S A B R I E L - K A L I B A N E
Details
Full Name: Sabriel Brunelle Kalibane
Race: Velsign
Sex: Female
Age: 28
Height: 9'2"
Weight: 443 lbs
Birthdate: Frost 67th, 92
Birthplace: Daravin
Profession: Inquisitor (Assassin)
Housing:
Partners:
Titles: Acolyte
Factions: The Inquisition
Fluencies: Common, Gentaverse
Conversationals: None
Ineptitudes: None
Appearance
Tall and imposing, Sabriel holds herself with a certain radiating confidence. She holds herself well despite the disproportionate size of her wings, but as one might expect, she folds them close to her form in shame. Her skin maintains its color regardless of the amount of sun she's exposed to through the year; an ashen tan with warm undertones. She's always clean, seldom marred or stained by the filth that accompanies her work.
Her dark shoulder-length hair is usually well maintained, but it often becomes a mess due to the shape of her helmet and the persistence of static electricity, which follows her like a bad smell. hazel eyes peer from beneath the flowing locks of her hair, trained with utmost focus and attention to detail. A deep, hidden predatory hunger lays laced with her gaze, as though she sizes up those she encounters, and measures their arm to hers.
Though she's fairly toned for a woman, she's still undeniably weak due to the mutated weight of her bones. She struggles with physical exertion, despite her aspirations.
Personality
Something of a wallflower, Sabriel is usually quiet in the presence of groups. She prefers to observe others rather than engaging in conversation. Even so, when cornered or made to speak with others, she maintains a polite smile and speaks with an air of sincerity, though there's always subtle, threatening darkness to her tone. A flood of constrained rage and hate is thinly veiled behind her eyes, as though she's always poised to strike, seldom for anything but the throat.
Despite this, she speaks pleasantly of her circumstances and the state of Daravin. The aura of constrained rage that surrounds her often flips like a switch and yields to the suppression of pleasant conversation. She doesn't care for depth in conversation and steers such talks to surface-level small talk and professional topics. and scarcely reveals the darkness she carries, except in subtle, grim nudges. The only exception to this is in fits of passion, where her blood runs wild and her heart beats fast. It's only in such circumstances that she really lets loose, and the malice in her heart is revealed.
History
Like the rest of Daravin's Velsign, she was initiated with mentalism hours after being born. As one of the few that wasn't rendered a husk devoid of want and need, she was later subject to the harsh training of the Omen's most elite Rectors with the rest of the Velsign of her generation. That was to say she trained when she wasn't sick, which wasn't often. Born with two Kindred corruptions, skin and stature, Sabriel was cursed with a compromised immune system that left her sick and weak for the majority of her early childhood.
It was there, confined to her dorm and being visited by apothecaries with remedies to her pains and aches that she was taught the nature of her illnesses, and none other than her height and tough skin could be to blame for such thing. Of course, her immune system eventually adjusted and caught up with the rest of her peers, but the first few years of her social development were spent looking upon the world from a window. That contributed heavily to her coldness, as she didn't have the chance to learn the worth of interpersonal relationships at an early age.
She fell behind in training and her quotas both. Even so, she was granted another two runes of magic that were believed to help substitute her physical strength for etheric might, though this gesture ultimately failed, too. She survived both her initiation into Squall and Oath, but that seemed to be all she excelled at; surviving and pulling through, barely scraping by. Years passed by, always subpar to her fellow Velsign in training, rarely able to fly with his disproportionate wingspan, just a slight too short to lift her off the ground, even without armor on. With such a long history of shortcomings, it was no surprise to any that had seen her training through, even Sabriel herself, when she failed the final exam at twenty years of age.
It was less than a minute into the mock battle, and she failed to even lift off the floor, let alone engage in combat with her examiner, who struck her down with impressive ease.
The same Rector to conduct her exam became her commanding officer, tasked with making her stronger so that she might one day ascend to the ranks of her fellow Velsign. Though she fully intended to become stronger and complete her exam once again, she did not advance quickly. Flying was almost impossible for a Velsign her size, at least without the wing corruption that others in the ballpark of her height also held. She became complacent, at least until she was tasked with bearing a child for the next generation.
At twenty-two, her offered firstborn, a healthy boy of brown and white wings, reportedly failed the mentalism initiation. Useless, it was disposed of.
Shame became her world for the year she was given to recover; she couldn't even provide the inquisition with a strong Velsign, let alone fill the role herself. She was left to reflect while she physically and emotionally recovered, but the time came again where she was meant to return to the slave pits with the intent to bear a child. Ever the loyal soldier, she obeyed. Through her maternity, she was assured that the odds were on her side, that it was unlikely that she'd birth two Velsign too weak to bear the rune of control in a row.
At twenty-five, she surrendered her second child, a baby girl of blue eyes and dark grey wings, to The Inquisition. Only later that day, she received the news that their mural had also shattered in the initiation, and the husk was disposed of.
She wept that night, for she'd found hope in her peers' words; hope that she might successfully mother a child, hope that they might not perish so wastefully. Once again, she was placed under a scrutinous lens of her own making and writhed in her inescapable weakness. She became convinced that something inside her was broken, that she wouldn't be able to produce worthy offspring until she was stronger.
Where complacency and inhibition once laid in her heart, a fire started. She could not withstand the pain of losing another baby, she realized. She had to ascend to the rank of Rector before she was made to bear another child. Though she tried hard to grow stronger, no amount of training in her wing strength seemed to help. It just wasn't physically possible to lift off with her armor and excessive density. So, she subject herself to necromantic experiments and surgeries that were meant to lengthen and strengthen her wings, but only crippled them further. From the Searing of 120 onward, her wings were unable to fully extend or remain lifted for more than three seconds without shaking in strain.
Even so, she continues to push and claw her way to strength and fights hard to save herself from the fast-approaching date. She's due for her third trip to the slave pens soon.
