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 Nórima, Child of the Morningthona
Posted: Jul 28 2014, 05:47 PM


NórimaAnd the water is taller than me,All I have is a body adrift in water, salt and skyHomelandImladrisDate of BirthTA 215RaceElfOccupationChild of the MorningthonaFace ClaimAstrid Berges-FrisbyTimelineTA OnwardPersonality AssessmentA young, long lost Nórima was bright and sunny. When she was a child in Imladris, she was a rabbit: soft, small, playful. Timid at times, but affectionate to a fault the moment her trust was gained. She was a star-child, always dreaming of something or another. Life, to her, was pretty things, and close friends. Young Nórima believed very firmly that you took care of those you loved. She was tactile: she liked to be close to people, always attached by at least a hand-hold, if not a embrace. She was a known nuzzler. She was wild and fast: she ran the quickest, and she hid the best. A master of hide-and-seek. She was easily scared, but quick to laugh.That Nórima is gone. It is easiest to live in darkness if it is all you know, and in the clutches of the Morningthona, her memories of Imladris hurt more than anything else she was subjected to. Knowledge that there was happiness, but that it was so far out of reach. So, she threw it away. Buried the memories, under layers of dirt, and stone, and snow. Little Nórima is long dormant, in a rock tomb. Nórima of the Morningthona is disengaged. Lethargic. Depressed. She exists like clockwork: ticking by mechanically. Thinking and feeling are opportunities for weakness or pain to sneak in through the cracks – as such, they are not allowed. In the day to day, Nórima exists almost like a zombie, or in a standby mode. Life in the Morningthona is bleak, so until activity is required, she blocks it out completely. It is either hiding or defiance, though she could not tell you which.In the moments when lucidity is required, Nórima will rouse herself and rise to the task. She performs the tasks asked of her with brutal efficiency and undeniable skill. However, she does not obey the orders of the Morningthona for loyalty, or love: it is the same thing that fuels everything. The one lesson learnt in the dark that keeps all the children moving. 'Survive'. To survive here, she must kill, she must lie, she must spy: so she does. Emotional engagement of any kind is a thing of the past. Every move is practised, instinctual, thoughtless. When Nórima is active, she is blunt, and painfully cynical: her temperament is 'brisk' to say the least. But it is only a realistic cynicism: the world in which she lives is one where the worst scenario is almost certainly the true one.There are very few things that Nórima takes pleasure in – and those few pleasures she has are a painful, trivial liking. The do not give her joy, but they at least spark her interest, and distract her for a time. Gold is one of them: it is shiny, and the way others respond to it seems deeply irrational and entertaining to her. Blood too is something she finds entertaining: how easily it is spilt and how much it means. The cold pleases her in a similar fashion: that so simple a thing, the air itself, can stiffen the bones and kill the small. Weakness, in general, is something she finds absolutely fascinating. She collect fault-lines. The idea that someone could consider it correct to indulge a weakness is something that seems to her utter, thrilling madness.AppearanceNórima stands at a respectable 5 “11. Her mother was towering for an elleth, standing at 6 “3; whilst her father was always dwarfed by his family, being only 5 “7 (one of the hurdles to be overcome when one of the towering Noldo fell head-over-heels in love with one of the significantly smaller Laiquendi). Their daughter, now grown, sits solidly between their heights: a perfect middle-ground between their two extremes. Her face, too, is a mirror to her parents: to those who remember them, it is painfully obvious that Nórima is their child, for both of them are obvious in the set of her features. There is the gentle, rounded edge of her father: the soft chin, the high but round cheek bones, the button nose. From Aiqualien she takes the set of her jaw: solid, but elegant angles. From her mother too she takes her mouth: the sultry, rose-red pout – and her eyes: wreathed with intelligence, and an untouchable innocence, despite what she has seen. Her eyes are piercing – perceptive. Orbs of fragile, sparkling hazel: the rabbit in the path of the arrow.Nórima is slight in build – in fact, slight does not even do justice to her tiny frame. The elleth is painfully slim: each bone easily picked out under marble skin. Her chest is almost as flat as that of an ellon, so lacking in fat is she. Skin and bone, and muscle. There is so little of her, in the most part, because of her unnatural ill-health. Older than many of the stolen children of Morgoth, Nórima was not as resilient to the poisons used: her twenty two years making her less adaptable to the horrific cocktails that were daily poured down her throat. To this day she suffers from the aftermath: she can barely eat. Food refuses to stay down in her damaged digestive system, and she survives, for the most part, on tiny bites choked down with water, and on teas. Like many of the Morningthona, she bares a remarkable selection of scars: lingering marks of her 