Psychee

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Ambre personnelle
Psychée d'Alanowë


“The white Zoraï ″
Race	Matis
Sexe	Female
Nation	Matia Kingdom
Organisation
Culte	Cult of Light
Faction
Guilde	Libres Frontaliers (?)
Rang
Naissance
Décès
Mère	Liandra d’Alanowë
Père
Homina

Psychée d'Alanowë

Daughter of Liandra d’Alanowë, also known as Eleena d'Aquilon, daughter of Aarkon d'Aquilon,
Nicknamed “The white Zoraï ″.

Description

    A teenage albino matis girl of about 16 years. Since her resurrection, when she was announced dead, and said to have been buried, she has not grown up, although it can be assumed that she should be about 22 years old.
    She is frail, weak and fragile, and seems unable to hold a weapon, but submits to training within the Free inherited from her late mother's courses and training, and now fights with the huge two-handed Alanowë family sword.
    What she does not possess in strength, she has in stamina and courage, despite her sickly appearance, and she has already survived fatal wounds and injuries, always recovering.
    She has two very distinctive wounds on her body: A scar on her flank, the size of a hand, a spear having pierced her side from side to side, and another star-shaped mark, a perfect scar from a stab wound in the heart.

    One thing that is always surprising is the ability of objects invested with sap to vibrate and emit a kind of crystalline song when it is very close, or touches them. This never lasts more than a moment, but is systematic.

Personality

Following her second memory loss at age 14, she was re-educated as a Matis by Liandra, her adoptive mother, and Florimelle, a moderate Jena priestess, but was formerly a very young teenager steeped in Zorai culture. When her memory returned in a fragmented way, she retained both upbringings and both cultures, although she had to abandon her attraction to the Zorai and the Witherings, as they considered her new upbringing and her faith in Jena to be treacherous.

Her primary character trait is her pacifism, which borders on a phobia of violence. She has never raised a hand against a human being, and is incapable, even in anger, of attacking or insulting someone. Her pacifism has played tricks on her, her hominism making her save her worst enemies or making her feel sorry for the last murderer. However, since her mother's death, she seems to be forcing herself to learn to fight, and wield the family's living greatsword. Like all Atys, she is preparing for the coming war.

Her second trait is a fragile and outspoken personality, devoid of the devious nature of the matis. She expresses her emotions, and cannot hide them, has never lied or almost never lied in her life, and is very unconvinced of the idea of cheating or tricking someone, even if she has resorted to these extremes to protect herself. Always speaking her mind, she easily attracts either great sympathy or great rage from her interlocutors, despite her propensity to always try to favour peaceful and calm relationships.

And her final trait is that she hides beneath great efforts to be cheerful an immense despair. She has lost her loved ones twice, her natural family, then her Zorai family, then her mother, and lives in fear of a destiny that no one knows if it is a lie or reality. She therefore fights against her suffering, against a desire to end it all, and tries as best she can to live her interrupted life in a world where war is the only order of the day.

Portrait

Writings

Ryzom > Communauté francophone > La Saga > Roleplaying : [Nemesis] La fin de la Maîtresse des Lames

Nemesis: Day One

Thun had talked for hours with Psychee... A long discussion, with enigmatic meanings and mysterious undertones. But once again, Psychee had heard a man talk about destiny, about choice, about not choosing. About a miracle, about a precious gift, too. Thun knew things about her that she did not know. The very wise leader of the Sap Guardians had not come to her out of curiosity, but with more about her than Psyche knew, and could understand.

</noinclude>

    This morning, as she watched the day slide its light over the great roots streaking the sky, she could only wonder. And smile.

    She was a Guardian. Still on probation, but she was so hopeful that she would pass the tests the Guardians would impose on her. And she had time to discover who she was. She was finally safe, welcomed into a warm and gentle family, welcomed among the first homins she recognized herself in.

    She still didn't know if he was there? Her old and disappeared Zorai friend, who had told her so many things about the Guardians, when she was a child. Was she even sure she recognized his mask? She didn't know if even Zorai changed their masks, or if they kept the same one their whole lives. And, so long ago, she wouldn't know it anymore.

““And me, will he recognize me?... I have grown so much...””

    Her thoughts wandered to her companion, lying peacefully beside her. Leonil was sleeping. Quietly. He had watched over her all evening, and the night had been theirs, long after the last songs had ended.

