Approved WT bio for Badriyah - FL CC 3-1 WOOO!!!!!!!!!

[Lavinya]

Handle: Deya

Name: Badriyah (bedr- eeah) Bloodlover

From: Murandy

Age: 16

 

Looks: Badriyah has long brown hair that falls past her shoulders in soft, shiny, curls. Her skin is the color of fresh milk with a little hint of a blush in her cheeks that deepens when she smiles her wicked smile. Her lips are the red of blood and her eyes are a molten silver - gray. High cheek bones and a small nose give her facial features a delicate look. Badriyah is about 5’5 and slim, with a very fragile look about her. Her voice is a little high and gentle and can easily be either friendly or frightening.

 

Personality: Pathological liar, a little bit of a psychopath, daring, fearless, sadistic, has a hunger revenge. So far there is really nothing positive about her, but I'm hoping to change that as she develops at the WT.

 

History:

 

Some people would say that it was my childhood that had a negative affect on my personality, as I have heard it said by the physicians in Lugard who have tried various cures on me that have not worked. I never went to any of them of my own accord of course, I was always forced to go, either by friends or by frustrated employers, but I could never see what was wrong with being the way I am. I still don’t, and I doubt I will ever change.

 

I have never been certain of my origins. The farthest back I could remember I was living in the wilderness on my own, on the outskirts of a village where domesticated children would come and deliver food to me everyday, as I was a precious thing to them, their secret friend. This went on for a few years before one of the younger girls in the group went and told her parents about me and I was soon visited by an adult, the first adult I recall ever meeting. Her name was Beatha Sham, a relative of my companion’s parents. Beatha was barren and had been unable to give her husband children, and now at forty five, felt a lingering sense of failure that she had never been able to offer the world something that would last beyond her death. So, to her extreme delight, I agreed to live with her and her husband, being only six years old and wanting to have a secure place to reside. And perhaps, had fate left me be, I might have been normal.

 

It was the late afternoon in the early summer, long shadows stretching lazily across the little cottage where we lived when he would make his appearance. The man who called himself my father.

 

I was eight by then, growing steadily, and learning the things every woman in this world should know, to clean, cook, and sew. Beatha’s husband was at work at the little store in the village - or on his walk home, I never found out which - when we heard the halt of a galloping horse outside the back of our house. “Badriyah!†Beatha called the name she had given me, “I’m still working on the dough for the honeycakes. Would you go see what that’s about, dear?†At hearing this I gladly tossed aside the cloth I was using to clean the floor, leapt to my feet, and rushed out the door.

 

As I stepped out behind the house I found a riderless horse tied to an old leaning poplar, perspiring and breathing heavily. Curiosity and uneasiness both mingled together in me as I called, “Come out from where you’re hiding, thief, I have a knife and two men are waiting just around the corner to grab you!†I still do not know what had possessed me to say that. As I have now perfected the art of lying, I know that no grown man would believe such a thing. There was a deep menacing laugh from behind me, and before I had the chance to spin around, arms lifted me off the ground from behind, one hand covering my mouth and the stranger used a kerchief that was stained in old dried blood to gag me, then tied my hands and feet and put me on his saddle.

 

It would be years before I could ever understand why my father hadn’t just ridden away with me then, why he hadn’t just left Beatha alone. It was his hunger to see blood that had originated from anger and then self mutilation that would keep him from ever being able to leave a defenseless human without killing them in the most gruesome way possible first. In the end that weakness would be what killed him, and perhaps it will be what kills me.

 

I am ever thankful that I never got to see what he did to my adopted mother. When he was finished with her, he mounted up behind me and we rode along until we reached Lugard, an unpleasant place to a child that had grown up in the country. I always hated it there, it was never my home, and though that loathing has never left me, later on the desire to leave died, as I knew that if I left I could never possibly leave the things that I had done behind me. But it would be that I would eventually have to flee the city, on a stolen horse, riding for all that I am worth, to Tar Valon.

