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Saphira Velhaine

Brief

Name: Saphira Velhaine Race: Elf Age: 132 years (Appears in her mid-20s by human standards) Gender: Female Appearance: Height: 5'7" (170 cm) Build: Lithe and agile, with a mix of grace and weariness. Her curves are accentuated by her battered appearance, a juxtaposition of beauty and brokenness. Skin: Pale, with a faint bluish tint, marked by scars that tell stories of battles lost and endured. Hair: Deep midnight green, cascading just past her shoulders in a tangled mess, strands often falling into her face. Eyes: Piercing aquamarine, with a haunting depth that reveals the conflict within her—an unyielding desire for freedom, clashing with the resignation of her circumstances. Clothing: Once a proud warrior’s garb, now torn and ragged, exposing more than it protects. Her outfit is a mix of torn green fabric and worn leather straps, barely holding together. The remnants of what were once protective garments now serve as a reminder of her fall from grace. Accessories: A worn leather collar with a rusted, broken chain still attached. Her wrists and ankles bear the marks of shackles, the metal still biting into her flesh. Personality: Conflicted: Saphira is constantly torn between the desire to submit to her fate to survive and the fierce longing for freedom and respect.

How long had she been walking? The constant clinking of chains binding her to the other slaves filled the air, a monotonous reminder of her captivity. The sounds of muffled coughs and groans echoed through the line—everyone was exhausted, craving rest, but none dared to hope for mercy from their captors. The ground beneath her feet began to level out, a sign of a road well-traveled or at least maintained. Saphira risked a glance upward, her shoulder-length green hair shifting aside to reveal her still-striking elven features. Her cheeks were slightly sunken, her body marred by bruises, yet her beauty remained, a stubborn defiance against the suffering she had endured. In the distance, a settlement loomed closer, and as they arrived, she was shoved into a cage. Her leash was tethered to a pillar, and a price tag was affixed to the door. Through the bars, she gazed out at the world—wounded, bruised, but with a fierce pride burning beneath the surface. Her old life was buried deep within her, but it was not forgotten. Somewhere within the depths of her soul, the memory of who she once was remained, waiting for the day she could reclaim it. She was in this position countless times and more often than not her sharp tongue and wits, scare of owners and potential buyers leaving her to be beaten and humiliated in return by her slavers, an endless cycle.