OOC
Minecraft Username: Kehnn
Are you at least 18 years old?: Yes.
Have you read the rules? (Link): Yes. That is the first rules page for a MCRP server I genuinely enjoyed reading. Big fan of the roleplay standards tab and how humane the staff conduct tab is.
(Optional) How did you hear about Avalore?: From a friend, after I spontaneously declared I wanted to get back into MCRP.
(Max. 1) Were you referred by someone? If so, please provide their in-game username: Hellatious. But they're not a part of the community. Yet.
(Optional) Introduce yourself if you’d like, as well as any creations you want to share (e.g. art, builds, skins): I primarily go by Kehnn online. People terrify me and I never know what to say, but I also like people and always want to say something. I try my best. I'm an university student, but also work as an English teacher at a language school. Oh, I also enjoy studying music on my free time (including playing instruments/singing).
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In-Character
Read the following prompt:
The rhythmic lull of hoofbeats was a marching drum to the small group of pioneers and variety of folk Rio had found herself among, packed into a wobbling wagon. The rolling plains of the Southern Reach and a clear sky stretched out all around her, the buzz of excited chatter a dull wash in her ears as her mind strayed to her former life and what had led her here to new lands.
“Nervous?”
She blinked, returning to the present moment. A kindly older woman seated nearby was smiling warmly, a crinkle at the corners of her eyes.
“I can tell it’s your first time. Still remember mine,” the woman flashed a grin and leaned in.
“Tell me, my dear, why have you come to the Reach?”
"To flee," Rio replied in Handsign, not a word uttered from her lips. She gazed at the woman through the blindfold that veiled her eyes, waiting as she assessed whether or not she had been understood before continuing "And to find purpose."
Her thoughts lingered on the word she had signed: flee. It was true, in part. She fled the shame, yes -- but also the silence. Not the vow of silence she had taken, but the hollow quiet of being unseen. Of being feared. Her blindfold cloaked what others called a bad omen. A demon, in their eyes. Those accursed crimson orbs that rested upon her face.
It is said that long ago, her ancestors mingled with the fey. As a consequence, fey blood trickled down her lineage, thinning and distilling through the generations until only a single trait remained: red eyes. Her clan’s reverence for the fey had long since curdled into fear, and any sign of their touch was now seen as corruption. A stain.
Whether those eyes were truly the work of fey magic, a quirk of inheritance, or simply the mark of fey-touched blood lingering in her line, she could not say. But they had earned her more than enough glances laced with unease -- and more than enough silence to last a lifetime.
"Here I hope to atone," she signed once more. Her words vague and cryptic.
Atone for what?
Her gaze drifted to the road ahead, and then beyond, to the memory of the unforgiving mountains she once called home. There lived a hardy people -- fearsome warriors. Many battles had she fought beneath the banner of the Odokhi Great Clan, as her lesser kin served under them. Conflict was not a curse there; it was a crucible. Strife shaped them. Discipline sustained them. To endure was to earn one's place in the blood-stained annals of the Uul’san peaks.
It was a life forged in steel and silence. A life with meaning.
So then, what was there to atone for?
For surviving, when others did not?
For hiding her face behind cloth and obedience?
For being born marked by blood her people had chosen to forget?
The questions pressed against her ribs like old wounds -- half-healed, half-denied.
Perhaps it was not one regret, but many. Small fractures she could no longer ignore. She had not broken the blade of her lineage, but she had let it rust. She had worn the silence, but never spoke truth beneath it.
And maybe that was it:
She had lived by the customs of her people, and still, she had never been one of them.
"And at last, find the answers I seek."
Indeed, Rio had many reasons to come to the Spire, but one stood above the rest: the disappearance of the Aedall. Among her clan, it was whispered that a chieftain of old had not only walked alongside the Aedall, but had been one of them in truth-- a fragment of elven grace buried in a bloodline now fractured and forgotten. With the Aedall’s vanishing, so too had much of the clan’s purpose faded into shadow, their identity severed at the root. Some claimed it was through that ancient chieftain that her people first brushed against the fey-- willingly or not.
That mystery alone would have been reason enough to bring her to the Spire. But it was more than curiosity that drove her -- it was hope. Hope that her blood, her eyes, her very being were not just burdens. That she was not a curse, but a purpose. That she was meant to be.
If the Spire had swallowed the Aedall, perhaps it still held their echoes.
"But enough about me. What was your first time like?" Rio signed one final time, the gesture gentle, but purposeful.
As the older woman’s expression shifted, the wagon creaked onward -- and before long, the distant shape on the horizon grew sharp and real. The Spire loomed ahead, its crystalline veins glinting like stars caught in stone.
And so she had come.
Not as a warrior, nor a scholar, nor even a faithful daughter.
But as a ghost of a bloodline fraying at the seams -- drawn to the Reach like iron to lodestone.
Drawn to the Spire.
Character Name: Murano Rio
Character Race: Half-race (Nua Sidhe/Fey-Touched)
Character Age: 25
Brief Physical Description:
Rio stood tall at 6'2'', her presence both lean and powerful -- a body shaped by battle, with the faint elegance of distant elven blood beneath the scars. Her skin was dark as obsidian, her eyes a deep crimson hidden behind a blindfold, veiling the Fey taint that her clan called a curse.
Short, straight-cut hair framed her stern features. She wore no shirt, only bandages wrapped tightly around her chest and fists. Loose dark trousers hung from her hips, paired with travel-worn sandals. At her hip, a long blade and its shorter twin hung side by side, bound together with a length of crimson cord.
She moved with quiet precision, every step measured -- a warrior forged in hardship, carrying herself like a remnant of something older than the road beneath her feet.
