SA | Sigastira | Nothing

Name: (Currently Nothing) Sigastira
Nicknames: Sig, Siga
Age: 13 years
    Birthday: November 10th, the Peryton
Gender: Colt
Alignment: True Neutral

Breed: Mixed - Marwari / Russian Trotter / Giara Pony / Trakehner
    Coat Color: Grulla Dun (will grow darker with age)
    Height: 9.5 hands
    Build: Lean, just now growing into his knobby knees
    Eyes: They can never seem to decide between bright yellow and vibrant green.
    Scent: Rain-washed ashes and honey.
Voicecanon: Mother Mother

Herd: Vagabond, Cult of Digend
    Rank: Nothing

Teke Color: Violet
Talents: n/a
Blessings: n/a

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Personality: ENTP | Outgoing | Good-Natured | Optimistic | Agitative | Analytical | Flippant | Inquisitive | Amoral
First Impression: Upon first meeting this young foal, there’s nothing to his friendly, good-humored bearing that suggests he was sired in the Cult - and he doesn’t seem to mind giving that impression. He acts much older than he really is, and regards himself and others as though he were already a mature adult. His boldness, acuity, and positive nature make him a pleasant enough companion, but whether his older Cult brethren find this precocious Nothing’s company annoying or refreshing, it’s all the same to him. He doesn’t seem terribly bothered by what anyone thinks of him.

Outgoing: || Compared to his more somber and discreet clansmen, Sigastira seems to have no qualms with making friendly conversation. What’s more, he appears uncommonly empathetic, and is more diplomatic of speech than any foal has a right to be. He has no discretion, it seems, even seeking company outside of the Cult. With an almost scandalous show of open-mindedness, he does not seem to discriminate between the Believers of Digend and the Heretics – although he’s learned to be more discreet when it comes to making these rather more frowned-upon liaisons.
While not excessively talkative, he does seem to have a way with words – but to those that know him better, his easygoing manners can come across as almost… cajoling.
Good-Natured: || He seems very well-behaved, especially for a foal – especially for a foal born in the cult. Patient, level-headed, and respectful to authority. He won’t bicker, he won’t fight and snap at his peers over scraps – but is content to wait and bide his time for less frictional opportunity – and somehow, he always seems to find it. Good fortune, maybe – good karma, probably not: for though his mien is entirely good-natured, there’s really very little good in his nature at all.
Optimistic: || He’s unsinkably optimistic. Although with his cool, far-from-bubbly temperament it would be inaccurate for anyone to call him a ray of sunshine, he is never one to fall into pessimism, cut his losses and give up. Some might call him a little reckless, some might call him foolish, but he can’t seem to apply those kinds of words to himself. To him, life never offers pitfalls or setbacks, only opportunity for change. But those opportunities will pass by anyone not willing to risk them.
Agitative: || Although his good behavior suggests he’s a advocate for harmony and social order, there’s nothing he likes more than watching a stir. Infighting, backbiting, and backstabbing – as long as he’s not in the line of fire, there’s nothing he’d rather watch. He loves discord – soaking up gossip and watching the spread of rumors and dissent as raptly as one would watch a flower blossom. He doesn’t mind causing a stir himself either, as long as the blame can’t be directly drawn back to him.
Analytical: || Observation, logic, and adaptation are the modes through which he navigates his young life. Far be it from him to make any decision motivated by emotion or feelings. While he doesn’t disparage the emotions of others, he has an annoying quality of regarding the matters of the heart as “quaint” and “antiquated,” although they still fascinate him to no end.
Flippant: || If he was more outwardly expressive of this particular trait, his elders probably would have little difficulty culling his insouciant ass from the herd. In its mildest form, he may come across as facetious, and of course a little roguish humor or insolence here and there from a foal was never a shock to anybody. But truly, there seems to be very little he fears or respects or can even really take seriously – be it danger or authority. He could find a reason to laugh at a funeral.
Inquisitive: || He loves learning about how things work, and all things scientific and philosophical fascinate him; he sometimes finds himself wishing he lived in a city instead of with the roving bands of Digend, so that he could have access to books and apothecaries and studies and sages that could sate his endless curiosity. But even more than that, he’s fascinated by people. Knowing about people is more practical, anyway. The way they tic, why they do things, what they do things for. Why they love, and why they hate.
Education and scholarship could teach you how to make things and use tools, but if you really learn about people – well then, you have all the tools you need.
Amoral: || Although he does have a genuine interest in others, it’s not unusual that there’s a good measure of self-interest involved. Opportunistic in nature, he has never shown any moral qualms in sacrificing one thing for another, or for going back on his word if he finds a justifiable enough loophole. So despite his sweet personality, there is that measure of duplicity – as well as the underlying roots of a budding egomaniac. The only moral rules he prescribes to are “Might makes Right,” and “An Eye for an Eye.” Though he’s not the vengeful type, he’s partial to the practical ideal of just retribution. And, small and young as he is, he’s more than happy to submit obediently to anyone mightier than himself, be they a fellow disciple or another authoritative adult. But in truth it’s never crossed his mind that anyone truly has rights over him, whether they be mighty or not.