 

It was not long before my captor revealed to me his reasons for taking me away from the world I had loved so much. As we sat in the evening, in the basement of a crumbling abandoned building, hunched over a couple of cheap meat pies, when I broke the silence, “Who are you and why did you take me? Why did you not kill me as I know from the blood on your shirtsleeves you killed my mother? Why?†If my circumstances have changed most of me that was one thing that had always been a part of my personality, my daring.

 

The man who was a stranger to me chewed a moment, as though amused. He swallowed, then turned his head and spat, when he turned back whatever amusement I had spotted on his face had disappeared and he seemed a harsh, hate - filled figure, “Your mother? That goat – faced wench was not your mother. I didn’t kill you because I have no desire to. Is it common for a man to kill the daughter he conceived?â€

 

I was shocked. I said nothing, and never felt the need to open that topic, or most others, again with him. Nor did I want to know anything about it. And I lived the next six years of my life in near silence.

 

I would soon discover that the man who called himself my father was a wanted murderer and a psychopath. He spent the whole day outside, from sunrise until sunset. Almost every night he would drag in a kidnapped victim, mostly women and children as they were the easiest for him to get his hands on, and would torture them each, drawing as much blood as was possible before they bled to death. And if he had not been able to find anyone to kill he would come home silent, and I could see rage and that ceaseless hunger burning in his eyes. He would not eat, and instead, would spend the evening sitting in a corner of the cellar cutting himself with a small knife in various places of his body and laughing manically as he did. He always laughed at the sight of blood, even while he was tormenting the helpless innocent. My father’s passion was for blood, as mine would be. A remedy, he called it, and I would learn it is a hard drug to resist.

 

In the beginning, for the first few months, I would hide my face and sometimes even cover my ears while he did his work. I found that I could never sleep at night, and would spend the day sleeping. But after time the evening horrors would become natural to me and I would ignore him and try to feel indifferent about it. A year later I started to become intrigued by the sight of the tortured people. I would sit and watch while he did it, and soon he began to teach me various ways of making the human body bleed in a way he called, “beautifulâ€. Over time he allowed me to share with his enjoyment of it, letting me cut a little, until finally we would do it all together. The hunting, the kidnapping, and the carving.

 

The day he decided that it was time we started taking two victims instead of one a day, so that we could each get our fill of pleasure was the day that he died. I suppose that was going too far; in his need to feel that sense of happiness, he failed to see what a great risk that would be to both of us. I was fourteen, and he didn’t trust me to do it myself so I would help him with the capturing instead. I stood in an alleyway, dressed in the same little dress I had left the little cottage in when I was eight, looking like what I was, a beggar, when my father entered the building. He walked in, and didn’t ever walk out, and I knew enough not to stay too long, so I headed off back to our bare basement. My father never returned, and it was announced on the streets the next day that the murderer had been caught and hanged.

 

I found work with a group of street criminals soon after that. They were impressed when I told them whose daughter I was and I was esteemed in their circle. Our profession was as assassins, and Lugard being Lugard, we were never out of jobs to do. Not all of us were in it for the blood as I was; others were in it for the gold, as it paid well. We soon had enough together to buy a decently sized house that we used as our headquarters. I took a bath for the first time in years and bought myself three dresses, cheap jewelry, and a multitude of scarves.

 

There were only a couple of girls in the group, and our jobs were mainly to use our charms to lure in victims. I did not always get to kill them myself and so I was forced to suppress my longing for blood and to get a little control over my cravings, unlike my father. There were times, though, when I was driven to cut myself.

 

I changed. I grew into a woman, crazed in a discreet way that would take my comrades a while to finally see. And when they did I received the only second name I have ever known, Bloodlover.

