|Portrayed by||Sayat Demissie|
|Affiliation||The Grey Tower|
|Nationality||Altaran (Ebou Dar)|
|Affinities||Water, Spirit, Air, Earth, Fire|
Afanen is slim and finely boned, the youth of her face at odds with the severe gravity of her eyes. Her skin is dark, her mass of curly hair kept pulled away from her face by utilitarian ties. The middle finger of her left hand is crooked, suggestive of a break that healed badly. If it pains her, she gives no outward indication of it. There are thin lines of scars that mar the palms and backs of her hands, each one approximately the width of a pinky finger. She prefers to keep her hands tucked away close to her body, if at all possible. At a distance, she is frequently mistaken for a boy.
She is obviously well traveled but does not speak much of her childhood, saying only that the slums of the major cities in the South all look and smell the same. She is patient and meticulous, wary and suspicious. Trust does not come easily to her, and she has trouble accepting genuine acts of kindness. She struggles with authority, and will neither obey nor respect someone simply because it is expected.
Afanen is quiet and reserved, with a scathing sarcastic streak. She prefers to melt into the background, content to watch and observe. When she does speak, her voice is soft, lilting, with a light accent that is nearly impossible to place.
She has, and will continue to do whatever is necessary to survive. (She dismisses the idea of turning to the Dark One – she doesn't trust him or his promises. She doesn't trust the Creator either, for that matter.) When she allows herself to show her emotions, they flit and dance through the near black of suddenly expressive eyes, the expressions sitting almost awkwardly on the too solemn slopes of her face.
The story went that Afanen Vallen's lineage bore connections to no less than six disparate nations and people. Ebou Dari, Tairen, Taraboner, Illianer, Sea Folk, Tinker. There was even the possibility of other. Other what? Bloodlines? How one could bear the blood of something other, she didn't know. She had never bothered to ask. It was probably for the best if she didn't even care.
What others thought of her did not entirely match up with the overblown majesty of the half-remembered story that she replayed in her mind when she was feeling particularly foolish. Thief. Runaway. Whore. Gutter rat. Unwanted. Offal. Worthless. On and on the unflattering list of names went. Her current favourite was "mongrel". That was a rare bit of cleverness from the local baker after she had been caught stealing bread.
It was one lousy loaf! Given the man's jiggling double jowls, she was doing him a favour.
She huddled down beneath the oiled canopy of the cart, teeth chattering. What did it matter who she was or where she was from? It hadn't ever mattered before, and to the "better" class of citizens that spat such names at her as she barely managed to kept ahead of being thrown in jail or worse, it certainly didn't matter.
She supposed she couldn't really find too much fault with the locals... they didn't even have a jail. That had been rather quaint and adorable. The farmers had all but dumped her into a passing merchant's caravan. They were that eager to be rid of her. Deachal Green had been a pretty little village, but she knew when she had outstayed her welcome. The pointed fingers and puckered faces made that obvious. So far, Andor really shaping up to be a dull nation.
Perhaps this place with the 'Tower' she overhead the guards speaking of would prove to be more entertaining.
- Drin (20 May 2016)
- Novice (27 November 2016)