Darcena (prime)

Lady Darcena Wolf-Valslayer eating a black apple as seen by Stormyrain

Lady Darcena Wolf-Valslayer the Ishan Race [[Giantman]] Culture "[[" contains a listed "[" character as part of the property label and has therefore been classified as invalid.]] Hometown [Wehnimer's Landing] Class Empath Religion [[::The_Huntress|The Huntress]] Disposition Mercurial, Wild Demeanor Playful, Helpful Primary Trait Protector, Troublemaker Flaw Longing for Belonging Greatest Strength Loyalty, Unconditional Love Greatest Weakness Bloodlust, Insanity Likes Raw Meat, Emeralds Dislikes Dead Wolves, Krolvin Fears Being Alone/Unloved Loyalties Her Pack, Grot'karesh

[[Category: Giantman player characters]] "Category: [[" contains a listed "[" character as part of the property label and has therefore been classified as invalid. player characters]]

Darcena [dahr-SEEN-ah] stumbled into [[::Wehnimer%27s_Landing|Wehnimer's Landing]] in 5097 at the age of thirteen. Discovered as a snarly uncommunicative child in a wolf den in the [[::Dragonspine_Mountains|Dragon Spine Mountains]] a few years prior, Darcena came upon the town alone and in a confusion as to her heritage. Over the years, she has learned that she is an Ur-Daemon cursed [[::Grot%27karesh_Hammer_Clan|Grot'karesh]] with some peculiar magical quirks to include extreme blood lust and waking nightmares she believes are prophetic. Darcena seems driven to heal others, never turning down a request for aid. She regularly remarks that physical pain is nothing compared to the spiritual pain she carries in her heart.

Between bone-shattering hunts, Darcena is often found leaned against the [[::Hearthstone|Hearthstone Steps]], swimming in the [[::House_Sovyn|Sovyn]] mud baths, or chatting with friends in Town Square Central. When not in those locales, she's off scouting Elanthia for signs of Despana's imminent return on behalf of her clan members of Kilanirij.

"I am the Ishan. I am the Butcher. I am the Harbinger. Despana is coming and blood will flood the world. The eyes -- the eyes, they are watching."

Writer's note: This is all considered public knowledge. Darcena has not been shy about expressing these things in public and has probably been overheard by every possible town citizen over the past two decades. A pint at the pub would yield you a lot of this information. This is not all there is, of course, to her. She has many secrets.

Appearance

You see Darcena Wolf-Valslayer the Butcher.
She appears to be a Giantman of the Grot'karesh Clan.
She is taller than average and has a well-toned frame.  She appears to be in the bloom of youth.  She has moss-tinged stormy grey eyes and fair skin.  She has very long, thick raven-hued hair loosely gathered by some blooded rolton wool ribbons dangling beaded emerald strands interspersed with countless gore-smeared braids.  She has a triangular face, high cheekbones, and a forked scar near her neckline.  Her eyes are framed by thick, naturally clumped eyelashes.

She has several mercurial half-moon rings in the ridges of both her ears, some splintery bone shards in her right eyebrow, a weathered bone chelioboros inlaid with tiny emerald eyes in her left eyebrow, a silvery stud in the shape of a rolton in her left nostril, a wide tattooed Saramar-enruned armband on her arm, a black Saramar-enruned throat tattoo on her neck, and a tattooed snarled lover's knot composed of five distinctly hued strands on her finger.

Diagonal streaks of kohl black warpaint form a mask across her eyes, the undulating design echoed along her forehead and chin.
She gives off a wild semblance.
She is in good shape.
A slowly rotating ring of sigils encircles each of her hands, scribed on the air in coruscating emerald-imbued argent energy.

She is wearing a black flyrsilk wolf mask edged in glittering emerald and glaes shards, a wide-cuffed black leather coat with a notched collar and flared hem, an etched militia badge, a small oblong white alyssum, a well-oiled slate battle harness, a back-laced tightly fitted bodice with diaphanous black lace trumpet sleeves, a silver etched rolton-link bracelet, a trio of yellowed bone rings, a coiled copper serpent ring set with minute foxfire green cinderstone eyes, some low-slung moss green leather pants, and a pair of dark grey leather boots.

Frequent Hairstyles She has very long, thick raven-hued hair in a loose mass of purposefully twisted locks. She has very long, thick raven-hued hair woven into a riotous mass of incredibly thin braids that are sporadically peppered with verdigris copper beads and great horned owl plumules. She has very long, thick raven-hued hair pushed back with some blooded rolton wool ribbons dangling beaded emerald strands that tangle in her bone-strewn, twisted locks. She has very long, thick raven-hued hair loosely gathered by some blooded rolton wool ribbons dangling beaded emerald strands interspersed with countless gore-smeared braids. She has very long, thick raven-hued hair that overwhelms some blooded rolton wool ribbons dangling beaded emerald strands, which are barely visible beneath the explosive mass of unkempt matted locks.

a black Saramar-enruned throat tattoo Thick black lines create labyrinthine knotwork patterns from chest to chin, contrasting against the fair skin upon which they're inked. Copious silver-limned Saramar runes are tucked into the crevices of the knots with a pair of vivid emerald green eyes centered just below and between the collar bones.

a wide tattooed Saramar-enruned armband Intense deep crimson pigment floods two crossed mauls centered between the bicep and tricep of the wearer's upper arm. Masterful shading interspersed with subtle black lines highlights the hammer-like heads opposite crescent-shaped spikes. Thick black curved lines frame the tableau then snarl and cross their way around the widely inked armband. Silver Saramar runes have been haphazardly inked inside the nooks and crannies.

a tattooed snarled lover's knot composed of five distinctly hued strands Vivid ribbons of intertwined color encircle the long, thick ring finger of the right hand. Three of the strands feature prominently in the artistically complicated tangle of hues: a wide black-edged violet band, a delicate charcoal and crystal blue twist, and a contorted bone white warp featuring crimson-shot luminous yellow. Peeking through the more heavily lined rings are separate shades of marigold and bright green.

a curvilinear inked giantman and wolfpack tableau Symmetrical sinuous black lines curve over the shoulders in one direction and snake down the torso to frame a pair of centered emerald eyes at the clavicles before slithering over the ribs to the back. A line of impressionistic wolves begins at a vanishing point near the eyes and curves along one heavily-inked line until ending at a large ebon-furred wolf with emerald-flecked grey eyes at the dip of the waist. Saramar runes encircle a tall giantman standing beside the wolf with a hand buried in her fur.

