My character:
Name: Kyra Smith
Age: 18
Personality: Introverted and in the shadow of her father's dangerous fame, Kyra wanders the Kingdom of Zarieyn No one knows her face, she lingers behind a mask, untouched by the fear of being seen. Like her father, she has always had a fascination for what isn't hers', greed forefront as the deadliest sin in her mind. Since the war started years before she was born with the neighbouring Kingdom Faeleon, the economy crashed. Men and women were torn away from their families to take their places to fight in the war. Taxes rose to fund protection for the Kingdom, disease reeked across the land. But, War, as Kyra's father taught her, was merely a situation to take advantage of.
Further Personality: Kyra is quiet, easy to forget. She has learnt from a young age how to mimic the actions of those around her, watching people almost as if they are inspiration for the character's she pretends to be. But, she is unsure when alone; disliking having to work independently and trust her own instincts. She distrusts everyone, even her own father who she feels wouldn't love her so much if she hadn't of inherited his knack for all things stolen. Her senses are heightened, she is easily scared by such things and cannot maintain a calm head for too long when tricking somebody, preferring crowds to 1v1 situations in public.
(First post coming soon!)
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The castle's dungeon was a lonely place of silent contemplation. It was nothing like the city prison which was the furious, beating heart of the Kingdom's criminal community. Instead, it was isolated, empty, and drained of all character, almost as if it was designed to make its occupants suicidal with insanity. If the dungeon was a person, it would be a rotting corpse. After all, it smelt just as bad as damp soil and musty clothes. The dungeon was so quiet, that anyone could be forgiven for thinking it was abandoned. But, if one was to listen carefully, they would hear the faint, childish hum of someone very much alive down the long, damp, and winding corridor.
In the farthest cell, on her back lay a single prisoner named Kyra Smith, blindfolded with her thin ankle chained to the wall. Her hair was white blonde, glowing in stark contrast to the grey cobbles beneath her. She couldn't be older than eighteen but, it was difficult to tell when half her face was covered. She had been here several days, stripped of her clothes and re-dressed in thin, unflattering garments that left her shivering and her skin somewhat blue in complexion. Her wrists were burned raw by the ropes that twisted around them like unrelenting snakes. The only time she had been released from her bonds was when a guard brought in a bucket and a cloth for her to use the toilet in. It was an embarrassing affair, especially when they refused to let her see but, Kyra refused to let it show.
Kyra's Father, Peter Smith, was Zarieyn's most wanted thief with a reward so high on his head that it could turn a peasant into a lord in seconds. She was often seen with him on jobs, leaping over the walls and running across rooftops. It was a life she loved, being constantly surrounded by pretty objects comforted her. Her father was very serious in making sure that no one ever caught sight of his daughter's face. He didn't want her living up to his name, preferring her to be a "hidden princess" For that reason, Kyra had gotten used to the world of intricate masks he had made her to keep her safe. Now as she laid on her back, with only a blindfold over her, she couldn’t help but feel naked, vulnerable to the people around her.
Although "King of Thieves" sounded like a rather impressive title, it was surrounded by more danger than jewels. The criminal underworld was frightening. Kyra had grown up with men trying to murder her father for his title, or trying to turn him in for profit. Loyalty wasn't something that they came across often. "A life of crime is better than being dragged to fight in the war." Her father said. To the outside eye, this might have seemed cowardice but, the war was a horrific thing. Kyra had watched families been torn apart by it as people were chosen to take arms. If anyone had the skills to avoid their family being ripped apart, even if it meant being morally wrong, she was sure they would take it.
Over the years, the war had a large effect on people, a larger divide had merged between the rich and the poor. People had begun to lose faith in the guards, and in its true king. Kyra's father wanted to raise enough money to take his daughter away from the kingdom, somewhere where they wouldn’t have to fear the unwelcoming noose which lingered like a shrouded omen in the middle of the city. Shame whipped at her back, ‘I'll be meeting that soon,’ she thought gloomily.
During their latest heist, the girl had been sloppy, distracted by the wealth around her, unfocused, a little too tired. As she followed her father up the stairs of a wealthy lord’s house back to escape the way they had come, Kyra had made a little too much noise. But, the house hadn't stirred. She figured that the lord who lived there must've been a very deep sleeper. The girl watched her father climb out of the window, dropping her bag of wealth down after him which landed in his arms with a triumphant rattle. She was just about to climb after him when a firm hand shot around her ankle. As it tugged back, her head smacked the windowsill rendering her dazed and unable to get free. She had let out a cry, “Dad!” But Peter Smith had vanished into the night, nowhere to be seen. It hadn’t taken long for the guards to show up, recognizing Kyra’s Infamous mask as the lord thrust her head up to face them. He didn’t seem mad about his stolen fortune, Kyra herself was worth twice the amount she had stolen from him (and perhaps more) in reward money. She’d been dragged to the castle dungeon at once, silent and admittedly terrified.
"You ought to be scared missy," she mimicked what the guard had said in a gruff voice out loud, her vocal cords moaning in thirst. Impersonations had always been quite a skill of hers though her throat was currently sore and strained. She repeated the line over and over to herself switching back and forth between tones, giggling quietly. Her head surged with ache, she wasn't sure whether it was hunger, dehydration, general sickness or the slight concussion she'd developed. "Your father will come back for you," she laughed to herself quietly. "You don't know Peter Smith, he wont come back unless he needs me,"
Powerful footsteps, very masculine footsteps interrupted her thoughts A smell tickled her nose growing closer and closer, she sniffed loudly, rolling over awkwardly so that she was on her knees. There was also a quiet sloshing of water, her dry throat yearned for it. Slowly, she leaned forward, waiting for the gate to unlock. As it did so, she could hear the faint noise of a ring scratching against the iron. Then the figure cleared his throat. Kyra recognized it at once as the King, she’d listened to him give many speeches before. A little bravely, she cleared her throat just like him and frowned, "Your voice is a little too deep for me." She attempted his voice with a cough. "Bass tones.. Not my forte I'm afraid." Kyra sighed, "You're an interesting one to try and mimic your majesty."
The blindfold was torn off her face and Kyra’s head shot down. The fear of her face being known enveloped her, she was taught to fear being recognized. “Why-Why would the King want to come to see me eh? Shouldn't yer be preoccupied with the war?” She mumbled quietly now in a high pitched cockney voice. It was impossible to tell what her real voice sounded like. Trying to ignore the smell of the food he was holding and the many rings on his rich fingers, she continued, “If I tell yer I regret what I did, can I 'ave the water?” She coughed suddenly falling silent again. "Don't yer' ave a mask I could wear? I'm rather shy myself" Kyra let out a very real anxious giggle.
She let out a cry as her head was dragged upwards. Blue eyes met him, she frowned anxiously, distracting herself by attempting to copy his facial expression. He was rather interesting looking, far more put together than the smog covered peasants she was used to. She rearranged her chin in hand, sticking it out proudly, staring at him with the same unreadable expression. However, despite herself, she trembled, a flush rising to her cheeks. There was silence and she recoiled at it awkwardly. Her eyebrow arched suspiciously, "'Suppose yer didn't catch me pa peter then?" She asked quietly feeling sick that he could see her. Her stomach suddenly filled with fear, dry, cracked lips clamping shut. "Is-" she stuttered, "Is there a reason I'm still alive?"