Appearance

Physical Description

Not overly muscular, her physique is lined as one who's seen a lot of activity during her life. In contrast to most half orcs, the tiefling aspects of her parentage slimmed and smoothed the more typically rough and bulky orcish build. She's definitively feminine in her frame with an hourglass build that might make some women jealous.

Body Features

Well formed with a narrow waist for her size, swept hips and a buxom torso she shows off to its advantage. She's quite a beauty if one can get past the more inhuman qualities of her appearance. Easily sized akin to most half-orc, her overall grey skin tone with a touch of red tint along with thick black hair definitely displays her heritage. However, that is where the similarities end rather abruptly. Great bat-like wings which rest at her back as well as a tail that curls around and twitches in the manner of a cat. Further down her exposed legs extend with a fetlock and then ends in hooves.

Facial Features

Sharp and almost delicately featured, the overlarge upper and lower canine teeth seem just a bit out of place. Her ears extend outward from the sides of her head more like one of the deep fey than the typical points or rounded tips that are more commonly seen from those with infernal blood. Three sets of horns, growing in size, crown and curl back over her head, completely unhidden by the length of her thick black hair. White upon white eyes stare from the sockets and remind one of a blind man.

Identifying Characteristics

Pale prismatic lines of celtic tribal patterns which glow slightly in shadow and the dark, wrap around her "ankles", at the elbow and slightly along the spines of her wings, at her shoulders before disappearing beneath her clothing, and the top of her tail.

Mentality

Personal history

“Let me tell you a story,” the youngish looking (if a bit large) tiefling woman half sang as she strummed her lyre. “Once upon a time there was a little girl, not unlike you children here. She was a good girl, with a loving mother, father, and older brother. She and her family, as well as all their friends and relatives would travel across the lands; following the herds as the moved with the seasons.”
The woman smiled at those gathered nodding to newcomers and passers by. But amid those nods, the faint scent of incense wafted upward. The end of her tail would sweep through the smoke it produced to spread it around. It was unlike the earthy scents so common, it was more airy and light, almost like a breeze. Images began to play within the slight haze as lights and shadows began forming figures, hills, and trees.
 
“She was somewhat adventurous, of course, like all children. And she would wander when not tending chores, through the woods and dells where few made their way. And while not particularly strong or smart, but if she had been given one gift, it was her voice.” The woman explained, her hand darting out to poke playfully at one of the curious young onlookers. “It could ring clear as a sunrise, or whisper away like the twilight softly shrouding the land at nightfall. She would frequently sing as she roamed, repeating the stories told by the Skaalds, since they were the only songs she really knew.”
 
“You see, those were the histories of not just hers, but five other tribes. And it was the duty of the young to learn so they could pass them along one day. But a few had some gift for tempo and how a tale should rise and fall. Frequently those talents would make themselves known well before they were needed, and the Skaalds would spend more time with their potential successors. And it just so happened that our heroine, Briga, was in possession of just such a talent. As for the Skaalds, they often said there was magic in words and verse; that didn’t concern Briga for it was of little importance to a young girl not yet ten.” The light and shadow danced among hazy trees and bushes in the smoke, hair streaming behind the figure in what had to be a dress, adding visuals to the story.
 
“What she did find (and this was far more important) was that her voice would lure things to her, animals both common and rare would lurk at the edges of her voice. In this way, she saw many things that others believed to only be bits of light, shadow and imagination. But oddness also started following her song and steps. For her, sometimes, the woods would move with unfelt breezes or the scents of warm summer air would appear in late autumn. Whispering choruses would join in her singing, and even more rarely, she would catch words of songs the Skaalds hadn’t sung. When she’d try to repeat these her friends and family would look at her oddly and ask if those were supposed to be words or mere noises.”
 
“These things confused the girl, and her mother who knew of strange things things would caution her not to listen.” The storyteller’s face turned downward and a great sigh escaped her. “But that’s not what a curious child wants to hear, they want to know where the sights, smells, and whispers come from. They want to explore deeper into these things that shine and glitter like candied apples bobbing in a trough during festivals.”
 
“Beware, my dear poppet, those quiet voices of the trees,” her mother would say, ever the cautious one she was. The storyteller’s tones growing more matronly and stoic. “For there are things we do not know, which are far beyond our meager understanding. These forests of our people had risen long before men came to these parts, and some things are better left sleeping. You shouldn’t encourage them lest you be thought mad, hearing words where none truly are. Beware the darker places, especially those with great fungus and toadstools in abundance.”
 
