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About ProcaPro

  • Birthday 09/17/2002

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  • Character Name
    Naya Al-Jabir Aldor
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  1. "Think Of Me Once In A While, Take Care" - Take Care ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~~-~-~-~ “When you die, you will die with nothing.” Naya had long forgiven her father for those words. He was angry. She was too, and people do things when they’re angry. It had rung hollow then. But here, and now, there was no hollowness in those words. She knew from the moment Athri had blocked the stairs that this was it. This was the moment, the edge of life, the end of her existence. Every moment had led here, to this office. This office where she’d first seen the Ak’vei, the office where she’d comforted others, where she’d cried, where she’d assured Athri that she was alright if she died, that she didn’t mind the thought. Once again, she reassured him. Once again, she’d offered him a smile. And now, she was faced once more with the disappointed face of a person she’d considered a father, and Naith’s biting words. This was the place where her life had once changed for the better. Once. 51 years. She’d made it longer than she was supposed to. She was supposed to die in her twenties, fighting in the Coalition War, some sort of virtue still in her heart. She was supposed to die on the battlefield. She was supposed to die in that little boat in Balian. She was supposed to do it to herself a long time ago. And yet, she had never had the strength, not even when she had been given the choice to kill herself rather than be killed. But she was supposed to die a good person, proving her father wrong, dying with everything she could grasp and hold and keep dear to her heart. “And you will look back and regret all you have done.” ‘Ah,’ Naya had thought, in those fleeting last moments of life, her neck broken open and blood pouring in a torrent, her life flickering out of existence like a flame. She had burned herself out, her candle having grown too fiery, her wick run out, the wax of her existence melted away. ‘He was right.’ The horror of it, now acceptance. She thinks of her child, her baby in soul if not flesh. Her husband, Aithwin. Her brothers, Godwin, Sydney, Sariel. Her only sister, Malna. Her killers, once friends, once family. In her very last moment, her very last thought, she wondered if she had left the fireplace lit. Naya Al-Jabir Aldor, born Naya Barakat to unknown travelers in SA 130, a wanderer of the world, a hoarder of knowledge, five times a sister, twice a mother, once a wife, always a soldier, had died how she knew she would: Violently, angrily, coated in blood and regretting, and alone like her father had predicted 38 years ago. She had died like her mother, and she had died alone. Her soul would never see the skies. In death, the hells clawed at her, her existence torn into Moz Strimosa, doomed to the eternal climb as she reached and cried out desperately for anything else to claim her in the depths of her soul. She’d sought to escape the climb, first by running, then by embracing. She had fought, she had bled, she had bargained… But chaos claims all, in the end. And so, the Wheel turns. ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~~-~-~-~ In several parts of the world, a high elven woman would simply disappear, as if she had never existed. Her homes would go untouched, and unpaid, not a fleck of white hair or veil to be seen. Adya, a doctor, an alchemist, a scholar, was gone. Her concept was torn from the world as Naya was, the idea of her going with the mind that created her. Nobody would ever see her again, and nobody would ever see a body. A woman would be missing her doctor, a magister her alchemist, a teacher his student. The last shreds of kindness had been kneaded into Adya’s existence, poured in from Naya, used as a last way to give to the world instead of take. But she had never been her own person to exist past Naya in the first place, and so Naya took her with her, never to tell or explain. ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~~-~-~-~ Settled in Naya's study, several letters would be found. Given to those who knew Naya, these letters are not public information. Aithwin: Godwin: Sydney: Malna: Sariel: Athri'annyer: Naith: Iolas: Dame Gwenyth: Viktoria: Katherine: Ilya: O'zen: ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~~-~-~-~
  2. Naya, the very same in the letter, nurses her broken bones in a somewhat discrete location. Her ribs hurt, a chill still sits in her chest now and again. When she reads the missive, she merely sighs. She forces herself up from her place of rest, dragging herself to a nearby desk to begin writing, slowly. A retort, letters, other things. Some to kind people, some to those she despises. Yet, despite the ache in her torso, there's a satisfaction. She hurt Juniper in some way, it seems. A goal she'd long had. The writing continues long into the night.
  3. Adya takes a pause in setting up her shop to read the brochure, smiling under her veil. She folds it up, tucks it away, and goes back to expanding her shop.
  4. Adya really hopes they didn't rip open the doors and break the windows of her windmill...
  5. A white haired elf frowns deeper with each "kill on sight" she saw, names she knew, one she didn't. "How do they expect these people to be able to be good, to cause good, if they are to genocide them?" She tosses the codex aside onto a nearby table. Long had the Lorraine left her walls, or her heart, and yet when remembering what it once meant to her, she grimaces. "The church, their orders, their people... a people of hypocrites. To collude with warlocks, to ask their help then spit on their footprints when the Princes grant it, to indiscriminately hunt a cursed people, many of whom had no choice.... Liars. Thieves and Heretics in their own right... They will rot themselves from inside out." The elven woman leaves the codex there to feed her ridiculous amount of pets.
