He's a crass sort not one to gently lay down the line more a line breaker. He'll let you know right away if he deems something stupid or wise. He himself through the years has made many harsh decisions, ones that would make anyone tired of the world. In this instance he takes pity on those who's lives are hindered by something uncontrollable. He does his best to guide whom he can even if that means making more harsh decisions, such as betraying one to save another. At one time he was rumored to be a wise sorcerer. But something between him and his young apprentice caused a schism which could never be repaired. In turn he fell under his students spell never to wake. His name at that time was Merlin.
His body is long more built in the chest and narrow waist. His shady brown fur curls in small twist across his body a few dark spots covering each eye and giving him muddy brown socks. Dust seems to always fleck away from his hide bits of sand marking where he's tread. Deep sea green eyes speak of hard times, times where harsh decisions were made.
In a Tarot deck, the Queen of Cups represents, most often anyway, a very real woman in one's life. A woman who is very much one's ally, a presence of support, unconditional love, and compassion. She reminds you to treat yourself well and with dignity, she comes to you in times when you need her most, and she will always tell you when you most need to hear it that you are worthy of love and respect, no matter who you are. Maybe she loves too freely, but is it not better to love too much than not enough? She brings good fortune and positive energy to the workplace and maternal nurture to the realm of health. Spiritually she represents feminine energy and the interconnectivity of all things, the flows and tides of love that bind all things in the Cosmos to one another, encouraging a relaxed spirit and an open mind to see these tides and bindings.
Ambriel may not look like a woman, precisely, being as she is a firelizard, but she is exactly the kind of maternal and nurturing presence embodied within the Queen of Cups, and she has decided that Telmaril needs a mothering sort of caretaker in his life. He's been all grown up and far from home for a long, long time, and just because he's an adult now doesn't mean he doesn't need a mother's love here and there. A warm presence on his shoulder, a voice of comfort in his mind, a compassionate listener, a dispenser of sage wisdom and maternal advice, who takes no nonsense but corrects mistakes with love instead of shame. Ambriel rarely speaks in anger, though when she does it's almost exclusively in Telmaril's defense...or perhaps because she's just been terrified out of her wits for his safety, but that's a different kind of anger, a desperate helplessness Telmaril himself should understand well and fine. Mostly Ambriel has adopted him because she wants him to never be alone again, never without a guide or guardian again, never without counsel or a confidante.
She's not large, for a Silver Mottle, Ambriel, but she has the wild silver dragon shield crest proudly stamped on her forehead and a soft little frill running from the base of the shield at the top of her skull to the base of her neck where it meets her shoulders, just like the silvers that sired her kind. For the most part, she is anatomically a Pernese flit, shiny silver-bright, as if crafted by a smith from actual silver, but her wings have a sort of cloudy pewtery swirl effect that almost makes them look feathered.
The Fire, the Fate, the Fury Guardian Female, Saomarah True Form: Coeurl Speech:Bold#ff4300
Conventional wisdom holds that fighting angry makes you fight stupid, and on a certain basic level that is true. But it isn't the totality of everything, and you know this better than most people, Telmaril. Nothing makes a man fight more desperately clever or as vicious or as proud as being well and truly furious on the level of having a cause or a person to fight for. Your god, your daughter, your nation, your brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, your mission, the people you save. It takes a certain heft of rage to keep a properly vigilant watch over one's charges, and nobody understands you better than Saomarah, Telmaril.
It galls you to see good soldiers throw their lives away on useless orders. It angers you when the powerful go out of their way to harm the helpless and disadvantaged. Preventable harm, pointless stupidity, it's all a lot of frustrating noise and as much as you hate it, Saomarah despises it. Expect her to claw through frivolous conversations with terse brevity. Saomarah's desire is to get to the point, not to charm. More predictably, however, expect her to interpose herself when someone who should not be getting hurt is at risk. Children, elderly, smaller shinies, she will take blows meant for them well before she ever allows them to come to harm, and anyone who would DARE target these demographics will find that there is a special place in Hell just for them and Saomarah will put them there personally. Saomarah is not an arbitrary zealot that will attack at random, though she's not above getting herself involved in things you might not really want to go along with. What makes her angry is what makes YOU angry. She has every intention of doing something about it, too. She is the embodiment of righteous fury, but she's the embodiment of your righteous fury, Telmaril. Don't worry too much about what trouble she'll bring home to your door. Saomarah is your soul. You yearn for the same causes and march, by and large, to the same drums.