    In one day, she had sworn before the kami, before Leonil, before Tryker spectators, at the Guild of Guardians. And Leonil had proposed to her. In the same hour, she had committed her life twice without hesitation, for the two most overwhelming and wonderful things she could have wished for.

    The Zorais were waiting for her now. Thun had answers, which he had refused to say in their discussion, and it would be there that the Leaf ceremony would take place... And her wedding. It would be there that she would rebuild her life. And there she would get answers.

    Her mind flew for a moment to her memories, to her fears, to her past. She remembered the words of Thun, and those of Xerius, her dear friend and mentor, the same words, in the mouths of two Guardians:

“Your innocence is a miracle. The Goo could never touch you. Protecting you is the most important act.”

    She hardly knew what the Goo was... and understood even less what precious thing her innocence could be, even if she had one. She wanted to get close to the kitins. Everyone was afraid of them, but not her. She wanted to know if they could be spoken to, if they could communicate. If they came from the Roots, they were nothing more than an integral part of the world, of life, of the kami. Killing them would only fuel their anger... Had anyone, anywhere, ever tried to talk to them?

    She looked up. The birds were singing the dawn. Leonil had moved for a moment, looking for her in their bed.
It was time for happiness again. Even though she had not learned what it was, she had always believed that it existed, somewhere.

    In a few hours, in a few days, the ordeal awaited them. She lay down against her beloved, and closed her eyes...

    Just a little more happiness...

一━══ ⧼⧽ ══━一

Nemesis: The Giants

The ground quivered.
A gigantic kincher rose above the savannah, its titanic mandibles whipping the air with such force that it killed the flock of birds that tried to escape it with its shock wave. It rushed at its prey, leaving behind it, as if suspended in the sky, three great sagan trunks uprooted under its fury, disregarding the tons of wood that this could represent...

    Xerius screamed, running with all his might straight into the middle of the grass:

—- “Don't look back, don't stop!”

    The trunks crashed less than twenty metres behind him, while four small figures, insignificant homins in the face of the fury of mad nature, ran for cover. Behind them, the rest of the convoy, half a dozen people, were totally surprised by the monster's rampage, which crashed into them in a blinding display of magic and steel, a last-ditch attempt to stop the unstoppable. Psychee stumbled, in front of Xerius, and he caught her hand and pulled her up with all his strength. In front of them ran one of the last survivors, while Leonil closed their frantic race.
    Psychee screamed over the unbearable howls of the monster:

—- “We can't leave them!”

Xerius replied in kind, between gasps:

—- “They’re dead! Run!!!”

    Leonil, the last to flee, turned around. Behind him, those who had been their companions were turning into sprays of blood exploding in the grass, the kincher striking and striking again with its mandibles. The last ones standing, who had not had time to hear Xerius' scream when the beast had caught up with them, were living out their last seconds.

    The journey had been a terrifying ordeal from the start. The “Bounty Beaches” in Aeden Aqueous had shown the terrible traps of its predators, and it had taken hours of watching and waiting to reach the vortex that led to the Prime Roots .

    Psychee had never seen them. A dark and yet bright world, of a strange serenity, where danger seemed to do its best to be forgotten. They had found Zoraï guides, who had come to harvest the precious raw materials of the place, and who had taken the initiative, after discussion with Xerius, to guide them to the other side. To the Zoraï lands, to the Sick Country. To the goal that Psychee had been waiting for.

    But everything had changed on the other side of the wormhole, once they had left the Prime Roots.
    The valiant and powerful Zorais had slaughtered the monsters that sat, like ancestral guardians, in front of the vortex. The march into Zorai land had begun, when suddenly the kitins, as if answering the calls of their dead brothers, became inebriated with vengeance. The march became a mad flight. The five Zorai stood their ground as the rest of the convoy fled, holding back the wave of gigantic insects, and no one saw them disappear under the mass of monsters that pounced on them.
     And until the kinchers caught up with the fugitives, leaving only four survivors running for their lives.

...

    Hours later, Zoraïs met the survivors at the gates of Zora. Xerius told them everything. They looked for a moment at the three other refugees. Two Trykers, and a Matis. Was it worth the death of six of them? They never said, and turned away as Xerius led the survivors into the Guardians' Guild hall, to nurse their many bruises, and hours of exhaustion.

Psychee remained silent for a long time, remembering the agonized screams of those who had perished, slaughtered. But more than that, she remembered the kitins... their calls to each other when they lost three of their own, their monstrous and implacable revenge. And of those they had met, in the Roots. Of those who had watched them go by, without doing anything...

