Ever Changing Sami

11/10/13

It is only the resilience of the young that allows Samiyah to yet have hope and 
some hint of happiness in her face.  Worn to exhaustion by a battle twixt faith 
and love, she struggles daily to remain true to her heart and to the God of her
people.  Her appearance is modest and carefully neat, glossy black waist-length
hair tumbling down in frequently brushed curls and braids, some ornamented with
the charms and adornments of her tribe. One plait seems out of place: a rougher
textured dark brown that fades to white at the ends. Her melting chocolate eyes
are soft and demure, never gazing directly at those around her. Intricate henna
patterns are inked upon her dusky skin, proudly framing twin puncture scars and
a oathing-cut on the wrist and palm of her left hand, blood binding her in vows
to a brother and in Bond to a Kindred. Her garb is a mix of the desert and home
found elsewhere - dark linens contrasting with brightly dyed leathers.  Bruises
upon her throat have faded to a sickly yellow, the mark left by her God's rage, 
but the lesson learned has not faded a whit:  She has been humbled and reminded
in the most direct way possible that her life and soul are still in His hands.

10/29/13

Her dark eyes bloodshot and rimmed in shadows from mourning and tears, Samiyah
stands before you, shoulders slumped in defeat and sorrow. Her throat is livid
with bruises, the clear mark of where an enraged God's hand wrapped around her 
neck. Her aura is dull and dim, and her shaking hands are stained with ink. It
is clear, without words being spoken, that this Bard has lost her song.

10/18/13

A gentle and tender smile curves the lips of the Desert bard before you. Her
lustrous, melting chocolate eyes are happier than they have been for a span,
but even still, there are worries and cares giving them weight, for those of
her family and friends who know to look. Yet, her expression is joyful, even
to the eye of a stranger, despite her cares. Her long dark hair tumbles over
her shoulders in thick waves, released from most of their imprisoning braids,
a small chime or ornament decorating each one that remains. The ebon cascade
is almost enough to completely hide the healing wound upon her throat, which
she makes no additional effort to conceal. One lock of hair draws the eye: a
dark, chestnut brown that fades to ghostly white at the end, the mark of her
father's magic, which is also seen in the streaks of scarlet within the blue
of her aura.  Not classically beautiful - her nose is a bit too wide, broken 
long ago by a discipling hand, her lips a tad too full - Samiyah still has a 
graceful way about her that draws the eye.  When she speaks, her voice holds
the lilting sound of the Desert: "I am Samiyah bint Seraph, sister to Cresom
and Jamilla, blood-bound to Ghazkull Mahsong, and the bard of the High Order. 
How may I help?"  She makes a gesture of grace and welcome, with one hennaed
hand moving from forehead to lips and to heart, and smiles once more.

07/01/2013

"May the Seraph's wings enfold you and you ever have shade and sweet water." The words of blessing come softly and musically from the desert woman before you. To even the most untrained observer, it is clear that she was raised in a different culture - the concealing robes about her figure, the duskiness of her skin, dark hair braided into dozens of plaits, bound about with small charms and chimes. To those who know her, growth and change are as easily seen: No more is her face an enigma, hidden behind veils. Her smile is still honest and genuine, but perhaps not as quick as it once was, her dark brown eyes as curious, but not as trusting. Too many things have scarred her spirit, assailing and tearing away the innocent purity of it, to have remained unchanged. To once more have tribe and family - a sister, torn from their homeland, a brother, sworn in blood, a father-in-spirit, and friends, beyond the easy counting - these are the things that uphold her and keep her strong.

04/02/2013

There is something in the deep chestnut eyes of the woman before you that has not been there before. She has been changed forever by a Hunt simultaneously called down by three Immortals and Rebirth granted by mortal hands. Wary and graceful like a gazelle that has felt a sand-cat's deadly claws, any scars or physical wounds she might yet bear are hidden by a linen veil that hides face and hair, leaving visible only those wounded doe eyes and a braid dangling at each temple. The right plait is unusual - a rich chocolate brown (that nearly matches her eyes) that fades to pale white at the ends, braided into her ebon black locks. By it, a trio of silver chimes once more dangles, re-sewn to the proper spot on her veil, their song a musical chord that sounds with each and every movement. An aura of azure blue swirls around her, strangely touched by streaks of crimson and ebon black, evidence of a bond to the One who has held her spirit cradled safely in His hands every time it has slipped the bonds of her flesh. In response to your attention, her hand moves quickly to forehead, mouth and heart in a tribal gesture of respect and greeting, the mehndi inked on them drawing your eye. When she speaks, her voice is surprisingly soft but clear, like a nightingale: "In the Sahib's name, greetings. I am Samiyah bint Seraph ukhayyatun Cresom. How may I aid you?"