  6. A woman once loved, thrice broken had stared at Sermi through the bars of a cell and said that she had been tormented enough. Sermi had smiled at her. Moments later, black blood had splattered her face and her shackled hands. An end, decades in the making, had come. They had been tangled together for years; their threads stuck and tied together beyond helping. Even there, even as she watched a devil who had tormented her beyond saving die, there was grief in her heart. Grief, pity, and guilt. This was her fault, after all. "What will be done with the body?" She'd asked. "Am I freed then?" She held out her shackled wrists to her captors. But she wasn't free and would never be. That was assured long ago. So, a woman thrice-broken stumbles her way out of the prison that had held her and Sermi, calm as can be. Perhaps she was too numb to be anything else. She turns her eyes to Leoni, the red devil next to her, and she makes an ever-familiar offer. "If you ever need alchemy or medical help, ask me." Something she'd said a while ago had flickered across her mind of familiar offers and extended hands given to the woman whose blood now dried on her face. She turns away from Leoni, going to the nearest aviary. Jade eyes look over the black blood still wet on her gloves. After a moment of thought, a digit is lifted to her mouth and the ichor is tasted for no reason except for that it could be. ~-~-~-~-~-~-~ "If you ever need me, just ask." She had said this while handing a cozy blanket to the purple devil across from her. The most she could offer the hunted woman was a couch to sleep on and access to a stocked pantry. She hadn't known, then, what lurked underneath. If she had, perhaps she wouldn't have offered such a thing. In hushed whispers, she'd spoken of a recent missive. "Del-Mar lives in the same boat... Odd for someone to take a position so quickly..." She'd muttered at a tiny dining table as she and the devil discussed, two people bonding over a mysterious death that'd broken the heart of a mutual friend. "My son is missing," She'd wept in some small room in Valdev to the devil, who had once been her friend. "Help me," she'd requested, grief-stricken. A year later she'd told the devil something else. "He's dead." They had never spoken of it again. Her hand had settled on the devil's shoulder under a night sky, sat on eroded stone in the middle of nowhere. A peaceful place, hidden away. She'd brought plenty of drinks to take anyone's mind off anything. She'd listened as always to anything she was told, accepting and quiet. "They burned all the good out of her." The devil had said of an old friend. She was beaten by infernal hands, in pain and hurt. Her mind was cursed to lack remembrance; a concussion was building. She'd heard a familiar voice. "If I have to shatter every bone in your body so you finally realize the truth of my words, Naya, I will. I will break you, and break you again, until you learn to love your leash. You will learn your place." She'd seen familiar feet trail to the sink to fill a kettle. She'd screamed. She begged for mercy in a mother tongue, she had begun to die watching a familiar smile on the devil's face, the same smile given before the devil herself had died. ~-~-~-~-~-~-~ Naya removes her finger from her mouth, having tasted and remembered enough.
  7. Aleksey de Knowles reads the paper with an interest, scanning over word of all the recent events. He tucks it into his bag after a while to bring to his twin.
  8. Aleksey, firstborn son of Anatoliy, twin to Camellia, looks at the missive with a deep frown. He, himself, looks to the paper with a growing sneer, a hatred in his heart for a place he had once begged not to be taken from. "Lies," says the teen, a recent 14. "Lies, and slander. On mea papej, beforehand even on mea mamej. Now they claim they killed papej, that his head is..." When Camellia approaches him, he wastes no time in helping her put quill to paper. "Damned be a kingdom of the self righteous."
  9. While I understand this take, Naz already does have a form of that in late stage. Naz are still descendants, and a good element of that is the slow descent into becoming a monster/madness/demonology. I don't think completely barring people from their characters experiencing love is going to provide anything to people in their roleplay but a complete stonewall on certain character elements. Naztherak are still descendants. If this is implemented at all, it's best for it to be T5, or for the Zar'Akal element to simply remain as the element that sucks the love out of a person.
  10. Naya reads the missive with a frown. She knew there was a lot she didn't know about her friend, she was usually fine with that... but this would cause trouble and she knew it. With a flick of her gloved hand, the poster she holds goes to the fire, to burn. Any more she finds meets the same fate. Meanwhile, a little boy's hands grip onto the poster in front of him. Aleksey Godunov, Ilya's own son, takes to ripping up the poster in his hands with all the rage an 11 year old can muster. Not just the slander of his father, but his mother as well. This, the child couldn't stand.
  11. An "Anonymous" Cursed One sits down at a makeshift table of barrels, her seat her bed, with missives in hand, and a cup of tea. Slowly do her gloved hands sift through the papers before her, humming. "Ailmere... mm. Dwarves... Ah. The Pontiff." She plucks out the Field Chronicle from her pile, reading through with a calm upon her blankets. Then, suddenly, does a section cause her to spit her tea to the side, to choke on the drink. "... Caius...." Any and all calm the Cursed One had is flung out the window. "Anonymous... ANONYMOUS??? YA IBN-" And so does a torrent of curses break the peaceful silence of her room, a flock of birds outside startled away. Another reason to look over her shoulder. To those that were a danger to her, this was all but anonymous, and she knew it.
  12. Naya Barakat Al-Jabir holds the missive in gloved hand. Rememberance comes to her, a soft hum in her throat. She reads it once... then twice. Thrice, before the missive is gingerly folded in her hands. She tucks it into her pack, alongside other missives -some so old they near crumble at touch- safely cradled in the leather. "No doubt. Yera will deny, as always. But she cannot forever... Trouble on every end these days." Naya grabs a couple more, perhaps to distribute, then continues on. She keeps what she knows to herself, for now. She isn't a traitor, Yera still grants her a place to live, though not close as they were once. But still, Naya remembers.
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