Post by Lesa on Jan 14, 2011 23:01:01 GMT -5
Bujare
Name: Bujare
Age: 29
Gender: Female
Prisoner: Hahahaha, no.
Crime: Hmmm… well if any they were in self-defense.
Craft/Rank: Wherhandler
{Traderclan Kyzyl Kum (Red Sand) – “Guard and Harper”}
Appearance: She matches her once home. That is, Bujare looks like sand and mountains and valleys and wind. Her skin is the golden color of sand, glowing with health and vitality. Mountains and valleys make up her body, her breasts and hips, taunt stomach and firm muscles. Her hair is the color of the mountains, varying shades of brown and black, soil and rock, tumbling down to her shoulders, wild as a rockslide. Her eyes are the color of life-giving, crop-growing earth, rich with secrets and power, warm with tenderness and compassion yet able to go dark as a moonless night. A face sharp as the mountains is hers – no delicate plush outclan softness to her, just the weathered angles and planes of a face well accustomed to harsh weather, softened slightly as even the rocks are smoothed by the work of sand. Dark brows and a once-broken nose give character to her heart-shaped face, widows peak sharp as her daggers. Her lips are plush and pale, the barest hint of color like the start of a sunrise in the desert adorning them.
Bujare is lean as a Southern feline, just as quick and deadly for her Turns of fighting. She might not have killed too many in her Turns, but that does not mean she is not capable. Just that most know better than to attack a fully armed caravan, be they beast or human. She is not overly tall for a woman, though tall compared to most clanwomen, a steady 5’10” that allows her to spar as she will with the men, with near any man, and have her unworried about them having a size advantage.
Scars adorn her body, near no area unmarred by at least one thin silver line, though her arms and legs are the worst due to training. Not only are they the easiest areas to take strikes on, her hands are what holds her weapons. Hand to hand, daggers, swords, bows, whips – all she has trained with since she first took an interest in them at five Turns. The twenty-four Turns since have made her, while not a master at all, very capable among the lot, and particularly so in her two favorites: daggers and hand to hand. She has been careful, knowing that her scarred hands must be continually worked, if they are to remain usable. And they must remain usable for her to play her gitar and sitar, short-nailed fingers long and fine across the strings.
Her voice is low and husky, a rich sound suited to its usual place telling jokes and singing songs around a campfire. It is well and truly capable of screaming warning or attack, and at times sounds so manly she has convinced outclan that she is, indeed, a man. At times this has been for the best, dressed in guardswear she has turned away many a potential mischief maker late at night, her height and voice in the darkness making them think she is a man, not a woman (no matter that she wouldn’t be easily defeated). She prefers the men’s clothes, despite her love of lace and skirts, for in the heat of Igen, a women’s clothing involves many more layers and headscarves and covering of her face, things Bujare detests. All too hot and nasty. Sand can be combed out of her hair, if it must, and while if a sandstorm rages she will bundle up as much as any other female, the clothing most chose to wear does not provide much movement, unless one dresses as an outclan, or dresses as the dancers do, in next to nothing. She will dress outclan to get her love of lace and skirts, but even then her skirts are short, barely to her knees and the lace is kept to a minimum as much for the Marks it costs as the way it will get in the way of drawing a weapon. Even dressing outclan, she keeps to the clan’s love of bright colors and no few of the clan rules.
No woman may show their Sigil to an outclan, and so it will seem for the longest of times that Bujare enjoys high necked shirts with at least a sleeve to the elbow. This is not entirely so – the high neck restricts movement, as in its own way the slight sleeve does. Only her lovers have seen her Sigil, for even now, Turns after she has left her clan, she will not show it to all and sundry.
Personality: Everything for the clan. That is how Bujare has been taught, that is how Bujare has grown. Clan before self, always. Better many live than just the one. Great honor to those who sacrifice for the clan – life is the greatest sacrifice, but not required. No. Better to live and bring strength and Marks in, than die just to be known. Outclan are not to be trusted completely (though admittedly, this is more Bujare and the old clan-members than all the clan – many openly accept outclanners). It is not just duty, it is the way of life.
