Kesai/Nightcaste
~_Kesai_~
Chances are that if you are seeing more than her retreating back, you are seeing her in a tavern while she attempts to earn a few coins legitimately- so that is where I shall assume you to be currently.
Your stale mug of poorly-made ale is warm and the tavern is full of people and, for a moment, you forget why it was that you came here, but then she enters and memory comes. Pausing at the door, she slips off the heavy shoes and sets them aside, a quiet bow and a prayer offered before she moved into the room fully. Off to the side is an area of the common room that is clear of tables and chairs to make room for any performer that wants to try to earn a few coins from the patrons- and that does not include the whores that are scattered throughout the room. But this woman… she is different.
Settling herself in a kneel on the floor, knees apart slightly, shoulders back and head lowered, a pipe appears in her slender fingers. The hat that conceals her hair and eyes is removed and set aside, revealing long, flowing silver hair that slides down her back like liquid metal. Her eyes are of the same hue and glitter as she glances out through the crowd, almost appearing… afraid. She is young, you know, you’ve seen her there and watched her perform before- usually it is music, but if there is another musician, she graces you with dance instead. Alabaster-hued skin is swirled with delicate silver markings, accenting the curvature of her cheekbones, forehead, jaw and throat and then vanishing beneath the collar of her garment. She always, one might notice, dresses in white- pure and immaculate, never a stain nor imperfection to be seen on the snowy surface of her clothing. She might be odd-looking, but she is stunningly beautiful. Certainly there are others that are moreso, but she is worth a few coins and an hour or so of your time to watch her play.
The pipe is lifted and a soft sound emerges- she always sounds so sad. The smoke in the air is warmed with the sound of the instrument’s notes as she drew the tune from the pipe. Conversations die down to respectful whispers as her music continues- the other patrons know her for the most part and also know better than to show her unkindness- while she looks more like beaten puppy than a martial artist, if she is pushed far enough she can and will defend herself. One of your friends tried it once, you remember, when she was dancing. He brazenly stuck out a hand and grabbed at her hair, making her miss a step and twirl to face him. Without breaking the rhythm of the dance, she’d grabbed his hand, twisted it and broken four of his fingers before continuing with what she’d been doing. It could have almost been a part of the dance, for all you knew, but for the fact that your friend had howled in pain and never again come to watch her perform.
Of course, there was no guarantee that she’d be there- her appearance was somewhat rare and rather sporadic, at best, it was worth the wait. No one knew who she was or where she came from, it seemed, but by the way she watched the crowd through strands of her hair while she played- as though looking for someone- you can guess that the reason for this is that she doesn’t want to be found. A pity, really, most of the men here would probably be glad to take her home and give her a place to stay for the night and a few hot meals- and not even necessarily require sex of her. The people that have seen her more than once or twice have respect for the strange girl that comes in.
Something of note is that she never seems to speak or make much by way of conversation- while she sings like an angel, she doesn’t appear to be one for talking. You tried to approach her once, but were rewarded with a frightened look and she’d abruptly vanished into thin air- as though she had never been there to begin with.
Beneath the long sleeves, you once glimpsed twin scars. Thin, white lines that stand out faintly against her otherwise flawless skin- they snake up her forearms from wrists to elbows. No, she didn’t try and commit suicide… well maybe she did. But whatever the reason, she is still there and playing the pipe softly. What you don’t see, are the scars across her back and the tattoo on the back of her neck. While the white lines that criss- cross her back are simply that- white lines, the silver markings that cover her all but hide them, but they are there nonetheless. The tattoo on the back of her neck is unhidden by the silver- it stands out starkly black against her otherwise light-colored body. It is of the house Cynis- marking her as a slave.