Favorite Jewelry a moon-clasped black velvet choker adorned with a silver-edged emerald pendant an emerald wolf's paw dangling from a thick black twisted cord a hammered silver Saramar rune dangling from a thick leather thong an emerald stickpin topped with a preserved crimson-veined luminous yellow eye a blackened emerald symbol inlaid with a silver eight-pointed star a silver etched rolton-link bracelet a substantial platinum ring inset with tiny stone-carved hearts

Darcena Wolf-Valslayer at the pub as seen by Divone

Affiliations

• Follower of Kuon, 5097-5117
• [[::House_Sovyn|House Sovyn]], 5097/5098?-present
• [[::Clan_Snar|Clan Snar]], 5098-unknown
• Hearthstone "porch puppy" (her words), 5100-present
• [[::Order_of_Lorekeepers|Order of Lorekeepers]], 5100-5104, Olaesta 5119- present
• Architectural and Landscaping Association of Elanthia (ALAE), unknown-5104
• Devotee of The Huntress, 5117-present
• [[::Moonshine_Manor|Moonshine Manor]], Ivastaen 5118-Koaratos 5119
• [[::TownCrier]], Informant, Ivastaen 5118- present
• Wehnimer's Landing Militia, Morale Officer, Koaratos 5118-present
• Order of the Sphere and Scythe, Phoenatos 5118-present
• Squire of Order of the Silver Gryphon, Jastatos 5118 - present

Pack of the Ishan

The Pack of the Ishan has no formal structure and is not recognized by any sort of authority - à propros, since Darcena likewise doesn't recognize most authority. Darcena is absolutely loyal to and protective of her pack. Conflicts within the pack are for the individual members to sort out themselves.

• Chaoswynd "Cay"
• Cruxophim "Betrayer"
• Giantphang "Phang"
• Khaell
• Lyrna "Scout"
• Madmountan
• Meureii "Salts"
• Stormyrain "Storm"
• Ulkov "Dwarf"
• Xannorath "Shadow"
• Zolis

Stories

A Forgotten Birth (Unknown - Spring 5094)

Darcena has no memory of her birth up until a few months before she was found by Thraes in the Dragon Spine Mountains. What she remembers is spending time with the wolves and scavenging their kills.

Out of the Wolf's Den (Spring 5094- Summer 5094)

Darcena was found by Thraes, a woodsman, in a wolf's den in the Dragon Spine near Icemule Trace in Spring of 5094. He went home and told his wife, Oxana, about his find. Oxana spent months trying to gain the trust of the wolf giant, finally convincing her to come out of the wolf's den and move into their home in the fall of the same year. Darcena was approximately ten years old.

Discovery (Spring 5094) Lifting her filthy head, the giantman child stared up at the husky man from her half-crouch. The mossy green flecks and rim of her stormy grey eyes seemed to grow in vibrancy as she assessed the threat in front of her. A low snarl emanating from her full lips, she flexed her lithe muscles.

“Easy now,” the man murmured in the common tongue, sliding his hatchet back into its loop and lifting his hand off. “Easy. I won’t hurt you.” He lowered his shoulders and tried ineffectively to make himself look small.

Before peering into the cave opening, the man noted the piles of rolton bones near the entrance. Most had been torn into, but some bore the mark of flatter teeth. Inside, the wolf den was damp and smelled wild and musty. A glaes armband lay abandoned in the corner half buried under long-compacted dirt.

The man hesitated, reaching out a gnarled and tanned hand, “Do you want to come out, miss?”

The child tilted her head to the side, masses of twisted, matted, and tangled locks of hair stiffly following the angle of her face as she moved. Her eyes continued to watch the man intently, noticing his body language and making quick assessments.

“Can you speak?” He whispered it, a distressed expression chasing across his face.

The child stalked forward on all four limbs, pressing her face near the man’s clothing, and inhaling deeply. He smelled like the forest and the people of the nearby village. She’d seen them before, wandering the woods… and avoided them, of course.

With a low growl, the child crawled back into the den and curled up in the back. She huffed out a breath.

With nothing on hand to convince her to come with him, the man softly said, “I’ll be back in a few hours. Stay here. I hope you will learn to trust me. I will not forget you; I will not abandon you.”

He turned away from the opening and set off at a quick jog for his home, his brain whirling as he tried to figure out how to convince the child to leave the den.

"What are you doing home already?" The woman had a broad face with wrinkles near her eyes and laugh lines as well.

"You won't believe what I just found." The man shook his head in disbelief, his hands shaking. "There's a young child up in a wolf den. She looks like she's been living there awhile."

The woman startled, paused, and then asked, "Well, where is she now?"

"I had to leave her there. I'm not sure she could understand me."

"You left her there?!" Already holding a towel in her hand from drying some dishes, the woman swung her arm and the damp dishcloth smacked into his elbow.

"Ow! Yes!" Rubbing at his elbow gingerly, pulling the damp fabric away from his arm, the man continued, "I was hoping you'd have an idea of how I could speak with her."

The woman scowled, "I have more than an idea. I'm coming with you."

The man looked everywhere except at the woman. His eyes settled on the worn and sparse furniture of their cottage, noticing that the run-down wooden floor was clean and dust free. The old quilt on the bed had been patched again. A small fire was going in the hearth with a thin soup bubbling on top. He glanced back at his tracks, noting that he'd left a clear trail of footsteps into their home. Grabbing a broom, he made quick work of sweeping after himself.

"That's probably a good idea, but we're going to have to think of a way to communicate with her."

The woman's face furrowed. "How old is she?"

"I'm not sure. She's giantkin. Maybe 10, 11?"

"What do you think she's been eating?" The woman asked.

"If I had to wager… raw rolton."

A myriad of expressions crossed the woman's face. Once she'd settled, she simply finished, "…Oh."

The journey back to the den was more laborious since the woman was not as used to picking her way through the forest. Her study and sensible shoes helped, of course, but her muscles still weren't acclimated to climbing over so much detritus. She didn't utter a single complaint, instead just pressing her lips together and carried on.

