Thia Lotti A'vron

[thia]

Biography for Thia Lotti A'vron

Full Name: Thia Lotti A'vron
Nicknames: Princess
Age: 10,019
Gender: Female
Ascension: Immortal.
Species: Devil
Affiliation: House of A'vron/underworld & Dragos Midnight

Hair & Eyes: Thia's pigeon red hair reaches down to her lower back, with segments framing her heart shaped face and a few stray strands lying around her shoulders. Her almond shaped eyes are a shade of purple framed by her long thick lashes.
Height & Weight: Thia stands a head smaller than the average fully grown female with a lithe and curvaceous frame appearing nimble and weak due to her abilities being that of spell casting and not combat skills.
Specific Details: Her body is covered with scars from her childhood that are only visible when she has pushed her powers too fast due to the magic that covers them. She'd have no new blemish upon her pale skin, but would have a tattoo of a single black inked feather upon her lower thigh, twisting around her leg as it dispersed into birds taking wing around to her inner thigh.

Place of Birth: Unknown.
Place of Residence: Resides within the underworld with her father and children.
Parents: [Adopted] Isaan A'vron Elder God & Meldara.
Siblings: Seth'ryal and Cyarno, Lance and Keriani A'vron.
Children: Sabriel, Devante and Saraneth Castiel A'vron.
Other Relatives: Husband: Castiel A'vron Grandparents: Enitira Vigil Elder Goddess and Alaister Vigil Creator. Aunt: Furyae A'vron and Uncle: Daziriel A'vron.

Likes: Thia loves spending time with her father, enjoys nothing more than a hug, and loves to be praised.
Dislikes: Lolly pops, her father leaving, feeling vulnerable.

Personality: Thia is best described as a caregiver. She is warmly interested in others. She uses her Sensing and Judging characteristics to gather specific, detailed information about others, and turns this information into supportive judgments. She wants to like people, and has a special skill at bringing out the best in others. She is extremely good at reading others, and understanding their point of view. Thia's strong desire to be liked and for everything to be pleasant makes her highly supportive of others. People like to be around Thia, because of her special gift of invariably making people feel good about themselves. She takes her responsibilities very seriously, and is very dependable. She values security and stability, and having a strong focus on the details of life. She sees before others do what needs to be done, and does whatever it takes to make sure that it gets done. She enjoys these types of tasks, and is extremely good at them. She is also very warm and energetic. Thia need approval from others to feel good about herself and is hurt by indifference and doesn't understand unkindness. Thia is very sensitive to other people and comes across as a feminine, maternal, caring individual that sometimes has a hard time seeing or accepting a difficult truth about someone she cares for.
At her best Thia is warm, sympathetic, helpful, cooperative, tactful, down-to-earth, practical, thorough, consistent, organized, enthusiastic, and energetic. She enjoys tradition and security, and will seek stable lives that are rich in contact with friends and family.
Dominant: Extraverted Feeling
Auxiliary: Introverted Sensing
Tertiary: Extraverted Intuition
Inferior: Introverted Thinking




History: Thia has been an Orphan since as far back as she can remember. Her earliest memories that hasn't been pushed away was at the time of her slavery. She was hauled off a ship with a dozen other children all tied together with heavy chains, the majority of the children covered in rope burns and whip marks. She was sold to a beautiful woman named Cethia who's heart was as cold as ice treating her terribly from the moment she was paid for. It ended when she turned five and was discarded into a barren wasteland to rot and die. Her only companion was a small Demon that she had learnt to summon from an intent day of watching a Warlock training inside her mistresses home. Thia had tried to enter the nearby city in hopes of finding salvation, but was attacked by one of the very guards hired to protect civilians, just because the only linguistics she could use was that of Demonology. She would have died on that area if it wasn't for Isaan a tall man with blood red hair that took time to save the feral girl. He later took her home and adopted her as his daughter into the strange world of Dragos Midnight.