 

Two years after I had first joined the group, one of the members had a fight with our leader who banished him for his insolence. He opened up another headquarters for killers in the house next to ours and we slowly ran out of business. His murderers were said to be better at their art than ours, his methods less conspicuous. Our leader grew restless. One night, while all were asleep and I could not for my longing was too strong (it had been months since I had mutilated one besides myself) and I feared that if I cut myself anymore I would bleed to death, I rose and left the room and went to the main parlor where we had some old couches set up and nice lamps; the room was used normally to greet the nobles who came with jobs. I found our leader pacing in the room in the dark. I approached him silently and scratched my nails across his face. He looked down at me wearing a demeaning smile, as all my colleagues now knew of my weakness. He did not even consider that I would do worse to him than that. In the flash of an eye I drew my knife and cut deep across his jugular, a cut that would not kill him instantly, but cause him to bleed to death. I felt that familiar detached feeling of ecstasy I get when cutting wash over me and I wiped the blood over my hands and faced and licked my knife clean.

 

I fell asleep on the floor some time later and woke in the wee hours with the sudden realization that I now had extremely dangerous enemies all around me. I broke into a closed stable, grabbed a lively looking beast and mounted up. Then rode ceaselessly, until I was inside the border of Andor where my first horse died, so I bought another and here I am.

 

Here I am, thought Badriyah, self- pityingly as she galloped across the West Bridge and into a city where she would never have desired to go before, had she not killed her leader. She had realized while leaving the city that the only way she would ever be able to keep herself alive would be to walk among Aes Sedai, and if she was tested and was found unable to channel, then she would apply for a job as a servant in the Tower. She had no other choice.

 

 

I am actually planning for her *not* to be a member of the Black Ajah ;)

[Wayfarer]

Just one modification, if her dad was bringing someone in nearly everyday for six years, he'd have killed about 1500 people and possibly depopulated an entire part of Lugard singlehandedly :D Once the headcount is reduced to a reasonable level, consider it CC'd.

 

A mass murderer WT'er, this is awesome :D

[Deya]

Ok I changed it!!! :)

 

 

Handle: Deya

Name: Badriyah (bedr- eeah) Bloodlover

From: Murandy

Age: 16

 

Looks: Badriyah has long brown hair that falls past her shoulders in soft, shiny, curls. Her skin is the color of fresh milk with a little hint of a blush in her cheeks that deepens when she smiles her wicked smile. Her lips are the red of blood and her eyes are a molten silver - gray. High cheek bones and a small nose give her facial features a delicate look. Badriyah is about 5’5 and slim, with a very fragile look about her. Her voice is a little high and gentle and can easily be either friendly or frightening.

 

Personality: Pathological liar, a little bit of a psychopath, daring, fearless, sadistic, has a hunger for revenge. So far there is really nothing positive about her, but I'm hoping to change that as she develops at the WT.

 

History:

 

Some people would say that it was my childhood that had a negative affect on my personality, as I have heard it said by the physicians in Lugard who have tried various cures on me that have not worked. I never went to any of them of my own accord of course, I was always forced to go, either by friends or by frustrated employers, but I could never see what was wrong with being the way I am. I still don’t, and I doubt I will ever change.

 

I have never been certain of my origins. The farthest back I could remember I was living in the wilderness on my own, on the outskirts of a village where domesticated children would come and deliver food to me everyday, as I was a precious thing to them, their secret friend. This went on for a few years before one of the younger girls in the group went and told her parents about me and I was soon visited by an adult, the first adult I recall ever meeting. Her name was Beatha Sham, a relative of my companion’s parents. Beatha was barren and had been unable to give her husband children, and now at forty five, felt a lingering sense of failure that she had never been able to offer the world something that would last beyond her death. So, to her extreme delight, I agreed to live with her and her husband, being only six years old and wanting to have a secure place to reside. And perhaps, had fate left me be, I might have been normal.

 

It was the late afternoon in the early summer, long shadows stretching lazily across the little cottage where we lived when he would make his appearance. The man who called himself my father.