... Perhaps, perhaps, if they had been able to understand them, if they had been able to speak with these monsters...

She forgot her thought, shaking her head.

But the thought would remain...

一━══ ⧼⧽ ══━一

Nemesis: The Blur

Ils n'attaquaient pas...

Ils étaient là, narguant le ciel de leur taille gigantesque, hurlant leur puissance avec un bruit qui dépassait toutes les capacités de l'oreille à comprendre, à interpréter. N'importe quel animal qui eut été face à ces organes vocaux serait déjà mort, le corps rendu fou et définitivement détruit par ce son.... Comment jamais imaginer l'imiter?

Six kinchers. Leurs mandibules fouettaient l'air en sifflant, leurs pattes repositionnant leurs corps de mécanique biologique parfaite dans des mouvements rotatifs incessants, leurs yeux fixant un petit point adossé aux parois caverneuses des immenses Primes Racines.

Six géants dont la puissance le dispute à la férocité, six monstres à la violence si inhumaine qu'on ne peut que leur dénier toute pensée, ou émotion. Juste l'instinct de gigantesques machines bio-mécaniques à la perfection inégalée, crées pour tuer tout ce qui est homin sur leur passage traçé avec une telle régularité que l'on croirait de parfaits jouets à engrenages.

Leur seule vie?... Six pairs d'yeux, au reflet presque mort, derrière une couche de chitine translucide, mais des mouvements rapides, qui ne peuvent que certifier qu'ils voient, qu'ils observent, qu'ils analysent, qu'ils savent. Et savoir, prendre conscience, c'est vivre...

Ces six monstres, mécaniques parfaites pourtant bien vivantes fixaient une homine piégée à leur regard.

Mais ils n'attaquaient pas.

Psychée avait pu trouver le chemin des Primes Racines. Aidée par son cher promis Leonil, elle avait pu rejoindre un bien étrange et spectral Kami, au sein des immenses salles de silence et d'obscurité des Racines, et ainsi trouver le moyen de se téléporter seule, quand elle le désirait.

Cet endroit avait une magie trop attirante pour y résister. Dès qu'elle le pouvait, elle y retournait, même seule, pour goûter au calme de ce paysage dont la seule lumière était celle des végétaux qui éclairaient leur monde de leurs organes photo-luminescents. Le bruit semblait banni de ces cavernes et, malgré les dangers que Leonil lui avait répété, et répété encore, elle ne pouvait résister à ce lieu... A cette paix. La même paix que celle qui brulait au fond de son coeur. La paix d'un monde voulant faire croire que la lutte, la survie, la guerre, la colère, la haine, et la faim pouvaient être bannis et oubliés.

Les Racines étaient tout de même non habitées, mais visités. Les meilleurs prospecteurs venaient y récolter les plus remarquables matières premières d'Atys, et les lieux n’étaient jamais privé de présence homine. Et c'est un cri d'un prospecteur zorai qui avait alerté Psychée... - "Kitiiiiins!!"

Aussitôt, les prospecteurs abandonnaient leur travail, et courraient se réfugier dans les boyaux les plus étroits... ces boyaux même où Psychée, Osmoz, et Leonil avaient trouvé de la Goo... même ici. Les prospecteurs connaissaient bien leurs coins de cavernes, et restaient alors de longues minutes, écoutant les cliquetis et les hurlements des monstres, guettant, cachés, leur départ.

Psychée, elle, se retrouva piégée à sa méconnaissance des lieux. Elle était loin des prospecteurs, incapable de les suivre dans les bonnes cachettes. Elle courrait, sans voir les monstres, essayant de se guider aux appels des homins dans le lointain.

Et se trouva face à eux.

Six kinchers, marchant comme une horde mécanique et implacable.

Droit vers elle.

Elle se mit à courir, espérant les distancer assez pour appeler les Kamis, et se faire téléporter. Quinze secondes... il lui fallait quinze secondes.

Les kinchers ne les lui laissèrent jamais.

Ils accélérèrent, paniquant l'adolescente matis, la faisant trébucher, encore et encore, le cœur rendu fou de terreur, tandis que les monstres filaient à une vitesse effrayante, arrachant et faisant voler autour d'eux des mottes de terre de la taille d'un bodoc adulte. Elle heurta une paroi de la grande caverne au point de s’assommer, et eut, dans le brouillard de l’étourdissement, juste le temps de se retourner, pour voir, flou, six silhouettes titanesque venir se jeter sur elle, les tarses ravisseuses levées pour l'attaque, pour le carnage.