Ever since then she had felt a barrier between her family and herself due to being adopted and not a true daughter of her father. She idolised him with great respect and still does to this day, carrying the greatest love a daughter can. She had a singular wish to be the same as her family and Isaan fulfilled this by making her a Devil, binding her as his eternal daughter. Her life since then had never been simple, surrounded by fighting and misunderstandings that tainted her innocence. Upon the age of nineteen she left with her father who ruled the underworld as he was needed back on his throne, and it was too much for her to watch him go. She spent the next 9050 years working as his student to become stronger as a Devil so that she may protect her family, and her mother Meldara. Gaining power she ascended to a greater immortal and over the more recent 950 years a family. Falling in love with Castiel the second in command of the heavens with the duty to oversee the security in the rulers steed. She proceeded to marry him making him change his last name as it was far too important for her to be named after her father. She birthed three children in the past few years: Sabriel a nineteen year old girl, Dante a sixteen year old boy, and lastly a five year old girl who resembles her as a daddy's girl Saraneth.

RP Sample: Sergeant Theobald Rothgar

Push to Drondan’s Pond.

The Arathi Highlands always were a beautiful place, even when it was raining and misty. It added to the charm, some would say. It was a rugged sort of beautiful. Large grey rocks being consumed by huge waves of tall green grass and white wildflowers. Trees spread randomly on top of hills appeared as if they’d been twisted over the years by the wind. Ruins from a time before even the Troll Wars and the first contact with elves jutted out, tall and sharp amongst the hills, as if to remind everyone who passed of home. For this was home, the cradle of mankind and its mighty kingdoms. Amongst the crooked trees and mossy rocks, amongst the Raptors and Spiders, and against the Trolls and Ogres, humanity crawled, walked and then thrived. Today, humanity would fight.
The Second War turned the birthplace of man into a war zone. Men, women and children were massacred as the Horde pushed across the Highlands and into Lordaeron. To the very walls of the Alliance Capital the Horde pushed, and it was against the walls that they were finally stopped. Despite the betrayal of the Kingdom of Alterac, and with the crucial help of the men of Stromgarde, the Horde were cut off from their reinforcements and beaten back toward Thandol Span. The peaceful, green sea that was the Arathi Highlands had been turned into a scene of carnage. Humans of all nations fought back against the savage tide, with weapons, magic or their bare hands.

Sergeant Theobald Rothgar poked his head up from behind his cover. It was a bush hanging on the edge of a small crater, but it was better than being out in the open. He’d certainly had worse cover in his time, a thought that almost brought a faint smile to his face. Sergeant Rothgar had been in the army of Gilneas since he was Seventeen, and had seen much combat in his past twenty years of service. He was a broad and muscular man, and of average height, quite typical of a farmer turned soldier. He had brown hair, in a regulation short haircut that almost made his head look like a box. His nose looked as if it had taken quite a battering in its time, and underneath was a large bushy moustache that grew across his cheeks and met with the hair on his head. Everything about Sergeant Rothgar screamed “I am a Soldier”, from his puffed out chest to his keen blue eyes.
He ducked back down behind the bush and into his hole, and began checking his equipment, looking for his orders. Sergeant Rothgar was in charge of a squad of Skirmishers, so he didn’t have much equipment to check. His light armour was all in good condition. The Gilnean Tabard resting on his chest was, through some miracle, clean and undamaged. He checked his left boot, and patted the Knife he had hidden there. His sword was resting against the wall of the crater to his right. It was a simple blade, but he was proud of it. Three months wages was the cost, and it was worth every copper to him. He tied it to his belt, amongst the various pouches he had hooked onto it. He reached through each one and made a mental list of the contents. He had a few gold coins, and a handful of silver coins. He had his bandages, and a small pocket-sized prayer book. He had a flask of water, a few biscuits and a pouch of nuts and berries. Next to his sword, in the most important pouch, he had his orders, a map and a small compass. He took the folded paper out and peered at the writing on it.

“Sergeant Rothgar.
You are to take your squad ahead of the main force and scout for the small Orc encampment reported near ‘Drondan’s Pond’. Secure the position and make a signal for the main force to move up.
Your actions will be the difference between a readily available water supply and shelter, or a night sleeping amongst the rocks. Do not fail.”

