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|eye_color=Brilliant glowing gold | |eye_color=Brilliant glowing gold | ||
|age=23 | |age=23 | ||
| − | |date_of_birth=January 22, | + | |date_of_birth=January 22, 2632 |
|place_of_birth=Alhira, [[Demaria]] | |place_of_birth=Alhira, [[Demaria]] | ||
|date_of_death=N/A | |date_of_death=N/A | ||
Latest revision as of 10:47, 23 January 2013
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Contents
Swiftpaw
Description
This female Demarian woman stands at a height of about five feet and three inches, with soft fur of a deep coal black which appears to absorb some of the light about her and sly golden eyes that seem to glow. She generally wears either a wicked smile or a dangerous scowl, alluding to her somewhat cruel nature. Her paws are covered with scars ranging from small and shallow nicks to long and deep gashes, and she has one scar in particular that runs across her face diagonally, beginning at her chin, crossing the bridge of her nose between her eyes and ending at her left ear. Her ears are soft and fluffy, and the left is pierced by a black crescent moon. She has a lithe, tight athletic form perfect for running or sneaking, and if she so pleases she can make herself near invisible in low light conditions.
Currently she wears a tight, form-fitting black leather zip up shirt, the left breast emblazoned with a flame insignia. Her lower body is made decent by tight pants of a similar material, and her feet are covered by heavy, specially made boots that reach half way up the calf, buckling up to their end. On her head she wears a tightly curled blood red bandana, marking her as part of a certain pirate captains crew. Her clothes seem to almost be part of her, excluding the bandana.
What other people say about her
"For the most part, the Demarian seems to keep herself, to herself. She doesn't seem to impose herself on anyone until they do something to spark her off." - Mach
Biography
My name is Swiftpaw. I was born Gloweye, named by the Alhiran orphanage that raised me for my brilliant golden eyes. I never knew my parents. My dad died in a spaceship accident and my mother died during childbirth, but it hardly ever bothered me. I never knew much about them anyway. All I had were pictures of them, and the word of some pitying strangers who said they were great people. The people running the orphanage were nice enough, but life was boring there, and I didn’t make a whole lot of friends. I usually kept to myself and played with my toys (which were much more suited to male Demarians), and people would call me ‘antisocial’ and ‘tomboy’, but what did I care? They were nothing to me, their opinions were words on the wind. Little did I know this demeanor would shape who I would become for the years ahead.
When I was 7 summers old, I decided to run away. I packed what little I had and made for the crowded streets, turning quickly into an urchin. I learned fast how to pickpocket with the best of them, though I never hurt anyone other than in their bank account. I eventually had so many trinkets and credit chips that I didn’t know what to do with them, and I set up shop in an alley, where I purchased a cellar to store all of my stolen stuff. My peaceful days as a pickpocket ended on my tenth birthday, however. That’s when everything changed.
My birthdays were nothing to look at, really. To me, they were just like any other day, just another notch on my wall. This one would be different, however. Other than casual street brawls with other urchins, I had never actually fought someone. Today would be my first trial of the blood, though I did not yet know it. The day started off with my general pickpocketing runs, and I sliced many purses. Then, however, I came across a member of the Demarian Militia, and at first, I turned to move away, pulling my cloak’s hood over my face. But then...I got a brave, and very stupid idea. I figured I was good enough now to try and steal from soldiers, from professionals meant to stop such things. I was very, very wrong. I followed the man into an alley, where he was proceeding to check the shadowy reaches for any unsavoury types. Little did he know, one of those unsavoury types was sneaking up behind him, ready to slice his purse open with swift paws. But as I was about to cut the purse, the man turned around, and blinked as he looked down to see two glowing gold eyes staring back up at him. He growled and kicked me in the jaw. It hurt. It hurt a lot. My knife clattered to the ground, bouncing away harmlessly. He must have been very angry for some reason, because he got on top of me and started to beat me mercilessly. Whether because of family issues, a demotion, I never found out. I didn’t even know his name. That made it a lot easier. I groped around for my knife, and quickly brought it up to stab the man in the side of the throat. He gasped heavily, surprisedly, and fell to the ground, his blood pooling beneath him as he slowly drowned with a gurgling noise that I will never, ever forget. I don’t know what was so special about that particular time -- I’ve heard it plenty since -- but it is always present in my mind. Always lurking...