 

I was eight by then, growing steadily, and learning the things every woman in this world should know, to clean, cook, and sew. Beatha’s husband was at work at the little store in the village - or on his walk home, I never found out which - when we heard the halt of a galloping horse outside the back of our house. “Badriyah!†Beatha called the name she had given me, “I’m still working on the dough for the honeycakes. Would you go see what that’s about, dear?†At hearing this I gladly tossed aside the cloth I was using to clean the floor, leapt to my feet, and rushed out the door.

 

As I stepped out behind the house I found a riderless horse tied to an old leaning poplar, perspiring and breathing heavily. Curiosity and uneasiness both mingled together in me as I called, “Come out from where you’re hiding, thief, I have a knife and two men are waiting just around the corner to grab you!†I still do not know what had possessed me to say that. As I have now perfected the art of lying, I know that no grown man would believe such a thing. There was a deep menacing laugh from behind me, and before I had the chance to spin around, arms lifted me off the ground from behind, one hand covering my mouth and the stranger used a kerchief that was stained in old dried blood to gag me, then tied my hands and feet and put me on his saddle.

 

It would be years before I could ever understand why my father hadn’t just ridden away with me then, why he hadn’t just left Beatha alone. It was his hunger to see blood that had originated from anger and then self mutilation that would keep him from ever being able to leave a defenseless human without killing them in the most gruesome way possible first. In the end that weakness would be what killed him, and perhaps it will be what kills me.

 

I am ever thankful that I never got to see what he did to my adopted mother. When he was finished with her, he mounted up behind me and we rode along until we reached Lugard, an unpleasant place to a child that had grown up in the country. I always hated it there, it was never my home, and though that loathing has never left me, later on the desire to leave died, as I knew that if I left I could never possibly leave the things that I had done behind me. But it would be that I would eventually have to flee the city, on a stolen horse, riding for all that I am worth, to Tar Valon.

 

It was not long before my captor revealed to me his reasons for taking me away from the world I had loved so much. As we sat in the evening, in the basement of a crumbling abandoned building, hunched over a couple of cheap meat pies, when I broke the silence, “Who are you and why did you take me? Why did you not kill me as I know from the blood on your shirtsleeves you killed my mother? Why?†If my circumstances have changed most of me that was one thing that had always been a part of my personality, my daring.

 

The man who was a stranger to me chewed a moment, as though amused. He swallowed, then turned his head and spat, when he turned back whatever amusement I had spotted on his face had disappeared and he seemed a harsh, hate - filled figure, “Your mother? That goat – faced wench was not your mother. I didn’t kill you because I have no desire to. Is it common for a man to kill the daughter he conceived?â€

 

I was shocked. I said nothing, and never felt the need to open that topic, or most others, again with him. Nor did I want to know anything about it. And I lived the next six years of my life in near silence.

 

I would soon discover that the man who called himself my father was a wanted murderer and a psychopath. He spent the whole day outside, from sunrise until sunset. A couple of days every week he would drag in a kidnapped victim, mostly women and children as they were the easiest for him to get his hands on, and would torture them each, drawing as much blood as was possible before they bled to death. And if he had not been able to find anyone to kill he would come home silent, and I could see rage and that ceaseless hunger burning in his eyes. He would not eat, and instead, would spend the evening sitting in a corner of the cellar cutting himself with a small knife in various places of his body and laughing manically as he did. He always laughed at the sight of blood, even while he was tormenting the helpless innocent. My father’s passion was for blood, as mine would be. A remedy, he called it, and I would learn it is a hard drug to resist.

 

In the beginning, for the first few months, I would hide my face and sometimes even cover my ears while he did his work. I found that I could never sleep at night, and would spend the day sleeping. But after time the evening horrors would become natural to me and I would ignore him and try to feel indifferent about it. A year later I started to become intrigued by the sight of the tortured people. I would sit and watch while he did it, and soon he began to teach me various methods of making the human body bleed in a way he called, “beautifulâ€. Over time he allowed me to share with his enjoyment of it, letting me cut a little, until finally we would do it all together. The hunting, the kidnapping, and the carving.

