Post by eshva on Apr 14, 2007 12:21:04 GMT -5
Hailing from the blackest swamplands of Chult, this woman speaks with a heavy accent, her voice soft like the panthers paw, with a darkness to it, remeniscent of her shadowy home.
She moves like a huntress, her body athletic and finely toned-- little sound betraying her footsteps.
Her skin is dark as the forest floor, and painted on it in white are coils of snaky symbols, which in her homeland would reveal her as shamaness. Her once black hair is pale, a price paid for power in her young days.
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As a young child, Amoxa was given by her parents to a Shamaness as payment for healing performed on her mother.
Her mother was dying at the time, and her father had agreed to pay the price.
Amoxa was turned over to the shamaness to serve as her slave (The old woman had seen the hidden sorcerous powers in the girl, and sought to rob her of them), and so Amoxa went to live on her small island in the dark, fetid swamps, in a hut decorated with bones and skulls of men and beasts.
Giant walking lizards stalked here, snakes swam in the muddy waters, and the nights were lit by a myriad glowing insects. None of these strayed close to the witch's domain, but they surrounded it on all sides, making it an effective prison for the child.
Each night, a wicked ritual was peformed, in which the Shamaness punctured Amoxa's skin with the black claw of some magical
beast of the jungle, and drew from her five drops of blood under strange incantations. Thus magic never grew in the young girl, and the witch did not grow older. She held Amoxa enslaved with her sorcery and grew in power.
Amoxa served the old witch, and, as she grew, she forgot that she had ever done anything else. Such was the nature of the old womans powers, that Amoxa could not harm her, nor refuse her instructions, and the witch was harsh and strict, and careful in the wording of each order, so that the source of her perpetual youth could not run away.
In time Amoxa learned that it was easier to obey. She served the witch diligently, and the old woman grew sure in her dominance of the girl.
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But behind the calm gaze of the now young woman, an unbreakable will endured. Subconsciously she knew what happened each night, when the claw's painful sting bled away her very spirit, and she plotted against the witch...
Amoxa had been growing ever more restless, and aware of her own will, and often throughout her stay with the witch, she had stood and stared into the jungle, wondering how far it went on. She had seen people come to visit the old shamaness. They had been pale of skin, of various sizes and had spoken words which Amoxa did not at the time understand, but which she remembered and recited to herself each night, seeking to unlock their secrets.
The witch told her nothing of the outside world, and Amoxa was left to stare out into the mysterious darkness between the trees and wonder, begging the blackness to give her a way out.
And black it was, that which finally offered her freedom.
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Amoxa was to collect grubs from an old rotting tree with stood at the very outskirts of the witch's domain. She was filling a bag with the pale slimy things when her keen ears percieved the softest of sounds-- the pad of a paw on the damp soil.
A chill went up her spine and she froze, only her eyes moving, scanning as much as she could of the dark swamp around her. She saw it off to her side, a sleek black panther sneaking slowly closer. It stopped-- stood perfectly still when their eyes met. She turned her head and looked straight at it. Something passed between them, and she knew that the dreamy darkness had heard her call, and that she would be tested to see if she was worthy of it.
The next moment she was running for her life. Hard work had made her strong, and she knew the paths of the swamp as well as any part of herself. She sped towards the witches hut like lightning, the jungle a blur around her, black feral death snapping at her heels. She saw the look of surpise on the old womans face as she shot past her and into the hut, heard the blood curdling scream even before she spun around to stare out the doorway, hope mixing with the fear in her heart.
The old woman had not had time to defend herself, the panther had forgotten it's natural fear of her tainted domain, engrossed as it was in the hunt, and it had all been grizzly and brief, now the sleek black creature stood over the witch, confused for a moment between it's natural fear of sorcery and the scent of fresh blood wetting the ground.
Amoxa had been holding her breath, but now she let it out, and the panther turned it's gaze towards her, and again they stared at each other, the witches death was a pact between them, and as her force bled out of her, it flowed through them both an bound their spirit together. When Amoxa's stolen powers returned to her, so did the memories of each of the old hag's heinous deeds, the story of each skull of man, woman, child and beast, which decorated her abode. Amoxa screamed as the witches memories became her's. Such was her horror, that her hair lost it's colour and turned pale forever. She sank to her knees and curled up, crying, whimpering and ocasionally laughing, trembling all the way through. This was the final legacy of the witch, all that the old woman had done, Amoxa was now capable of.
The panther finished it's meal as Amoxa packed a few belongings, and when she left the witches domain and stepped into the darkness between the ancient trees of the jungle, it followed her.
With each step the young shamaness felt strange powers returning to her, she yearned to control them, to get to know them, as much as she yearned to see the strange pale people, the slim and silent ones with the pointed ears, the short muscular stonefaced ones, and whatever else she might find beyond the dark and fetid prison of her youth. She wanted it all.
