CoR - Carys Argall

Name: Carys Argall

Species: Sawsbuck

Type: Dark/Fire

Gender: Female

Age: 19

Class: Warrior

Height: 5'2'' at the deer shoulder, 7'11'' from head to hoof

Ability: Solar Power

Attacks:

Power Whip: Deals damage to the Target
Power: 120 . Accuracy: 85%
Sleep Powder: Puts the Target to sleep
 Power: N/A . Accuracy: 75%
Harden: Increases the user's defense stat by one stage.
Power: N/A . Accuracy: N/A
Rock Wrecker: Rock Wrecker inflicts damage and then forces the user to recharge during the next turn. Unless this attack misses, the user will always have to recharge.
Power: 150 . Accuracy: 90%


Personality: Strong and silent. Carys holds her virtue and talent through the actions of her motions, not her words. She is prideful and strong, though a boasting centaur she is not. She takes courage to a fault, often bordering on a reckless stride on frequent occasions. She believes in her truth, though wrong she could be, and will not accept someone telling her the otherwise. She doesn't tolerate much nonsense, and has absolutely no sense of humor. She cannot attempt any of the arts, lacking in those talents, instead holding value in her physical prowess. She is loyal, and takes betrayal very, very seriously.

History: Carys was born to the roaming centaur clans of the mighty Magma River. One of many, her clan was a moderately sized group, contrived of smaller family collections that opted to band together in the heart of their dangerous world. Her people were hunter-gatherers by nature, nomads of the plains, sleeping when their legs could no longer move and taking their food from the bounty of the land. In such a climate, bound by ties of strength and blood, only the strongest of the centaurs were revered. Physical prowess was the ranking status throughout their kingdom, and oft were the weak abandoned to accept their fate.
Carys was born with promise. She was quick to her feet, strong in her arms, an elevated filly in a springtime crop of seven others. She grew swiftly, taking to the hunt as her ancestors before her, keen eyes and mighty lungs powering her through the harrowing childhood her homeland offered her. She was a confidant child, chest thrust proudly forward and head held high, surviving with three others from the crop of her birthright.
And she grew. She grew alongside the bellows of the hunting horns, her silent gaze observant where others would miss. She was their eagle, their powerful sentry.
But she was not without mortal folly. Though perfect in physical form, a master of the hunt and of battle, she found her demise in something too human.
It was on a raid.
Though their territory was of a massive take, and could very well maintain support of their herd for eons to come, the centaurs weren't without greed. Their hunting grounds kissed the edges of another tribe, hugging the borders along the western side of the molten river. Raids were not uncommon, but they were not a usual bait of thought. More often then not the heavy casualties sustained on both sides made it a little less then worth it.
Only if the enemy had a great prize would it be considered a serious option.
And so they did, the neighboring tribe. They had found, in their own raids upon human settlements, an artifact. It was an artifact of unknown origin and power, weighing close to that of a young foal, its depths seemingly coated in a golden, almost luminescent, sheen. The opposing tribe was quick to gloat.
And Carys' people hungered for it.
They attacked in the heart of the night, taking with them the advantage of a black moon, all lava and armor coated with dark fabrics to hide their radiance. They slipped in without a word, Carys among the vanguard, slaughtering the opponents without a cry or whinny. It was disgraceful work, some even in their own tribe shunned their execution, but it totaled their own losses to none.
They could have, maybe, gotten there without incident. The tribe had literally cut a swath through only a third of the enemy camp, creating a wedge to where their sources said the artifact would be.
What they found, of course, was a wonderfully executed safeguard.
The artifact, or so they thought, wasn't one at all. It was a trap, a rock tied to a series of pullies, meant to alarm the camp should anything like this come to pass. With a deafening sound, something akin to a roar and the choir of bells, the warning was sounded. The invaders, though successful in routing the sleeping forces, found themselves wholly unmatched in both force and numbers. (They had only brought a small contingent for such a delicate mission, after all).