They found the body a day or so later, and instantly started searching for the culprit. I was scared, confused. That’s when they approached me. Shadowy people who said they represented one of the great houses said they could make my troubles go away...for a price. I would have to work for them from now on. A life for a life, they said. If they saved me, I would have to kill more. I hesitated, and I thought about it for a long time, but finally, after many days of hiding out, I acquiesced. I took everything I could with me and followed them to a large, lavishly decorated house, where the only law enforcement were those hired by the owner of the house. They lead me to the noble who ran the house, who quickly accepted me, his confident attitude putting me at rest. He made me swear an oath to him, and then gifted me with a long knife and dark clothing. Tomorrow, I would start on my first target, he said. If I succeeded, he would make my troubles go away. If I didn’t, well, I would probably be dead anyway. Win-win, right? Anyway, I was completely unsure and nervous, but I accepted. What choice did I have? Not like I liked people anyway.
It turns out my target was one who owed this particular noble a lot of money. A life for a life, or a life for money, I thought. I infiltrated his humble house and snuck straight into his room. Turns out I was a natural. I was one with the shadows, and I barely hesitated as I covered his mouth and cut his throat open. The only sound that came from him was a soft wind, and blood welled up and dripped down his neck. I quickly made my way out, and though it hurt, I thought to myself how much of a bad person he must be, not paying his debts or caring for himself or his family. The world would be better without him, right? ...Right? In any case, it was too late to turn back. Strangely, the headlines about my kills disappeared within days of being printed. Nobody was the wiser to what happened. The military stopped looking for me, and my troubles literally vanished.
Over the next few years, I learned to kill more and more efficiently, using methods from poison to sniping to severing a man’s spine. My kills became less and less difficult to stomach, and even enjoyable after a while. I was turning into a monster, like I read in stories. I succeeded in my Rite of Maturity without much trouble, though it was done quietly. I named myself Swiftpaw, for obvious reasons, but I never really had a name. I was a shadow. I was a nameless, rankless servant of the noble house. I never even knew my employer’s real name. I never figured it out, and to this day, I don’t know who he was. One might consider this saddening, but I never have cared. I am Swiftpaw, assassin. All Demarians should fear my blade.
My employer was eventually assassinated himself. Perhaps he wronged the wrong person, or perhaps it was one of my kills that brought this about. Whatever the case, no one could have stopped it. I was out on an assignment to kill an outsider who had violated the sacred rituals of the house when it happened, so I didn’t hear about it for a while. When I did, however, I rushed back to the house as quickly as possible. The assassin was gone, and my master dead. I really had nowhere to go after that, so I decided to just wander. I took the knife I had made with me (The hilt was made of the femur bone of a Lotorian and the blade of the finest blackened steel, serrated on one end and barbed on the other) and left, doomed to wander the stars. Until one fateful day when I met a pirate captain without equal...
Cassandra was her name. She was short, but pretty. She had a confident air about her and I found out later that she was from a long forgotten age on the pretty blue planet called ‘Earth’. She caught me trying to steal from her Hekayti friend, and decided that she needed someone with my talents. And so, she hired me, and I accepted. I had to work without pay for a month, but the food was good, and the rum better. I got my own outfit and a bandana (I didn’t like it, but it was a marking, I supposed), and though I didn’t like her Hekayti Quartermaster very much, we learned to get along. That’s where I am today. I’m still part of her crew, and I’ve come to love her as a best friend, even if I have to grudgingly accept who she chooses as crew. Love is not a word I use lightly, mind you. I think I’ll be staying for a long, long while. But I’ll always be Swiftpaw, denizen of the night, slasher of throats, killer of the unworthy...nothing will ever change that. And frankly, I don’t want it to.
Values and Disposition
Swiftpaw is a troubled soul. Part of her life was spent being stepped on by others and the other part was spent killing, so she doesn't usually enjoy the company of other people. Her emotions are hidden beneath a wicked sadism and anger, and she can be somewhat cruel at times. She does, however, undergo a dramatic personality change when drunk, becoming sociable and almost charming, but this is the only time she'll willingly approach anyone. Despite all this, however, there are a few she holds a deep respect and caring for, despite her apparent lack of such emotion.