The tone altered again, back into the narrative lilt. “The child intended to heed her mother, after all, she didn’t want to venture into dark places anyway. But the voices didn’t go away, instead they seemed to become more real with their whispery, childlike quality. So despite her mother’s warnings, the young girl spoke with them anyway. And they indeed did tell her things like tales of the ancient woods, the battles that had been waged, the meetings of star-crossed lovers, the vows of princes and princesses, all when the trees were just sproutlings.”
 
“And so another season passed, and young Briga aged a year.” The narrator’s voice took on a wistful quality as she weaved back and forth with the shadows, light and smoke. “She’d found things, proof that what the voices had told her was true. Small trinkets buried beneath the loam and roots like a glittery comb of silver that remained untarnished, or a small knife that would fit in her boot which still held its edge, a coin cast in a way she didn’t recognize. And the voices would slip from the trees now, hazy outline surrounding something not quite seen. And even more, they now called her by name.”
 
“Yet even as these wonders made themselves manifest, her family struggled as all do from time to time. Of an age now, decisions needed to be made concerning Briga’s future. The Skaalds were, of course, the obvious choice. They would teach her, train her, develop those skills she’d found and pass on the histories.”
 
“Briga, why do you stay so quiet now? Come sing with us, we’ve taught you our songs.”
 
 
“Mother says the whispering woods are dangerous, and I don’t want to be in trouble.”
 
“Dangerous?!” The voices of the wood laughed and giggled. “Have we ever been dangerous? Teaching you songs lost to time, that none have heard in a tree’s age. Your mother is just jealous of you because she forgot our voice.”
 
“She did?” The child asked incredulously. “She never said she heard you.”
 
“It was looong ago, even before she met your father. Not much older than you are now. But she scoffed at our songs, saying they weren’t real.”
 
“Why would she do that?”
 
“Her mother filled her with fear of things she didn’t know or understand.” The voices sounded forlorn, a forgotten friend that still carried the heavy sadness. “We can show you, your voice can open the way. And then we can show you such wonders that she was afraid to know.”
 
“I really shouldn’t,” the girl replied, but she was far less assured than before. “It’s growing late and I have chores to finish.”
 
“Go tend your family, dear, we are as patient as the wood,” the voices replied as they faded away. “We will be here when you want us.”
 
“And the woods changed, only for an instant. The setting sun burned in the sky sending rays you could almost touch through the trees. The leaves were greener than she’d ever seen. And small lights played among the shadows. It was so brief, and then it was gone like the air had rippled like water.”
 
The quick tinkling strumming of the lyre seemed to draw in the air. The silhouette of a girl turning as the light grew surreal around where the storyteller plied their trade. It drew a few curious tones from the audience, and some copper landed on the outstretched cloak the artist sat upon.
 
“Day by day, the voices of the wood asked the child. And day by day her resolve weakened to resist the lure of the woods. Then one day, there was a row within the tribe, the Skaals wanted the girl to carry on the traditions. Her parents had other ideas, despite the honor they’d be afforded. Yet nobody thought to ask the child, for if she went with the Skaals they would surely silence the voice of the woods. They argued loudly, even her parents were on opposite sides.”
 
The shadows and light continues to play at the storyweaver’s words while the fingers play. “And so the girl stole away, back to the voices deep in the forest.”
 
“Why so sad, Brita?” They asked, “Has something happened?”
 
“Mother is trying to send me away, to the high mount where the Skaals pass on their words.”
 
“And what do you want?”
 
“I … I don’t …”
 
“You don’t? Child, Brita, we have know each other for some time. You do know, you’re only afraid. But we have never done any ill toward you, have we?”
 
“N-no”
 
“Then walk deeper into the woods, and sing with us.”
 
The lyre tinkled and strummed, the scene of silhouettes changing to the tribe. “It wasn’t overlong before the tribe realized that Brita had slipped away. Hunters were sent to look after her family’s tent revealed nothing. They scoured the wood, her own brother foremost among them. They did find signs of her, yet her tracks ended beneath the arch of two great oaks. They simply faded as if she’d grown lighter with each step until she could stride on the air.”
 
The story and strumming ended and the behorned woman looked around with a smile. Her tail curled around as she moved the instrument into its grasp. Her dexterous hands plucking the coins given up like the strings of the lyre. “My thanks to you good ladies and sirs who appreciate a fair story.”
 
“But what happened to the girl?” One child asked.
 
“Was she rescued by a handsome prince?
 
“Did she live happily ever after like a princess?” questioned another.
 
“Her family never saw her again,” the woman answered. “Not all things in the stories are as nice as they’re made to be, not all voices in the woods should be heeded, and the rest of Brita’s story is not for the ears of children.”
 
