Name: Ismaril
Stage: Youngling
Race: Fire / Wind
Gender: Male
3 Base Traits: Reckless, Dismissive, Blunt
Personality: Nothing was too much, too dangerous or out of reach. A box on a bookshelf? Climb it and be fast enough to roll out of the way if it fell. Hungry? Wait until no one was paying attention to sneak into the kitchen to steal meat off the spit, a pastry off the table. He knew he was worthless to his family so why should he care if he took more than his 'share'?
-Intelligent
-Compassionate

Description: Unevenly cut shoulder length orange-red hair with ear tails that fall to his elbows, cerulean eyes, lightly tanned skin, and med-small orange stones in wing-like patterns on his arms and inner thighs and a few small pink stones on the nape of his neck.

Clothing: n/a, youngling
Accessories: slave collar-like necklace and two butterfly-like hair clips for his eartails.

History: All his short life he was told that he was a mistake, a weakness and therefore weak himself. As he grew he realized that no one ever taught him anything directly. He learned by watching, listening and on his own, doing. No one ever asked where the wounds came from, whenever he did something incorrectly, only scolded him, and so he learned to hide the non-threatening hurts. He learned to be a ghost in his own home, until one day he wasn't. His grandfather had been keeping a close eye on him his entire life. Watching what he did and how he did it, and deemed him worthy of several small tasks.

Why? Because there was always work for a pretty face.

His grandfather used him as bait, tricking targets into letting their guards down. Ismaril of course didn't know what was going on, only that he'd be brought outside his pretty prison and left somewhere, where someone would find him and offer him pretty words of comfort, kindling and rekindling a hope that he should have known wouldn't last. Those people always died within the day.

As weeks turned to months of being used in such a manner, Ismaril never ran. He knew what his family did now, he'd grasped tiny bits of their training himself afterall. His actions pleased his grandfather, who deemed him not as worthless as first thought, for a mixed breed. He would be trained in the same manner as the lowest and least intelligent of his family and if he continued to prove himself, well, Ismaril didn't know what that would entail.

What he did know is that he didn't like the sudden interest in him from people who previously did their best to pretend he didn't exist, or who actively went out of their way to remind him of how little his life meant to them.

Note: Ismaril has Klinefelter Syndrome, which will eventually result in him being unusually tall, sterile, lithe, no body hair other than on his scalp, eyelashes and eyebrows, and having both a stutter and a bit of a problem reading written letters, and a small bust-line.

Path: Assassin