 

The day he decided that it was time we started taking two victims instead of one a day, so that we could each get our fill of pleasure was the day that he died. I suppose that was going too far; in his need to feel that sense of happiness, he failed to see what a great risk that would be to both of us. I was fourteen, and he didn’t trust me to do it myself so I would help him with the capturing instead. I stood in an alleyway, dressed in the same little dress I had left the Beatha and her husband’s cottage in when I was eight, looking like what I was, a beggar, when my father entered the building. He walked in, and didn’t ever walk out, and I knew enough not to stay too long, so I headed off back to our bare basement. My father never returned, and it was announced on the streets the next day that the murderer had been caught and hanged.

 

I found work with a group of street criminals soon after that. They were impressed when I told them whose daughter I was and I was esteemed in their circle. Our profession was as assassins, and Lugard being Lugard, we were never out of jobs to do. Not all of us were in it for the blood as I was; others were in it for the gold, as it paid well. We soon had enough together to buy a decently sized house that we used as our headquarters. I took a bath for the first time in years and bought myself three dresses, cheap jewelry, and a multitude of scarves.

 

There were only a couple of girls in the group, and our jobs were mainly to use our charms to lure in victims. I did not always get to kill them myself and so I was forced to suppress my longing for blood and to get a little control over my cravings, unlike my father. There were times, though, when I was driven to cut myself.

 

I changed. I grew into a woman, crazed in a discreet way that would take my comrades a while to finally see. And when they did I received the only second name I have ever known, Bloodlover.

 

Two years after I had first joined the group, one of the members had a fight with our leader who banished him for his insolence. He opened up another headquarters for killers in the house next to ours and we slowly ran out of business. His murderers were said to be better at their art than ours, his methods less conspicuous. Our leader grew restless. One night, while all were asleep and I could not for my longing was too strong (it had been months since I had mutilated one besides myself) and I feared that if I cut myself anymore I would bleed to death, I rose and left the room and went to the main parlor where we had some old couches set up and nice lamps; the room was used normally to greet the nobles who came with jobs. I found our leader pacing in the room in the dark. I approached him silently and scratched my nails across his face. He looked down at me wearing a demeaning smile, as all my colleagues now knew of my weakness. He did not even consider that I would do worse to him than that. In the flash of an eye I drew my knife and cut deep across his jugular, a cut that would not kill him instantly, but cause him to bleed to death. I felt that familiar detached feeling of ecstasy I get when cutting wash over me and I wiped the blood over my hands and faced and licked my knife clean.

 

I fell asleep on the floor some time later and woke in the wee hours with the sudden realization that I now had extremely dangerous enemies all around me. I broke into a closed stable, grabbed a lively looking beast and mounted up. Then rode ceaselessly, until I was inside the border of Andor where my first horse died, so I bought another and here I am.

 

Here I am, thought Badriyah, self- pityingly as she galloped across the West Bridge and into a city where she would never have desired to go before, had she not killed her leader. She had realized while leaving the city that the only way she would ever be able to keep herself alive would be to walk among Aes Sedai, and if she was tested and was found unable to channel, then she would apply for a job as a servant in the Tower. She had no other choice.

 

 

I am actually planning for her *not* to be a member of the Black Ajah

[Wayfarer]

CC'd, awesome bio :) And 3-1 WOOO!!!!

[badriyah]

just wanted to say that I now use this account, so my handle is badriyah now.

[Guest Arie Ronshor]

*nuzzles* wb :)

[ashara]

*hugs her mentee tightly* :)

[badriyah]

**snuggles mentor and mentee** ty you guys :)))

[Taei]

*bumping back in order*