|Created by||Kismet Sureadin (player)|
|Affiliation||The Grey Tower|
Bascha has long, raven-dark hair, black with blue tint. She has bright and deep blue eyes. Has the coloring of a noble Domani lady, is of average height, around 5'7". Small build. Quiet, easily tempered by injustice or cruelty to animals, usually smooth and sensual. Works best with men, tolerates women. Owns a stallion, also dark with lighter eyes, small, daintily built, but strong and has a horrible temper, hard to control except with her. She also has the companionship of a female wildcat, dark in color. Bascha is about 19. Her name means 'lovely.'
Bascha stood in front of the polished silver mirror, one of her mother's indulgent husbands' gifts to the young woman. She sighed, pulling back her long hair, the humidity outside already causing the thick black strands to stick to her long, smooth golden neck and back. She wanted to put the entire mass of it up in a quick knot, or cut it all off, but knew her mother would have a fit.
Shaking her head, the young woman surveyed herself in the mirror, staring herself in her eyes. Blue eyes. An incongruity, a rarity, in Arad Doman. Domani women didn't have blue eyes. Sighing, she closed her eyelids, covering the offending color. Why couldn't I have nice, normal, dark eyes? She thought to herself, patting the head of the feline lounged at her side.
The cat wasn't large, but it also wasn't your typical mousing cat. It had been caught as a cub, and brought to her as another gift. The girl had a soft spot for neglected or difficult animals, and cared for the cat happily. Despite the long scars her mother tisked over, Bascha loved Yemeni. She was a good companion.
Bascha breathed slowly; in, and out, exhaling her foolish problem and feeling better for it. Now, it was time for Bascha to go and continue her one vanity that she kept doing, no matter what her mother or her current husband said. Weaponry. Unarmed Combat, horsemanship...and, of course a favorite for the lithe Bascha, Dance. Her mother approved that at least, what Domani mother didn't?
Smiling, she stepped over to her wardrobe, its vast depths nearly empty. At least once a sevenday Bascha's mother reminded the girl that clothing and accessories were necessary. Bascha merely smiled when the woman yammered. Bascha knew what was necessary. To live, that was necessary. Not to jewel her body and face to attract the eyes of the insects in her current world, not for the eyes of the eligible men. Her mother constantly reminded Bascha that she needed to find a husband, someone to bring gold into the coffer, and a baby into her life. A baby?! Bascha couldn't think of children.
She slipped on the soft, durable leather and fabric breeches, and the loose, flowing undertunic that appeared several sizes too large for two of Bascha, let alone one. She pulled a few laces, and the shirt snugged to her form slightly, giving her plenty of motion and comfort. Over the under-tunic she slid her stiff, re-inforced leather tunic, which fit so closely to Bascha's curves as to appear a second skin, revealing the use of the undertunic's protecting layer from her soft skin underneath.
She grabbed the tall, bladed weapon in the corner- a legacy from her own father. An ashanderi. Bascha held the weapon with ease, seven years of private training revealing her comfort with the awkward weapon. Yemeni stood slowly, stretching, her pink tongue curling in a yawn. Bascha, smiling, her small, delicate features lit from within, strode from her room on the lower level of the decaying manor home. Her room, although not as 'elegant' as her mother would wish for her beautiful young daughter, and also not as easily defended, was also one of the few that was not mold ruined or falling apart completely. The room gave Bascha direct access to the court in the rear of her home, near the stables. The house was on the edge of their town, brushing against the open wilderness.
A horse screamed from the stables, and Bascha laughed, lengthening her stride to lope to the stall where her stallion, Jemilo, was quartered. "Good morn, Jem, have you caused any problems these last few days? I am sorry I haven't been around much. Mother kept me busy with dance, and you know how I get then. Much too distracted." She patted the black nose pushed at her, and propped the ashanderi against a wall. Opening the stall, she entered it, opening the gate only enough for her small body and Yemeni to enter.
The horse whickered softly, and stepped back, waiting. Bascha smiled, noticing her was in a good mood, today. Some days it took her a few moments to settle him down. He was ornery. She grabbed his tack, and begun to saddle him up. She had been waiting eagerly for today, and had taken the time to do some much needing cleaning and repairing of his equipment. She first slid the deep, dark blue quilted pad over his quarters, sliding it against the nape of his neck. Jemilo shook softly, settling the pad even better.
