That's right. A braaaaaand new design inspired by the model Melynda Moon; the reason for the redesign is too complicated to go into, but I didn't listen to the character when I was developing her and tried to make her into something she wasn't. Now, though? Bet your ass we're back on track with her. <3 Dopey eyed, ethereal... THIS is the Vania I wanted! SHORT WRITING SAMPLE OF VANIA: Aaric was a high judge of women – at least, their features. All it usually took was a single glance to concern if they perked his valuable attention. However, the creature he had sought out bamboozled his eyes initially. Giddy rumours tempted his spare-time to the pursuit of a Soothsayer; an ominous witch of supposedly potent power. The noble’s interest was perked, and his coin purse fat enough to allow idle time and well-priced bribes. For instance, getting near the mystic required absence of the ship’s Captain, and some generosity towards his reluctant crew-mates. People were so easily manipulated with coin. So predictable. A quick knock and immediate entry carried him into her quarters, with a swell of excitement coiling his stomach; imagination had been planted at what he might encounter. Grotesque shrunken heads? Wicked blood rituals? A coven of bare maidens, dancing in the throes of supernatural worship? He could not quite contain himself. “My Lady? Are you…” The light dimmed in his jade eyes; excitement left them admittedly. He glanced around her quarters – perhaps he had misheard the directions – and found mess. Organized chaos. Books in various states of undress, knick-knacks he could not concern the point of, a made bed with careless wrinkles still slumbering. His blink was soft and subtle, but somehow conveyed his deflation perfectly. And then his gaze fell on the woman herself. To say she was what he expected was not accurate. To say that she was the average woman was just as criminal. Her back twisted to stare towards him in a blatant bewilderment; parchment was below her, ink smudged on her pale finger-tips. Vanilla blonde hair sat in heavy form around her features in loose waves. His own dark eyebrows knit together as they tried to comprehend the other. Her features, if described, would suggest a rather ugly appearance. A bumped nose that didn’t sit straight, but a little skewed, and was hardly delicate in size but managed to look fragile on her face; topaz eyes that were large and staring, and shaped in such a dozy way it was almost comical; small lips that were full enough, but perhaps looked dwarfed by her nose, and their current part contributed to an expression of dopey curiosity. A sleepy gaze, yet motivated by watchful intrigue. He could not, for the life of him, understand why such features did not repulse him. He didn’t know what prevented him from stamping her as unattractive. “What is it?” He almost smiled. The mystic had a hundred questions brewing in her eyes, and tried to compensate with an all encompassing question, her tone cracking at the end with her confusion. “I hope I’m not intruding, my lady?” A pause. He saw her lips frowning but missed her disbelieving glance to the side. In fact, she treated him with silence until he made it clear he was not leaving. “… No. Of… course not.” “May I make myself comfortable, my lady?” “Must you?” “Pardon?” “… Nothing. Please… come… in. Who…?” “Lord Aaric Crewe.” A pause. “No other noble family in Feldar owns as many fishing rivers as we do.” His tone became slow and subtly purring, his giddy eyes illuminated with the reaction that women gave like clockwork; a subtle widening of their eyes, and lust spurred by imagination of his wealth, and the life he could provide them. The opportunistic lured him into one-night stands, hoping he would indulge them in occasional gifts and bragging rights; the more ambitious tried to invoke his heart and a wedding ceremony to go with it. He eagerly paused to let the information sink into the woman. He waited for those heavy-lashed eyes to widen. Instead, they briefly glanced away and then back to him with a subtle signal to carry on. The adventerous nobleman felt something brewing in both heart and gut. Something discreet, but unpleasant all the same. He spitefully remained silent to force her to give comment, not allowing her the reprieve of a change of conversation. The elf covered her freshly penned letter protectively with an arm, and turned her body more fully to regard him. “I’m sorry, I’m not interested in… buying fish… I think I hear someone calling my na-“ “I’m not selling fish, you…!” A heavy-handed insult was about to be spewed; but he saw finally saw those languid lids part, and he cut himself short. Aaric dusted his poet’s shirt underneath his luxorious silks, inhauled breath, and disregarded the cold sensation up his own spine and something a bit iffy about the atmosphere. His senses refocused on the elf, and he noted that the strange creature had tensed considerably, her eyes watchful and blinking, concern nursed within them, albeit not the affectionate sort. “I am feeling more and more that I may have the wrong woman. You are perculiar, my lady, but not the powerful witch I am seeking. I suspect she is on board, though? Direct me to the quarters of the sooth sayer and we may both forget this encounter.” He half-turned. The blonde scrunched her gentle features in confusion. “A witch…? Why do you have need of… that?” The aristocrat paused from his departure and considered the cards to his chest. He glanced up at her briefly before settling his gaze on the wall. “I have issues involving the departed.” “Not with them following you,” A thoughtful expression, and accidental words. He turned around to her quickly. “One more time, my lady?” “I just mean that… you haven’t… brought any guests with you. Dead guests.” He stared at her in intense silence. “You would know that? How?” Her eyes lolled towards a small window, her only source of natural light, on the wall opposite him. Her expression was a mystery; hard to read. The fluid motion of where her gaze went almost suggested boredom. “Ahah. It is you. My lady, I have need of your help. I lost my betrothed a few weeks ago. Disease consumed her mind and she… departed from the world rather unpleasantly.” Heavy emotion dragged his tone down. And yet, despite it, when he glanced towards her, no tragic expression appeared on her face. No attempt at console was made. Her eyes did flicker