.:. Personal Information .:.
-- Name: Myrria Shahara
-- Age: 43 (appears to be in her late twenties)
-- Race: Human
-- Sex: Female
-- Height: 5'8"
-- Weight: 142 lbs.
-- Nationality: Xexorian
—Occupation: Reaper Specialist (Formely a warrior)
-- Status: Ressurected
-- Appearance:
-- Demeanor: Raised as a warrior from an early age, Myrria is aloof by both nature and nurture. Though not entirely unfriendly, she rarely speaks unless spoken to or as part of her job, which she takes extremely seriously. She rarely laughs, as having been around death and violence for most of her life has given her a somewhat grim sense of humor. She doesn't come to trust people easily, and when she does it's usually closer to camaraderie than friendship.
Myrria possesses a rather strong sense of honor, something unusual among her peers at the Dirige. It is a testament to her combat abilities that this doesn't diminish her effectiveness any.
When involved in a fight, however, and pushed to the brink something in her snaps, and she becomes what is best described as a raging demon. All reason and honor go out the window as she's overcome by a berserker-like fury, and while she's in the state she'll attack anything and anyone that gets in the way, not stopping until either she or her opponent is dead...and sometimes not even then.
.:. History .:.
Born in a small, nomadic Xexorian tribe, Myrria was raised practically from birth as a warrior--a practice quite normal for the culture. At an early age she proved to be prodigious at combat, but lacked self-control. Those personal flaws were eventually beat out of her by her superiors, and she became one of the most renowned warriors of the desert; enemies of her tribe would quake at her name, and the sight of her entering a battle could cause the most hardened warrior to flee.
But the world is a much larger place than she ever imagined, and soon she and the entire Shahara tribe were taught a harsh lesson in humility. One morning Myrria emerged from her tent to see her entire tribe in panic. Bodies littered the campsite, people fled in every direction; the warriors of the tribe, unable to see the source of the commotion, walked around in confusion.
Before long, she saw it--a flicker, a brief image as though her mind was playing tricks on her, and then one of her comrades floated into the air as though plucked by the sky itself. Then bloody gashes began to open on his body, and she could only watch as he was rent to pieces by an invisible force.
A sense of foreboding filled her, the same feeling she got whenever there was an enemy nearby that she could see. What she did not know was that even then she possessed a power that set her apart from others--but what she did believe was that she had unusually good instincts, and she learned to trust them.
She may have looked insane to the others; only the occasional burst of sand indicated that her sudden movements had any reason behind them. Only the blood that dripped from her blade indicated that her swords met anything other than air. She was fighting an enemy no one else could even perceive.
But even she could only perceive it scarcely. She could not sense the creatures anatomy, and therefore knew not whether she was striking vital areas or merely causing flesh wounds. And while her skills were honed as close to perfection as any of her kin had seen, even they could not defend against a phantom enemy forever. After hours of escaping injury save for the occasional scrape, Myrria was slammed into the ground, before being plucked into the air like the rest and torn to shreds.
To the brave souls who stayed to watch, it seemed as though the battle was over. What were left of the warriors moved as though to encircle where Myrria had been slain--none had any illusions that they might fell the invisible beast, but they were trained well. They would give their lives so the tribe as a whole could live to see another day. It seemed like the end...but in fact, it was merely the prelude.
Myrria awoke to a desert both familiar and foreign. It had the same shape as the one she knew, but the blasted yellow sands were now a colorless gray. There no longer seemed to be any human occupants--none alive, anyway--but there was something else, something much more prominent.
It had, perhaps, once been human--it possessed two legs and two arms, and a head. But the limbs seemed disjointed, bending in a way no human's could, and they ended in almost devilish claws. The face, if it could be called that, offered no expression; it was now a beastly thing, with empty eye sockets two small slits for nostrils. Only it's mouth looked like that of a living creature, a gaping maw of tooth and tongue from which dripped blood and saliva. It was taller and broader than any ten warriors she had seen. And rather than any fleshy color, the creature's skin was entirely obsidian...
An uneasy feeling overcame Myrria, but this one was not from any supernatural cause. It came from the realization that the creature wasn't simply killing her comrades...it was eating them. But anxiety gave way shortly to rage, and pulling her swords out of the sand, she raced headlong at the monster.
The battle with the beast pushed her in a way no fight with enemy tribes or desert predators ever had. The mere thrill of it seemed to give her strength--little did she know it was not from the heat of battle of the gray world around her that she drew her energy from.