It was hours later when the woman tucked away her instruments, the coins she’d conjured from passing onlookers, and swept her cloak over her shoulders. She made her way through the streets with her tail swishing from side to side, pushing the split of her skirt to expose the backs of her legs as it did. It was rather carefree, though occasionally her head would tilt as if she’d heard something, or she’d pause and stare intensely into the darker shadows before continuing on. Finally she stopped briefly before a sturdy door, then reached to lift the latch and disappear into the modest inn.
 
She paused again once inside, looking over the place with a slow glance over the patrons contained herein. The crowd was typical, with conversations buzzing to different degrees of volume and intensity as the words bounced around with the strains of music and song from a fellow bard. A few of the patrons watched as she slipped between the tables. The tips of her horns threatened the ceiling while she moved to deftly avoid reaching hands here and there as she made her way to the bar. Slipping onto a stool her tail curled upward to avoid being stepped on, then leaned forward causing the seat to creak slightly.
 
“Pint and plate,” she said with a lilting voice that seemed to belie her size. “Bangers and mash if you have it.”
 
“A’ight,” the innkeep replied, after topping off a stein and sliding it in front of her. “I’ll call it back once … “ he paused as he glanced down at the open neck of her top.
 
The coins were slid onto the counter before him, “Do you have a room open?”
 
“That’ll be an extra two silvers.”
 
Two more coins joined the smattering of silver and copper that were already there just before she picked up the drink. Half turning to watch the bar and mindful of the wings behind her, she quaffed at her ale while waiting for her dinner to arrive. The bard was cute, and there were a couple other patrons, who if they remained for a bit, might be decent prospects for later in the night. After a few duets, some terribly cliche commentary, and more than one innuendo, the overlarge woman left the commons with the cute bard in tow.
 
The sky had just begun lightening with the twilight of dawn when she jolted awake; biting back a cry that was caught in her throat. Her bosom heaved in near panic and her light blanket was held to her neck as she stared wide eyed while her vision highlighted the edges of everything within her room. Her hand held a slightly silvered dagger tightly with the point wavering. Pushing with her hooves she wedged herself into the corner on the bed as she trembled; her eyes darted to and fro as she strained to hear anything out of the ordinary. Long quiet moments filled with nothing but the sounds of her panicky breath led to her brain finally registering that the salt was still on the windowsill and in front of the door.
 
She was glad the young-ish half-elf had gone hours ago, in her state she may have stabbed him without thinking. She shouldn’t have told that story, in retrospect; but she needed to warn them, even if they didn’t believe her tale. She covered her face with her hand for a moment then pulled the end of her tail beneath her chin, much like a child would do. Memories had come back again, visiting or perhaps invading her dreams, to claim her and drag her back into a surreal world that was terrifyingly wondrous.
 
She didn’t know how long she’d been trapped, not really, she’d been a girl but was now a woman, but time didn’t work the same. Subject to all the capricious, cruel, torturous whims of creatures that existed between realms of light and dark. She’d survived long enough to grow from that foolish and naive little girl who’d listened to whispers in the wood. Lost in another place of color, magic, wonder, torment, and pain. Why those creatures had never killed her was unknown, but she’d come to know the brink all-too-well as their puppet.
 
There had been no walls, but there was also no escaping them or their games. Oh how she’d tried, time and again only to fail. She carried the scars of the punishment for her defiance inside if not outwardly. At least not until she’d finally found the door, a ripple she’d seen in the air once before, a way out.
 
She’d bolted through without a thought or hesitation into a land she no longer recognized. The darkened woods surrounded her on all sides and strange noises frightened her. She could have turned back, slipped back into that awful, yet familiar place. But instead she ran.
 
That had been months ago, and her journey had taken her far from her exodus. But she knew with far too much certainty how close she really was, how close they all were. She hoped they’d forget about her, their attention was difficult to hold; its why she’d been passed around so frequently, boredom or a new toy to play with.
 
No, not all faerie tales were for children, very few of them actually were in her experience … and if she had any say in the matter, she would never step back into hers.

Education

Formally educated to an extent by the skaalds of her former tribe, Laranaeya has a wide realm of knowledge. Much of this was necessary for survival in the depths of the Feywild, not merely for the unbound wilderness. If anything those places of "civilization" were even more dangerous for a mortal.

Mental Trauma

Not all fairy tales are for children, perhaps no truer words have been said. The fey folk don't hold the same ideals as other races, capricious and volatile in nature, mortals don't normally last very long. She luckily weathered that storm for years as she grew until her escape from the confines of that place. Indeed where there is spring and summer light there is also shadowed autumn and the dark of winter. While she hasn't any physical reminders save the tattoos that adorn her form of her time spent there, there are scars that people can't see.

Known Languages

Common, Infernal, Sylvan.

Personality

Social