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Boudika
Night Court Entertainer
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Age:

8 [Year 495 Winter]

Gender:

Female

Pronouns:

She/her/hers

Orientation:

heterosexual

Breed:

Warlander Cross

Height:

16.2 hh

Health:

7

Attack:

13

Experience:

10
Offline

Last Visit:

3 hours ago

Joined:

03-30-2019
Signos: 1,615 (Donate)
Total Posts: 55 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 7 (Find All Threads)

As a mix between the Lusitano, Spanish-Norman, Andalusian, Barb, and Friesian, Boudika possesses a striking, but powerful, elegance. Her people considered themselves among the “Warlander” breed. A thick, powerful physique is not so wide to be considered robust, but there is a depth to her barrel-chest and powerful haunches that indicate not only strength, but endurance and quick speed. Despite these attributes, there is nothing “heavy” about her breeding. Boudika was endowed with solid, cleanly muscled legs, a straight (relatively short) back, and a high, proudly arching, muscle-corded neck. The overall impression Boudika leaves one with is an equine of inherent grace and intensity, born and bred for the hardships not only of life but combat. Her experience as not just a warrior, but a disciplined soldier, has left her with a physique moulded from years of hard physical training. Each muscle stands out in sharp, primitive relief, and her overall form is proportional, strong, and somewhat intimidating. There is very little feminine about Boudika except, perhaps, her movement, which is as refined and elegant as a dancer.

Her colouring, in addition to her configuration, is intensely striking. Her head and neck can only be described as “copper”, which has resulted in her Novus alias of “Copperhead”. This metallic colour encompasses her head and neck in almost entirety, stopping just short of her withers and shoulder-blades, and descending to a sharp point on her chest. The only interruptions to this is an asymmetric white blaze to her face. The rest of Boudika is, primarily, black with the copper hue reappearing with less aggression along her stomach and inner legs, as well as four asymmetric white socks, and slight tiger-like copper striping along her haunches. Furthermore, Boudika sports a cropped, copper mane which is kept for easy maintenance and grooming—if it were allowed to grow long, Boudika would have a beautiful, metallic, and wavy mane. However, she has never been one for vanities, but instead practicalities; and so it remains short. The main attributes that separate her from an ordinary equine, however, are the long, spiralling horns and presence of a whiplike unicorn-style tail, which ends in a fluff of copper hair. Her eyes are bright, brilliant crimson.

Boudika was once nothing if not confident, composed, and proficient in all manners tactical and intellectual. She excelled at challenges and suffering through things which require physical resiliency; her mind was made up, her will was hardened, and there was nothing that Boudika could not overcome. However, Boudika has entered a state of her life which is completely, and utterly, transitionary. Her strongly-held beliefs of the past have not only been challenged, but destroyed and disproven; resulting in a new mare who is at times, quite uncertain of herself and her purpose. These changes have challenged Boudika’s faith not only in the surrounding world, but herself; the things she believed were indisputable are no longer indisputable, placing her in the precarious position of a life of misinformation. But not only misinformation, but betrayal, and the rugged fact that she simply was not good enough. These things attribute an undercurrent of desperation to Boudika—an uncertainty that can make her, at times, unpredictable. An insecurity, that at times, lends way to cruelty and an intense, self-protective savagery.

Some things, however, have not changed.

Boudika is passionate, driven woman—a woman capable of greatness, if she so sought it. Her work ethic is extreme, to the point of self-destruction, and she has reached points in life where her personal pleasures come second to what she can achieve for a greater cause, whether that is a nation or another individual. She is persuasive simply through the unadulterated way with which she lives, unapologetically invested in whatever she has dedicated herself to. But an important necessity of this is that she is given not just passion, but a purpose—Boudika needs a job she feels, concretely, calls to her. She needs honour, commitment, and the drums of war. That is something she feels so strongly called to; and yet refrains from violence, has sworn away distraction, and has promised a new life of creation versus fire and brimstone.