His was generally a thankless task. A grubby squad of skirmishers wasn’t suited to acts of heroism. Glory was for the Knights. His own orders were typically to either enter the messiest parts of a fight, figuratively and literally, or to take relatively unimportant structures. In the Army though, complaints are best kept in ones head. He folded up the orders and stuffed them back into the pouch. The small Orc encampment consisted of nine tents made from hides and sticks. They were arranged into three groups of three tents, and dotted around the pond. In his brief scan, he counted about fifteen Orcs. Including himself, his squad was six men strong. They would have the element of surprise though. He found that surprise counts for a lot, having been on the giving and the receiving end of a surprise attack many a time. He weighed his options quickly. He could send two men to attack each group of tents, and hopefully cause some confusion. He dismissed that idea as quickly as it came. He had too few men to be spreading it so thin, and he wasn’t sure he’d counted accurately. His only real option was to take all five men with him and storm one group of tents, sink into cover again and start picking the stinking brutes off one by one.
“Higgins!” Rothgar had a very loud whisper. He was a very loud man in general, and that had pro’s and con’s. In this case, he could “whisper” and still be heard by Corporal Higgins who was lying in a bush a good few feet away. In other cases, he could “whisper” and be heard by a passing patrol, which made missions prematurely messy. Higgins shuffled over on his belly and looked up at Rothgar.
“Sir?” he whispered.
“Get everyone around behind this hedge and ready to fight.”
Higgins had been told before that taking the time to say “Yes sir” did nothing but cut into the time they could be allocating to fighting. The second time he was told was with the butt of a rifle, and that one made the message stick. He shuffled back towards his bush and, after a few seconds of muttering, crawled back with four other men behind him. They were all Gilnean men, with their Royal Blue armour and noticeable accents. Despite the matching uniform, they came across as a scruffy and ragtag looking bunch. This was probably because they chose their weapons based on preference, as opposed to what was assigned to them. Corporal Higgins, Private Blackwood and Private Percy opted to take Crossbows. Higgins had a Sword, Blackwood had two small axes and Percy, who was a miner before he joined, had a very sharp Mining Pick and a Knife. Then there was Private Smith with his Bow, sword and buckler. Private Parker and Sergeant Rothgar both had Rifles and swords, though Rothgar’s was well crafted, as opposed to Parkers standard issue sword.
Rothgar had many reasons for preferring a rifle to the typical and much quieter Crossbow. Firstly, he loathed having to work the mechanism and pull the bolt all the way back each time he wanted to fire it. He quite literally found if more efficient as a club. Secondly, the rifle itself fascinated him. A tiny piece of metal and a little bit of black powder went in, and with a mighty crack and a cloud of smoke, an Orc would be dead. It was as if the gun shared his twin loves; being loud, and killing efficiently.

“When I give the signal, you lot are going to jump out of this hole we’re in and get down the hill into those tents. Kill any Orc you see as you go. Get yourselves behind something solid and start picking them off in the other two sets of tents. Anyone alive at the end of this that hasn’t killed two of the beasts is getting shot. Understood?”
Rothgar looked at each of his grinning men. They’d been doing this for weeks, and he knew he didn’t even need to speak to tell them what he wanted them to do. His way of fighting wars was simplistic, and all it would have taken is a point in the direction he wanted the killing to be done.
“Alright then. Wait for the signal.”
Sergeant Rothgar’s signal was neither complex nor subtle. He jumped out of his hole, took aim at the first Orc he saw and pulled the trigger. A loud bang sent a bullet spinning into the Orcs bare chest and it fell backwards onto the ground.
“GO YOU LITTLE SHITS!” spat Rothgar, and the six men charged down the hill. The Orcs at the bottom in their tents clambered around to try and pick up their weapons, but they had no chance. The Skirmishers descended like a cloud of smoke, projectiles and profanities, and the first three tents were theirs.
“Get to cover!” Rothgar was also known for spitting when he raised his voice. Percy took the full brunt of it, as he chose to duck behind the same stack of crates that Rothgar had. There were plenty of crates for cover, and for a while the men enjoyed a relaxing battle. Bolts, bullets, arrows and insults soared across the pond and into the other two groups of tents. They were in their element behind cover and with plenty of distance between themselves and danger. In total there were twenty three Orcs, and after half an hour of shooting, there were twenty three corpses.

