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Seven children are destined to save Pruul and shake the traditions of the territory to their very core. In response, factions have broken the peace of a previously unified territory and violence has erupted across the dessert. It is a battle between the past and the future, the young and the old, and blood won’t stop seeping into the sand.
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Author Topic: Ghanima al-Izar  (Read 683 times)

Description: Queen. Birthright Rose. Played by Vivian.

Offline Ghanima al-Izar

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Ghanima al-Izar
« on: Jun 16, 16, 12:54:54 PM »
The Basics

Character Name:  Ghanima al-Izar.
Nicknames:  Nima.
Age:  ~21 (171 BP).
Race:  MUTT.  Who knows?  She doesn't even know the names of her parents.  Probably no Pruulian blood in her at all, but we'll never know.  (But if we did, it would be ½ Eyrien, ½ Chaillot.)
Caste:  Queen with a smattering of Priestess Training.
Birth Territory:  Pruul, Terreille.
Home Territory:  Pruul, Terreille.

Birthright Jewel:  Uncut Rose
Offering Jewel:  Undescended (will wear the Purple Dusk).

Play By:  Lyndsy Fonseca.
Distinguishing Features: 

Ghanima is a hellcat masquerading as a girl of twenty one.  The scrappy young woman does not particularly think of herself as a woman in any sense; that would imply a sense of time or a notion of societal norms in the context of age.  She has nothing of the sort.  All she knows is that her skin stretches tight and warm under the sun and the blazing light of that golden star is infinitely kinder in its harsh realities than the hazy seduction of the darkness of the mines.  The small Queen is slight of frame for her age and the conditions under which she has spent her entire life slaving are painted blatantly in her stature.  Ghanima has barely even begun to recover from the devastation left upon her body, but the signs of plenty are showing in the glow of her complexion, the thickness of her hair, the curves of her womanhood. 

Strangely enough, the sharp, predatory movements of the kinless witchling are graceful in a wild way, as someone who learned to move with meticulous awareness to her surroundings, relying greatly on her senses.  This is a wildness that many of those trapped in the mines seem to acquire, but for Ghanima it is natural and it is all she has ever known.  In the mines, there is little to separate her from any other slave and Nima embraces this as a point of pride, since standing out in a place like the salt hells of Pruul is not necessarily wise.  In spite of her attempts to go relatively unnoticed, there were more than a few who are stricken by the brilliance of her eyes, a blazing crisp azure streaked with lightning tongues of gold.  Nima has never seen her own eyes, but enjoys the reactions of others to them. 


Ghanima is incredibly, ridiculously possessive.  She is deeply aware of how easily things can be taken from her by those who are stronger — who are bigger or taller or older (and not so much darker, for in this the mines were a great equalizer, stripping them all of their Jewels) — and so has difficulty parting with whatever she has taken a shine to, be they people or objects.  Thus, the young Queen is very careful to be selective in what she deems to be worthy of being "hers."  This term may encompass a confusing variety of things, ranging from her right to look at the sky, her right to always have her males at her side, and her right to do whatever it takes to survive.  Needless to say, being considerate of others, especially people not directly related to her in some positive way, is not only difficult, but utterly foreign to her.  Even in the mines, she avoided other Queens after finding people that were hers, afraid and fearing that the faceless females might take them from her. 

Since their release, the adults charged with watching over the small, ravaged handful of children born to the mines have been attempting to instill a sense of Protocol and Craft training into them, have endeavored to cram a decade's worth of education into scant weeks.  Nima does not particularly understand any of what they are trying to teach her and is frustratingly silent when addressed by these strangers.  Impatient and wary, trust comes very sparingly to her. 

She does not grasp many of the social rules nor does she understand their overwhelming pity at her complete lack of blood-kin.  Having never seen a clan or tribe in the mines, outside of the amorphous, hated Geiba, she would rather think herself blessed not to belong to a clan.  Her people, which she has come to substitute for the term family, are those who are, well, hers and she theirs.  A blood connection has never existed between the Rose Queen and another person and it is, to her mind, a silly way to determine who you love.  If love is even the word for it.