If one was just looking at Saomarah's physical structure, one would say she looked like a coeurlregina, or elder female coeurl, but that's in her structure alone. The thing about Guardian Familiars is that they are both huge and garish, and so Saomarah is both a fair bit larger than the creature she is emulating ought to be and she is a definite eyesore to look upon. Her basic undercoat is bright neon orange, not grey or white. The accents that should be maroon are crimson. The tipping that should be black is lime green, as are the jaguar-like whorls and spots that adorn her flanks. Her horns and her claws, however, are a lovely shade of teal, much easier on the eyes and surprisingly flattering -- the teal really shouldn't pair well with the neon orange, but somehow it does. Saomarah's vertically-slit eyes blaze a baleful bittersweet orange, trademark to her rank and full of the conviction and fire to fling herself into each new challenge ahead.
You knew from moment one that Saomarah was no normal animal, but as it happens she's no normal Familiar either. As with all of her brethren from the Fade, she has a tendency to simply be somewhere in an instant, a kind of blink-and-you-miss-it teleportation. Sometimes it means you turn around to talk to her and find you have been talking to yourself, sometimes it means she talks to you suddenly when you thought you were very much alone. As a Fade spirit, Saomarah can technically pick up on all emotions felt in her presence and skim the surface thoughts of all nearby minds, but her sense of empathy and telepathy is really only both powerful and accurate when the broadcast to which she is tuning in is relevant to what she herself is, and what she is is a spirit of Fury. As a spirit of Fury, she can also project fury, causing creatures and people around her to rise up and feel agitated, though this power of suggestion may potentially be resisted. As with all of the spirits of the Liminal Passages, Saomarah possesses the ability to walk in dreams and may guide Telmaril through instances of lucid dreaming.
Anemos, the Find the Cure, Save the World Scholar Male
Research. Research. And more research. Night and day. Day and night. He never rests really. Even his dreams are about scientific facts and figures. Why in some cases this? Why in others that? Questions are always swirling around in his head. The answers just out of reach. Just out of grasp. And he needs to find them. He needs to find them fast. His life. His siblings lives. The fate of Teragaia rests on his shoulders! Well, now that is just being a tiny bit dramatic. He knows that it doesn't solely rest on his shoulders. Otherwise, he would have been driven mad long ago. In fact, he is already a little bit mad. Jumping to conclusions. Putting things together that normally wouldn't even be thought of, he uses his thinking outside the box to his advantage. Or tries to anyway.
Obsessive, he sometimes has trouble knowing when to stop and let go. He often pulls all nighters for his research. The cure for the zombie virus is just the current one in a long list of diseases and viruses he has been working on to make disappear. With a perchance for the dramatic (just a bit), you can expect shouts of "Eureka! I have done it!" Waking you up in the middle of the night. Naturally, he would apologize...And then proceed to tell you what he had discovered, insisting they tell the world before the sun even comes up.
Large for a Scholar, Anemos comes to you now in the form of a utahraptor. As tall as Tel at the shoulder, his frame is lean and lanky and somehow... twiggy, just a hair too scrawny to really look healthy. His feathers- for he has feathers, a somewhat flyaway pelt of them that cover him from muzzle to talons- are dull ivory-white banded here and there with darker mahogany. True white splashes up over his belly and both sets of paws. Speaking of paws, his forepaws are almost handlike, delicate and dexterous and possessed of honest-to-goodness opposable thumbs.