'taming'. Wounds have less chance to heal cleanly when they are inflicted on a child already weakened with poison.Nórima dresses with absolutely no care for anything besides practicality: vanity is not encouraged in the ranks of the Morningthona. She will most often be found in leggings and a loose shirt, in colours chosen to camouflage rather than to compliment. Her wild curtains of dark curls are usually tied back in a messy but practical style.The elleth will never be beautiful – but she has captured tragic elegance to the full.Historical OverviewNórima is the lucky daughter of two elves of high renown. Aiqualien of the Noldo, weaver, lace-maker, dyer and embroiderer from across the Helcaraxe; and Lainion, tailor and merchant of the Laiquendi, one with the trees in the twilight of the world. The met many ages in the past, and despite the differences between themselves and their kin, they fell deeply in love with each other. Their craft brought them together: the art of fashioning robes and tunics so fair that they seemed to shine like stars, yet so simple and elegant in their cut that they breathed like a second skin. The clothing made by the couple was all but unmatched in Arda – and across history, there were many that wore the works of their hands. Celebrian, Gil-Galad, Elros, Cirdan: indeed, many turning points in history have been outfitted by the couple. However, the turning points in history were never of much importance to them. Aiqualien and Lainion were never politically minded. To them, the world was about making something beautiful, and finding new and old friends to dress with that beauty. For three ages, they travelled the realms of middle earth – weaving and sewing and selling their wares more like art than fashion. They were genuine, and loving, and without shadows.They did not have their first child until late into their lives. It had not been consciously delayed, and when Aiqualien found herself with child, the couple were over-joyed. They made the choice to settle for the birth of their child, so as to bring her up in a home, rather than on the road, as they lived their lives – and the home they chose for her was Imladris. When Nórima was born, her life was as a dream. She spent her childhood in the haven of the hidden valley, surrounded by peace and beauty, and she wanted for nothing. Things continued in uniform bliss for some twenty years, at which time Aiqualien and Lainion felt the call of the road once more, and deemed their daughter (by now on the brink of puberty) ready to join them on their travels. Nórima had no complaints: she feared being without those friends she held dear from Imladris – but her parents told her how beautiful the other lands were, and she wished to see them for herself. The opportunity, however, did not arise. Not far from the valley, the unprotected merchant family was taken by the Morningthona. The Ehtaro clan had, for some time, sought a fault-line through Imladris. They incorrectly thought that Aiqualien and Lainion, as old friends of Elrond and as figures of some importance, may have such information. They did not. After all, their thoughts were all for stars and flowers, not for military tactics, or for economics or politics. Under the brutal interrogation of the Morningthona, they had no information to give, besides the unwavering belief that Imladris was, and would always be, outside the reach of evil. They were killed. Nórima, by unlucky happenstance, was spared. She was older than those children usually stolen by the Morningthona – but on impulse, and on merit of her connection with Imladris, Nórima was taken in as a child of the Morningthona.The years that followed were years of unspeakable pain and shadow. 'Training and indoctrination' was nothing more than being broken completely. Poisoned until she was internally burned and bruised, drugged until even walls climbed up and screamed in her face, tortured until her bones themselves were cut with scars. The little elleth was not hard to break. In the face of such absolute horror, she quickly gave in: lost all handholds on morals or on sanity in the blind race for survival. But she did survive – and it was miraculous. She was physically one of the weakest: but she fought. Kept breathing through will power alone when her lungs should have failed her. She may not be the strongest: but she was the fastest, and the most brutal.Her brood made it from trainer, to loremaster, to captain – and, in time, Nórima had a name which was known in the Ehtaro clan. Smallest and fastest, she came to be one of their best assassins. Over thousands of years, she caused countless deaths, broke hundreds of families: lost everything that was light, and forgot that she had ever known it. There was nothing outside the Morningthona, but there was nothing within it either: she was hollow. By the time that the Ehtaro clan was wiped out by the elves of Imladris, the young Nórima was already buried – she had no plan for what to do next, except the old mantra of 'survive'. Roleplay SampleAND I WAS ALL LIKE 'HOLLA GIRL, THAT BITCH BE CRAY', AND SHE WAS LIKE, 'DON'T BE TOUCHING MY WEAVE'.JENGA » TOASTER » WAFFLES
Posted: Oct 17 2014, 05:31 PM

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This application has been moved to our archives until Jenga returns :3
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