Selen Arthem

Aqui el background de mi personaje para pathfinder.
 She walks among the litter bags, the cans, the containers. She walks between the walls stained by putrid liquids, and traces of vandalism describing unreadable protests, She walks in the putrid air, filled by the stench of trash, rat and dog urine, and the scent of rotten meat of these animals' corpses and the bodies of those ridden with the pest. She is dressed as she always does when she visits this places of oblivion, silver jewlery, necklaces, waistbands, rings, all with gems of black stone shaped as tears, boots of leather with a needle heel that only cover the front part of her legs, while the back is only covered by thin belts with brooches of yet more silver. She covers her long and thin legs with both leather pants and a leather skirt, her torso is only covered with a black leather coat with fists and collar of the soft and delicate fur of an animal, save for some spots stained with dry blood, the inner side is exquisite silk touching directly her white and soft skin, save for the bandages that cover her scarred chest. She looks around her, unfathomable hubris, in her hand she carries her usual equipment, a bag of worn suede, filled with tubes and jars, some containing animal guts, carefully put apart bones with not a drop of blood on them, some others have little spheres that look towards eternity without blinking, and in some others, there are little brains with spinal cords hanging. In her left hand she wears a simple tool, a metallic claw, with a sharp tip, capable of piercing easily through bone. Her target is a rat, another prey, she wants a big fat rat, as repulsive as possible, she wants its blood, its fat, and plans to keep it’s eyes and guts for some other time. She observes carefully around, seeking for the little reflections of light on the eyes of the rats, and mice, she finds plenty, but none that she likes, some minutes pass before it finally shows up. There it is, repulsive, clumsy and fat, incapable of fleeing. With tremendous accuracy, she throws herself in a certain attack, piercing through the animal's neck, without even spilling blood on herself. She lifts the corpse from the wound and puts it on a metallic tray that she pulled out of her bag, using the corner as a funnel, drains the blood into a jar, and then patiently, separates the rest. She smiles sadistically; her blood red lipstick reveals this as it glimmers under the little light that hits her face, illuminating her red pupils as well. She makes fast and accurate cuts, until finally all that is left is the skin, which she throws into the trash piles. She leaves the alley with the metallic finger still dripping, the electric light shows her silver hair, her young face, lacking color save for the blood coloured lipstick, the same as her eyes. Her skin is as white as the moon itself, which she looks at with a loving and tender mile, and an equally tranquilizing look. She takes off the coat, leaving her scarred shoulders exposed, skin white and perfect as that of a marble statue carved in mythological stories like the body of a goddess, interrupted by streaks left by thorns and blades from a time long gone in which she was a slave. She puts the bag on the floor, and lets the coat fall over it, she unbuttons the skirt in such a way that her shadow became a perfect silhouette on the dirt floor. She lifts her arms to the air, as if wanting to hug the moon, she stays like that for exactly thirteen seconds before lowering her arms to hug herself covering her blood stained bandages, she turns to look at her shadow, a silhouette more perfect than her. She picks up her coat and her bag, and continues her way The candles illuminate the crumbling walls of the old building, the scent of alcohol and rottenness fills every corner. She has put everything as it is told in her forbidden books, some hand-written parchments, and even engravings on stone tablets. One in particular is covered with human skin with a tattoo that time has erased, she grabs it and opens it, looks within its pages until she finds what she wants, she reads it and follows the instructions quite carefully, takes a mortar, pours contents of the jars and tubes and smashes and mixes. On the stone floor she makes chaotic and desperate traces until finally nine figures appear in a spiral, over which she puts dry chunks of animals, some papers and wood, these she uses as fuel for fire. She throws powders and liquids while she repeats a strange prayer in a forgotten language that no culture spoke save for a very select group. After some minutes of dancing an execution, she turns to see herself in a mirror, there she is: white as salt, the only color on her are her red pupils under her color lacking hair. She recognizes a perfect silhouette, an enviable, and desirable body barely marking her ribs because of the poor diet she has had, the only defect was her scarred back, she was tired of it, tired of being seen with so much demeanor, tired of not being able to go out and enjoy the warm sun, of not being like everyone else, of being unable to socialize, of having to hide, of feeling lonely. She remembers every night in which she curled up in the armchair at her parents’ house, how she cried kneeling at her mother's knees because of her despair, she remembers how she sometimes looked for a corner to hide and cry alone, when she finally decided to escape. She remembers how many times she prayed for her to be freed from the curse of slavery, always without a result, until she felt betrayed, now she looks for someone else, someone who she thinks will avenge her, that vengeance she feels is owed to her for being born a slave. She takes a candle, pours the molten wax on her forehead, lips, chest, and navel, prays to that one she thinks will help her, she repeats the phrase one time after another until she enters a trance, her schizophrenia is loose, after some minutes she puts the mixture from her mortar on the fire, she waits until it boils and then pours it over the fire, releasing with it a black smoke and a stench that fills the room while the fire is extinguished, leaving only burning ashes that soon become cold. She lets herself fall on her knees, she is disappointed, she feels as if she had ruined the spell, she raises herself slowly, and reaches for her coat, now she only wants to sleep. She takes her bag as she lets her coat fall over her shoulder, to then get to another room of the same old building, use the bag as a pillow and use her coat to cover herself, hoping the night would not chill, when she felt a great heat behind her, she turns to see flames rising to the roof, from them emerges smoke darker than anything she had seen., little by little a strange being is formed, body and head of a man with great horns. She smiles as she throws her things to the ground, she is totally exposed, she looks carefully at the beast, ash, bone, stone and flesh, eyes of fire, her smile disappears to leave a frightened face instead, she retreats as the creature advances. The creature stretches its arms sticking its claws into her chest, she turns her sight away, and discovers her reflection in the broken mirror, her hair is of a beautifull golden brown, and her skin is now the color of bronze, as if marble had turned into metal. She looks at herself floating in the air, the creature does not reflect, but she feels how she is freed from its grasp. Now she walks towards the mirror, looking at herself, impressed, happy, the fire burns behind her, iluminating her, but this happines won´t last long, she felt how her knees were broken, how her hair was pulled, her body pushed towards the wall, and her soul separated from her body, a string of blood emerges from her mouth as if it had tied her to this world. She felt how the blood ran through her chin and dripped on her chest, and how the creature stabbed her using only its stone hard knuckes. The night ends and the local peacekeepers finish analizing the room, they had received a call three hours earlier, it seemed as if the room was on fire, but they only found an extinguished bonfire, a shredded mirror, a chair with a skirt, a pair of pants and a coat on it, silver jewlery with black gems in a little bag of velour, and a pair of strange boots. Almost extinguished candles next to bookcovers whose sheets had been incinerated, and in a corner there was a corpse of a blonde with a skin of bronze, around her there were marks of fire, but she was untouched save for the string of dry blood that stained her chin and ended in a poodle on the floor, and the broken knees. They file it, no clues, put it on the same pile of documents as the search for a missing samsaran slave…. The cart advances steadily on the mud road, they had all seen, the remains of a carriage some miles back, and were weary of whatever might have attacked those poor souls. The dim light that reached them through the thick canopy, glittered on the blades of a couple of old cheap swords, and the tip of a bolt on a crossbow held by trembling hands. The hooded samsaran on the back of the cart looks at the road left behind, memories of Hel rescuing her from a strange demon crossing her mind as she visualizes the werewolves attacking that carriage not two days ago. They are headed south, the samsaran never stops looking north.