down towards her feet, however. “… I dread to think of what she must have been going through.” “Pity not the dead, my lady. It is the living that suffer their… choices. I am heart-broken.” Curiosity played in her eyes, as well as other things that made him feel uncomfortable. Her topaz eyes were honed in on him, intense and yet seeming a million miles away at the same time. “What did you mean you have issues with the departed? Is something unseen tormenting you?” “No-“ “Are strange things happening to you…? Around you?” “Why, no-“ “Is your home unsettled?” “Thankfully not, I have guests on a regular b-“ “Bad dreams?” “Uncomfortable ones but never nightmarish.” The witch’s gaze was still on him, and utterly puzzled. “… This is good news,” She concluded with sudden soft resolve. “The girl is likely at peace.” “Yes, well, that’s exactly the problem.” His expression darkened slightly. “She has secrets she has taken to the grave.” “As will we all,” She replied airily after a moment, suddenly dancing her fingers over the letter she was writing. “Well, I need to know them. Name your price, witch.” Suddenly, the elf’s finger-tips froze. Her eyebrows angled up slightly, and her gaze snapped away from him. Aaric allowed silence to fill the room, trying to read her features. “Well?” “… Not fish.” “Are you toying with me?” “No. It’s just…” He began to realize that she’d let things fall into silence if he didn’t pressure her. “Just that you are not as powerful as the rumours suggest? Or a complete fraud altogether?” She turned her body away from him, as if half way to simply returning to her letter; but it was not the movement of dismissal. It was the surrender of a cat, turning away from its aggressor as to avoid further instigation. “I need to get back to… I’m busy, sorry.” “Busy? Answer me! Are you a fraud, woman!? Or do you need further persuasion!? I want to see you at work! Are you inspired by gold? The favor of an influential family!? The law convinced to turn a blind eye to this miserable bunch’s activities!?” Puppeteered by passion and frustration, he strode to close the distance between them. “Answer m-“ The elf gasped. His adrenaline spiked, although for a different reason altogether than his temper; suddenly, the momentum of going forward felt like his downfall. At first, he heard something in his round, human ear – something that should never have been so close, but in the sky, in the dead of night, something to set mortal imaginations ablaze. And then, he was propelled backwards by force to his cheek. His world whirled, he staggered back, and while the flesh was numb, he could feel warm liquid crawling down it. He instinctively touched it, and then seemed terrified of being attached to his own hand. What had… how could that possibly have… who…? Aaric stood, a few broken strings of self-control away from pissing himself, eyes snapping up to the woman, who was standing at her desk. He heard those animalistic noises, but in her ear this time. One hand covered her mouth with splayed fingers, and despite their natural shape, her eyes held a watchful intensity. “… You didn’t trust her, did you?” The words were whispered, but somehow all the clearer for it. Aaric trembled in response; something cut through him. It was… her gaze, now that he was sucked into it. “What…?” “Your eyes weren’t… they didn’t have any grief, any curiosity, when you spoke of…” He glanced down at his stained fingers, and then glanced back up with an acidic stare of disbelief. After stretched silence, his mind working over-time, it resulted in his tongue beginning to wag more freely. “I have the right to know, don’t I? She throws herself off a cliff, three days after the death of her childhood friend, some farmer cretin of a boy? Childhood friends? Or childhood sweet-hearts? How long has her heart been on him? Is it why she treated me so coldly…? Were they seeing each other behind my back? Was I set aside for some… simpleton!?I can’t stand it, witch! I need to know! I DESERVE TO KN-“ A knock of the door had the elf’s intense gaze hurled over his shoulder; and then his own followed. The noise had been redundant, for the door had been open for possibly quite some time, with a perculiar figure leaning against it. His features were utterly narrow and held a wickedly impish quality to them; dark tattoos stained his somewhat sapphire eyes, crawling up to his forehead. Thin lips with an unelegant, broad looking smile set a smug look on the male elf’s face. He stood above Aaric merely an inch at 5’9”, but something about the miscreant looked infinitely more combat able. “She throws herself off a cliff…” His tone was pleasantly, thickly accented, similar to the mystic’s, and with far more daring, challenging eyes. “And I am about to throw you off my ship. You seem to be stuck in a vicious rut, friend.” Pushing himself off the door frame, he sauntered forward a few steps to meet the noble, thumbs hooked into his dark belt – safely away from his displayed weapons. Aaric glanced down to them, and then flickered his jade eyes to meet with the other male’s own, a few inches from his own face. The elf had the audacity to lean forward a little bit into him. “Your ship?” The noble quietly asked. “Unless we’re on the wrong ship, hermoso.” “Then you are… the… leader of The Rats? The miscreants from the Jeweled City?” The male-elf leaned back a little, dangerous features lightening with comedy. “Friend, I am just a man on a ship, herding cats. And as far as I can see, your whiskers are a little short.” He raised a hand to tickle the aristocrat’s chin – it was instinctively slapped away with horror. “… Now. Fuck off my ship, si, friend?” Aaric’s features tightened in a glare. He glanced briefly over at the dopey eyed mystic, clenched his fists, and then silently slipped around the Captain to depart. “Hey. I like your jacket.” “Oh. Thank you. It was tailored to me as a gift from the Duchess of-“ “No, you misunderstand. I really like that jacket.” “…” He paused, and closed his eyes; indignity was smothered by the suddenly raw sting of his cheek, and the memory of what had occurred. The door closed behind them. Captain Vanquez twirled in his ridiculous fineries that didn’t suit him in the least, shrugging it onto his broad, toned shoulders. The act was comical; his expression troubled and dark. Which one of his men had let anyone near the Mystic? They best pray he didn’t find out.