The enemy tribe swarmed them. Carys' people were overrun, taken down and slaughtered like animals by the overwhelming hatred.
She could have escaped. Carys was fast. Carys was strong. She almost did escape, slipping out from between the kicking legs of the attackers, polearm brandishing to keep anyone at bay. Hooves pounding in the soaked turf, she took a beeline to safety.
Only to be tackled and pinned by a larger male. His whole weight came crashing down upon her, a tangle of hooves and flailing limbs, his momentum sending both centaurs spiraling away from the contingent. Carys recovered quickly, drawing herself up to bear, her opponent matching in recovery time with his own weapon readied.
And they did battle.
Oh what a magnificent battle it was. Both were nigh equally matched, their glistening muscles flying. Weapons clashed and clanged, notching one another again and again as neither warrior could find an opening in the other's defenses. They came at one another in sync, almost like a dance. They matched almost too perfectly, tails brushing eachother in their speed, hating, bloodshot eyes locked in mortal combat.
It could have continued forever. Perhaps it should have continued forever.
Trevor entered the arena to ensure that it didn't. Massive in form, larger then even the opposing male, he came barreling in, throwing the locking weapons off par as the stallion was sent staggering. Combining their efforts they gained, Sawsbuck and familiar, kicking and stomping, cutting and bashing, defeating this enemy with their resolve.
As Carys hovered over him, her weapon held perfectly to end his shaking, beaten form, she hesitated. She stared down at his all too human face, those sad, tearful, pained eyes, and she hesitated.
Her moment of mercy cost her dearly as the male's own familiar finally joined the battle. As did a branching group of enemy soldiers.
The day was lost. Carys' people, those who were still alive, were captured. Those unfit to fight, wounded too severely in the raid, were put to death, while the remaining few were tied, neck to neck, like slaves.
The enemy then marched upon Carys' tribe. Her people, those who were captured with here, were outfitted with the enemies' armors. They were given the battle standards of their foes to hold, under pain of death to keep, and forced onto the frontlines of a forming battle. The prisoners were to be used as fodder in the fight, for no matter how much they pleaded, their own people wouldn't recognize them in the armor of their enemies.
It was a horrible fight. It was terror incarnate, and Carys, tied to the end of a leash, was forced to watch. Though try she might she couldnt stop her people from attacking her. She looked just like the others, and her hesitation her people only took as pathetic fear. She had to fight back, fight to save her own life, and though she desperately wished not to, her enemies cut down those she engaged.
Her people were massacred.
No one could have survived. She could see the dead faces of her family and friends all around, piled in heaps, their faces collections of surprise and fear. It was a successful counteroffensive by the party not at fault.
They didn't reclaim their prisoners. The enemy knew they didn't need to. Though sustaining casualties on their own side, still their tribe prospered, taking the spoils of war from the corpses and makeshift huts. Her camp was looted, her people shamed.
And Carys found herself alone.
She's a wanderer now. Abandoning her homeland, the war-torn countryside and centaurs alike, she aimlessly wanders. Hunting when she felt hungry, and sleeping when she tired. There wasn't a purpose to her movements. There wasn't a point to her actions.
There was a bitter hollowness in her. She had failed. Her people had failed. She understood this as the law of the land. Those who could not fight; those who could not win were executed.
So why did she feel so empty inside.

Familiar's Name: Trevor

Familiar's Personality: Voiceless, he is the silent eye. Restrained on every point in combat, he acts only on Carys' words, acting as an extension of her will in the form of a four legged weapon. Its believed he has no soul at all, a faceless being dutifully bound to the warrior herself, but there had been times where he has been seen nestling in with her for the night, resting her head on his knees as he keeps silent watch.

Notes / Extra / Etc:
Carys prefers polearms and poleaxes in combat, extending her range as she keeps her mobility, but she's also proficient with a bow.
Her close quarter combat is phenomenal.
She can keep a constant speed of 30mph
:buleltred: