Seraphim }{ It's an art.

[sarine]

What is the little Seraphim doing wandering around the world? Shouldn’t she be cloistered, smothered in the lap of luxury and playing fiddle to her master’s needs? Instead, she is learning her way about the earth, surviving as best she can. As best she can? Yes. As best she can. But she mustn’t lose her focus.

See, Sarine has a mission. A purpose. A to-do list. And she best tick off every one of her list items. Or there could be trouble. Trouble she knows nothing about.

{Name}
Sarine D'Arras.

{Status}
Alone. Always.

{Companions}
None save Viridian, the eagle forever trailing in her wake.

{Basic}
20 years of age + Female + Seraphim (God-touched Human)

{Appearance}
5’6 + 100 lbs + brown hair + brown eyes.

{Powers}
Minor healing abilities.
Basic telepathic skils.
Capable with blades of most kinds.

{Equipment}
Twin set of daggers.
Satchel.
Journal.

How to describe something that takes no need for descriptions? Given the duress an attempt shall be taken in hand to do the reality justice with words. The sight before you is an arresting one, faintly disturbing, ultimately teasing at the senses in a way to elicit curiosity and an overpowering need to understand what drives the small woman to do as she does. For she is small… delicate and fine-boned. Curves perfectly proportioned to her sleek, slender frame. Thick auburn curls flow in soft waves down her spine, shifting with the lazy, sultry saunter that set flared hips to a hypnotic undulation that drew attention and held it. Soft hazel regard is often blank and empty of emotion, rarely lit with delight but when so inclined – the rich depths of her eyes sparkle.

Graceful and poised, the tiny Seraphim has a presence that far outweighs her short stature. Fiercely, dangerously intelligent, she is an opinionated female, her sharp and often mocking tongue seeing her in for more trouble than she should rightfully entertain. And about her lazy perfection, there is a faint shadow of malevolence that lingers in the wake of everything she does, an inherent turn away from the light that in and of itself, is thrillingly, darkly, glamorous.

Beautiful, vivacious, bright, oddly cynical – a complex creature, consummate performer and the greatest pretender of her generation.

They are a myth. A mystery. Talked about in whispers circling a fire, late at night, when one too many had found its way down willing throats. The legend of the Seraphim. A race of human that far exceeded the abilities of their kind. Women touched by the Gods, the right hand of the divine. Human and weak as you and I, still they shine with a vivid light. Given but one command.

To hear and obey.

But listening is selective, commands interpreted differently and obedience a point of perspective. It was the allure, after all, the drew many to try and tame the wild, fierce women to a point when there was no doubt as to who was master and who was slave. But a living, breathing Seraphim has not been seen in over a century. They are all dead, or so says hearsay.

But hearsay can be wrong. Almost always is. One still lives, the last of her kind. Sent of a mission by the one man who tamed her spirit and calmed her fire. For him, she would walk on air. And so she left, to go into the world and do as she was told.
To hear and obey.

Sarine will never see her master again.
Sarine does not care.
She will see his work done.
Or die in the process.

[HoudiniDerek]

Approved.