Elle hurla, la terreur à son paroxysme, au milieu du tumulte monstrueux de la charge des kinchers.

Un flash, le temps qui s'arrête sous la terreur de sa mort imminente.

Un retour en arrière, à son huitième cerne, à son enfance.

Elle tient la main de sa mère. Elle se nomme Elenaa, le nom de sa propre grand-mère, donnée par sa maman. Elle n'avait jamais pu retrouver son propre nom. Sa mère est inquiète, et regarde partout. La petite fille lève les yeux. Le convoi est grand, près de cinquante personnes, autant, sinon plus, de mektoubs. Pas de vieillards, mais plus d'une vingtaine d'enfants. Elle se souvient qu'elle avait demandé si papi et mamie allaient venir. Papa avait répondu, un voile dans les yeux, que non... Elle n'avait pas compris pourquoi. Pas plus que cette fuite d'Avalae, en pleine nuit, avec ces gens qui les avaient rejoint. Elle avait juste entendu: "les zorai, eux seuls nous aideront". Elle ne savait pas qu’étaient les zorai.

Un hurlement. De femme. Dans sa vision.

"Kitins!!"

Tout le monde se mit à courir, tandis que son père embrassait sa mère, tenant une immense épée à deux mains, et courrait à l'arrière du convoi. Les mektoubs affolés étaient laissés à leur sort, et sa mère la souleva de terre pour la porter dans ses bras. Psychée pleurait de terreur et d'incompréhension, comme tout les enfants portés soudain par leurs parents.

Un bruit, que jamais Psychée n'avait entendu. Le hurlement des kinchers, s'abattant sur la queue de la colonne. Les hurlements homins en réponse, le déchainement des mages, et des guerriers, leur ultime résistance pour sauver leurs enfants, leurs femmes, pour une seule chance. Le hurlement de sa mère, son propre hurlement, ses larmes. Elle n'eut même pas de mots pour prévenir sa mère quand le kincher se dressa, six mètres au dessus d'elles, pour s'abattre sur les femmes et les enfants. Sa mère ne la lachà pas, même quand près d'un mètre d'éperon traversa son abdomen. une chute au sol, une fureur aveuglante, tout ce qui vivait ici fut massacré en quelques secondes.

Psychée ouvrit les yeux, sa mère ne l'avait pas lâchée, dans son dernier souffle, dans son dernier geste avant la mort. Le kincher regardait sa proie, la dernière en vie, la dernière trace homin à tuer. Ses tarses relevés, il pouvait découper l'enfant d'un geste. Il regardait. Il regarda longtemps... Puis, il se détourna, dans un bruit de cliquetis mécanique, et de glissement de muscles. Psychée perdit connaissance...

Le temps reprit sa course.

Psychée ouvrit les yeux, le dos à la caverne. Ils étaient là... Les six kinchers s'étaient arrêtés devant elle, et attendaient. Ils regardaient. Impossible de rien lire d'humain, ou même d'animal dans leurs yeux.

- "Pourquoi?..." murmura-t-elle. "Pourquoi n'attaquez-vous pas?"

Les monstres restèrent sans réponse, et comment même deviner dans ces choses le moindre langage des yeux ou du corps?... Comment trouver la moindre empathie pour ces créatures si étrangères?

- "Mais dites-moi !!!"

Elle avait hurlé. Un kitin s’était redressé, comme surpris. Il avança le corps vers elle, dans un souffle, et Psychée détourna le regard, les yeux fermés, saisi par une peur terrifiante. Le kitin la dévisagea. Si jamais il en était capable.

Puis il se redressa et de son incroyable mouvement rotatif de mécanique parfait, s'écarta, pour reprendre sa patrouille, suivi des cinq autres.

Psychée resta seule, prostrée, recroquevillée sur elle-même, dans la lumière blafarde des Racines. Cela dura longtemps. Elle ne pouvait plus, désormais, effacer les images de ce souvenir d'enfant si longtemps relégué au fond de son esprit. Le visage de sa mère, un masque presque extatique de mort tandis qu'elle s'effondrait, le dernier regard de son père, empli d'amour, et en même temps de terreur, avant de rejoindre ceux qui essayèrent de résister. Sa vie, épargnée par ce monstre... et tout les autres, tout les autres.

Elle pleura, assise dans l'herbe, elle pleura, sans ne pouvoir rien arrêter...