The well-muscled man furrowed his brow as he watched his wife, sometimes holding out a hand in her direction as if to help her over a log or up a hill. She always huffed out a breath and ignored him, carefully placing her feet as she went.

Once they arrived at the den, the man pointed out the weathered and gnawed on rolton bones to the woman and her eyebrows climbed comically. "I see. I think you are right," she murmured thoughtfully.

The woman peered into the dark opening of the den. "How did you even see in there?"

"The sun was shining in this morning," he rumbled in return.

The woman nodded sharply and motioned him back. She laid on her stomach and pulled herself into the den. Immediately a loud snarling sound could be heard from the back corner. The woman stopped moving and crooned in a low voice, "You are safe. We will not harm you." The woman carefully reached back and opened a well-worn leather belt pouch, pulling out an ivory parchment-wrapped package.

"I have something for you," the woman continued in a soothing voice, unwrapping the parchment and revealing a stack of various gory rolton bits. She carefully stretched out the gift, dropping it onto the dirt floor of the den. The woman then scooted back out of the dank den and sat on the ground, waiting patiently.

After many minutes, soft noises emerged from the den and the woman smiled with satisfaction.

Learning to Trust (Fall 5094) Many weeks had gone by with the woman visiting the den and bringing more gifts for the feral child inside. Sometimes the child was absent and the woman left the items near the opening. Other times the grimy girl was curled up in the back, carefully watching every move the woman made. As time went on, the child was less and less wary of the woman. The woman was changing, too, growing physically stronger and more capable in the woods. Occasionally on her journey through the forests, the woman would see a large black wolf slinking through the trees and shadowing her, a green hue glowing in the wolf's otherwise grey eyes. This companion became familiar to the woman, and she no longer worried about her trips. She was, though, becoming concerned as the leaves turned colors and the air became more and more chill.

The morning that she called out a soft "hello" to the child as she reached the cave opening and in response heard a muttered "hello" was the morning that she sat next to those gnawed bones and cried. The bedraggled girl slunk out of the den and curled up near the woman, watching her carefully and intently, several feet between them.

"Do you speak then?" The woman looked at the ground near the child, her voice hesitantly speaking the common tongue.

The girl carefully enunciated, pausing between each word, "I… speak… little."

The woman's mind raced with a million questions, but she swallowed them down, placing her hands solidly on her knees. "Do you want to come home with me?"

Slow blinks were the girl's response. Crawling closer to the woman, she buried her face in the woman's cotton-clad side and inhaled deeply. Her nose picked through the scents of the various trees and the dirt of the forest, the bread the woman had baked that morning, the soap she used to wash with, and so much more. It smelled okay, the girl supposed.

The woman didn't move as the girl ran her face over the woman's back and sides, ending near her hairline. Once the girl finished, the woman asked, "Do you have a name?"

Cocking her head to the side, the girl wonderingly spoke, "I… am…. Darcena."

The woman gasped under her breath, excitement shining from her eyes to have connected with the child, "My name is Oxana. Will you come home with me? Our cottage is warm and the weather is turning."

Darcena hesitated for several long moments, but then she nodded her head. Once. And very slowly.

Around the Village (Winter 5094-Summer 5097)

Once in Oxana and Thraes' village, Darcena grew strong and so did they. They taught her to speak in Common and taught her many basic life skills. After a black out, Darcena discovered Oxana, Thraes, and their child Brone were dead. Believing she was responsible, she left the village and found her way to Wehnimer's Landing.

The Threat Grows (Winter 5094 to Summer 5097) The winter months passed slowly, but Darcena learned to speak many words in Common. Oxana and Thraes, the woodsman, were very kind, stable, and patient with the giantgirl. They had to teach her a lot of basic life skills - especially about hygiene, but eventually they gave up on some of her other foibles. Darcena had a tendency to use her sense of smell to figure out more about the world around her, and to their surprise, she was able to discern more than the average person. It came in handy during the lean winter months, when Darcena could scent a squirrel or rabbit hiding in the woods. In trade off, though, they had to explain to many of their fellow villagers exactly why the socially-blundering and bumbling child wanted to press her face against them and inhale. As most could imagine, the many small, yet unacceptable, mannerisms that Darcena had acquired in that time before she came to the village were a barrier to her acclimating to the village. She wasn't quite liked, but rather tolerated.

The years passed. Darcena became a useful member of Thraes and Oxana's family, bringing in meat and helping Thraes out in the woods to chop wood for the townspeople. She was growing as well, lengthening until she was much taller than the couple. Her hair, which had been shorn to her scalp to rid her of lice - as well as remove years worth of twigs, dirty, and gods know what else, grew long. Oxana helped her keep the thick hair plaited; every night, they spent an hour together as Oxana brushed Darcena's hair until it shone and told her stories about the world around them. Darcena began to feel as if she belonged somewhere and she cherished that feeling.

Thraes bonded with Darcena, too. They'd head into the woods together to accomplish the day's work, and Thraes would point out various herbs and flowers to Darcena, letting her know about their healing properties. She would collect and forage for the herbs to bring back to the cottage for Oxana to use, prepare, and sell.

Many evenings the small family would light a fire and the couple would tell Darcena engaging stories about the gods and the lands. Darcena began to grow interested in Kuon, a former giantman who worked with Imaera to heal the world after the Ur-Daemon War. Thraes explained that Kuon was given the gift of immortality for his deeds and that he was the originator of the healing powers of herbs.

Over the years, things were improving for Oxana and Thraes as well. With the steady influx of meat into their diet, they both began to look healthier. Excess meat, wood, and herbs were able to be sold to the villagers, so their cottage began to have more personalized touches here and there. Oxana also had more time to tend a garden, though Darcena wouldn't touch the food that came from it, and prepare for the winters. With the improved health, the couple found out that they were expecting. It wasn't the first time, but it was the first time that Oxana was healthy enough to carry a baby to full term.

Darcena began to grow anxious about being displaced in her happy family, but even worse, she began to have prodigiously horrid waking nightmares intermittently as her anxiety grew. She started to slink off into the woods at odd hours, coming back smelling of blood and viscera. Oxana and Thraes noted the change with worried eyes, but their trust and love for the giant girl was absolute. They felt that when Darcena was ready, she would tell them what was worrying her.

Perhaps they shouldn't have trusted so much.

