User:Rawnie
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Description
"Well, I can't exactly say she ain’t a looker. I mean, yeh kinda hafta be in her position. She's got long, curly black hair and big brown eyes. That's how she pulls yeh inta her little scheme. She looks at yeh with these doe eyes and gets all close and then before yeh know it, yer at her beck and call. And then this body o' hers. Lords almighty! Curves where they need to be, and skinny in the places that matter with these long o' gorgeous legs. Ya'know, she's got this mark on her upper thigh, if yeh get close enough to look at it, it's just slightly darker than the rest o' her skin and shaped in a heart. Alot o' women claim she's a witch, but hell, if she's a witch, I'd let'er steal my soul any damn day. The sad part is though, afterwards, after it's all said and done, if you pretend to sleep, she'll get up after a while and just cry."-An exert from an overheard conversation in the local tavern between two men.
- Name: Rawnie Kailoi
- Hair: black and curly; most times unruly.
- Eyes: Brown
- Height: Tall. About 5' 8"
- Weight: Around 128 lbs. She doesn't eat enough, that's for sure.
- Mate: N/A
- Family: Two bastards: Ariella and Tamas.
Biography
“I get tha’ a lot. I know we don’t fall in the norm. Well, given, we’re nomads and trade workers but o’er than that, we a bit different. We don’ cart our life around in a wagon or carry our houses on our backs. No, we sleep in tha forest and hunt for our food. When we pass through a town, we’ll only then parade around and sell our trades so as ta not frighten tha people. But only then are we human. Our goddess gave us the blessing years and years ago to turn two-legged if need be.” -Rawnie Kailoi
Rawnie is:
- A gyspy
- A courtesan and dancer
- A healer
- A werewolf
- Young
- Naive
- A fortune teller
- A rose
- Has a new leg with thanks due to Cerinii
That night was perfect, almost magical. The way her body fit against his and his hands roamed over her in a heat of passion. She thought she loved this man; she was clearly infatuated. He simply lusted after her, for in the wee hours of the morning, he woke to leave her a note on the once occupied pillow that read:
”Thanks for the fun lass. Gotta get back to my wife. Here’s a few coins to get yourself cleaned up.”
And with heart broken finger-tips, she trailed over the harsh scrawl that chewed at her, cutting her down to feeling nothing more than a whore. She tore the room apart, her anger taken out on the head board, lamps and doors. If she didn’t need the money left for her on the pillow, Rawnie would have left it, but the illness that had struck her eldest brother left her family needing all the coins they could gather.
Later that night, when she dropped the draw-string purse into her mother’s hand, the young girl was awarded a grin. “Jus’ keep doin’ whatever yer doin’ dove.” Seeing the graciousness in the woman’s worn face, the youthful gypsy continued.
Dancing in pubs and taking the more handsomely paying men upstairs later. At first, the ploy was hard; the men had to coax her from her rigidness. But as her morals faded, and the money kept coming, it grew increasingly simple, and soon it seemed that each port her nomadic family visited, the growing gypsy was known by word of mouth. At first, they used her name while in the tavern, but as the night progressed, each customer reduced her name to “Little doe-eyes.”
They never heard her get up in the middle of the night to sit in the tub –if the inn offered one- and cry. That was one thing that would always persist despite the growing custom to the trick of the trade. And in the morning, they never seemed to care for her, they’d leave with the same excuses, and they increasingly started to bother her less.
And even when she alone had garnered enough gold pieces to help her brother, she was so accustomed to the act of pleasing it had became a habit.
However, a fateful night came, drawing herself away from her family as the shrieks of dying wolves drowned out the thud of her heart and pounding paws, and fortunately away from a life-style that is as addicting as breathing. Through a forest that smelt of death, and then a town littered with death itself, the loping paws pounded harder on the packed earth, running and running and running.
And finally, after running away from the slaughter of wolves, of innocence, of her addiction, she ran herself into the arms of a man who didn’t want to leave her for his wife, and didn’t want her just for fun, and wanted all of the infamous Rawnie, not just part of her.
…But don’t think for a second that this lycanthrope is far from a relapse.