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History:

How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore…

    The Nothing who would one day call himself Sigastira was born into the Cult in the year 1687, the first generation of his lineage to be born into the cult. Backing it up about six years before, his mother, Asteri, worked as a high-class Aodhian courtesan, before she’d sold her services exclusively to a noble from Valore. But the promises of a life of comfort and prestige had been hollow; he had systematically abused her, destroyed what dignity she had, and after no more than half a year of employment, grew bored of her. Unable to cope with neither being humiliated nor ignored, she concluded her final days in his service by biting off half his snout. In exchange for her silence on his abuse, he did not press charges for her mutilation of his face. But unbeknownst to him, she would not have told a soul even without the fragile truce of extortion.
    She quietly moved back to her old home in a more discreet, although still quite affluent district of the city, in a small estate shared with her mother. But the familiar comforts of finery and home felt like they belonged to a memory, and the familiar faces of friends and family and servants began to look more and more like ghosts. Asteri did not tell her mother what happened, but it was not for her mother’s lack of trying to help. She recognized how her daughter’s once dignified and poised silences had taken on more of an air of brooding cold. She did not enjoy anything anymore, the warm fabrics, or the expensive wines, or the old books, as she once had. She was becoming lost in her own head – and although her treatment that year seemed to have sparked the change, it seemed far from the true, underlying cause.
    Gradually she began to see her old clientele, but it was not the same. There was no more heart in her work. Her affections grew cold, and her quiet enigma and mystique became mere distance and detachment. Some of the stallions had once been friends, but she could barely differentiate any of them now. She stopped seeing them, knowing that one day she would have the urge to bite and she wouldn’t be able to repress it. She became more of a recluse, going out for a gala with her mother on occasion, but the eyes became too much. One sideways glance her direction became a staring, laughing audience of a thousand. One polite inquiry about her health or day felt like an interrogation, an accusation of the instability she felt sinking its roots deeper and deeper into her every night. She became unable to go out into society at all.
    As graceful and dignified a mare as ever there had been, Asteri had never had a strong hold on reason; what had been nothing more than a little bit of a pettiness streak in her youth had evolved into something more. But every one of the newfound fears and anxieties she converted into anger and hatred.
    She had enough wherewithal to preserve her mother from the fallout, however. One morning, the older mare came to her daughter’s chambers to find them empty. There was a brief note saying that she had left to take a holiday with a friend, and would be back in a fortnight. The old mare saw through the lie immediately, but only mourned her daughter and her fall in private.
     Abandoning her mother, it was not long before she found a new shelter under the wings of Digend, and an outlet for her inner turmoil. After leaving Eithne and finding herself in the strange country of Sirith hungry and alone, she’d met a dark and charming young stallion named Illithid. She had never kept company with anyone not of Valorian high-society, much less a vagabond – but something about him captured her. She could spit on him, and he spit back. She could lash out, and he would only laugh. She could curse him by Ignacio, and he would only smile and curse her by the name of Digend. A name she had never heard before. But it sounded so lovely, coming from his irreverent mouth.
    It wasn’t long before he convinced her to join the Cult. The other disciples were appalling, crude, and cold – a caste she had no reference for, from her upper-crust youth in Valore. They were a different race entirely. And initiation into their ranks was frightening and bloody, and nothing Asteri was used to. But, she supposed, the violence and blood was not so terribly different than that which she’d seen in her dreams as of late.
    Years later, she’d become pregnant with her firstborn. The father was Illithid, although she’d taken many other suitors in the interceding years since becoming a Disciple. Old habits died hard. Suddenly afraid of raising a foal – much less raising one in the Cult – she distanced herself from the foal’s sire and burned a number of bridges to her other lovers as well. When it was finally time to give birth, she went into the wilderness alone, and brought Sigastira into the world.
    Knowing he was as good as dead, she raised him with all the detachment of a herder tending livestock – or a medic treating a lost cause. She did not allow into her mind that had she not left Aodh, she might have raised him in safety, and given him a name. Because that recognition might have killed her.
    Instead, she could only feed him milk, and watch him gallop in a herd of his would-be killers. When the milk dried up, she left him while he slept. She would never see him again. She would go find his father, and tell him his son was dead.