The Slaughter (Spring 5097) Darcena lifted her head off her pillow, her vivid green eyes unfocused. The dream had been so real. They’d been getting increasingly worse – even sometimes happening while she was awake. She’d worried about her inability to sleep, finally bringing it up with Oxana. She’d laughed and said that no one was getting any sleep now that little Brone had been born, suggesting that maybe Darcena was just getting woken up by the strident cries of a hungry brother. Darcena hadn’t elaborated on the contents of the dreams.

Dreams. So many of them. And so real. Darcena had never seen the nearest city, Icemule Trace, yet she knew that was where the numerous waves of wailing banshees, orcs, and trolls had overrun this evening, slaying citizens until blood ran and froze in the streets. She’d watched helplessly as a nine-foot-tall massive troll king had snatched an infant from its mother, rending the child’s body with his razor-sharp claws, and first wrenching off then tossing the infant’s head into his giant maw. Coppery sanguineous fluid dripped down his face and she desperately yearned to lick the warted green skin. She had learned, from the three years with Oxana and Thraes, that this wasn’t right. This wasn’t good. The unease in her gut grew worse as she realized she could still smell the orcs and trolls on the air. That dream. So real. The eyes. The eyes had been watching. It felt like they still were.

Knowing she wasn’t going to be able to fall back asleep in her perspiration-soaked sheets, Darcena threw them back and stood up. Dressing quickly, she escaped the cottage where her family slept, and she fled into the humid air of the woods. The scent followed her, twisting through her flared nostrils and coiling into her limbic system. Danger, alarm, and disgust flooded her and fear-scented sweat poured off her body.

The axe she’d used earlier to help Thraes chop wood for the evening fire still rested against the wood pile. She snatched it up as she ran, her breath starting to grow short from her panicked and heedless pell-mell flight. When she finally slowed, she realized she had run five miles into the woods. It wasn’t far enough, though. The eyes were still watching. The scent was still there. Her body shuddered violently and she dropped the axe…

Darcena groaned and lifted her head off the pebbles upon which she rested. Where was she? Her stormy grey eyes fixated first on the footprint-covered porch with the pot of acantha resting on its side, then on the splintered askew door. No. No. Her muscles bunched, and she leapt to her feet. Racing to the door, she peered inside. She already knew what she’d find, though. She had smelt it before she’d even awoken.

Blood.

Oxana was sprawled near the fieldstone hearth where she often made stew and hearty loaves of oat bread. Claw marks decorated her torso and blood sparkled like jewels in the flickering light of the coals. Slack cheeks and hollow eyes pointed towards the quilted bed where Thraes slumped with one foot in Brone’s cradle. He, too, had new jewels up and down his torso and a shallow irregular puddle of blood near his outstretched hand. Written in tremulous blood-soaked letters on the roughhewn floor was a message, but Darcena could not read it. “Ware da eyes.”

Darcena knew they were both dead, and perhaps a couple hours so at this point. She could smell the differences in their body, and she couldn’t hear a single heart beat. Her horrified gaze took in the cabin, yet kept skipping past the corner where her own pallet rested. With shallow pants, her grey eyes dilated an alarming amount, she forced herself to see. Brone’s body rested in a disheveled nest of her sheets, pinpricks from claws along his rib cage, flesh incised by sharp teeth. A low howl of anguish erupted from Darcena’s mouth and she fled the cabin, swiping the spare axe from the woodpile and taking off into the woods, heading southwest.

Intuitively, she knew her time in the village was done, she was not welcome, and she would never return. It was time to find a new home.

Suppressing the Beast (Fall 5097- Summer 5104)

After the slaughter of her adopted family, Darcena was lost and confused. Stumbling through the gates of the Landing, she decided she was tired of traveling and she wanted to make a home of it. Darcena wanted to be accepted in her new home, so she suppressed and hid as much of her inner beast as possible. Peeks slid out here and there, and some guessed at her true nature. Telling few of her story, she sought out meaning from a variety of places, seeking to understand her nightmarish visions of undead, trolls, and giants. She learned more about her supposed clan, the Grot'karesh, and their purpose in life. She developed friendships, was adopted into a large Landing-style family, married three times, and was solidly betrayed by two of her husbands. She participated in numerous wars, took sojourns to Icemule Trace, River's Rest, and Teras Isle for months on end, and briefly visited the Elven Nations before returning back home. Near the end of her time in the Landing, she began to take frequent trips into the Dragon Spine as she searched for her husband, Neq, who had disappeared. Eventually, she walked out the gates and did not return.

An Eye for Emeralds, or, the Emerald Tax Darcena always had an eye for [[::Emerald|emeralds]], but the interest became very keen around 5098 when Porcell would wander to wherever Darcena was healing to say hello. Porcell had a certain reputation for thievery, but Darcena adored him nevertheless and couldn't resist talking with and teasing him. Every once in awhile during their conversations, Porcell would pocket a gem. Darcena was paying attention and when he liberated her customers from their hard-earned and well-fought gains, she would give him the option of giving it back or giving her an emerald. If neither was chosen, she would have tattled on him. The Emerald Tax netted Darcena quite the collection, which she always carries in her ivory satchel. Amusingly, individuals started to notice that Porcell would tip Darcena an emerald, so they began to do it as well. To date of this writing, Darcena has 47 emeralds, 30 uncut emeralds, a star emerald, 3 black-cored emerald orbs, a bottle-shaped emerald, 2 dragonfire emeralds, 11 small emerald coins, and 2 sparkling emerald talons - many from the Emerald Tax.

The Ishan (Summer 5104-Summer 5117)

Having her heart broken in Wehnimer's Landing and still not understanding her vivid daydreams and blood lust, Darcena set off to visit the city of her supposed parents, Kilanirij. While there, she learned to read and write Saramar with her Grot'karesh brethren. She grew to understand what she held inside, the curse within her blood, and she continued to keep its effects hidden from her peers for fear of being studied and taken by one of the Preceptors to the Asylum. While in Kilanirij, Darcena indulged in the culture and felt an instant connection with the other Grot'karesh; she developed a renewed sense of purpose in the quest to foil Despana's return. During the Festival of the Dead, she was offered to be a caretaker for the tomb of a family line that had no living members. This heartbreaking experience brought her to the point of wanting to seek out more information on her own family line. She returned to the Dragon Spine, which still felt like home to her, following leads on her heritage and staying vigilant for signs of Despana. Sending reports back to Kilanirij, she earned the title Ishan. Darcena traveled for awhile with the Araime, as well, apprenticing to a mentor of the Ikarrak. Eventually, her wanderings brought her back within reach of the Landing and she decided to stay with her friends for awhile longer.