Nima asks many questions of those who are hers in light of the new world they live in, compelled by a need to reconcile the vast, gaping chasm between her life as she knew it and the life she is expected to like.  It is her suspicion that it is imperative to her survival.  She would ask, because she hears others say it, "What is love?" or "What is family?" or even "What is a court?"  The word destiny is tossed around her a lot and frankly Nima is ambivalent to it; unless it can guarantee that she will live to see another day, the Queenling does not think much of it.  There is little room for extraneous and dangerous fears about the future when the present is far more pressing and though her fierce love for the few she adores burns high, the manner in which she treats the majority of others is cool and detached.  When it comes to empathy with strangers, she experiences it to shallow and removed degrees, and the sense of camaraderie is strongest with other children like her (born in the mines and ripped from their mothers' wombs).   It is not that the steely girl is not familiar with these emotions, but rather that she has never encountered the words and phrases for them and so deals with them very briskly. 

What she says is always what she feels and what she knows; she compares the stirrings of her heart to the flickers of witchlight against salt crystals, the sourceless warmth in her chest to an echo of laughter bouncing down long corridors.  As such, the halfing relies heavily on her instincts and her impressions of her surroundings.  Pretty words and complicated arguments do not faze or distract her and her gaze has a way of piercing those she looks at.  There is an unrefined rawness to the way she interacts with people, on one hand an innocent child and on the other a feral, baby coyote. 

  • Water.  Nima loves water.  She loves it.  It awes her and amazes her and she has never seen or felt anything quite like it.  In extremely short supply for all of her life, the existence of lakes or ponds or anything of the sort stun her into speechlessness.  There is nothing she likes better than being allowed to bask in water and small luxuries such as even sitting at the edge of such an oasis are a dearly cherished privilege. 

  • Her space.  The mines are hardly a spacious complex and the amount of people fed into it on a daily basis have always outnumbered the dead corpses that left it.  Nima allows only the smallest selection of people near her person whenever possible and prefers most others to stay several meters away from her, whenever possible. 

  • Her males.  Surprisingly, these are people she never expected to find the mines.  First of all, Nima was never properly taught or schooled in how to be a Blood female, much less a Queen, and so has no notion on how to distance herself from the bonds she felt with them.  Compared to the emptiness present in the rest of her life, she pours all of her little heart out onto these relationships and will do anything for them.
  • Other Queens (except Saiph, she loves Saiph).  Before Nima ever stumbled across someone that belonged to her, she never had any problems with other Queens.  She knew they existed and was unconcerned with their proximity, no matter that a Black Jeweled Priestess Queen always ghosted over Akan's psychic presence.  It simply did not matter to her.  After her Birthright Ceremony and her subsequent life as a worker of the mines and her discovery of such people though, the witch began to feel apprehensive at being near her fellow Queens, fearing that they would want to take her people away from her (because why wouldn't the other Queens want them?  They were wonderful and strong and kind and everything good in Nima's world).

  • Big, Open Spaces.  Ironically, a lifetime of confinement has caused her to feel distinctly uncomfortable in huge open spaces.  They make her feel lonely and separated, not to mention the emptiness of it wrecks havoc on her hypersensitivity to her environment.

  • Your Dirty, Grubby Hands.  When people manhandle her or touch her without permission, Nima is immediately taken back to her days in the mines and the thugs there that could not keep their hands to themselves.  Many of those foolish men no longer have hands to keep as a result.
  • Long Term Anything.  Frankly, Nima is not terribly good with long term plans, long term thinking, or expressing much of anything in the long term.  The very words themselves imply hope and hope is a poison to the person she once was.  She hates being asked what her plans for the future are or what she wants to do with her life; just living far enough to see the next day is all she wants.  Likewise, promises in the long term oftentimes make her question their validity and she avoids them like plague. 

  • Darkness.  Rather than grow accustomed to the darkness in the mines, Nima grew more and more afraid of it.  Now out of that accursed place, she is often seen sitting in the sun, littering her rooms with candles, and tensing whenever a light flickers out.  It is fear she is trying to work on, to little effect.

  • The Geiba.  The emotions associated with the Geiba are a convoluted mix of fear and hatred.  These are the people responsible for all the horrors she has seen and the life she has lived, and yet Nima has nothing to compare with what she knows, so it is startling to her to find that the world outside of the salt mines could be so different.  This revelation has only fueled her hatred for them and her fear that one day they will rise like a sandworm to swallow her whole.
Craft Strengths:
  • Witchlight.  Nima has spent her life almost entirely without jewels, resulting in Craft strengths of a limited scope: the most basic of Craft uses.  In the darkness of the mines, witchlight is the craft she turned to most frequently, often spending her thin reservoir of power dry trying to keep a single tongue of witchlight going.