As it turns out, by way of chance, she headed north...
She moves like a huntress, her body athletic and finely toned-- little sound betraying her footsteps.
Her skin is dark as the forest floor, and painted on it in white are coils of snaky symbols, which in her homeland would reveal her as shamaness. Her once black hair is pale, a price paid for power in her young days.
----------------------------------------------
As a young child, Amoxa was given by her parents to a Shamaness as payment for healing performed on her mother.
Her mother was dying at the time, and her father had agreed to pay the price.
Amoxa was turned over to the shamaness to serve as her slave (The old woman had seen the hidden sorcerous powers in the girl, and sought to rob her of them), and so Amoxa went to live on her small island in the dark, fetid swamps, in a hut decorated with bones and skulls of men and beasts.
Giant walking lizards stalked here, snakes swam in the muddy waters, and the nights were lit by a myriad glowing insects. None of these strayed close to the witch's domain, but they surrounded it on all sides, making it an effective prison for the child.
Each night, a wicked ritual was peformed, in which the Shamaness punctured Amoxa's skin with the black claw of some magical
beast of the jungle, and drew from her five drops of blood under strange incantations. Thus magic never grew in the young girl, and the witch did not grow older. She held Amoxa enslaved with her sorcery and grew in power.
Amoxa served the old witch, and, as she grew, she forgot that she had ever done anything else. Such was the nature of the old womans powers, that Amoxa could not harm her, nor refuse her instructions, and the witch was harsh and strict, and careful in the wording of each order, so that the source of her perpetual youth could not run away.
In time Amoxa learned that it was easier to obey. She served the witch diligently, and the old woman grew sure in her dominance of the girl.
---------------------------
But behind the calm gaze of the now young woman, an unbreakable will endured. Subconsciously she knew what happened each night, when the claw's painful sting bled away her very spirit, and she plotted against the witch...
Amoxa had been growing ever more restless, and aware of her own will, and often throughout her stay with the witch, she had stood and stared into the jungle, wondering how far it went on. She had seen people come to visit the old shamaness. They had been pale of skin, of various sizes and had spoken words which Amoxa did not at the time understand, but which she remembered and recited to herself each night, seeking to unlock their secrets.
The witch told her nothing of the outside world, and Amoxa was left to stare out into the mysterious darkness between the trees and wonder, begging the blackness to give her a way out.
And black it was, that which finally offered her freedom.
----------------------------------------
Amoxa was to collect grubs from an old rotting tree with stood at the very outskirts of the witch's domain. She was filling a bag with the pale slimy things when her keen ears percieved the softest of sounds-- the pad of a paw on the damp soil.
A chill went up her spine and she froze, only her eyes moving, scanning as much as she could of the dark swamp around her. She saw it off to her side, a sleek black panther sneaking slowly closer. It stopped-- stood perfectly still when their eyes met. She turned her head and looked straight at it. Something passed between them, and she knew that the dreamy darkness had heard her call, and that she would be tested to see if she was worthy of it.
The next moment she was running for her life. Hard work had made her strong, and she knew the paths of the swamp as well as any part of herself. She sped towards the witches hut like lightning, the jungle a blur around her, black feral death snapping at her heels. She saw the look of surpise on the old womans face as she shot past her and into the hut, heard the blood curdling scream even before she spun around to stare out the doorway, hope mixing with the fear in her heart.
The old woman had not had time to defend herself, the panther had forgotten it's natural fear of her tainted domain, engrossed as it was in the hunt, and it had all been grizzly and brief, now the sleek black creature stood over the witch, confused for a moment between it's natural fear of sorcery and the scent of fresh blood wetting the ground.
Amoxa had been holding her breath, but now she let it out, and the panther turned it's gaze towards her, and again they stared at each other, the witches death was a pact between them, and as her force bled out of her, it flowed through them both an bound their spirit together. When Amoxa's stolen powers returned to her, so did the memories of each of the old hag's heinous deeds, the story of each skull of man, woman, child and beast, which decorated her abode. Amoxa screamed as the witches memories became her's. Such was her horror, that her hair lost it's colour and turned pale forever. She sank to her knees and curled up, crying, whimpering and ocasionally laughing, trembling all the way through. This was the final legacy of the witch, all that the old woman had done, Amoxa was now capable of.
The panther finished it's meal as Amoxa packed a few belongings, and when she left the witches domain and stepped into the darkness between the ancient trees of the jungle, it followed her.
With each step the young shamaness felt strange powers returning to her, she yearned to control them, to get to know them, as much as she yearned to see the strange pale people, the slim and silent ones with the pointed ears, the short muscular stonefaced ones, and whatever else she might find beyond the dark and fetid prison of her youth. She wanted it all.
As it turns out, by way of chance, she headed north...