…Got a lot farther by working a lot harder, by being a lot smarter…

    But the young Nothing did not die. When he woke up, he knew that she’d left, and why. He’d felt the day coming for a while. He wished his mother well, hoped that one day when he grew up big and strong he could see her again. In the meantime, he would run with the other nameless foals.
    Life as one of Digend’s bastard sons was as difficult as could be expected. He spent his days eating weeds, avoiding fights with other colts, and dodging the dispassionate hooves of the Disciples. He knew he was as good as dead, just as his mother imagined he was, so he didn’t resent the older cultists for their neglect of them. He was as good as dead, because he hadn’t yet proven himself. But, as he grew up watching the rituals and slaughter, digesting the ideology of his kinsmen, he began to recognize how much better than death he would be.
    He was never known for any kind of violence in his youth – he never got into fights, he hardly even argued – but despite it all, he still seemed a mite too clever for anyone to rightly call him a weakling. Though he never bickered over scraps with his starving young brothers and sisters, he somehow managed to stay fed. Though he did not shy from danger, and there was no shortage of it in such a childhood as a Nothing’s, he somehow managed to stay untouched by it. All the rain and the blood fallen on him in his thirteen years could soak his pelt, but it did not touch him, nor take the light out of his eyes. Calm, kind, and impervious. He could withstand the neglect, and the abuse.
    But he had a smile that suggested all he was doing was waiting.

Roleplay History…
   

TBA

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Relationships:
<sub>Tracker: sta.sh/01795g0jp4a9
Family:
Asteri || Mother | Disciple, Former Courtesan | Unknown
Illithid || Father | Disciple | Unknown

Status: Single
Orientation: he’s a baby
Looking For: Friends!
Current Interests:
Past Interests: he’s a baby</sub>

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Trivia:

_{Gradually teaching himself to read with what resources the Vagabond life has to offer.
He is very interested in and accepting of other ways of life. Far from the xenophobia of many of those inside the cult, he is fascinated by other cultures, ways of thinking, philosophies, and is unquestioningly accepting of any kind of morality, or lack thereof. Really, nothing interests him more than learning about other people – and how they seem to tic.
Would do just about anything just to see what happens.
Likes: Autumn and Spring, Cities, Bazaars, Meeting New People, Natural Phenomenon/Anomalies, Seroran Board-Games, Talorian and Onean Strategy Games, Riddles, Birds, Foxes, Music, Watching Intoxicated People, Pushing Limits
Dislikes: There are very few things he can’t find at least one reason to like.}