Orsolya Embermoss

Biographical information

Birthplace A small cottage in The Spine. Born Died Age In appearance, she is thirty years old. Home Astenvale Monastery. Sexuality Pronouns

Physical description

Race Elf. Sub-Race Gender Female. Height 170 cm. Mass 45 kg. Hair color As white at snow. Eye color Lavender . Skin color As pale as a ghost.

Political information

Affiliation(s) Occupation Fae Witch. Clan(s) Caste Domain Masters Apprentices Alias(es)

Out-of-character information

Writer Me. Created on Yes. Avatar (I could not find a source, the best I found was a Wattpad that no longer exists).

Orsolya is the kind, quiet witch of Astenvale. She grants her knights potions and poultices to heal their mortal wounds, she grants her words to heal their souls. For there is, likely, none more than she that understands so the Faewyld.

Appearance

Tall and thin and lanky, malnourished even. The woman is a will-o-the-wisp given flesh. Her hair and skin are palest white, her movements quiet and calculated, she may as well be the ghost that haunts Astenvale monastery. The lady-in-black, an apparition that is rarely seen outside of her cellars, where others that dared visit would find exotic plants, bubbling potions, and in the depths and dark the howl of a creature that would still the soul.

Skills and Abilities

Orsolya is skilled in the arts of illusion and summoning, both arts to her as easy as breathing. She shifts her mortal form easily between those creatures that she has seen and studied. But they are mere trickery. The peak of her power lies in two specific arts, both learned from her Fae mother, captor, enemy. Firstly, the summoning of the mirror's blade. Secondly the drawing in of others to her clearing in the Wyld. The stolen throne of the One-Eyed Queen, that she sits upon at very much her own peril.

Personality

In a word, meek. Orsolya is quiet, thoughtful, observant, all things she learned in her cage with the Fae Queen. She has an impeccable memory, a talent for solving puzzles and seeing through the veil of others, all traits that kept her alive while she was alone in the Wyld for so many years. She does not speak often, and when she does it is in simple words, as for most of her life she was not allowed, and does not know the complexities of language. Her time in the Monastery is helping with this, and she is growing to become more outspoken. While the nuances of the spoken word of mortals is often lost on her, she is fluent in the speaking of magick, the language of the Wyld a strange comfort, considering all that she lost to master it.

Biography & Lore

“Little bird,” a voice spoke, deep and throaty and ethereal. “It is time to come home.”

Orsolya woke, gasping. She gripped like talons the edges of her bed sheets as she panted, waking beneath the moonlight, her heart a sprinting doe. But she was here, she was home. The warm moonlit air of the Monastery poured in through her window as if to comfort her, drawing the damp of her tunic.

“You cannot hurt me now,” she whispered spitefully into the shadows and stones of her room. “You cannot.” Her voice trembled still, after so many years.

—-

Orsolya Embermoss was… no… is, the daughter of a legendary Elven archer. Is, she must always remember this. Her father with his wyvern’s bow gave the One-Eyed Queen of the Fae her namesake.

And in turn his first daughter was stolen. Replaced. With a wretched thing that looked just as she. For the Queen was a creature of vengeance and trickery. And so Orsolya taken from her cradle was made to bid the Queen’s cruelty.

The worst of her cruelty was the Queen’s stories. While she curled in her cage she was told the tales of the world from which she was stolen, the stories of her father the great hunter. The One-Eyed Queen wanted her to know this. She wanted to see the pain in her eyes at what she was taken from. Gods, her cackles at first when she was old enough to understand, old enough to feel the aching pain of her heart.

___

But as she grew older pain was not all that she learned. She had her father’s perception, his wit. And so she learned. Her mind a scroll on which she would take the quill and ink of thought. She learned. She observed. She escaped.

—-

Orsolya found herself crouching at the trunk of a great, viney tree. Her bare feet washed in running upstream, mud covering all that of her skin that she could paint. The barks of her Queen Keeper’s hunting hounds fading in echoes between the trees.

She stood up when she heard them no longer, wiping dirt from her knees.

The elf dared peek around the tree-trunk that was her solace. The path to where her stolen magic drew her was just ahead. She stepped forward, just her toe at first, her heel following to the damp ground. She rounded the tree, her skin ice with fear.

And there it stood. The thing that looked like her exactly, and yet wrong. Her Keeper’s own daughter.

“Hello, little bird,” it grinned, wide and sharp of teeth.

Orsolya Embermoss