.player / / information
Player Name: Nataliya Eltsina
Age: Twenty-Two.
Description: Nataliya is approximately a few inches shy of reaching the six foot mark, though she does not aspire tall stature, as it has only proven to lift her closer toward a heaven she was simply not destined to obtain. She is mostly found seated, a novel of some sort clutched tightly in one hand, flipped open to heavily creased page that her hollow, gray-blue eyes have scoured over countless times in search of a key to the prison her life has become.
She appears constantly dazed and deep in thought, though her voice is a soft and unspoken murmur, nothing more than the faintest whisper of a breeze upon a vast meadow of unkempt grass and other beautiful symbols of life. She merely grazes over it, skimming the surface, yet never plummeting beyond the outer shell of what she perceives to be a perfect world.
Broken? Is she broken? Nataliya doesn't know. What she also is oblivious of is that fact that the perfect world her fingertips trace over but dare not grasp is as broken and shattered as her.
A mess of blonde hair has been cut short atop her head. The majority of it falls over her left eye, obscuring her vision slightly. Perhaps that is the reason she continues to see only the better half of every situation. She is no optimist, but Nataliya has been blessed enough to remain unburdened with the truth that miracles are nonexistent.
Her wardrobe consists of only the necessities. A pair of faded and slightly torn jeans, their cuffs gone to rags from age, and an eggplant purple tank top are her elegant, flowing ball gown and pearl necklace.
Her ethnic roots stem solely from Romania, though initially it is difficult to guess until she opens her mouth to speak, a soft mix of her foreign accent tracing faintly over her entire vocabulary.
Seemingly almost dangerously underweight, one might assume that Nataliya is anorexic.
Yes, they would think that until their eyes lingered over the barred door that locks her away from the world. So, she has found another world to take part in, gaining brief glimpses of its wonder whenever her captor is away.
.character / / information
User Name: Agoraphobia (Commonly referred to as 'Phobia').
Class: Twin Blade.
Physical Description: Silver locks of hair spill out from underneath a bright orange bandana, cut short much like her hairstyle in real life, although it is worn in a more eccentric fashion than what would be found outside of an MMORPG. Her front bangs hang down a few inches below her chin, and appear flawlessly straight and well-groomed. A single bead made of copper has been slid around a small clump of her hair, an ounce of deep crimson in the sea of silvery-white. Everything seems neat and tidy, however the back of her head tells a completely different tale. Spiked hair fluffs out from behind the top of her bandanna, creating chaos where order once reigned supreme. Torn, orange fabric curves out from behind her strange hairstyle, apparently an extension of the bandanna placed carefully atop her head.
A pair of dust brown eyes twinkle with a hidden agenda, her constant smirk only further shrouding her in mystery.
An orange, long sleeved jacket zips up to her chin, its large, metallic zipper smacking clumsily against the the thin fabric of her blouse as she strolls through 'The World'. Thrown over her jacket is a baggy, short-sleeved overcoat the same shade of brown as her eyes, its fabric also thin, though a bit heavier than the cloth beneath it. Lacking buttons or a zipper of any kind, the overcoat remains open, extending down a foot below her jacket.
On her left wrist, a black bangle shifts wildly back and forth with her movements. It appears to have a triangle shaped pattern intricately drawn onto its smooth surface.
A pair of tight-fitting black shorts can barely be seen from underneath the lengthy orange jacket that nearly blocks them entirely from view.
Thigh-high boots complete the ensemble, made of a black leather material that looks to be the most durable part of her outfit. Bright orange laces complete the color coordination, though her boots are only laced up about two-thirds of the way, letting the tongues of her shoes slide freely about.
It is questionable as to whether her player is male or female. She appears to have feminine facial features, yet she lacks any distinctive signs of being either gender. Most assume she is male, or perhaps a male in real life attempting to play a female PC.
Personality: Naturally secretive, Agoraphobia would rather die than let others learn of her motives or thoughts. However, she isn't conniving or calculating, just overly cautious when dealing with unfamiliar players.
Tending to take things at her own pace, she doesn't worry needlessly about gaining levels or rare items. In fact, Phobia prefers to continue hunting in dungeons far below her own level due to her fear of being caught up in more than she can handle.
She has acquired a distaste for parties containing more than two players, but usually won't complain if she happens to be in one. Solo fighting often doesn't work for her, as her need for the company of others outweighs her antisocial tendencies. Yet, she isn't completely opposed to training alone. Her soft-spoken nature prevents her from making many friends, so she has actually become accustomed to exploring areas by herself.
One setback of this is that she now seems incapable of teamwork. At her core, Phobia is a selfish player who will abandon her own party when a dangerous situation occurs. Though, she truly wants to become a better person and teammate, so hopefully she will eventually learn to cooperate with others.
In a crowd of players, Phobia probably wouldn't stick out as someone extremely interesting. Basically, she seems to only display constant apathy toward everything and everyone. She is rarely fazed, and can't express her emotions or desires without much difficulty.