  • Short Term Cooling.  It was imperative in the dank, oppressive heat that she master cooling spells and it is one of the few ways of using her craft that Nima indulged in.  She was so good at it that even the air around her would drop a few degrees and others would often try to press close to the girl. 
Craft Weaknesses:
  • Jewel Management.  Seeing as how she has never really been able to wear her Rose Jewel, Ghanima is understandably clueless as to how to manage the power stored there.  While the sensation of finally being able to wear them is exhilarating and exciting, she has not the first idea how to properly use them.

  • Intricate Craft.  Given that Nima hasn't been able to practice much more than basic craft, intricate craft is quite obviously outside of her skill set.  One must learn to walk before they can run, after all.
Life Story

Mother:  Rose Leclair, Purple Dusk to Sapphire Black Widow.  Deceased.
Father:  Akan Uzumati, 1,528 (1341 BP), Opal to Red Warlord Prince.
* It is important to note that Nima has no clue who her parents are.


If asked, Ghanima would answer questions regarding her history with a question of her own. 

Do you know what my name means?

Ghanima, the spoils of war, that which was taken in the aftermath of victory; an object, a trophy — a dead name.  An apt moniker for the rose star born in the hungry shadows of Pruul's salt mines, the cries of a new life piercing the silent death of thousands.  The countlessly many that labored in its proverbial hells were not strangers to warmer passions.  Far from it.  The mines had a way of stoking fires, their hopeless misery stripping away the thin skins of humanity and leaving only animals behind.  What else was there to do, when the bleak and lost wanted to escape their realities, however fleeting or brief?  But children — children were a taboo.  In some ways, this was a kindness on the parts of the Geiba, a kindness to save any of the unformed babes while they were still nothing more than a whisper in wombs.  Being born in the mines was no small horror to burden a pristine new soul with.  It was better and cleaner to end those lives before the mines could destroy them.

And so, the mines rarely kept the souls of these children long. 

Do you know what my name means?

They were never supposed to see the light of day, these children.  They were all hastened to Mother Night's arms, quietly and ruthlessly, with few exceptions.  On the words of Black Widows, the heavy anchors of destiny were the only things that kept any babe tethered to the Realms and it was destiny that saved the swollen belly of Rose Leclair.  All pregnant women were immediately whisked away by nameless and faceless people, fed poisonous concoctions to force abortions upon them, and returned to the mines to work until they died.  Rose was not so lucky.  One night with a Red Warlord Prince (she barely knew his name, but an Eyrien Red Warlord Prince hardly needed a name to distinguish himself) and two months later there were Widows smoothing cold, rough fingers over her stomach.  No, she wanted to scream, no, the child was hers, she had seen it, the beautiful daughter she would have.  They would not take her away, they couldn't. 

The Widows that hovered above her and spun webs she had long forgotten how to weave bit their lips and turned to consult one another.  Yes, they agreed, they would not send this one to the Darkness yet.  Fate wanted this one and so Fate would have her.  They kept the witch from Chaillot until the very end and with hands still slick with blood from her womb, they killed her and marveled at the Queen cradled in their grasp, breathing a gasp of surprise at the one they had nearly cast aside.  She was not the first one of her kind — there were others, others like her who they would not afford to lose, others who would never know who their parents were, others who were the spawn of the demons the lurked in the mines.  Protocols had been established in the past and they were followed now, for all that there had been temptation to keep the Queenling.  There would have been questions as to her origins, the circumstances (no one had ever quite seen eyes like hers, eyes as crisp as a winter sky streaked with orange lightning and fire). 

They gave her to an overseer to raise and for twelve years Akan Uzumati watched and cared for the bundled baby the Geiba had handed him without explanation or elaboration.  It was done sometimes, once every few decades, and questions were heavily discouraged via violence and punishment.  Ghanima, she had been named, but when she was old enough the Queen had struck out at anyone would called her so.

Do you know what my name means?

Even Akan, the only approximation to a father, to a family, she had and Nima would brutally rip into him for using her full name.  Her childhood was far from an easy one, regardless of the minimal shelter enjoyed under the purview of Akan's eye, for a girl born of the mines could not possibly have a semblance of life.  It was a detached, distant relationship even then, for the Warlord Prince had far more pressing concerns than a squalling toddler: a Black Jeweled Priestess Queen of his soul, the desires and hungers of an Ebon Grey Black Widow, and the associated tangles that came with it.  There was nothing to live for, she thought, no one to live for, nothing good in the brutal fires that consumed any scrap of happiness to be found.  And at twelve years old, when they took her away from Akan and brought her before a makeshift altar, Nima's eyes were as hard as her heart.  A bastard girl, the only one who waited for her as she claimed her Birthright was a strange and hated Geiba (Nima thought the name like one would say sand lice and she lusted for their blood more than her perpetually parched throat ever lusted for water) and as she floated in the Darkness, Ghanima prayed. 