The Butcher Emergent (Summer 5117 - Present)

Upon returning to the Landing, Darcena found that the curse seemed to flare around a specific group of adventurers, and she found it more and more difficult to combat its effects. In her failure to control herself, her inner nature was revealed more overtly than it ever had been before. She found acceptance from several of those adventurers and she shed the fear she had been living with, revealing herself as The Butcher. Only time would tell if she could bend the curse to save the world or if she would lose herself in its depths.

Love Letter to the 5th (Spring 5118) Darcena's heart was broken in the fall of 5117 after a whirlwind month where she felt she had found a place to belong. The mercurial and impulsive giant tried to nose her way into a place that wasn't hers and then lost her mind when her interest was unreciprocated and she was rebuffed. This provoked an unnecessarily excessive reaction and conversion to The Huntress. She swears she will never fall in love again... as long as her mate is still present. Wolves, after all, often have just one mate until its death.

Darcena recites:

   "He smelled like home, like dank blood-soaked loam.
    He called to her soul - completely under his control.
    The nights were flavored with tricks and death screams
    And yet she never wavered from loyalty stretched to extremes."

Darcena recites:

   "A quick wedding under Charl's purview
    A band, a dip, a kiss and yet he had the nerve to-"

Darcena recites:

   "Break her heart and shatter her mind
    It wasn't her with whom he wanted entwined
    So now her veins scream to the Huntress
    For her pain and sorrow demand redress."

Darcena recites:

   "When the howls echo as the moon spotlights
    The crimson-veined yellow-eyed should take wing-quivering fright.
    She's coming-
    With no mercy and a throat-ripping bite
    And in his complete and utter destruction she will delight."

Learning to Knit (Lormesta 5119) Dame Evia accepted the responsiblity of taming the wolf giant for acceptance into the Order of the Silver Gryphon. As her third task, Darcena was instructed to knit stockings, gloves, scarf, hat, and shawl for those of lesser means. She was then instructed to seek out and donate the items to someone in need.

Darcena grabs some gold knitting needles from a small pocket inside of her black leather coat.
>
Darcena grabs a skein of pale gold silk yarn from a small pocket inside of her black leather coat.
>
Darcena loops several stitches of her pale gold silk yarn onto one of her needles as she begins to knit.
>
(Darcena sticks her tongue out as she concentrates on the needles, her brow furrowed.)
>
Darcena busily knits away at something with her knitting needles, the task taking up her complete attention.
>
Darcena gnaws lightly on her lower lip, as if lost in thought.  The razor-sharp tip of one of her fangs breaks the skin and causes a tiny bead of blood to appear.  Almost absent-mindedly, she catches it with the tip of her tongue.
>
Darcena busily knits away at something with her knitting needles, the task taking up her complete attention.

Those Aren't Tears - It's Only the Rain {The Nazhor Chronicles} (Charlatos 12, 5119) Darcena paused on the narrow path, her eyes narrowing. The rain dashed angrily from the turbulent sky splashing against the cobblestones and throwing scent back up into the air. Nostrils flaring, she drawled to herself, "No wonder I can never find you. With the way it rains so hard, everything gets washed out. But today… You’re here today, aren’t you?" Darcena tilted her head to the side, her eyes raking over the various shops and tables cluttering the area at the corner of Gardenia Lane and Rose Avenue.

Following her nose, Darcena stalked across the path towards a narrow gap between two shops opposite a tidy brownstore dwelling. Continuing to mutter under her breath, she snarled, "I should have known you’d be back where it all started. Probably looking for just as many answers as I am."

 Against her will, Darcena’s eyes turned inward to the visions she’d had – the ones that felt as if they were dredged up through decades of sucking muck and stunk just as much. Without answers, could she really trust those feelings of warmth and reassurance? An almost-familiar-face teasing her memory and calling her daughter?

No.

It’s just another trick.

Another nightmare sent to hound her, like the ones where she helplessly watches Cruxophim curled in a ball moaning that he’s hungry, withering away, until he disintegrates in front of her. Madmountan, frustration and rage painted across his face, surrounded by a legion of Grimswarm where every time he rushes forward to engage, he is voided into infinitesimal pieces... only to reform where he started in an endless loop. Stormyrain battling a woman until she falls to the ground, darkness shrouding her form. Kipara, wound tightly in a web of hard silk with a massive arachnid ready to bite. Salts, drowning and choking as a krolvin holds him under. Lyrna, being executed by King Qalinor Falustro Vaalor while her former friends laugh piteously. Phang, gently cupping a fly torn to pieces, tears running down his face, as he repetitively moans, "Mel?" More visions flicker in her mind. Xannorath. Khaell. Ulkov. Sweetsin. She can’t save any of them.

Thunder rolled through the sky and the ground trembled in response, the clouds lit up in hues of blue, white, and violet.

Darcena blinked, realizing she was frozen in the middle of the path, and began to move towards the shadows again. "I will find you. I know you’re here." She tilted her head back, lifting her face to the rain and allowing it to wash over her pale skin as the words, "Those aren’t tears. It’s just the rain," echoed in her mind. By the time she reached the shadows, he was gone and his scent had washed away in the rain. She knew, though. He'd been there. And he would probably be back.

There is No Balance - {The Nazhor Chronicles} (Olaesta 5, 5119) Darcena sat on the edge of the carved marble fountain, her hands cradling her head and her elbows pressed into her knees. The thunder continued to roll through the sky, matching her inner thoughts. As she thought back to the Flock’s actions on the Isle, an effulgent emerald hue seeped across her stormy grey eyes, shades from silver to cinereous to jet slowly faltering under the onslaught.

She knew that Thraes and Oxana would have wanted her to feel horror for the lost lives and the pain, but as always, the horror she should have felt was masked under the hunger. Blood scent had diffused through the air, clinging to every strand of hair, every strap of armor, every plane of cheek. It had been all around her, propagating through every shard of her self. The screams of pain and fear amplified the lust and it was all she could do to not kneel down on the gritty cobbles surrounding the fountain and howl to Lornon.