03/14/2013

The desert-born woman before you moves like a gazelle that has been pursued by sand-cats. A slight trembling is visible in her limbs, as if she has spent too much time of late moving as swiftly as legs and magic can move her, without an evening's rest. Her dark robes are disheveled and her veil slightly askew, the result of too rapid a flight through woods that caught at them. The chimes are silent, torn from their usual place on her veil, that the sound not reveal her presence. Her blue aura, entwined with shifting bits of crimson, blazes around her like a flame, the only part of her that seems to have strength or energy. Her dark eyes are weary yet determined and she forces her head upright and her shoulders back. "Grace and courage are all that I have, and with His blessing, I will forgive and can endure this for Him." She bows her head, reaching up to touch one of the many braids that bind her hair as if to draw strength from it like a touchstone. A whispered prayer, murmured in the tribal tongue, and she struggles on.

03/12/2013

Softly humming to herself, the desert-born woman before you goes about her tasks. The brightness of the blue aura easily visible around her reveals a destiny finally brought to fruition - the blessing of the God of her tribe. Her movements are strong and graceful, healing finally having come from an injury of body and spirit that nearly felled her, but for His care. Yet to even the most untrained observer, she is wary, ever scanning the environs, the caution of one persistently hunted. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes hold a strange mix of joy and sorrow, carried plainly for any to see -- seeking to see the world with joy but hurt to the core by the loss of good will by some she named friends. Lifting one dusky henna-pattered hand, she smooths her veil into place and runs her fingertips, as if to take comfort from it, along an odd braid entwined amidst her darker locks: dark brown that fades to white at the ends. The movement causes her veil-charms to chime, music surrounding her with every gesture. The sound makes a smile curve her full lips, hinted at by the shifting of the fabric that hides her face, sorrows forgotten for a brief moment, the melody sweeping them away.
"I am Samiyah bint Suriel, servant of the Sahib Seraph. How may I help?"

02/20/2013

The desert-born woman before you has the grace of a gazelle and an intelligent and curious gaze that observes all around her. The dark veil that shrouds her features is but lightly pinned in place - a change from the past when she wore it like a shield. Though a ready smile curves her full lips, there is a shadow about her spirit, as if her very soul had been cupped in the hands of Death. A light pallor makes her caramel skin slightly ashen, evidence that the grievous wounds recently self-inflicted in her pursuit of knowledge are not healed. Her every movement is accompanied by the bright, ringing tones of chimes that have been pinned into the long braids she wears, their songs helping to lighten her spirit once more. One plait in particular draws the eye: dark brown fading to white at the ends, woven into the sable of her hair. Designs of henna form an intriguing pattern upon her hands, the palm of one bisected with a recent scar, the mark of her blood-oath to a new-found brother. Gifted with the friendship of heroes and villains alike, Samiyah is one who walks with many - but has not yet been able to give Oath. Despite this, a slight tinge of scarlet taints her aura, and strands of sable blur the air around her, evidence of the attentions she has drawn from the Immortal that would lay claim to her. Her voice, softly musical despite the weariness it holds, carries clearly enough: "I am Samiyah. How may I aid you?"

01/29/2013

The drape of a veil modestly conceals all but the eyes of the dusky-skinned woman who stands before you. Her hair, a dark inky black, is plaited in the desert fashion, yet one braid stands out: brown, with streaks of white. Her movements cause the many charms woven into her locks and sewn to her headdress to chime musically in a bright chord. While her expression is gentle, there is a certain weariness about her dark brown eyes that hints that Death Himself has held her spirit in His hands. Garbed in the flowing linen drapes that hide the particulars of her figure, marked with the flowing arabesques of traditional henna-work, she is clearly a child of the Eastern Desert. Yet she does not have the broken fearfulness that is commonly found in the women of the Tribes. Instead, she meets your gaze with inquiry and compassion and a gesture of greeting - fingertips lifted to forehead, lips and heart. Voice pitched as soft and musical as a nightingale, she speaks:
"Blessings upon you and your house. I am Samiyah bint Rasul. How may I help?"

12/06/12

Veils conceal the face of the woman who stands before you, but they cannot hide the open, caring and happy expression in her eyes. The fabric shifts as a quick smile curves her lips and she dips a slight curtsey, causing the many bells and charms braided into her sable hair and sewn to her headdress to chime softly in a bright chord. While she is clearly desert-born, from the flowing linen drapes that hide the particulars of her figure, to the flowing arabesques of the henna patterns on her hands, she does not have the fearfulness that is commonly found in the women there. Having survived much, traveled far, and grown to learn and know a world much greater than the confines of the sands, Samiyah has surpassed her tribal upbringing, but not forgotten where she comes from. Her voice, pitch like that of a nightingale, is soft as she murmurs a formal greeting. One dusky hand quickly lifts, touching forehead, lips and heart.

"Greetings unto you and your house. I am Samiyah bint Rasul. How may I help?"