Bujare, herself, is an enigma to outclan. Many men respect her only because they have seen her strength in weapons, otherwise she is just a woman, a woman dressing much too revealing, arms and legs and torso bare to any eyes. In the clan she is respected for her abilities and herself. It is not just that she had been in line to be clan chief, before giving it up. No, it is the determination she has to see all the clan live, risking herself to save a child just as much as she would to save a wagon full of wares. She will throw herself into a fight without a thought, quick and deadly, powerful as any of the men.
Honor is important to her, but as always, clan is more so. She will gladly give up her personal honor to save the honor of her clan, though that is never needed. She will fight any who dare call out her honor, and rescue those of clan who are called out but cannot defend themselves. Bujare is more man than women, many say. They do not see the compassion and kindness inherit in her movements: for with her willingness to give up her honor comes her love of her people, the love of her clan: she will teach the young ones how to fight, how to protect themselves and others just as she will teach them to sing and play gitar and sitar, to provide. She cared for them, the next generation of her people, the ones who will continue their lines, continue the clan. All, as always, for the clan. Never, it seems, for herself.
This is not to say that she is not selfish: many clan consider her leaving them the most selfish act she could do. She is taking away a seasoned fighter, a warrior that many outclan want to battle for Marks, for the novelty of fighting against a woman (for despite the number of female guards in holds, there will always be those who consider them flukes, inferior). She is taking away the Marks the clan can get for her music, she is taking away the talent, the ability to teach others that she has. Bujare needs to do this. She needs to be selfish, this once, to think of herself, instead of the clan. It is starting to trap her, the clan life. She has never needed to, never wanted to, experience outside the clan. She is missing a facet of life, she had felt. She found that facet in Busk, and unfortunately found herself permanently outside the clan because of him.
The only thing about her that seems feminine to outclan is her singing. She doesn’t show anyone but her lovers the other feminine parts of her, her enjoyment of pretty, delicate lace and her liking of the swish of skirts. Her singing isn’t the most feminine: she doesn’t sing the songs of love that many expect women to sing, except to earn Marks – she much prefers the songs of dragonriders and fighting Thread and the ones known only to clan, telling of the exploits of the clan. Many see her as a man in a woman’s body – they think she should be awkward about it – but she is not. She is feminine and deadly, and knows it.
Still, there can be a light in her eyes of humor and good nature. For it is not to say that Bujare is just all about duty and honor and the clan. Well, she is, but it is not unusual to hear her telling a joke or teasing or bringing life to a group much too serious. For as she has looked death in the face and near become its mistress, she has learned one thing: you cannot take it too seriously, or it will again become the master of you.
Her time since being, sent, would be the way to state it, to Warden’s has not been easy on her. Certainly her abilities are well liked, but most of what she has lived for is… gone. She is not part of her clan any longer, she is not with them, yet the oldovers still remain. All for her clan, even if the clan is just herself and Busk, or the other wherhandlers. Prisoners are dealt with as harshly as she feels that day, as harshly as she feels they deserve: treatment does vary prisoner to prisoner, for clan law dictates one is punished for one’s actions equal to however the actions harmed another. She has not yet killed a prisoner, or allowed Busk to eat one as he wishes, but she has done near everything else. It is justice, after all.
History: Rafiqa screamed once, bringing Bujare into the world. Afzal couldn’t have been prouder – his strong, healthy mate had given birth to a strong, healthy daughter. Their first daughter, second child. Afzal now had his line assured, no matter which child proved to be the better leader. His clan had been raised to greatness under his mother, building on the power of his grandfather: they knew a woman had just the ability to lead as a man.
Bujare and Fahim were raised as equals: neither was better than the other, each could rule the clan, provided they show themselves in the right to their chief. Afzal played no favorites, not with the clan to lead and four more children to deal with. Igen and her desert was a harsh mistress. She would prove the mettle of her people more than the word of a chief.
Fahim took to the niceties of trading: talking with outclan and bartering. That was his pride and his promise, his silver tongue and smooth ways. Bujare couldn’t stand outclan. They were rude and harsh and didn’t understand clan ways. They thought she and Fahim were to be married when she turned ten Turns! Was never that – she was to receive the first of her Sigils. The signs that all clan wore that would forever mark them as clan and tell their life story. Only at the coming of age would they receive their first Sigil: that of their family. Fahim enjoyed showing his off to outclan-girls: they thought he was brave for getting it done, and his flirting assisted their sales. Bujare thought the outclan girls were stupid. She much more enjoyed spending her time with the guards of the clan caravan, learning how to protect the clan and their wares from wild whers and outcasts.