However, in more recent months, Boudika has adopted a plethora of traits which could very easily been viewed as negative. She is selfish in these pursuits, and both fiercely prideful and condescending of others. She has grown extremely distrustful not only of individuals, but of societies and spoken laws. She is a firm believer in the unfairness of organised institutions, and as a result is often remarkably independent and sometimes even scornful of them. Rebellious, is another world—a girl with one foot in the sea, and one on land, ready to slip away to the depths at any moment. She is barbed, poisonous—a beastly daughter of honourable warfare where the honour has been stripped bare.

Now, Boudika is innately questioning. Nothing is good enough for her; and this is from a deeply rooted insecurity that she is not good enough for anything else. The gods are forsaken; her pagan rituals of old have been betrayed, as she was always forsaken herself. The only thing she believes in is the strength of her own body; the mercilessness of the sea, the heat of the sun, the way the world will devour you whole, and the people in it. Distrustful, innately arrogant, and borderline offensive... these are all things Boudika has become, to cope.

Despite her skills as a warrior, she has, for now, sworn away violence. Instead, she has pursued the other gift of her people, which is art—she is a dancer, a musician, an equine passionately possessed by the need to create rather than to destroy. The juxtaposition of this, however, is her unpredictability; is the fact that destruction comes easily to her, and that the drums still call. She is possessed, sometimes, by violent and confusing restlessness; sleepless nights; the need to move. Pacifism is a difficult vocation for one who has only ever dedicated themselves to the art of war; her mind is that of a tactician, analytic, divisible. Everything can be sequenced, separated, boxed away. Even her emotions.

And so, at the end of the day, Boudika does not even know who she is. She is often filled with bitterness and fury; other times, an unabashed, jovial pleasure in life. She is impulsive, wicked, fiercely loyal—things both beneficial and condemning.

Boudika was brought into this world like a hero of old—to a mother who died in childbirth and to a father who had pleaded with the pagan gods, who had made deals and sacrifices, who had begged and pleaded and prayed for a worthy successor, a worthy progeny. In a world where women were ribs and curses called Pandora, Boudika was an unwanted affront. A curse. Her father almost killed her, believing an ill-omen from a mother-killing-daughter, a daughter who would be purposeful as only a broodmare in their world of chauvinists and sexist warriors—

But his dark gods whispered to him dark things, and he was told:

His child was Achilles reborn, misgendered; her first breath a battle-cry, and her heart beat thrummed for a war with as much blood-glory as Troy. He disguised her, henceforth, as a colt—and kept “him" close at heel, under name name of Bondike. His dark gods whispered, whispered: dress her as a boy, they will never discover her; she is cursed, a mother-slayer, and will never be touched.

She was raised under this split identity—Boudika under the stern gaze and word of her father. Bondike to the world. Her father was an influential general in a realm of city-states and constant warfare, sometimes tribal, and sometimes organised as pitched cavalry. Theirs was world without magic, much like ours: given incarnation only through prayer, sacrifice, and pagan mysticism. Yet, to Boudika there were no gods—and there was certainly no magic. The deities had forsaken her, instilling an urgency for something she could not name, a restlessness in her spirit that was as primordial as the wolf’s need to hunt—and so her father was to learn, this restlessness was an innate warrior’s spirit. A tactician. A resilient and gritty opponent, whose world was consumed by the idea of combat.

Her people, the Oresziah, had been engaged with a war against the tribal sea-equines of the Khashran—they were savage water-horses, with shapes slippery and incomprehensible, sharks and eels and fish and water serpents that, on land, became equines with long and twisting manes, slitted nostrils, and jaws full of savage, bone-breaking teeth. Upon the islands of the Oresziah, they were always threatened by the Khashran, always prepared for war—and “Bondike" was sent to the military school of the elite, a cadet to fulfil “his” family legacy, to give honour to family name.