For the first time in her short life, she dared to pray. 

She prayed for justice.  She prayed for someone or something to save her and the gentle fury of Mother Night broke her hard eyes and hard heart.  The salt crystals that hung from the ceiling and cut into the tender flesh of her palms when they sent her to work as all their slaves worked broke beneath the unfeeling iron of her will.  Nima would survive until the promise she had been made at the depths of Rose was fulfilled and she would do whatever it took to ensure it.  If the presence of a preadolescent Queen in the mines surprised anyone, most were so jaded by the tragedies they had seen that even the scent of a Rose Queen did nothing more than raise brows.  Except for the wide eyes of a young man who had found his Queen.

Not in Erisian Maboya, the notorious Eyrien Black Queen that had collected males even in a place as impossible as freedom, but a small, savage spitfire that had left her softness behind in a caved in alcove with no possibility for recovery.  She fought him every step of the way and somehow, the two survived.  That was all that mattered to her, in the end.  Not destiny, not even freedom.  Survival. 

They survived and Nima grew older, one grueling day at a time, until the day came that debts were to be paid and the wronged masses that dwelt in the mines were freed to relearn how to breathe through sand and light.  Her liberators made sad faces when they found her and her ilk, young Blood who could have only been born in the mines, sad faces that Nima wanted to punch hard enough to ruin with purple bruises.  Those were flowers she'd like to see bloom.  What was there to be sad about when she had won?  The little Queen was proud she had survived, proud that she was alive to see those pitying faces crumple in horror when her voice rasped out unused and wary.  There was little use in talking when every mote of moisture had to be preserved and those she needed to understand her could be made to understand with actions and nonverbal language.  She shrugged in light of all their questions.

Except when they asked her for her name. 

Do you know what my name means?

Ghanima, the spoils of war, that which was taken in the aftermath of victory; an object, a trophy — a dead name.  Only dead things did not grow, dead things did not feel joy tickle the insides of their ribs when they watched the Geiba fall.  Her life was the spoils of a war she had been fighting since birth, a victory over the numbness of a pain clawed to death by the rising of each moon and reincarnated at the rise of each blazing sun.  She had lived to see the promise fulfilled and the Mother mete out vengeance.  It did not matter that the Mother was young and small, younger and smaller than even herself, a slight frame stunted by malnutrition, but Nima loved her then.  Loved the fair-starred Mother for answering the only prayer she'd ever made.

Of the thousands set free by Saiph Izar al-Kaid, Ghanima wonders if Pruul knows the weapon it has made of her, whittled from birth by the wasteland of its salt mines and forged into shining iron by the weight of a promise made to a twelve year old girl.  And yet, they were foolish enough to ask for her life.  Foolish enough to ask for the lives of Saiph, of Errai, the once-Grand Prince.  Foolish enough to hold ransom against her the collective wellbeing of the Mineborn, her most beloved. 

The worst of the fools have trespassed unconsciously against her.  Set upon the throne of Pruul by the sheer will of Adramelech al-Sabbah, Ghanima has been subjected to Priestess training at the hands of the Sayyadina loyal to the Black Widow Prince to sway and ameliorate the traditionalists of Pruul in enduring a mere Queen on the territory seat.  Yet, fearing her strength, driven by prophesies of her destiny, and beneath the crazed direction of a leader consumed by his own depravity, a few select Black Widows play a dangerous game; stripping her of her memories, slowly removing people from her psyche one at a time, they know not how close they come to unleashing the full terror of Ghanima al-Izar upon all of Pruul.  While kept in isolation and often in a Craft induced coma, they are oblivious to the rapidly changing internal landscape of the Rose Queen: deep in her dreams, far in her mindscape, she communes with the starred one, she travels roads of madness and impossibilities, and when the time is ripe, she will return to claim what is hers.

Show Us What You've Got

Writing Sample:

They came one day.

One day, one night, some time during her rest periods, short and few, the sounds of the screaming and violence up echoing down from up above and spinning on and on into the tunnels dark and deep.  It confused her, the strange way they filtered and reached for her ears, those terrorized screams rippling toward her rather than from her.  The mines had a way of twisting things. 

