Shina (Deceased)

Decapitated by an undead wolf


“He’s not right. One moment his eyes are bright fire, the next his gaze could freeze over hell. But even during that transition, that f*cking smile won’t even waver.”


Origins: The Dutiful Journeyman

Raised from birth to worship Calistria, the goddess of lust, revenge, and the carnal pleasures, he assisted eagerly at the many shrines dedicated to the goddess.
This did not go unnoticed by the pious among his people, and he was introduced into a new family that dared to dwell in the winding natural caves of the Hungry Mountains, an unmapped shrine to Calistria, where all her arts and ways were practiced with an almost cultic devotion.
The worshippers of this shrine, few in number but ardent in their worship, called themselves the Agents Of The Black Wasp.

He grew through his adolescent years in almost total darkness, learning the arts and ways of his god.
Lust and pleasure, through the art of the courtesan and the musician, the sweet tunes of his fiddle echoing through the halls.
And fury and chaos, through the hissing of steel against flesh.
At the age of 98, not yet a grown man, he began his pilgrimage. Packing a scarce pack of supplies and belongings, along with his beloved fiddle, he ascended to the bright world, not to return until he had achieved the pilgramige of his people:
Find the holders of the Three Daggers Of Calistria, and take back the daggers from them to return to the shrine, and through this journey learn to worship the gods of trickery, secrets and carnal living in his own, pure way.
Only then would he be recognized as an Agent Of The Black Wasp.
Only then, would he be an assassin.

Unlike other Elves who are often driven to worship the darker gods because of their natures, Shinaldril worshipped as he believed the gods to be right.
He saw life as a great cycle, and saw it as the duty of some to end the lives of others, so that the cycle may continue.
He was greatly passionate about his world and his work. He loves music and food and conversation just as much as he loves killing and thievery.
He is not easily bothered, except when others are easily fearful in his eyes.

He has absolutely no hesitation to take a life, or to steal, or even torture.
But while he is cold and indifferent to the ending of life, he is amazed by the continuation of life, in plants and animals and even how cities grow and collapse.
He finds the cycle of life and death and love and hate and lust and disgust to be the ultimate signs of his gods. Nothing is as cruel as life, but nothing is as carnal and pleasing.
But in regards to his mission, he was not quite sure where to even begin.
He knew the holders of the Daggers must be fellow assassins, as no-one other than a member had seen the forge the Wasps used to craft them. He knows they are all powerful figures, potentially politicians or nobles or holy men/women. He had long life, as an elf, and so willing to take his time and use his time in the Upper World to explore and grow.

His first contract upon leaving the caves of his order, it took him to the port of Korvosa in Varisia. It was a simple job: Get a place on the Quivering Sparrow on deck, make sure the captain never reached his destination.
It was easy enough for a nimble elf to enlist onto any ship, their balance and agility a prized trait for the sailing life, and enlisting as an entertainer was even more welcome.
Shina found the Captain to be a perfectly likable man, charming and wise, with a deep love of the sea. By the third day of the voyage up the Varisian coast, they had developed a friendship. By the fifth, they shared a bed. By the sixth the coast was sighted. By the seventh the captain was dead.
It was poorly timed however, as they were close enough to port that there was more than enough time for the Captains men to take up a search for the musician who had killed their leader. Of the five men that followed Shina into the coastal mountains, only one returned.

Disgusted with himself for his sloppy work, and the unnecessary killings of the sailors that had almost caught up to him, Shina refused payment for the job, sending the gold back to the Order. A few days later, the inn he was staying in was visited by a beautiful woman, whom Shina knew well. And he received his second contract.
He was to head the Magnimar, where in a few days a party was to be thrown in honor of a new member taking their place in the Council Of Ushers.
Upon asking who specifically was his target, the women smiled, and placed her hand on Shina’s shoulder, replying: “Shina, give us a cataclysm”

It was too simple. The musicians ruse to gain entrance, and 6 hours later guards discovered what would become known as the Red Rooms, with what would become known as Shinas signature: The victims throats slit, and their bodies hung upside down.
They asked for a cataclysm, and they got a tragic massacre. 27 people hung dead, drained of blood.

When his payment arrived at the drop, there was twice as much as he expected.
A bonus for a job well done.
He left the bonus behind.

Three years passed, and the contracts were being completed faster than the Orders messengers could give him new ones.
But despite the lives he was snuffing out like candles, Shina never forgot the Red Rooms.
It had been too much. It was messy. It was loud. He had taken his flair for performance and drama and used it as an instrument of death. That wasn’t assassination, it wasn’t the cycle of life and death, it was gore.
The job had never been mentioned by the members of the Order that delivered his contracts or his payments, it was never discussed. Until one day, as he crossed the gates of a city who, as of about 30 minutes ago, no longer had a lord, he was approached by a person cloaked in shadows, he recognized her by her stride.
A note was slid into his pocket, and a single word whispered into his ear.

The target?
A temple of Pharasma, in a small town in Ustulav called Ravengro. They were to be wiped out, that was all he was told.
He arrived in Ravengro with a steel determination.
Dressed in plain clothes, with his daggers stashed around his person, he entered the temple.
He left two hours later, vomit staining his shirt. Not a single person had died.

As he sat in the local tavern, changed back into his armor, he nursed a mug of elven wine.
What some might call ‘getting royally sloshed’, he sarcastically considered a religious practice. If he couldn’t kill for Callistria that day, he could certainly drink for her.
As he went to pay for his mug and order another, coins placed themselves on the counter as he reached for his coin purse, and he gazed up into the eyes of who would introduce themselves as Petros Lorrimor, and it sure is strange to see a pale Elf around these parts, what brings you here?
And as a smile returned to Shinas lips, he felt that it was not going to vanish for quite a while.

Professor Petros had found Shinaldril’s tales of the elven cults fascinating, and in exchange for that cultural information he paid Shinandril well, both for his time and for his trust.
Shinandril considered the man a friend, having been one of the few people to cast no suspicion at all on him for his beliefs, and so had absolutely no hesitations about seeing the mans Will obeyed.
He enjoyed the town of Ravengro immensely, easily amused by the jittery natures almost always beaten out by the humdrum of everyday hard work.
Finding he lacked the patience for detective work, and was far more comfortable in battle or playing music on the street, he would often go off to play his craft.

He despised the prison of Harrowstone immensely, and felt a deep hatred towards the ghost of the Splatterman, finding him to be a twisted being that, deep in his heart, reminded him of who he had been close to becoming.
It was due to this hatred, that he feared death for the first time in his life, as he had never been redeemed for the Red Room.
He feared Harrowstone turning him back into the monster he was when he had first arrived.

And it was with a satisfaction, that he died not in the prison, but in a grassy field, swallowed (almost literally) by mother nature, and not twisted beyond belief by a ghost of who he might be.

Despite being forbidden by his nature to develop any true friendships among the group, he had found himself relaxing as the days went by, even despite the stressful circumstances, developing a good bond with Anya, deep respect for Cal, and very much enjoyed making mischief with Kazu.

Unable to resist cracking a lame one-liner, or storming out of rooms dramatically, Shina was non-stop personality from the moment a person met him to the moment that person was probably either dead or sick of him.
But, alas, eventually even the quick and nimble aren’t quick enough, and Shina fell in battle as he always wanted, his story never to be told.
Obituary by Lloyd T, his player, and frankly someone still pissed off that Shina’s story will never get to be told properly BECAUSE HE WAS SO INTERESTING DAMMIT

Shina (Deceased)

Carrion Crown FloydOfWar