Bascha grabbed the saddle, its brilliant blonde, almost white leather contrasting beautifully with both Jemilo and Bascha's coloring. She swung it around, the unique and custom shape light in her arms. She fit it on Jem, who hunched under it briefly for one last stretch. It had relatively no pommel, merely a low hump in the front, with a small arch to tuck a few fingers. The seat was low, and fit Bascha excellently, the stiching on the leather curved carefully. The sides of the seat extended down Jemilo's stomach, making a broad and comfortable area for Bascha's legs and packs to rest without rubbing his coat. The rear of the seat had no back, it extended nearly to Jemilo's tail, over his rump. The large majority of this area was unornamented and appeared to have been brushed for traction.
Bascha snugged the cinch, lightly slapping Jemilo's stomach when he pushed it out to loosen the straps. She adjusted the straps across his chest and rump, assuring the fit well and wouldn't chafe the stallion. She grabbed his bridle, looking him in the eyes fondly, and attached the reins. She didn't use a bit on the horse, he had a tender mouth and a dangerous past with a bit. She had also saved him from a group of trick riders who had decided the fire in the stallion needed to be snuffed out. He was wary around bits, to say the least, and she wouldn't subject him to that trauma. He listened well to her, and her to him. They understood each other, accepted the roles assigned, but did not force mastery on one another.
She rubbed the velvet of his nose, then slipped out of the stable to return to the house. Today was no training day. Today, Bascha would leave and find her own path. Today, Bascha was headed for the famed Grey Tower, where women could train alongside men equally.
The morning, already warming up unpleasantly, continued on, as Bascha returned to her room and grabbed her packs. She had a few leathers in them, some smallclothes, and a few traditional Domani garb. The fine silk and guaze items were easy to pack- they were small and thin, and Bascha's one concession to vanity. She was good at being Domani, along with using weapons, and if she couldn't fight, she would dance. Somewhere.
She made one last stop, to the kitchens,and grabbed the saddlepack the cook handed her. Travel food, and she heard the clink of coins in the bottom. "Aye, girl, your mother gave you leave, although she is not happy that you didn't wait until she returned. She wishes you farewell, along with her new husband. He's, what, number seven now?" The round cook laughed, giving Bascha a big smiled. "Run along, lovely, get yourself to your Tower."
She smiled, a few tears shining in her eyes. As she entered the stable, she nearly laughed aloud. One of the new stable boys had approached Jemilo's stall, and the horse was now holding him by his shirt at the nape of his neck, shaking him. "Jemilo, let him down! He didn't mean anything by it, I'm sure he just wanted to see what a beauty you are!" She laughed, now, as the horse glanced at her, his eyes doubting, but also mischievious. "Let him down, Jem, so we can get going." She insisted, this time, the stallion released the boy, who ran deeper into the stable.
"Alright, you two, are we ready?" She asked her two companions, the cat and the horse. Yemeni yawned, then twitched slightly, cocking her dark head upwards at Bascha. Jemilo nibbled on her sleeve. "Then let us go, by all means!" Bascha opened the stall doors wide, walking into the yard, waiting for Jem and Yemeni to follow. They did, Jemilo pausing once outside for Bascha to fit the packs on and to mount, the way she always did, using her arms and throwing her legs over his rump.
She settled herself, using the small flaps of leather she had requested instead of stirrups to rest her feet. She glanced down, waiting, and was awarded. Yemeni lept up onto the saddle pad, her claws gripping wonderfully into its extended sides instead of Jemilo's rump. That would have been a good start to the journey. She nudged her heels into Jemilo's side, and straightened her back. As the stallion began walking out of the yard, onto the path leading to the trade road, Bascha glanced over her shoulder at her childhood home, once elegant, now downtrodden and looking like a lady past her prime. She smiled, and worked on pulling her long locks into a knot, the reins slack over Jemilo's shoulders.
She should have known better. As soon as she had relaxed, Jemilo had begun to wait for her to become distracted. When she was fully occupied with her long hair, he began side-stepping and fussing with his headgear, making Yemeni growl and tighten onto her pad, and Bascha to shift dangerously.
"Such a Jem. I know you're going to make this long journey very pleasant." She grabbed the reins and worked on regaining her temporary control.