Ever Changing Sami

Winter, 2016

The bard before you has a impish grin, her brown eyes sparkling. There is an
aura of confidence about her that is new - the security of one who loves and 
and is loved in return, who has the friendship and support of heroes and the
occasional villain alike. Her head is held high and she hums softly.  Melody
wreathes her in a joy she shares with others, her song reborn. The dark hues
of her heritage have been set aside, replaced with earthy garden tones: deep 
green of plant leaves, dusty rose and cream as if a desert sunrise had burst 
into bloom. Only her jewelry and the traditional tribal patterns etched upon 
her caramel skin, hold to her homeland: arabesques framing scars on her left 
hand - a pair of fang scars and a slash across her palm, each a sacred trust
and vow she holds precious. Around her, the dark night draws in protectively 
close, its comfort and concealing shadow granted by a friend. Her fingertips,
barely moving, cause swirls and eddies, as she takes additional comfort from 
the way her blood-bond is strengthened and bolstered by its Kindred presence.
Seeing your gaze, she bows slightly and smiles warmly.

6/28/2015

(Ghazkull's Triat Mastery Quest)

Sami stands here, as still as a statue, save for the way her heart pounds in
her chest and her left thumb turns the braided silver band upon her finger.
Even her dark eyes are firmly fixed on her Bonded, avoiding meeting those of
any others present. She puts on as brave a face as she can, having heard too
many tales of what may be asked for the Weaver's Sacrifice, to be at ease. A
single deep forest green leaf has been woven into one of her braids.

Dressing up for the Kindred Masquerade: 12/20/2014

Elegantly masked and modestly veiled, her ebon hair swept upward in an intricate
and ornamented cascade of curls and braids, the bard before you is garbed in the 
hues of her home as day slips away into night: the deepening plum and dusky rose
that fades into sunset indigo. The cut of her gown is shockingly snug - a fitted 
bodice embraces her oft-hidden curves.  It flares out in a gossamer chiffon bell 
below her narrow waist and curved, womanly hips, accentuating each movement. The
long, flowing sweep of the velvet sleeves give graceful concealment to her arms,
that she not be overly exposed.  A blush of excitement tints her cheeks and puts 
an eager sparkle in her chocolate brown gaze.  Beaming with pride and delight to 
be upon the arm of her beloved Wind, she gives honor to the Bond she shares with 
one who is Kindred with her presence here. 

You are using:
<used as light>     the first twinkling light of the stars
<worn on finger>    (Artifact magic) an intricately braided band of silver
<worn around neck>  a sundown-blue choker with a crescent moon pendant
<worn around neck>  a delicate necklace of silver stars and crescent moons
<worn on body>      a formal chiffon gown in the fading hues of a desert at dusk
<worn on head>      a silk mask and veil in the colors of deepening twilight 
<worn on feet>      low-heeled sunset-colored embroidered dancing slippers
<worn about body>   (Moderate magic) the protection of the night 
<worn about waist>  a chain-style belt of star-shaped links set with moonstones
<worn with pride>   (Moderate magic) the marks of a vampire's kiss
<worn with pride>   (Moderate magic) the scent of almonds and the desert winds

Description: 07/09/14

(Written by Belsambar)

The sudden appearance of a distracted young lady startles you.  Not just the 
bright colors of her garb, or the ringing jingles of little bells and charms
woven into her hair, so much as the way that she seemed to just APPEAR right 
before you as you were going about your business..although she seems to have 
instinctively avoided coming too close, even in her distracted state. "Oh! I 
am most sorry!" she exclaims with a bow, sketching a gesture of respect that 
sweeps from forehead to lips then heart. She is slight and graceful of form, 
yet it is apparent, despite the modestly cut garb of desert style that tries 
to hide her form, that she is a young woman, blossoming into the ways of the 
world. This is reinforced by an aura of tremendous magical energy that flows 
about her. Her brown eyes bright and curious, yet brim with knowledge and an
array of experience.  "Is there any way I can help you? Or maybe a story you 
might like to share?"  A cloud seems to draw over her expression momentarily 
as some sorrow wells in her thoughts.  "I haven't found a song that needs to 
be sung, but I do love a good story."  As she speaks, her left thumb seeks a 
band of silver on her finger.  Then her other hand clasps her wrist, fingers 
seeking a scar on the underside of her wrist. The twin punctures are a stark, 
pale contrast to her rich skin tone.  The gesture is clearly a nervous habit, 
its true meaning known only to her.  For the briefest moment, her eyes close,
her head tilting to one side, her slender throat arched, as if subconsciously
surrendering to a thought or memory, then she draws herself back to the now.
She smiles. "I must be away. My friends have found an adventure, and I don't
want to miss that tale in the making."

