<div class="floatright">(http://i1108.photobucket.com/albums/h418/icsyhyat/40e8c4474627b711a671a193dbb59a47.jpg)</div><div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;"><strong>Tivyrne</strong> (http://plothook.net/RPG/profiler/view.php?id=9166)</span></div><div align="center">L1 Rogue, L2 Soulknife</div><br/>It was a strange caravan that Tivyr and the lot found on the south roads.  Tivyrne was the favorite... Jofney their leader fancied her, though she was tall as he and tough to bed.  She was a scrapper, and they said it was her father made her so.  They were ten miles from the city, hoping to catch a money courier on his shortcut through the Carven Scrublands with a fat purse.  That's when they saw it... like circus wagons, drawn by mules and oxen both, none fit to farm.   The wagons were bright, strange... perhaps performers, and if so?  They might have had jewels...<br/>When the brigands-- teenagers, all... not even fit to be called men-- descended, they found an old man, two children servants, and a eunuch in the caravan.  They did not resist the robbery, but stared on in silence, answering no questions.  They responded to no threats, took no offense at harassment, only staring back with mute disgust and contempt-- so in anger, they slayed one of their oxen.  Suddenly, the old man stirred.  Sensing the threat, the old man-- eyeless, gaunt, long-bearded and knobby-- sprang to his feet from where he was sitting on a ferny rock.  The children shied from him, and finally the brigands saw the caravaners' jewelry... hovering, glowing crystals that encircled his head like a glowing halo, beautiful and strange like fireflies...<br/>The pain was terrible, and swallowed her memories.  She remembers to this day the glow of the firefly-stones around his head, the shrinking fear of the children... and that is all.  She awoke seven days later, naked but clean, and strangely unhurt, on the steps of a strange city's church.  She was arrested for harlotry, released a week later, and left to wander with nothing but tattered rags from the church and a clay jug of water.<br/>She was nine hundred miles from her home village... she had to plead for the attention of church scholars for access to maps and books, and so far stranded she could only assume a new life in this city's strange capital.  She found her mind-- and her body-- changed, somehow.  She felt more certain, more poised.  She hardly recognized herself in the mirror... the sisters at her convent swore she was a witch, and found evidence in a strange, blue mark below her navel-- it was like an exquisite tattoo, but so perfect and symmetrical as to belie human hands.<br/>After two years, she could take to no trade.  She learned to fight from mercenaries, and took to it like a fish to water... it was sometime during these years that she discovered her blade... and she knew, then, her purpose was not to steal or fight for coin.  It was to place this blade where it belonged...