Her Sigil at ten was simple – merely the ring of black triangles on her shoulder that marked her as chief-child, the single red triangle that marked her as in line for chief. Her Sigil only grew along with her: the spiral down her bicep with her accomplishments as a Guard. Two battles against wild whers at twelve and fifteen, fighting off outcasts at thirteen and twenty, saving a clanchild from fire at eleven and an entire wagon of wares at sixteen, ferreting out a thief at eighteen and showing another accused was innocent at twenty one. She still has room in the spiral for more achievements – but even as she worked on the one spiral, able to be hidden by a short sleeved shirt, Fahim was working on his second spiral, back up from his forearm. Sales did better than protection. Then again, Bujare wasn’t just concentrating on one line of clanwork. Her second took up just as much time as her Guard duties, if not more.
From even before her Sigil-marking, all clan had known of Bujare’s gorgeous voice – she had to endure outclan Harpers constantly telling her she should go to Harper Hall. She refused to leave, every time, but soaked up their advice and words and teaching like a clanchild did sweets. It was her way to bring in Marks to the clan. Not through selling wares, but selling something of herself: her voice. Her instrument picking was minimal at best – the sitar, taught to her more by Rafiqa, an accomplished Journeywoman Harper herself, and the gitar, typical instrument of the outclan Harpers they encountered on circuit and allowed to travel with them for a fee. Both instruments were fairly similar, which helped in her learning them. But it was her voice that brought in the Marks. Her second Sigil-tail marks that, red of lifeblood tracing from her throat down over her collarbone, the black around it indicating her abilities.
However, unlike Fahim, the inner circle of her familial ring was always empty. She had graciously allowed him to fill his with the marks declaring him chief along with the marks declaring him married and father of strong children. The marriage and children she wouldn’t have fought him over. They were true. It was the chief-mark that all talked about, when she allowed it to him. Both were old enough to be looked at by Afzal and the elders. None had come to a decision on which would be stronger. Bujare would have led them as her father led, keeping clan to clan. Fahim wanted to progress out of clan: he had married a half-clan, a thing that earned him some scorn, until his wife’s worth was proven through her talents and children. He enjoyed talking with outclan, and thought they could learn from outclan. Bujare still detested it. But she thought he would be better for the clan. Everything, after all, was for the better of the clan, not the individual.
Neither Fahim nor Afzal banished Bujare at twenty-five, with Fahim the chief-marks still healing, his sons growing strong. No, it was her choice. She could have stayed and been a good clanswoman, good as any man. She just wanted more. Clan was everything, clan was all… but without the focus and drive of doing the best to eventually become chief, she had little here. No old Auntie, she. And no spouse, male or female, clan or outclan. She had lovers plenty, male and female, loved and lost: none she wanted to marry. None she wanted to stay, and none to make her stay. She had nothing to tie her down, and with blessings of her chief and chief-to-be, she left the clan and the heat and sands of Igen. To find what would fill her inner circle: to find her destiny.
Bujare lived Turns just wandering Pern, nothing and no one tying her down, doing as she would for Marks and food, Harpering and Guarding as she found a need or wanted to. Her life became both harder and more idyllic. Eventually, on the eve of her twenty-seventh Turn, Bujare crept her way into a cave, assuming it was empty and wanting to escape the rain. She was wrong. A gold wher slept there, surrounded by her small clutch of three. Luckily for Bujare, the queen merely stared at her then accepted her staying there (the queen had once had a handler who had died; she had gone wild rather than betweening, and had mated with a wild bronze on her last Run). That night the one egg hatched, a bronze wher bursting out. He latched immediately onto Bujare, though it was unclear to her if he was going after her, or after the meat in her pack. Either way the bond was made. The other eggs did not hatch, proving to be duds.
Bujare and Busk lived with his mother for a time, until he was strong enough that Bujare felt willing to keep moving.