As a young “colt”, she participated in war games and an education of tactics, combat, and killing the magical Khashran, the shape-changers who possessed the call of the sea. They practiced mental resiliency against the seductive call of the siren’s songs and learned of charms and tools to use against the sea-creatures. Boudika’s father left her to the boarding school and schemed among politicians and generals a-high, planning the next movement of the Oresziah—he believed himself destined to eradicate the Khashran and take the isles for the Oresziah, to make it safe for his people to fare the sea and expand their horizons. These were the lofty ideals under which Boudika was raised—just short of world domination, as she learned the artfulness of being a gentleman and an officer.

She graduated among the top ranks of her class, just below her close friend, Vercingetorix. As such, she was given an ideal position as a junior officer leading a phalanx of battle-hardened veterans. This was what Bondike had been raised for. This was what Boudika had been born for. The generals, her father among them, had organised an offensive against the Khashran and young Boudike, he would participate among the most esteemed soldiers!

This is not where Boudika’s story takes a sharp turn; contrarily, the offensive resulted in a tremendous amount of success, to the point that she was elevated again among her peers, and selected alongside Vercingetorix to receive additional training. They were hand-selected by the generals (the fact both of them had influential fathers on the board meant little to the young and ambitious officers) to pursue the savage prince among the Khashran, Orestes, who led a cult like following in a rocky and nearly impassable bay.

The mission was exciting—it presented untold dangers, but offered honour and challenge to all who participated. For the first time in her life, Boudika felt as though she were enough for her father—that if she succeeded, she had made it in her realm of men.

The only thing which influenced this negatively was her growing affection for Vercingetorix. They had an easy way about them, in their partnership and friendship; he complimented her with his cool contemplation and quick wit, his quiet and unassuming humour, his steady presence. He exhibited all the values Boudika had always strived for; but more than that, he was kind to her, and that kindness sprung up in her heart with the resiliency of weeds, mistaken as love. She struggled to hide her affections, her flirtations, admits rigorous tactical, strategic, and intellectual training for their mission. But, Vercingetorix returned her flirtations?And she began to wonder, if he had known her true identity all along.

Was it possible?

The mission—although highly dangerous and resulting in the loss of some of their team and an injury to Vercingetorix—was successful. With this success, she found the recognition and approval from a father who had always somewhat disdained her. Boudika grew into herself and her ability, becoming a competent and confident commander. Simultaneously, it presented her downfall.

Vercingetorix’s injury presented “Bondike" the unique opportunity to nurse him back to health. The Oresziah entered a new time of prosperity and relative peace, with a newfound safety from the seas. There was a boom in births, wedding ceremonies, and overall success.

“Bondike" cared for Vercingetorix over a period of several months with not only the loyalty of a brother-in-arms, but with the passion and consideration of a bond that ran deeper. These relationships were not uncommon among her people, between one soldier and another. Her affections grew and grew, and an intimacy sprouted after his injury that had not been there before. There was talk and suggestion of eloping, but “Bondike" always hesitated, always forced to hide a great and terrible secret—until eventually she could keep it from Vercingetorix no more, and told him something she had hidden since birth. ”My name is Boudika.”

He responded only with unnerving calm, and the firm command to leave his chambers. Vercingetorix immediately shut her out, and refused any and all contact. In a highly chauvinistic society, what else was Boudika to expect? He returned to work shortly after, where they were forced to interact with one another on a daily basis in a professional way. Boudika began to witness Vercingetorix undermining her in strange and foreign ways—and it dawned on her, it was disrespect. Her opinion no longer held the same validity. Her skills were consistently questioned. And his dissent spread among the other soldiers—to the point her once authoritative presence was now almost entirely disregarded.

Boudika’s life fell to shambles—her father passed away and, with him, her entire support system. Vercingetorix had been waiting for this opportunity, she believed—the funeral procession was hardly over before Boudika was restrained and taken into custody, with the accusation that she was impersonating a soldier and had lied not only to the military institute of Oresziah, but the people and the gods.

