Irena
The Novice
DetailsFull Name: Irena
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 22
Height: 5'3" / 63" / 160cm
Weight: 122lbs / 55kg
Birthdate: Frost 21st, 99
Birthplace: Zaichaer, exact location unknown.
Profession: Unlicensed Doctor
Housing:
A 400 square foot hideaway in the poorer outskirts of Zaichaer.
Partners: NA
Titles: NA
Factions: NA
Fluencies: Common
Conversationals: None
Ineptitudes: None
Appearance
The marks of hard trade do not make themselves apparent upon Irena. Not a callus upon a finger, not a scar upon the body, he is suspiciously free from evidence that would suggest a common upbringing. His face is easily confused for a woman's.
His silhouette is bell-shaped, with most of his weight focused on the lower body. Long legs and arms give the appearance of a somewhat small torso, one that seems to have been wrought from softer clay than most. Irena's curvature is plush, yet not overweight.
Grey eyes peek out from beneath deliciously morbid-black hair that drapes down the back like a waterfall of silk. Ghostly pale skin wraps his body like fine velvet. Full lips bear an almost constant tease of a smile, paired with dark rouge.
Personality
"Necromancy? How hard could that possibly be?"
Irena underestimates the world. Complex topics and subjects are seen through the lens of simplicity. He's impulsive, headstrong, and believes that base instincts are the true nature of mortalkind.
These behaviors are a deadly combination. Confidence comes at high risk, but high reward as well. Irena often gets into trouble going in too deep, or playing up his abilities beyond what he reasonably can attain.
History
"Your stories terrify me. Tell me more."
Irena was born with little to his name. Matter of fact, there was no name to put on his census when the taxmen eventually came knocking. Somewhere along the lines, he had simply fallen through the cracks in Zaichaer society. By the time that citizenship was proven, mainly by falsified tax records, he had to come up with an identity for himself before the law itself.
Being the scrawny kid on the street made life a bit difficult. But Irena knew how to survive: to become useful in ways that couldn't be disposed of. A few bluffs about being able to bandage good later, he soon found himself in over his head. He learned the hard and fast way how to stop bleeding, though the first few times such a thing had failed. A few deaths later, and he had his first instance of what appeared to be a miracle: a survivor. One that succumbed to infection shortly thereafter.
He was the choice that no one truly wanted. But, he was also the only choice they could afford. Irena made a living off of that dynamic. Just good enough to keep around, cheap enough for those that bore desperation would default to him, yet enough of a novice that no sane person with the farthings for a better physician would pay him even a passing thought.
Despite his upbringing in Zaichaer, something stood out about Irena. By the time he had entered adulthood, and made numb by the worst the area had to offer, some things became less shocking. Magic and the gods, despite the city's fervent teachings, were topics that he found himself drawn to. Trades would be conducted: stories of magic-users and their demi-god cohorts in exchange for attentive treatment. Insights were given, that perhaps the world wasn't as black and white; though Irena would never publicly admit to such a thing.
A fondness for necromancy, the path of flesh, soon took root. Such a thing would make Irena's life easier, after all. One only needed the right tools, and they could become among the best. So he thought.
But life continued regardless. Irena never truly evolved past the bare necessities of his trade. He would come to be known for being a particularly delicious conversationalist to his patients. At the very least, he wasn't some creepy back alley physician. Merely back alley.
The story continues. From what depths will Irena rise? If at all?