01/01/14

Hope, love, and a new-found sense of strength shine within the blessedly clear,
deep chocolate brown eyes of the desert woman before you.  While not unscathed,
her recent battles against despair and darkness have helped strip away the self
doubt and uncertainty that so often branded her demeanor and actions.  Her chin
is raised and her shoulders squared as she calmly awaits the consequences of an
act of defiance (meddling, some might say) against the forces of evil, ready to
face her fears and name them, giving them no additional power over her.  Sister
to one in blood and another in oath, a mentor to her Choir of bards, and friend 
to those of every walk of life and aura, Samiyah walks her own road: a child of 
the desert sands, a woman of the world beyond the veil, disobedient daughter to 
a God and a song within the heart of the Wind. 

12/20/13

Her dark brown gaze resolute, if a touch weary, Samiyah stands before you. Lines
of sorrow and pain mar her young face, and shadows create dark crescents beneath
her eyes, one of which is marred by the faintest gloss of red. Still, despite it 
all, her expression is one of deliberate hopefulness and a firm determination to 
see her task through. Her chin is lifted and her shoulders are squared not bowed
in defeat as she faces her fears resolutely, naming them as equals, not victors. 
Only the slight movement of her right hand, as if battling the need to seek out 
the unholy contents of the container by her side reveals how great the challenge 
truly is. She closes her eyes, a calming breath is taken, and she wills her hand 
to halt its trembling.  Regaining her composure and focus, she tilts her head to 
one side, and listens for those in her charge, a responsibility given that draws 
her out of her own thoughts and back, willing or not, to Seraph's heel.  One of 
truly few joys within the Order, mentoring them is her focus, second only to the 
task to defeat that which she must: opposed to the last drop of blood and final 
breath.  A slight movement of her left hand, thumb finding and pressing against 
a silver band, gives her a brief respite of comfort, reminded of the bonds made
with those she loves and cares for. Granted the gift of friendship from villains
and heroes alike, Samiyah walks a strange road for one of her aura -- her life a
seemingly discordant composition of opposing songs and singers, that somehow, no
matter the crescendos, is the music that defines her soul.

11/25/13

Dark circles beneath them emphasize the chocolate eyes of the desert woman 
before you, evidence of the heartbreak, sorrow and nightmare that has been
weighing on her of late. Her expression is carefully impassive, attempting
to mask what she carries within.  Her shoulders are squared, not drooping,
but you notice the way her left thumb repeatedly finds the band around one 
finger, the feel of it a small comfort in her desolation. Tilting her head
to one side, she both listens and looks for those who are in her charge, a
calculated responsibility given that draws her out of her own thoughts and
brings her back to heel, willing or not, among her Father's people. 

11/11/13

The face of the bard before you is nearly unrecognizable. Her expression is
utterly foreign: closed and guarded, heartbroken and angry. There is no joy
in her, no song, no happiness. Her skin and clothing is well-scrubbed, hair
hanging in wet tangles where she recently washed away the life-blood of one
precious to her. Bruises and healed cuts reveal a recent attack, mercifully
called off by her aggressor.  It is the haunted look in her eyes that shows
the mortal wound received to her spirit, leaving no trace on skin or bone.

11/10/13

It is only the resilience of the young that allows Samiyah to yet have hope and 
some hint of happiness in her face.  Worn to exhaustion by a battle twixt faith 
and love, she struggles daily to remain true to her heart and to the God of her
people.  Her appearance is modest and carefully neat, glossy black waist-length
hair tumbling down in frequently brushed curls and braids, some ornamented with
the charms and adornments of her tribe. One plait seems out of place: a rougher
textured dark brown that fades to white at the ends. Her melting chocolate eyes
are soft and demure, never gazing directly at those around her. Intricate henna
patterns are inked upon her dusky skin, proudly framing twin puncture scars and
a oathing-cut on the wrist and palm of her left hand, blood binding her in vows
to a brother and in Bond to a Kindred. Her garb is a mix of the desert and home
found elsewhere - dark linens contrasting with brightly dyed leathers.  Bruises
upon her throat have faded to a sickly yellow, the mark left by her God's rage, 
but the lesson learned has not faded a whit:  She has been humbled and reminded
in the most direct way possible that her life and soul are still in His hands.

10/29/13

Her dark eyes bloodshot and rimmed in shadows from mourning and tears, Samiyah
stands before you, shoulders slumped in defeat and sorrow. Her throat is livid
with bruises, the clear mark of where an enraged God's hand wrapped around her 
neck. Her aura is dull and dim, and her shaking hands are stained with ink. It
is clear, without words being spoken, that this Bard has lost her song.