Daylight faded into dusk, dawn broke once more, and still the battle raged on. Traces of color filtered into Myrria's vision, while those still around to observe it--those either too injured to escape, or with curiosity over the unusual sights overwhelming their fear--witnessed the opposite, as the area around dust and blood began to fade into a colorless gray. And as it did, two figures occasionally flickered into sight; one, a monstrous obsidian form, the other a dancing figure of red.
By the third day word of the event had reached nearby tribes, friendly or otherwise, about the mysterious battle. The brave and the foolish arrived, some to rescue the injured, some to watch, and others to join the battle day. But all who came within reach of the battle were unceremoniously killed--rent by the beast and shoved into its mouth, fuel to continue the fight, or cut down by Myrria herself, so consumed was she with felling the beast that she had forgotten her allies, her enemies, and perhaps all of humanity itself. Anyone who entered her sight was just a bag of flesh that was in her way, one distraction she did not need.
By the seventh day the gray had consumed the entire camp as well as another two times its size past it. No more bodies dared approach; those that watched did so at such a distance that the monster was a black blur in the distance, the girl a speck of red that occasionally could be seen contrasting the black and gray. And now, both girl and monster were always visible.
It was the very fear that the combatants instilled in observers that was the beasts downfall. Without any flesh to feed on, souls to consume, it weakened, slowed. But it could not flee; Myrria left no openings for a retreat, nor did she tire or slow. The gray world that sustained her was boundless. And finally, on the eve of the seventh day it ended. First one hand was lost, then the entire arm. A foot. The creature crashed into the sand, writhing in desperation. Its remaining arm was lost in its attempt to stave off the inevitable. Then, at last, its head was separating from its body. The writhing stopped; the beast moved no more.
The girl looked around with eyes of madness. All that had occurred before the battle was gone from her mind; only thoughts of the next fight, the next splash of blood upon the sand entered her head. She could feel more, more enemies in the distance waiting for her to bring her swords to their necks.
She never even saw him move, nor did she hear him. Her "instincts" told her of the danger, but it came too fast for her muscles to even twitch. She was pinned to the sand, both her wrists held by a single, impossibly strong arm, the weight of the body that sat on her waist far from overwhelming--and yet, impossible to move.
Slowly her struggles ceased; it was as though pieces of her came back to her. How much time it took she could not be sure, but it felt like weeks until she was rational enough to recognize the piercing golden eyes that gazed into hers as belonging to a man.
"...Are you here to kill me?" she asked with a voice raspy from the screams and cries of battle. She did not fear death; all warriors faced it, and she knew even as good as she was, she would one day meet her better on the battlefield, and that day would be her last.
"No." His voice was deep, but not menacing. It was a voice of one who'd seen many battles; more than her, more than perhaps anyone in existence. Even in one syllable she could sense the hardness, the loss, edge...all that made up a warrior, exemplified in this one being. "You are already dead."
She stared, but did not falter, did not doubt. She could doubt nothing from this man who held her still as though she were a child, and yet displayed no malice. He was one whom untold numbers had met their end against. Who alone had turned the tide of not just battles but wars, who had dined with both peasants and kings and yet had thought only of the coming fighting. He was death incarnate.
And he wished to offer her a job.
.:. Contacts .:.
To come...
.:. Talents .:.
Dual Sword Style: Called "Sandstorm" in the tongue of her people, it a style uniquely suited to nation of Xexoria. With the desert making even the lightest armor unbearably hot, it relies on movement for defense and a flurry of blows for offense. Adepts of the style dart between multiple enemies, striking and fading away before a counterattack can be mounted, or dance around a single opponent, providing a constantly moving target. Capes and other fluttery clothing are often worn by warriors of this style, as it obscures the movements and makes the work of the blades even more difficult to predict.
Seele Ubertritt: The signature ability of Reapers. By drawing on Qi, the energy of Purgatory, they can pass on souls to the afterlife, transfer matter between realms, and use it for combat in a variety of ways that often differs from user to user.
Myrria can pass on souls like all Reapers, but the only other way she uses Qi is to augment her physical abilities. By varying the amount of Qi she infuses into different parts of her body, she can change her attributes to best suit her opponent--sacrificing speed for strength against a heavily fortified opponent, or vice versa for a quick one. She can also sustain her body for long periods of time without needing to eat, drink, or sleep, making her ideally suited to long hunts or battles of endurance.
.:. Flaws .:.
Battle Rage: If she gets pushed to her limits during battle, or sustains herself solely on Qi for too long, Myrria enters an angry, psychotic state. In this state, she focuses on the defeat of her enemy above all else, mercilessly cutting down anyone who gets in her way. If it lasts long enough, she'll begin to see even allies as nothing more than threats--when it goes this far, intervention (usually knocking her out) is needed for her to revert back to her normal state.