Rothgar took his time with the signal flare. Good things take time, and this was both a good and important part of the battle. His men sat behind him patiently, and they too knew how important this moment of the battle was.
“Right then. Corporal Higgins, take Percy with you to those three tents on the furthest side of the pond from us. Stand away from them where I can see you.”
Sergeant Rothgar pointed at the group of tents on the Northern side of the pond and the two men walked briskly in that direction.
“Smith, Parker, you’re going to that other set of tents just over there. Stand where I can see you. Blackwood, you’re with me.”
It didn’t take long for all of the men to be in position. They stood completely still and waited for the right moment. Sergeant Rothgar stood next to the flare, gave a short nod to Blackwood, and hovered his hand over the trigger.
“For the King.”
With a hiss and a whistle, the red flare burst from its mechanism and soared into the sky. The main force had been waiting, and that was the signal to finally move up and make camp. But Rothgar didn’t care about that. It was the signal for something else to him and his men.
“LOOT RUN!” he bellowed. The men on all sides of the pond definitely heard it, and with a cheer the six of them ran through the tents and began looking for anything of value. It was a simple game, but a very fun one. The men had until the main force arrived to scramble through the tents and bodies and take as much as they could feasibly carry in their pouches and clothes. At the end, they’d show off their loot and whoever had the best looking or most valuable item was given a drink from the other five men on Saturdays. They had another contest too, with a similar reward, but this one was for the best kill of the day. This one was Rothgar’s decision to make, and he saw a nice shot from Smith that he felt deserved some serious ale.
Rothgar found a nice looking cup in the second tent he searched. It was probably copper, but coated with Silver and quite well made. He’d like to have taken it, but there was no room in his trousers amongst all the coins, colourful stones, bits of jewellery and a large Orcish knife with an Emerald in the hilt. He threw it on the ground and began looking for something smaller. He heard Blackwood clattering around in the third tent and knew he didn’t have much time to himself. In this game, rank didn’t matter and everything was up for grabs. Blackwood had won the last two games too, and it wasn’t out of luck.
He bashed open a small footlocker and rummaged through it. He hated that valuables were usually found underneath all the Orc underwear, but he carried on with his search. Inside he found a small leather pouch which, as he guessed, was full of coins. He quickly stuffed it into his pocket and rummaged some more. His hand clasped around a bottle. Rothgar lifted it up and peered at the writing on it.
“Dwarven Sir. Must have been looted on their way up here.” Blackwood had entered the tent, to Rothgar’s dismay.
“I can read, you twit. Hurry it up, they’ll be here soon.”
The two men carried on rummaging. Rothgar wanted to take the cup and this bottle, but the rules needed to be obeyed. He was a soldier after all. Looting was typically frowned upon by Lieutenant Locksley. He liked to gather up the spoils and keep them in a vault to circulate Gilneas upon their return. Rothgar’s “only if you can fit it in your pants” rule was in place so that it still looked like there was some loot when the other soldiers arrived. It worked well, and he doubted anyone else really cared enough to first check their trousers for loot and then report it.
Surely enough, the other four men gathered outside Rothgar’s tent. The game was over when the main force arrived. Rothgar doubted he’d won, but he got a nice bit of loot all the same. He emerged from his tent with Blackwood and waited for the Lieutenant to draw near. Locksley was not fond of thievery, but he was fond of professionalism and appearances. Rothgar, as much as it annoyed him, had to oblige.
“LINE UP!” he yelled and sprayed.
The six men formed a straight line and puffed out their chests as Lieutenant Locksley approached on his horse. They were trying to make the most of their scruffy appearances. Lieutenant Locksley greeted them as usual, which was with a grimace.
“Sergeant Rothgar, would it pain you keep your men in some kind of order? I mean, even if you were to arrange them in order of height, or not roll around in so much mud it would be a vast improvement.”
“Yes Sir! Sorry Sir! I’ll get them sorted Sir!”
“Yes, well. Good work. It’s about time we had somewhere suitable to rest. How many killed?”
“Twenty-three Sir!”
“Any injuries?”
“No Sir!” Rothgar was lying of course. Percy had a splinter from the crate he was sat on embedded into the back of his thigh, but it was best not to earn more of the Lieutenants disapproval.
“Alright. You six just, go and set up your tents over there on that ridge. I want two of your men watching the camp at all times.”
As scruffy as they looked, not even Locksley could deny that this group of Skirmishers were good at what they did. The ridge suited them just fine, and all seven of the men gathered knew that. Rothgar and his men got to be away from Locksley and in a comfortable position, and Locksley didn’t have to see or smell Rothgar and his men. The Lieutenant turned his horse and went off to send the other soldiers around the pond to clean up and set up camp.
“You heard him lads. Last one of you up that ridge has to clean my boots.”
As the men turned and ran up the hill, or rather fought eachother up the hill, Rothgar turned and walked over to one of the carts. The stuff they didn’t carry was kept in labelled bags. There was one tent for two men, so there was only three bags to carry. He picked up the three large bags that belonged to the six men and dragged them up the hill at his own pace.