Twisting sounds, twisting hearts.  Twisting her small body until her skin was pressed so tightly between stone and shadow that surely nothing would ever find her there.  Ghanima did not wish to be found, not by anyone, not by the Geiba who were uglier and crueler than the worst of the mines, not by other slaves that would hurt her and take away the things she loved.  So there in her little corner of salt and rock she stayed, tucked into the fold of unforgiving crystals that frosted over white and deceiving.  Someone had told her once that the salt looked like snow (and that snow was water, only so cold that it had frozen , but licking timidly at salt flakes had only made her throat seize with pain).
And then, without her intending, without her permission, the cry was ringing out from every able throat; dead, dead were the hated Geiba, and they free!  Freedom was word that was thrown around frequently and despairingly, in the beginnings of any newly come soul so unfortunate to dream of it.  Free, she gasped out, testing the syllables, eyes dry.

Tears were too precious to waste, but he had come, her protector, her shield, and his shadow had been warm.  "We are free," he said and when he opened his arms, Ghanima squirmed out from the crack and leapt into them.  She was repaid by several shallow scratches across her cheeks, but he was here and he would not lie to her.

Of course, they were not free yet, but their captors, their prison, those were gone, and that was nearly as good.  Nearly as wondrous as the rumor that flickered back at her, swarming in the mouths of frantic masses.  They were not all dead yet; the most immediate had fallen, those who had resisted the initial sweep.  The Black Jeweled Priestess Queen had been discovered!  And now retribution would fall upon the Geiba like blocks of salt and crush them into dust.  She did not know why it mattered so much, but it had and it did.  Other Queens had died in these hells and other Queens had been sentenced to life beneath the sands, but for Erisian Maboya the world would quake in fear.  Was it the Black she wore?  Ghanima could not tell.  It did not matter to her.

When she had been young, very, very young, before she had known what it meant to be an adult of twelve and scraping salt from the insides of the earth, there had been another man she might have loved.  She did not speak his name anymore, for somehow it hurt her, but he had been as kind as any and tasked with her care.  He had worn the scent of the Black Jewel Eris like the ceilings wore long grasping knives of stalagmite and she had known even then that Erisian was the most important woman in all of the salt mines. 

Some told stories about the woman, but she did not wish to hear them.  They were awed that the dual casted Queen had managed to call people to her cause even in a place as hopeless as this.  They admired the strength of those Eris claimed and yet feared it all the same, so Nima kept away, where no one could find her and take what little she loved.  Legends were no good for anyone, outside of fantasies and stories.  Legends and destiny got people killed.

But destiny had saved her once before and promise had saved her again. 

The sand beneath the soles of her feet was blissfully soft and the ceiling of this place was so beautiful it made her heart clench.  She'd never seen such colors, streaked with rosy pinks and dusky purples, the fire of sunlight chasing gold and blue across the surface, as far as she could see.  Once, she had been told that her eyes looked like the "sky at sunset." 

And now she could not tear them away from it.

Petitions (if any): 

Why did this character became inactive?

My life exploded!  And emotionally, I could not in good conscience put my energy toward BR, damaging those around me and myself when I sorely needed that time and attention on offline things (work, family, etc). 

What will you do to prevent this character from becoming inactive again?

I am easing back to BR very slowly - with maybe two characters at most (Ghanima and perhaps Yuki for now).  I desperately miss writing, miss the community, and while I have been dealing with offline drama, my creative mind has withered from neglect.  This has negatively impacted me a lot and I am working hard to overcome it.  Kenna and the entire Pruul group has been so supportive and I will be in touch with everyone soon (if not one on one, then at least via a group chat).

What are your plans for this character?

Support Kenna's super cool Pruul succession plots!  Add drama to the political position!  Wrap up the Saiph storyline, give closure to existing subplots, and forge forward into all the fun new things that wait on the horizon.

Number of previous Reactivations:

I think 0 on Ghanima?  I don't remember.

Changes Made to Application for Reactivation Process (if any) :

History was expanded to account for my absence and the lapse of her presence in Pruul plot.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Player Name:  Vivian.

Offline phinneas

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Re: Ghanima al-Izar
« Reply #1 on: Jun 16, 16, 01:07:17 PM »  •  Discord: phinn#0798  •  Writer Tracker

Offline phinneas

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Re: Ghanima al-Izar
« Reply #2 on: Mar 09, 18, 02:27:43 PM »
Weighed by Mother Night...

You've risen from the Darkness blessed with an uncut Purple Dusk Jewel at your Offering.

Congratulations!  •  Discord: phinn#0798  •  Writer Tracker