She blamed Nehor. Her control was always nebulous; lightning leashed by laughter and love. His relentless, chaotic and malevolent drive to frame her for all things that were going wrong on the isle, to viciously smear her reputation, to attempt ostracizing her from the community. It had put her on edge and made her more inclined to give in.

Daily, she struggled between the poles of barbarian butchering beast and cautious compassionate chirurgeon. She existed in a constant spin around an ever-shifting fulcrum on a tumultuous forked beam, wondering how many times she had to turn around before she could give in and rest. Balance. How laughable. She resisted the butcher, but the effort required to be the chirugeon was outrageous.

She’d had to bury the bones in the jungle, of course. Near the banyan tree. The illusion had dropped and oh, she had feasted. It was never enough, though.

Levering herself up from the fountain, Darcena strode down the cobblestone path. She needed to feed.

Oblivious to the beauty around her in the cottages and gardens flanking the cobblestone path, Darcena continued her lumbering pace until she reached the Slaughter House. Bellying up to the butcher block counter, Darcena greeted Svildmit, “Hello friend. It’s good to see you again.” The warmth of her voice didn’t reach her now brilliant green eyes. With the nod of his permission, she moseyed over and scooped herself up some thick blood from the square rhimar buckets. A long swallow and she was able to put in her order for some plump boar. Ripping into the flank with her sharp fangs, Darcena felt fur flow down her esophagus. Svildmit didn’t comment. He was used to her display by now.

A woman wandered into the slaughter house, and Darcena paused in her feast. “Good morning, Svildmit.” Her face sagged and worry furrowed her brow.

“How are you today, Cassae?”

She swallowed, “Oh. Surviving.” A tear leaked down her cheek, crossing over her jawbone, and disappearing into the folds of her neck.

Gently, Svildmit replied, “One day at a time, Cassae.”

Cassae nodded, but her expression did not change from its haunted despair. She whispered, “I don’t want even one more day now that he’s crossed the gates to be with Gosaena.”

Svildmit shifted his weight, “I’m sure that Socius and the militia will give him the justice he deserves.”

Darcena swallowed uncomfortably and closed her eyes. An angry snarl rose in the back of her mind, “Vengeance is needed, not justice. Look at what Nehor and his Flock caused.” Thrumming below that like a steady heartbeat, “Only with patience and nurture will she heal. Help her.” Coiling throughout in a beautiful glissade, “I feast, I feast, I feast. Bring me more.” A chilling, cackling laugh floated above it all, and suddenly it stopped. Emerald fractured and fell, revealing the usual murky battle of stormy greys slowly reaching convergence, but it was too late.

Cassae already had her parcel full of meat and had closed the door behind her with a snick.

Svildmit looked at Darcena, his eyes flickering down to her badge.

She scrambled up the wobbling forked beam towards compassion, “I will do what I can, Svildmit.” Echoing in her mind, the words, “But I will fail,” dashed against her heart. In the eye of the storm, there was no balance. There was only intense and anxious waiting for something else to change and act.

Calling the Hunt - {The Nazhor Chronicles} (Olaesta 16, 5119) The raven-haired giantwoman drummed her thick fingers against the well-oiled strap of her battle harness, her eyes narrowing. She had learned new things since when she'd spoken alone with Socius a month ago or so.

At the time, she wasn't so sure that she should be working against Nazhor. After all, Duvainiel killed Drehod and may have had a hand in killing Brannogh. No one knew, still, who was directly responsible for the death of Elspie's love. Perhaps Duvainiel had gone above and beyond in her instructions, and that's why Nazhor had left her behind in the cell at Sunset Cay. Elspie didn't seem directly hurt, either, when the adventurers had found her in the cell. Foggy, yes. But perhaps that was residual magic.

Darcena had no idea why Nazhor was doing what he was doing with Elspie and how it all worked together. Besides, that sort of higher-level cognition wasn't her strong suit. She was intuitive and she reacted appropriately when necessary. Unfortunately, at the time, she just hadn't had much to react to in regard to Nazhor. She'd never seen him hurt anyone directly, and he talked to her with almost a warm tinge of fondness.

Even knowing what she knew now, she was still sympathetic. Nazhor had fallen, it was clear. He was trying to bring over beings who would decimate her pack as soon as they had the chance. While some of her pack may survive a demon incursion (she'd love to lean back and watch Madmountan laugh at the oculoth's orb), what about Lyrna? Kipara? Khaell? Even Storm and Cay could fall. But still, rushing to judgment would brook her no favors. It had taken awhile, but she finally understood. It wasn't that Nazhor wouldn't attack them; it was that he couldn't. What she'd seen as restraint and forbearance was really inability.

That changed everything.

She had bristled but born it when the Flock had called her names and lied about her intentions. She'd known more than she'd said about who was in the cell, of course, when Ilsola had been tortured. She'd smelled two of them. One's blood mixed and mingled and sprayed on the door. Another's sharp adrenaline mixed with smug self-righteousness, there, at the chair behind the desk. She'd held on to the information out of respect for the one who'd bled. She knew what it was like to walk that balance beam. Sometimes you fell.

It was time to stop holding back.

She'd sat back time and time again, trusting the adventurers around her to help her make wise decisions. Trying to hold back the snap to judgment and vengeance. She'd been wrong, before.

Darcena traced the five colored bands on her right ring finger with her thumb. Yes, she'd been wrong before.

At the rift, she hadn't waited. She hadn't held back. She'd listened to all the clues coming in from the different groups of adventurers and she'd intuited the answer. A few shouts here and there from people in the room, and they'd solved it. They'd closed the rift.

It was time to stop observing.

She'd had meetings here and there with different adventurers and towns folk. She'd tried to put all the pieces together. She'd tried to be better about knowing before acting. All that had done is led to chaos and the Flock flying above it all, raucously crowing their falsities, shattering their unity. This technique was clearly not working. It was time to get back to her roots. Her Lord helped her to see truth and lies. His assistance was how she could move assuredly amongst all the various factions.

It was time to stop waiting for more information.

Darcena brushed long knotted locks of hair dotted with feathers and beads and bone over her shoulder and rested the gathered tips of the fingers of her right hand on the eight-pointed blackened emerald symbol pinned to her harness.

It was time to call the Hunt.

Darcena whispered a reminder to herself, “The eyes. They are always watching.”