Other stuff:
Pets
Name:
Species:
Color: (if relevant)
Appearance: (keywords are fine)
Personality: (keywords are fine)
Busk
Name: Busk
Color: Bronze (E09E05)
Age: 2
Appearance: Busk, like most wild-bred whers, is larger than the average bronze. He might not reach his sire's height and length, but he has incredible muscle. His mass is too much to get him off the ground, even during the night hours. He is, however, a distance runner and a powerful guardian. He was the size of a Shiba Inu at birth and grew to a height of 6' at the shoulder.
His hide is very notable in the fact that it appears to be metal. The very reflective goldenrod hide makes him appear to be a gold. But it's the red markings that set him apart. On the top of his skull is a sort of battle mask in blood-red. The same red appears in blood-like spatters on his flanks.
Personality: Busk comes across as a brute and an animal. He has a voracious appetite and will eat anything. I mean anything. He's prone to over-eating, so be sure to watch him. He also tends to destroy things he doesn't like or doesn't want in his way. His way of coping with a problem is usually by making the source disappear.
Granted, he's nowhere near as stupid as he seems. When there's a problem he can't solve by direct confrontation, he will bide his time until he gathers support. And he has a firm understanding of the way things are. Once taught that something goes a certain way, he will understand it.
He has a sense of honor and pride. Busk won't hate someone for being immoral; he will hate someone for shaming him or his handler. And, being protective, he will also do the same for anything he considers as a threat to his space. He tends to be sort of like a mother hen. Once he likes someone, he is incredibly defensive and protective.
--
Bask
Name: Bask (Poor dear, he got Bujare's name wrong and now he's stuck with the wrong name...)
Color: Brown (582F00)
Age: Hatchling
Appearance: He's the chubster! This wher is huge for a brown, just like his bronze brother, but instead of being pure muscle... he's fat. He's a chubby thing, and he always will be. However, like seafaring mammals this layer of fat covers strong muscles, almost like blubber. Meaning? This lil guy might look like a teddy bear, but he's a grizzly. His hide is the color of chocolate, even with his markings. He might try to eat himself in confusion on occasion.
Personality: He isn't smart. It's evident in his name - the poor dear couldn't pronounce Bujare right and is now stuck with the name Bask instead of Bujask or something else nice like that. It's alright, intelligence wouldn't go well with the pure amount of happy. He and Eve will be companions in derp together, skipping through fields of flowers and being chased by bees. He's constantly trying to sound intelligent by calling his handler by her name... except he can NEVER say it right. She ends up 'Bujajaja' 'Bajoora' 'Bababala' instead of 'Bujare', but that's alright. It adds to Bask's charm.
He's the most loving, family oriented wher ever. Being a guard isn't a good position for him, it wounds his tender little heart. But, when he catches a female, this chubby little guy will guard the clutch as if it's his own. Thus, he'll be a favorite to catch greens for when extra whers are needed- the green will abandon her clutch and Bask will care for it as if he was a mama gold. He also tries to care for children, kittens, Z, and anything else he declares needs to be mothered. Busk is his big brother figure, his idol. Bask wants to be just like big brother when he grows up! He also really loves food, willing to fight to the death for the stuff. He won't even share it with Busk. and he shares everything with Busk. Except obviously food.
He has a dark side, though. Touch his family, and there won't be enough left of you to bury. Sin can't hold a candle to what this wher turns into when those he loves are threatened. A ball of pure rage and fat, he can steamroll anyone who looks at his little sisters wrong, or says something bad about Busk. His poor memory means that immediately after he's cuddling up to them and asking them what happened- until reminded of what they did. Then he tries to eat them again.
He has phobias of incredibly strange things. Mainly, curtains and dogs. Oh heck, canines scare him. Just bringing one around will have him screaming and going to Busk for protection. He just thinks curtains are alive, but Bujare will be able to convince him to abandon this with exposure therapy. Uh, if she feels the need.
Why Me? Bujare and Busk together make a team that can keep this idiot safe. Busk is everything Bask wants to be, a big brother figure to the brown who will constantly follow him around. Bujare is intelligent enough to keep the little thing out of trouble, and the like... but it's her sense of family, of clan, that drove this bond. Bask loves his family, Bask will kill to protect it. 'Bajure' is the same, and that is what cements their bond.