10/18/13

A gentle and tender smile curves the lips of the Desert bard before you. Her
lustrous, melting chocolate eyes are happier than they have been for a span,
but even still, there are worries and cares giving them weight, for those of
her family and friends who know to look. Yet, her expression is joyful, even
to the eye of a stranger, despite her cares. Her long dark hair tumbles over
her shoulders in thick waves, released from most of their imprisoning braids,
a small chime or ornament decorating each one that remains. The ebon cascade
is almost enough to completely hide the healing wound upon her throat, which
she makes no additional effort to conceal. One lock of hair draws the eye: a
dark, chestnut brown that fades to ghostly white at the end, the mark of her
father's magic, which is also seen in the streaks of scarlet within the blue
of her aura.  Not classically beautiful - her nose is a bit too wide, broken 
long ago by a discipling hand, her lips a tad too full - Samiyah still has a 
graceful way about her that draws the eye.  When she speaks, her voice holds
the lilting sound of the Desert: "I am Samiyah bint Seraph, sister to Cresom
and Jamilla, blood-bound to Ghazkull Mahsong, and the bard of the High Order. 
How may I help?"  She makes a gesture of grace and welcome, with one hennaed
hand moving from forehead to lips and to heart, and smiles once more.

07/01/2013

"May the Seraph's wings enfold you and you ever have shade and sweet water." The words of blessing come softly and musically from the desert woman before you. To even the most untrained observer, it is clear that she was raised in a different culture - the concealing robes about her figure, the duskiness of her skin, dark hair braided into dozens of plaits, bound about with small charms and chimes. To those who know her, growth and change are as easily seen: No more is her face an enigma, hidden behind veils. Her smile is still honest and genuine, but perhaps not as quick as it once was, her dark brown eyes as curious, but not as trusting. Too many things have scarred her spirit, assailing and tearing away the innocent purity of it, to have remained unchanged. To once more have tribe and family - a sister, torn from their homeland, a brother, sworn in blood, a father-in-spirit, and friends, beyond the easy counting - these are the things that uphold her and keep her strong.

04/02/2013

There is something in the deep chestnut eyes of the woman before you that has not been there before. She has been changed forever by a Hunt simultaneously called down by three Immortals and Rebirth granted by mortal hands. Wary and graceful like a gazelle that has felt a sand-cat's deadly claws, any scars or physical wounds she might yet bear are hidden by a linen veil that hides face and hair, leaving visible only those wounded doe eyes and a braid dangling at each temple. The right plait is unusual - a rich chocolate brown (that nearly matches her eyes) that fades to pale white at the ends, braided into her ebon black locks. By it, a trio of silver chimes once more dangles, re-sewn to the proper spot on her veil, their song a musical chord that sounds with each and every movement. An aura of azure blue swirls around her, strangely touched by streaks of crimson and ebon black, evidence of a bond to the One who has held her spirit cradled safely in His hands every time it has slipped the bonds of her flesh. In response to your attention, her hand moves quickly to forehead, mouth and heart in a tribal gesture of respect and greeting, the mehndi inked on them drawing your eye. When she speaks, her voice is surprisingly soft but clear, like a nightingale: "In the Sahib's name, greetings. I am Samiyah bint Seraph ukhayyatun Cresom. How may I aid you?"

03/14/2013

The desert-born woman before you moves like a gazelle that has been pursued by sand-cats. A slight trembling is visible in her limbs, as if she has spent too much time of late moving as swiftly as legs and magic can move her, without an evening's rest. Her dark robes are disheveled and her veil slightly askew, the result of too rapid a flight through woods that caught at them. The chimes are silent, torn from their usual place on her veil, that the sound not reveal her presence. Her blue aura, entwined with shifting bits of crimson, blazes around her like a flame, the only part of her that seems to have strength or energy. Her dark eyes are weary yet determined and she forces her head upright and her shoulders back. "Grace and courage are all that I have, and with His blessing, I will forgive and can endure this for Him." She bows her head, reaching up to touch one of the many braids that bind her hair as if to draw strength from it like a touchstone. A whispered prayer, murmured in the tribal tongue, and she struggles on.

03/12/2013

Softly humming to herself, the desert-born woman before you goes about her tasks. The brightness of the blue aura easily visible around her reveals a destiny finally brought to fruition - the blessing of the God of her tribe. Her movements are strong and graceful, healing finally having come from an injury of body and spirit that nearly felled her, but for His care. Yet to even the most untrained observer, she is wary, ever scanning the environs, the caution of one persistently hunted. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes hold a strange mix of joy and sorrow, carried plainly for any to see -- seeking to see the world with joy but hurt to the core by the loss of good will by some she named friends. Lifting one dusky henna-pattered hand, she smooths her veil into place and runs her fingertips, as if to take comfort from it, along an odd braid entwined amidst her darker locks: dark brown that fades to white at the ends. The movement causes her veil-charms to chime, music surrounding her with every gesture. The sound makes a smile curve her full lips, hinted at by the shifting of the fabric that hides her face, sorrows forgotten for a brief moment, the melody sweeping them away.
"I am Samiyah bint Suriel, servant of the Sahib Seraph. How may I help?"