Riddle me that, when the sky opens up and gods give men flame, but in all myths, women are only accolade or condemnation.

Boudika’s imprisonment lasted for several months as they debated how to try her. The weight of her father’s legacy held some sway among the higher-ups, but ultimately not enough. The interesting aspect of her imprisonment, however, and the thing worthy of note is who she was kept beside—it was the Prince of the Khashran, Orestes. Over a series of months they discovered they had far more in common than they had realised, and the Khashran were not only meat-eating savages, but beautiful souls of the sea, lovers of music, loyalists, lovers. And Orestes was the last of his specific sect of people. More interestingly still, Boudika discovered through her conversations with him that they had known so little of the Khashran—they were matriarchal, fiercely devoted to their gods, and strict adherers to a foreign moral code. Orestes possessed a savage and beastly nature—but it was not the whole of him.

Nevertheless, her imprisonment had to end, at some point—it ended in a trial, and a sentence.

Lest you spring from the head of Zeus in full battle-armor as Athena does and, even then, you’re only worshipped as having come from a man. Here I am, with my shield and spear; your beliefs are all wrong. Stop looking at me like horse-flesh, like a piece of meat. I will devour you, sword and all, even if I wait for ten years on the other side of your Trojan wall.

Boudika was found guilty for a one of the most treasonous crimes a woman of the Oresziah could commit. Despite her years of honourable service among their military, her sentence was alongside the captured prince of the Khashran, Orestes. They were to be sent out to sea in a storm, Orestes each bound in iron shackles upon ship scarcely sea-worthy, much less storm-worthy. The custom was one leftover from times of pagan wars; believing the sea the place of the Khashran, where a soul could never escape to the gods above. They were dragged through the city-state of the Oresziah in chains, under the incomprehensible, ominous gathering of women, watching her with hooded eyes, and the typical jeering stallions, throwing sharp and heavy objects, dashing them with stones.

But in the rain, Orestes struggled to keep his stallion shape against the water. They were thrust upon a creaking wooden vessel and pushed into the raging waves of the ocean. The iron kept them weighed to the deck, and burned at Orestes’ skin like poison, forcing him to remain equine, even as his teeth grew long and sharp and his tail flopped as a fish’s. The waves broke upon them, threatening to overturn the vessel, but to escape from their bondage was impossible.

When the mast crashed down and the deck turned to splintered wood, nothing but the taste of saltwater and storm, Boudika’s world turned black—all aside from an eerie, threatening, beautiful song. A hymn like sirens, whales, the clucking chatter of dolphins, a crescendo of voices that went hush, hush, hush like the sea—

Boudika awoke sometime later on a foreign shore, her limbs chaffed bloody from her chains. It took her some time to rediscover her wits, as she believed she had washed up on Oresziah—the difference was the presence of a strange, foreboding desert. Everything in her memory seemed a bad dream, hardly real. Had she imagined the whole thing? She began to wander, past the desert, and as she wandered, she was redirected again and again toward a clearing in a grove, where an ancient stallion would be waiting. And so Boudika went, and discovered an ancient stallion beneath a tree, who told her a story:

Many, many years ago, Novus was a new and alluring land unknown to all but one…

Boudika left the scene more confused than she had been previously. New to the world to Novus, she drifted, and gradually found herself a member of the Night Court, were the events of her past are only just beginning to make sense.

Here I am, knocking—and I beg you to answer. By “you” I mean every god or man who told me I was less, a mere prize to be won, worth men’s admiration or a dozen prized bulls; but I am ready for this battle. I am no Helen of Troy. I am your harbinger. I want them all to know, God is a woman that men wrote wrong.

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A five-foot golden trident with three serrated points.


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Played by:

Syndicate (PM Player)

DeviantArt:

philosophersyndicate    //   

Discord:

syndicate#4529

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