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[Sinylene Arabana]

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Wind's, a city so blanketed in white purity, that mages revel there in wholesome knowledge. Necromancers', a dark talk, quietly still they lived amongst the living. Silent question brought to mind, Why did they live with reserved quietness? Why do strange beings inhabit the surrounding caves? These secrets, dated long ago as history demands, when the Great Council of Mages was to be betrayed in murder...
Yet that is a story for another day my friends.

Yet today a light shines, and is birthed from the darkness in this great city of mages. A group of true devotee's to this special art has made this place now home. They are not quiet, they hold no fear and they are lead by, and are wholly necromancers born of mages. They make it their task to speak the languages of magic fluently and strive to gain knowledge and indulge in this rare art form.

If anyone knows Aryanna, she is an accomplished artist, it is perhaps her Toreador blood that pushes her to hail to acting, writing, and most importantly, paintings. Yet magic is another artform never finished always tested and great to behold.

Aryanna donned her dark cloak and as the night shadows waned and waivered about her she moved into the caves that surrounded her home. With gentle black slippers caressing her pale, dainty,feet she walks. The smell of lilacs waivers sweetly in the air as her sinful dark locks float on the wind. Red lips so perfect you ache to touch their softness adorn her noble face, with amber pools of thought beaming forth from her eyes hiding sadness and pain unspoken. With resilient form she trudges on, leaving her hidden mountain home once more to walk among the living her love of humanity great. Her grasp on immortality still far from understood.

Eloquent fragility in her frame and face, one but looks upon her, and seeks to shelter, protect..Love. Are these feelings inspired upon those that look at her? Or, are they naturally inherent, one can not be sure. Yet inspiration forthcoming, many have acted without second thought on such sudden notions in her presence natural or implied upon them.

A white hand, dainty and fragile of course, holds the Chalice, the power of corruption deep within its sin. The blood of once what was turned dark and forbidden. Spirits whisper around her Diablerie, Murderess,, and she shuns them, commands them quiet as her lips touch the rim of the chalice the great liquid falling into her mouth.

Another time, another place, so long ago it was consumed and her choice made. Corruption and yet power in it. Yet the price is clear as her veins change color, marking their secret to kindred eyes, revealing that which she is. So banished she must be, for pursuit of survival, for crimes shrouded in mystery unto her kind. Like a lamb she runs from the mouth of anger, and hatred. One who could not resist the Chalice, its tempting wonders offered up unto her.

Yet what would you do? If you were faced with the promise of power and secrets so great that it paled the price of immortal damnation.

Perhaps most would turn away...

Yet she walks with roses, their petals red and guiding softly emblazoned upon her heart and eyes....