The Scent of Blighted Fear and Apathy - {Witchful Thinking} (Phoenatos 6, 5119) Light was creeping across the impressive facade of Moot Hall as Darcena moved through the eastern edge of Town Square and pondered the polished bleakstone statue. Leaning close, she inhaled through her nose, shallowly, several times, followed by likewise exhaling against the golden-whorled stone. It was odd - the scent had caught her as soon as she had entered the area. Her years with the wolf pack had honed her sense of smell to something better than most giants, although still not quite as good in this form as most of those who comprised her pack.

The statue gleamed as a crepuscular ray broke through a cloud, highlighting the face of the intensively chiseled bleakstone. It was easily recognizable as Lylia, Wehnimer's Landing's Mayor and one of Darcena's oldest acquaintances. One could never truly claim friendship with Lylia, Darcena mused. Well, unless you were a Faendryl.

It wasn't the look of the statue that had caught her attention, though. The statue was bathed in the comforting and familiar scent that Darcena would like nothing more than be in near constant contact with: the scent of pack. A rush of metallic-tinged saliva flooded her mouth as she continued to sample the piquantly sweet smell of Madmountan's blood. Several others had been near - and recently, too, for her to catch a hint of their scent. Darcena leaned back and glanced thoughtfully at the statue a moment and just as she leaned in again to savor the mouthwatering smell of the blood that had been streaking against the stone, she abruptly halted her movement and wrinkled her nose. In mere moments, she had stalked off towards the center of the square, pausing near the trunk of the large oak tree.

It was almost time to go for her daily run through the Lower Dragonsclaw and out to Graendlor Pasture where she sometimes lingered for breakfast. Before she went, though, she wanted to check in on the townsfolk (some of whom were still staring at her antics with the statue) and ensure that all the adventurers were likewise safe and healed. The scent of injury never quite left the heart of Wehnimer's Landing. As she reflected on that thought, she realized that she meant it both metaphorically and literally. Blood and guts stained the cobblestone square no matter how much rain fell from the sky in torrents. When she was lucky, brains, too.

Interrupting her internal musing, Darcena heard Nimaera speaking calmly to the aelotoi healer Traiva who was fluttering her wings here and there, causing drafts in the air and stirring up the scent permeating the stones. "I've seen this before, this is basic invasion strategy. Starve the people out. They will turn on their own leaders when an answer can't be found. Their heads go up on pikes and then the invading force slips in offering food, water, and relief. They don't spill a drop of blood and are welcomed instead of fought. There is nothing more dangerous than a clutch of farmers and fishermen who can't feed their children, no matter how well trained your army is."

Darcena pondered the wisdom of those words, thinking back to the brawl she'd heard about during a morning briefing at the militia headquarters. She'd recently been moved from the late night shift to the morning shift, so she'd missed out as she'd been sleeping in preparation for her own work. Her moss-tinged eyes lingered a little too long on Nimaera as she thought about what she'd heard, and Nimaera felt the weight of her gaze, turning to stare steadily into Darcena's eyes with a measured look before returning to her own conversation.

No matter, Darcena needed to move on in any case. She always stretched near the stump at Hearthstone before starting her jog. She'd worn a Darcena-sized divot into the porch there from her many years of resting in the shade.

Heading across the square, Darcena started heading up past Raging Thrak Inn with its offset statue and Stone Baths, which she remembered fondly as a completely different building from her youth. Passing under the shadow of the massive oak and modwir logs of the city's palisade, Darcena briefly thought of the town's defenses. She'd led a seminar here or there, but the reality was that the town was not prepared. No matter. Somehow they always pulled through and usually after a massive slaughter. A few people died, but they weren't pack. She mentally shrugged. You have to crack a few skulls to have a feast, she thought.

Darcena nodded to the guardsmen working between the two large guardtowers on either side of the gate. She'd trained with them a time or two as part of the militia. Had a few drinks. They weren't bad people, for chattel. She idly considered asking Claudaro to knit a few sweaters for them for the winter. It got cold there in the sleet. I think I have some red yarn in my locker. That decided, she moved forward, catching another familiar scent floating through the air, overlain with something quite pungent.

"Ysharra!" Darcena growled throatily across the road. Striding closer to her friend, the strange scent intensified. Tilting her head to the side, Darcena surreptitiously snuffled at the air around Ysharra's hair. Yes, she'd touched it just... there. Darcena knew it was truly Ysharra because of the familiar sharp, sweet jasmine entwined with the darker and heavier loam. But all of that was smothered under the appalling mix of pungent lemongrass-infused vinegar, cooked cruciferous vegetables, rotting fish, rancid cloves, chlorine, and petrichor that lingered around Ysharra's hands and clothing, intensifying near a not-visible smear on her linen cloak. Brisky shaking her head and wrinkling her nose, Darcena asked Ysharra what she'd been doing.

After hearing about the devastation of Ysharra's garden and her work with the blighted animals, Darcena decided not to ask about the absence of the usually ever-present Munin. Ysharra seemed distressed enough as it was, and Darcena's body screamed with anxiousness to both get away and expel her overabundance of energy in a run through the forest. Captain Shinann and Sir Cryheart had told her about the undead roltons attacking the town, but it hadn't clicked until now. The blight was here, it was spreading, and no one was safe. It was time to check the pasture. Making her apologies, Darcena began to jog through the woods, increasing her speed until she was running flatout towards the rolton herd. Passing the familiar lightning-struck tree, Darcena could see the large, rocky pasture where the kobold shepherds took care of their herd. In the distance, she thought she caught a glimpse of thin tendrils of mist being burned away in the sun, but as she drew closer, she decided it must have been a mirage.

She'd thought she'd left the scent in town, but she was wrong. It was here, too. Not nearly as strong as it had been around Ysharra, but still enough for her stomach to pitch. Darcena wasn't squeamish, but it occurred to her that if the blight continued, the herds would be decimated. Already she saw signs of withering grass and pine and manged roltons. A plume of smoke rose in the air in the distance, several shepherds standing around it. Darcena recalled that Puptilian had spoken with them about burning the diseased. The herd was lessened already.

Glancing furtively about, Darcena snagged a bleating rolton and carried it off into the woods, tugging on her roltonskin coat. They never noticed the wolf in sheep's clothing. She sliced the rolton's neck with her copper blade and bit in, her sharp fangs ripping at the animal. As she fed, she realized that this one was infected, too.