02/20/2013

The desert-born woman before you has the grace of a gazelle and an intelligent and curious gaze that observes all around her. The dark veil that shrouds her features is but lightly pinned in place - a change from the past when she wore it like a shield. Though a ready smile curves her full lips, there is a shadow about her spirit, as if her very soul had been cupped in the hands of Death. A light pallor makes her caramel skin slightly ashen, evidence that the grievous wounds recently self-inflicted in her pursuit of knowledge are not healed. Her every movement is accompanied by the bright, ringing tones of chimes that have been pinned into the long braids she wears, their songs helping to lighten her spirit once more. One plait in particular draws the eye: dark brown fading to white at the ends, woven into the sable of her hair. Designs of henna form an intriguing pattern upon her hands, the palm of one bisected with a recent scar, the mark of her blood-oath to a new-found brother. Gifted with the friendship of heroes and villains alike, Samiyah is one who walks with many - but has not yet been able to give Oath. Despite this, a slight tinge of scarlet taints her aura, and strands of sable blur the air around her, evidence of the attentions she has drawn from the Immortal that would lay claim to her. Her voice, softly musical despite the weariness it holds, carries clearly enough: "I am Samiyah. How may I aid you?"

01/29/2013

The drape of a veil modestly conceals all but the eyes of the dusky-skinned woman who stands before you. Her hair, a dark inky black, is plaited in the desert fashion, yet one braid stands out: brown, with streaks of white. Her movements cause the many charms woven into her locks and sewn to her headdress to chime musically in a bright chord. While her expression is gentle, there is a certain weariness about her dark brown eyes that hints that Death Himself has held her spirit in His hands. Garbed in the flowing linen drapes that hide the particulars of her figure, marked with the flowing arabesques of traditional henna-work, she is clearly a child of the Eastern Desert. Yet she does not have the broken fearfulness that is commonly found in the women of the Tribes. Instead, she meets your gaze with inquiry and compassion and a gesture of greeting - fingertips lifted to forehead, lips and heart. Voice pitched as soft and musical as a nightingale, she speaks:
"Blessings upon you and your house. I am Samiyah bint Rasul. How may I help?"

12/06/12

Veils conceal the face of the woman who stands before you, but they cannot hide the open, caring and happy expression in her eyes. The fabric shifts as a quick smile curves her lips and she dips a slight curtsey, causing the many bells and charms braided into her sable hair and sewn to her headdress to chime softly in a bright chord. While she is clearly desert-born, from the flowing linen drapes that hide the particulars of her figure, to the flowing arabesques of the henna patterns on her hands, she does not have the fearfulness that is commonly found in the women there. Having survived much, traveled far, and grown to learn and know a world much greater than the confines of the sands, Samiyah has surpassed her tribal upbringing, but not forgotten where she comes from. Her voice, pitch like that of a nightingale, is soft as she murmurs a formal greeting. One dusky hand quickly lifts, touching forehead, lips and heart.

"Greetings unto you and your house. I am Samiyah bint Rasul. How may I help?"

Dressing Up For The Thank You Dinner: 08/04/2012

Soft bells chime at the slight movement of the young woman before you. Her
face is modestly veiled, revealing only her dusky skin and dark eyes. Inky
black curly hair bound into twin braids frames her face. Exotic designs in
henna adorn her hands and bare feet. She bows slightly, causing the silver
ornaments in her hair and the bangles upon her wrists to chime once more.

'Peace be unto you and your house. I am Samiyah bint Rasul.'
Samiyah has a special twinkle in her eye.
Samiyah is in perfect health.

Samiyah is using:
<used as light>     (Weak magic) (Glowing) the Rod of Blacklight
<worn on finger>    the lapis lazuli ring
<worn around neck>  (Artifact magic) a laurel wreath
<worn around neck>  (Artifact magic) a silver choker with lapis lazuli pendants
<worn on body>      (Red Aura) (Moderate magic) (Glowing) a heavy black robe
<worn on head>      (Potent magic) an ornamented black linen headdress and veil
<worn on legs>      a pair of black velvet leggings
<worn about body>   a striking black robe laced with gold sigils
<worn around wrist> a set of bangles
<worn around wrist> a set of bangles
<worn with pride>   the Ebon Sigil Odegra