Athalia

Appearance
Athalia stands little more than five feet tall, thin and slightly slumped in posture. Her eyes are wide and curious, but her brow dips gently in sorrow. What is visible outside of her clothing seems to have survived the fate of the Undead fairly well, and it would seem that she pays special attention to looking as proper as she is able, both in dress and in armor. Her hair is loose, but kept neatly out of her face, tucked behind her ear on one side. She blinks softly and often in curiosity of the things around her.

Personality
Athalia normally gives the first impression of one who is shy and quiet. She tends not to look others in the eye at length until she finds herself familiar with them. She glances about at random, turning her ear toward what would seem like voices in the distance. Despite being a bit peculiar, however, she seems genuine in her softspoken words, and often manages a warm smile, albeit a soft one.

History
A little girl was born once, some few years ago. The pride of a public servant and a scribe, and the envious joy of a pair of zealous siblings. Her name was Athalia. Her feet barely lit upon the earth for a year, but as they finally did, they were reigned and driven by her curiosity from then on. Her wide, blue eyes. Her cleverly pursed lips. Her fascination with everything. She scoured her little world, chasing dreams, living fairy tales. Her education came early from her mother, always filled with a magical dose of lore and mystery. Lovers and dreamers. Happily ever afters. Time's wheel meanwhile took this little vessel: adding, refining, shaping. Her soft smile. Her ebon hair. Her lacy voice. Her blue eyes, which never lost their glimmer.

When not exploring, or dreaming, her days found her deep in study, aiding her mother's duties, tracing the cries of the past in ancient tomes, quietly running her fingertips along stacks of bookends, always seeking a tale. Equally, she longed for the company of her father, and even the teasing of her brothers, on the occasion they would return home from their service to the crown. But there was once that they did not return...

Rumors of wars became a sweeping death: the plague and its minions. Her fairy tales were shattered one by one, the books cast aside. Some ran, some fought, but she drew inward, clutching her hands at her breast. This was not how it was supposed to have been. This was not the story she had dreamed. This was not the sweet taste of love, or of joy. Rather, it was the taste of her tears. Her final memory.

Thenafter, was the nightmare. Blood and midnight, screams and cries. Pain. The cords sewn so violently into her soul, tugged with unending rage from the North. Her helpless frame jerked about in violence and wrath, heeding the bloodiest of calls. That little girl encased, lost in the writhing blackness, crying out in the dark, begging for it all to end.

But as the cool rains fell one bleak morning in Tirisfal, something changed. Those once-blue eyes blinked open. The darkness still hazed her perhiphery, yet light seemed to pour inward. The voices of the lost still swam in her mind, but their screams were now quieted to haunting whispers. Now weak in some long-atrophied state, she lay in a sea of death; Drenched in filth and gore, a black, battered breastplate hung from her shoulders, a marred blade sat in her open hand. The possessed corpse which stalked hours before had not survived this battle. Though somehow, what was left of Athalia had.

The lines of day and night had become blurred. Rest no longer came like it once did, but was replaced by quiet longing and wandering. The silence of solitude had also been infiltrated, haunted by soft whispers, lingering from some place beyond this one. The past age, Athalia's rightful time, had faded into sepia. So many others shared a similar plight, gathering together for their own advancement, for the glory of this new "race," but Athalia remained alone. Cold and shattered, and cast to the wind. But her eyes have not yet closed... And each day guides her steps further in search of something, someone, that she might wrap her small fingers around again.