Major Svet - Human

How Did You Find Us?: The lovely owner :3

Name: Svetlana (Svet) Aslanov Kincaid

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Specialization: Bow/Crossbow

Age: 27 years

Rank Requested: Major

Photo:



Appearance: It is not brown that falls upon her ivory shoulders but honey; spools of rich amber splendor burnt by sunkisses and the smolders of flame-eaten mahogany, its ribbons for fingers wild like a horse's mane as it dances deftly in the winds that dare whip it. No man's hand nor binding may bridle its silken fire, as in its wake and in all its roaring freedom it engulfs as it so mindfully pleases. The skin on which it casts its soaring shadows and strands of chestnut disarray is fair like a pale bird's wing, and upon its dewy surface tiptoes the fleeting touches of an evening rose, though beware this beauty - for it is not an invitation. Her face is kept from all eyes wicked by a shawl of starless mystery, and from it's hooded lip slips a promise of danger that lies in waiting like the poisoned fang of the viper, for the lady within its folds knows beyond her share the price of trusting one whom thinks himself higher than her fellow creatures of night. Her blood is proudly Russian, and her being the very epitome of northern origin; her frame willowy and tall whilst mighty and sound, eyes alight with a blue that sings to the frost of a first winter crisp and lips kissed by strawberry stain, and from her tongue a magnificent slew of accented flavor that lingers on those words of a language now dominant. Nothing will paint her face but the dirt and sap of the forest's palette, yet, though her sense of presentability is unpredictable as is a tempest's coming, her choice of fashion is not brutally lacking in a woman's elegance and is instead simply winsome to the necessities of she. Her appeal is for only the most refined of tastes, and for the few that appreciate the spice of a fickle heart over the bittersweet insipidity of a compliant mind. She is a bird, but not a delicate one; a raven, more so than a gentle dove, and carries herself on gracious wings upon the breeze that no soul would heed. For the night is when she flies, and the black of her feathers cannot be seen against the shadowed wonder of a tired sky.

Though her wild face will remain so in its alabaster innocence, the flesh beneath is no virgin to the touch of ink. The faded color of a memory, the dark sophistication of an artist's needle, the strange beauty of a tattoo in all of its sporadic majesty, and upon the white canvas that is a girl's only faithful possession there is much. Her spine is soiled with the flight of ash birds, her arms carved by the coiled trails of vines, her collar with blood roses and navel with pearls. Down her thighs tiptoe a collection of splendor, jumping with the gait of a wolf's heavy step about her calves and joining with the thump of a heart upon the flat to her reddened foot. She is decorated with misery and glee, her skin a looking glass to the dreams she would not dare put to her lips, but it is not vanity, nor is it a sense of self-abandonment that fires the gun to her skin. Her memories are cherished in a way that will not leave, that she will not lose, and that from she can not hide. Some will stare, some will shout, but little will act against the unorthodox peculiarity that is her body, and therefore she does not care. She does not roll over. She is brave, but she is cold. She is Svet. And she is not beautiful.

History: She was born of Winter's grace, and the falls of frost he so stirred with his breath. He bestowed upon her skin the pale kiss of Death, and her lips with that of sweet wine. Her body was crafted by the cold of his own forgery, her soul by the beauty of those wisps that danced forth from his skies. She was daughter to the rime, and to the white hare that gallivanted through her abode, as it was her's; the snow and the frost fall. For she was his queen, and so she wore the crown of white upon her head of chestnut fire. She was his essence, the beloved to his wrath, and the song so sung by her heart of ice was to call to he and he alone, and so it was ruled. She would abide to no other, for her mortal warmth was his only happiness. And so her mother never held her, nor did her father sweep a hot tear from her cheek, for she was Winter's, and that was how it was to be.

~More Coming Soon ^_^~


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