watchful. His sleek black hair is kept short and usually styled with scented oils. He has three piercings: two rings, one through the center of his lower lip and one in his right nostril, the latter being connected to an elaborate ear cuff by a delicate silver chain from which thinly hammered discs of gold hang in intervals. He favors clothing that is loose or sheer and breathes well, as opposed to many of the more constricting outfits found in other parts of Mizahar, and is fond of jewelry that accentuates his more delicate features, like his wrists, ankles and neck. Character Concept Rasque is a talented dancer and tempter of those with a taste for something exotic and forbidden. He does his best to maintain an alluring mystique that will keep others guessing while he discreetly studies them. This is more of a game to him than anything else, one that he plays for his benefit as well as that of others', mostly because he thinks that the "real" him is boring. He practices the arts of dance and swordsmanship, often incorporating both in performances that he infuses with Eyktolian and personal flair. He seeks to improve both skills constantly, and is more appreciative than competitive when others display similar talents or goals, hoping to learn from them while bolstering his own abilities. He is more likely to display empathy than sympathy. Growing up in a brothel with just enough money to eat once, sometimes twice, a day instilled him with the notion that everyone is capable of achieving their potential, no matter their station in life, and he strives to rise above preconceived notions that others form about him. He is more than willing to help those who are truly in need but refuses to pity others and is quick to wash his hands of anyone who feels sorry for him. Behind his coy and seductive exterior, he is actually a solemn and occasionally wistful individual. The loss of his mother left him with a hole that he was never quite able to fill and is admittedly afraid to try and do so, feeling that finding love in any form would be the same as replacing her and ultimately betraying her memory. At the same time, he inadvertently seeks out affection in any form, regardless of the source, and is mothering in his own way. Character History Rasqe's story was not unique to him. He was born to a whore, a woman named Jela, who did not have the means to escape her station in life, or to ensure that her son would. With only four arms and the implicit shame of having a prostitute for a mother, his lot in life was more or less decided the moment he was conceived as part of a transaction. One night like any other, she pretending to enjoy some nameless stranger's company for a meager handful of mizas, he convincing himself that the passion they shared in those fifty-seven minutes was genuine. She took the usual precautions, imbibing tea made from crushed herbs that would kill any life that had sprouted from his seed, or so the vendor in the bazaar had claimed, and took the time necessary to cleanse herself with the water she had drawn from the well that morning, before the first of her clients had arrived. She knew after a month that she had been lied to. The herbs had not done what was expected of them, and the fatigue, the soreness and the nausea that heralded the gift of life became all too familiar to her. She considered other methods of dealing with the child, fearing that pregnancy would see her turned out of the brothel and starving in the streets, but realized that she did not have the stomach to kill it now. Not now that it was something real that could be felt inside her, instead of a vague fear or possibility. A talented whore can convince anyone in the world that she loves them, but over the following months, Jela experienced genuine love for the first time in her life. The child was named Rasque, which meant "defiant" in her native tongue. It was a jest, an admonishment and a blessing rolled into one. He was raised to the best of his mother's ability, and by the other women who lived in the brothel, and kept safe by the owner who was a mountain of a man. He did not mind the boy's presence as long as he did his part to keep the place clean and presentable. Rasqe feigned ignorance of what went on behind the doors on the second floor once they were shut, not out of embarrassment (something that a child growing up in a whorehouse either never develops or gets over very quickly), but out of respect for his mother. She was a queen in his eyes. Perhaps not the most attractive woman in the land, or even the brothel, but the way she carried herself was something he hoped to be able to do one day. She faced the world without shame of who or what she was, and she did what was necessary to survive. She could have turned to stealing like so many others in the city had when they hit rock bottom, but she had deliberately chosen to make a living doing something that wouldn't hurt others. She was strong in ways that only a whore could be, an outcast of society with the will to live and provide for her son, even if it meant chipping away at her spirit one day at a time. He knew that it was difficult. He could see it in her eyes, brief flashes of hopelessness and concern. For herself. For him. But that look was absent when she danced, a talent that was hers and hers alone in that place. She would smile when she twirled, her jewelry catching the light as she moved gracefully, fluidly, like a gust of warm wind across the ridge of a dune. There was something magical about the steps, the twists, the shake of her hips. Something hypnotic and mesmerizing. Something that he wanted to be able to do. She had laughed when he asked her to show him the steps. It was not a cruel or condescending laugh, but one that was born of misunderstanding. "You have no need for the dance." she had said softly, carefully, for hers was a dance used to entice the eyes of men from afar, to tear their attention away from other women and ensure that their money was as good as hers. An outwardly beautiful but underhanded tactic that had earned her the ire of her competition over the years. "But you look so happy when you dance." he replied, his innocence laid bare. "If I learn to dance like you, then I could be happy whenever I want, too." Her heart broke at his words. She had held him close, crying gently on his shoulders as she apologized and promised that, yes, she would teach him the steps. And she did. They would practice together, he mimicking the way she wove and spun until he could perform the same movements with confidence on his own. Jela had nothing to give her son when she was gone but a few pieces of jewelry and articles of clothing, but her dance was different. Priceless. The most precious gift she could have given him. When she fell ill from the same disease that ailed countless other whores in the city during the Summer of 507 AV, he had tried to be strong. The doctors had refused to enter the brothel for fear of their own well-being; they weren't about to risk their health to save a single whore, and so the fever killed her, her last minutes spent in delusion and pain. Jela had lived a brief life filled with hardship and self-sacrifice, and yet the Eypharian people hated her and what she had been. If they could have even been bothered to learn that she existed, they would have spit on her grave. Only sixteen years old and having been forced to mature at an early age, he was nonetheless stunned that the world around him had not taken even a second to mourn his mother's passing. It hadn't even noticed that she was gone. He decided to leave the city that had brought nothing but pain to his mother. He knew that he would return one day, when he was better able to face what had transpired, but for the time being, he wanted to put distance between himself and the mass of pride and greed that he had been born under. He wanted to travel, to see the world that his mother had never gotten the chance to see, and to both share her dance with those who would appreciate it. Language Fluent Language: Arumenic Basic Language: Common Poor Language: Snake-Tongue Skills Skill EXP Total Proficiency Dance 15 SP 15 Novice Seduction 15 SP 15 Novice Weapon: Scimitar 10 RB + 20 SP 30 Competent Lores Helpful Lores: (Pick 2) Lore of Ahnatep Streetplan Lore of Ahnatep Culture Lore of History of Ahnatep Lore of Ahnatep Politics Lore of the Jackals Lore of Religion: Syna Lore of Religion: Dira Possessions 1 Set of Clothing - Lightweight Linen kilt - Lightweight Linen Undergarments - Lightweight Linen Cloak or Coat - Simple Leather Sandals 1 Waterskin 1 Backpack which contains: -Comb (Bone) -Brush (Bone) -Soap -Razor -Balanced Rations (1 Week’s Worth) -1 eating knife -Flint & Steel 100 Gold Mizas Heirloom: Fill me in, please! (HELPFUL HINT, Please Remove - Max. 50gm worth) Housing Location: Where in Mizahar are you living? House: Temporary Housing: Ledger Purchase Cost Total Starting +100 GM 100 GM Thread List Link your current & past threads here!