Until that moment, she had been steadily ignoring the tunneling and itching and burning as the blood marble scarab crawled through her flesh, ripping new passages where passages should not exist. She'd felt weaker than usual recently, presumably from all the magical regeneration she was putting her body through as she traded in favors with the local spirits to assist her in staying outwardly strong. Her mind flickered and she snarled. Blight and scarabs. She'd whined before that she never wanted to be alone, but this was not what she meant. A disease vector ripped apart internally, incessantly. She was not a slave to anyone. She was independent. Fierce. It wasn't happening.

Fear flooded her limbic system for a sheer panicked moment, and then lassitude. There was nothing to worry about. She bent back to the rolton's neck, savoring the sweetness of her feast. The scarab paused in its movement and Darcena forgot about the blight, the scent of rotted fish wafting right past her in her mindless pursuit of satiation.

Many minutes passed as Darcena crouched and snarled in the dirt beneath the modwir, pine, and fir, surrounded by pinecones and truffles. Not much went to waste and then she was finished. She'd just need snacks for a few days until the hunger tore uninterruptedly through her again. The respite was always longer with a different prey, but this filled the hole for awhile.

Meandering back to town, Darcena realized she'd need to talk to Puptilian and tell him that the herds were going to be fine. Maybe after she'd cooled down and washed up at the Sovyn springs. She had a date with a giant - her near daily meeting with Madmountan to go over reading and counting in common. She wasn't going to be made a fool of in front of them all anymore. She was going to learn.

• Thanks go to Ysharra, Nimaera, Traiva, and Puptilian for collaborating on this post.
• Thanks go to Shinann and Cryheart for your discussion with Darcena last night.
• Thanks go to the other individuals who have posted their bits on the forum.
• Thanks to Kenstrom for the storyline.

The Drums - {Witchful Thinking} (Eonatos 17, 5119) The fierce vibration thrummed through all the hollow spaces of her body as her sensitive ears struggled against the drums beating all around her. It had taken a few weeks before she could fall in with one of the wandering Araime tribes, but once she found them, she'd hewn close for many weeks more. The DragonSpine were familiar to her, of course, but it's always dangerous to wander too far from others in the wild. While sometimes danger was precisely what she was looking for, this time she was not interested in fighting for survival. Instead, she needed a little time and space to think through some confusion.

Darcena pulled her roltonskin coat tightly around her and stared out into the darkness. Lights twinkled across the sky in tiny pinpricks of stars, red here, and blue there. It was peaceful and calm and relaxing. All things that were complete opposites of the turmoil inside her mind. Despite her thoughts consistently returning home, she'd decided home was not her place to be right now.

The roltons at Graendlor Pasture had been diseased; they were oozing pestilence and pus and smelled like an appalling mix of pungent lemongrass-infused vinegar, cooked cruciferous vegetables, rotting fish, and rancid cloves. None of this was appealing. Even at the memory, Darcena's nose wrinkled and a low growl escaped from her throat. It had all changed when the scarab had left her and crumbled to pieces. That was when she discovered something was wrong. A memory had flitted across her mind wherein she realized she had known all along that the rolton herds had been infected. She'd told the Militia the herds were safe and she had believed that completely. But under it all, she'd simultaneously known. Why hadn't she told them the truth?

It must have been the scarab. Raznel's scarab. What else could it have been?

When the realization had crept across her consciousness weeks ago and the other memories trickled in as well, Darcena had fled. Perhaps, she'd thought, if she could get far enough away the increasing hunger couldn’t affect her anymore. It'd been months and a long ways, but so far... It hadn't helped. Darcena turned over her wrist and slid back the cuffs of her coat. The veins were still darkened; they hadn’t reverted to their usual hue when the insidious insect had dusted.

Shortly after the scarab was no longer crawling about under her skin, she'd remembered a few nights before when Cruxophim had sliced open her palms with his jawbone dagger, mingled their fluids for not-the-first-time, then smeared her blood and some others' on the statue. She could envision the way his head had cocked to the side as he'd pored over the statue and the look on his face when he'd then muttered, "Curious." He'd added her scent and blood to the many other scents and bloods on the statue and not explained himself one bit.

Who could she even talk to about her memories, her veins, her hunger? The confusion in her mind? Who would care? It seemed half the town was really under Raznel's influence including those closest to her.

Her thoughts flickered chaotically at direct odds to and sliding against and away from the steady rhythm of the drums, which increasingly sounded like a heartbeat urging her on. Her bones rattled and her muscles tensed as the urge to stand and slaughter consumed her mind. Beside her a middle-aged giant leaned closer to whisper something to her. His eyes glinted with laughter and his smile was friendly. In complete dissimilitude, her saliva pooled as she considered what she really wanted to do. In that moment Darcena realized it was likely time for her to go home and get answers before she did something she might really regret.

She'd consult the Ikarrak in the morning.

Maybe their paths would entwine again.

All the Scarabs - {Witchful Thinking} (Eonatos 27, 5119) Darcena strode up and down the cobbles of the simple yard, growling at the townpeople in front of her. While she didn't care much about them, their help may be needed in order for her to reach her goal. Even if their help was really merely the trade of their life for a temporary distraction.

All the scarabs must crumble as hers had. All of them.

No matter what it takes.

Her blood boiled as she thought back to how Thadston had compared the citizens of the Landing to children. She'd never liked him with the way he treated her Captain and had threatened to string up her pack. That man was singleminded to the point of conflagrant destruction. Darcena unconsciously pushed away the resemblance between her and the Marshal, not allowing it to surface.

One of the townspeople held up a jar filled with an abraded herb with a questioning look and Darcena nodded brusquely. "Yes, apply that just so to the bandage."

Darcena thought back to the words that were relayed to her from one of the present militiamen. The one she liked to dice with late at night when others were too busy to be with her. He was a bit of a slob in duty, but had a memory that far surpassed her own. He had reported that Stormyrain said, "And if we removed everyone who disobeyed one order, or felt they weren't part of some imperial style military group, we'd have no one."

She slipped her hand into the pockets of her pants, rubbing the grey and black striped cloth tucked within. She arced her toes in her boots, flexing her calf muscles, then released. It wasn't time to run yet.

There was still work to be done.

All the scarabs.