Always taking things literally, she doesn't exactly understand jokes or sarcasm, leaving others to wonder if she possesses even an ounce of humor in her body. However, imagination isn't something she lacks, as Phobia tries to find meaning in everything. To her, nothing is insignificant.
She finds it hard to accept any form of payment or even simple gifts from players, and has been known to leave the treasure chests in dungeons untouched. For some reason, she will only take popsicle sticks, a useless treasure item found in newbie fields. She will also, on occasion, seek out status raising books to add to her collection. One such book she has been searching for since hearing of its existence is entitled 'Secret: Reason'. When used, it is supposed to increase magical defense, but she does not intend to waste it so frivolously. She strongly believes that it may be useful in other ways besides its original purpose.
Sample Role Play:'Muddy water pooled around her thigh-high boots, a distorted image of her body reflecting off of its murky surface. Her mirrored self stared back up into her eyes intently, as if questioning her motives for participating in such a fruitless war. Half of the answer was literally staring her straight in the face, and she found herself silently mouthing the words, 'For myself...' While the deeper, more meaningful part of her answer lay beyond her own reflection, glistening dimly somewhere just out of reach.'
Studying the passage carefully, she picked and pried apart the seamlessly bound words. Like her mother's old jewelry box, they were locked tightly, filled with untouched secrets that were worthless to those who possessed real diamond encrusted necklaces. Yet, to people whose worth was reflected in noble intentions rather than priceless gems, what could be found buried within the pages of her novel could never be meaninglessly sold away.
The sound of metal grating against hard concrete brought her back to reality. She disliked it. Reality. It wasn't a world she wished to be a part of. She could only watch it in its course, all the while words formed in her mind which were left unspoken. So, she stayed on the edge, wavering from imagination to reality as thoughts and reason dictated. Somehow, she always found a logical justification to align with neither side. The edge of the world as well as on the brink of insanity were where she belonged.
"I'm leaving."
Words of parting from the man who held her captive for ten years. She would miss him, though not terribly. He would return, however, so she wasn't worried.
"I'm staying then," she whispered automatically under her breath, tired and jaded from the old, boring routine. Of course she would stay, one couldn't help it when there was no where else to go.
Her feelings of dedication bordering on affection had sprouted and grown from a mixture of separation anxiety and Stockholm syndrome. She had never faced cruelty while living with him, yet kindness wasn't a part of the situation either. What existed between the two of them was only empty nothingness. However, devotion and loyalty had managed to work their way into the nonexistent relationship. He needed her as she needed him, though speaking of such nonsense seemed almost taboo. One solid fact proved the forbidden idea true, she had never attempted to escape from him. Yet, it was a hypothesis that had remained untested, as the opportunity to gain freedom hadn't ever presented itself.
Until today.
Calmly marking the page in her novel by folding in the top corner of the yellowed paper, she placed the hardback book on the floor, slightly tilted against the stone wall of her prison. Padding softly over toward the cell door that cast an equally barred shadow across the wall opposite it, she stared thoughtfully at the rectangular outlines of black against gray. Was it symbolic of the fact that even beyond the bars and isolation, only another prison awaited her? She reflected upon this question for a few moments before reaching out a pale hand to lightly brush against the bars of steel. The door pushed open easily, swinging outward on its hinges with a faint, protesting creak. The sound of empty promises.
There wasn't anything to stop her from leaving then and there. In fact, she could have left ages ago, he no longer bothered to lock anything anymore. However, he had never asked her to leave either.
Their rural community was full of poverty and crime. She was lucky to be alive. Could one ever find happiness and peace in a country plagued with war and corruption?
She logged on for the first time that day, from an ancient, dusty computer which sat atop a pile of empty crates in one corner of the room. She knew he had used it a few times in the last month, and had often wondered as to what purpose he had spent staring at the glowing monitor screen, slightly speckled with smudges of dirt.
Slowly lifting a black headset off of the floor, she placed it over her eyes, adjusting it accordingly until it felt comfortable on her face. Her senses were instantly teleported into another world. 'The World', as the login page stated in bold font, was what this new dimension was called. Fascinated, she clicked on page after page, devouring information about the game as if she had been starved of written words. English was not her first language, but she had read several texts written in it, including the Bible. Although she was not a religiously inclined person, most of the English she had learned growing up came from hours of struggling through the complicated verses.
After around half an hour of studying the various instruction manuals provided for beginners, she decided to create a character of her own. The game asked for a name and password, and she was puzzled as to why she was asked for such things. At first, she tried to fill out the blank space with her own name, but found that it had already been taken. Eventually, she entered in something which was unused.
Constructing a password wasn't quite as difficult. She threw her first and last name into the box without a second thought, wishing to retain at least part of her original identity.
Scrolling through the nearly limitless possibilities of outfits and hairstyles for her character, she rushed through the process, finding a suitable look within the first few minutes. The only part she had scrutinized over was her character's boots. As the freshly created character was only a distorted reflection of her real self. With it she could grope around in the murky darkness of the new world, to perhaps, one day, obtain her own answers as to why she continued to participate in such a fruitless war.
Agoraphobia
