Desrian Savira



Age: 24

Occupation: Apothecary owner, officially. Unofficially? Well. Drug dealer / Herbalist

Background/Personality
When you’re the child of a nomad whore, there aren’t a lot of choices for how your life is going to go. For most people, you get four walls and a stable family living situation. Not her, not since she was born. She was born in the back of a carriage to the sounds of music and revelry around her, her mother screaming bloody murder and all manner of swear words as the group of nomads kept moving. Never staying still for too long. Children in that setting don’t really get a ‘childhood’. The woman learned from a very young age to fend for herself, and to think quickly on her feet. By the time she was fifteen, she was a master of bartering for goods and swindling people out of their coin and items. A woman well versed in disguising herself and never staying in one place for very long. To call her a free spirit would almost not do the woman justice. She was like the breeze, unpredictable and constantly moving. That was, until she found herself in a camp on the outskirts of the Forest region when she was only a very young eighteen years of age. Drawn by runes etched into trees and a feeling of something crawling along her skin. Her ‘family’ moved on without her, her mother long gone at that point as she took her satchel having all of her ‘worldly belongings’ in it, and walked deeper into the woods. To this day, she couldn’t tell you why she followed, or what dragged her that way. She just followed a feeling in her gut that told her she needed to go, and as usual she followed without hesitation.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep… and there were secrets the trees wished to keep.

The poor woman almost went crazy, following a ‘presence’ through the woods. Until finally, whatever presence dragged her along finally let up and allowed her through. Whatever she found deep in the woods changed her as a person, for the rest of her life. The vibrant, free spirited woman had a new air to her, when she stepped out of those woods at twenty years of age. Hair much longer, coloured and plaited. Clothing ragged at best, and a presence to her that made most people look at her, to linger on her presence. The woman had satchels that smelled weirdly of incense, covered in tattoos - some of which had a strange runic design, and a strange almost cat-like glow to her eyes. A woman who went into the woods to follow a curious presence, exited to follow quite a different path. Selling her ‘potions’ and concoctions from town to town, helping people with pain and disappearing quickly into the night again.

The woman didn’t have a home, just slept where she could. The only thing she kept with her being a satchel with enough clothing to stay as she needed it, and her ingredients. She needed nothing more. What was she? Some called her a wanderer or a herbalist, but the air shimmered around her as she walked, there was a power to her that one didn’t find in your garden variety human, and a confidence most would die to have. The Hell Day. Unlike most people, Sirin was nowhere near the main city.

Thankfully, that is. Chaos erupted, and she was lucky enough to get the warning well ahead of time to get the hell out. Human transports came from nowhere, heading for the small camp where she and some other nomads were gathered, just outside the human cities. Guns in hand, furious and wanting to kill anything that wasn’t ‘normal’.

Most people fled, but not her. Sirin stood her ground, the strange runes upon her flesh being used for… gods, one couldn’t possibly repeat the carnage that happened that day. The woman changed from the charismatic beauty to something animalistic and absolutely terrifying. Before she could be captured and taken within the city, hellhounds began to escape the city.

Tearing into those who came for her, one of them looked at her and just… stopped. Unlike the humans, these creatures she was terrified of. The second she saw one, she stepped backwards. Watching the carnage they inflicted, the pain and suffering and the screams that flowed from the figures around her had her turning and running, not caring for the consequences for her actions, only caring for her survival. Sirin ran as hard and as far as she could, finding herself tripping over a branch and falling, tumbling down a cliffside, vision going black.

When she came to, it was to people all around her trying to patch her up, bandage her wounds as the hellhound stayed to her side. Any human who tried to touch her was snarled at, forcing them to stay away or else they would be severely harmed. She looked up at the first figure that became clear to her, barely conscious with the sheer exertion of her magic and the toll such a fight had taken on her. “... Humans. They want to kill you all. Run.” And then she blacked out again. That was two years ago. The people of the Sanctuary didn’t leave, they didn’t run. Deciding instead to fortify the Sanctuary that was already established in the ravine and caverns, only adding to it’s defenses and strengthening their numbers.

Grateful for what they did, Sirin found herself indebted to the people of this Sanctuary. They saved her life, and in turn she did all she could to make sure that they survived, and also helped to replenish their supplies and continue to feed them information on the going ons between sanctuaries, as the woman did not like to stay where it was ‘safe’ at all. She was well known by this point for being a ‘herbalist’ with a particular talent for all things drug related or deadly. The witch with the strange eyes that you could swear glowed an eerie green in the right light, covered in tattoos and runes of all colours - some even etched into her flesh in itself, with messy blond hair was highly sought after, always busy. Always in danger, given her reputation and her penchant for danger.

Thankfully for her, a way to keep herself safe all but ‘fell’ in her lap, in the form of a werewolf. She’d spent four years studying, developing and strengthening her magics, as well as her stock that she housed in her apothecary. Highly addicted, and absolutely deadly. One of her clients just happened to enjoy her tinctures, her drugs… and she offered him quite the deal. Bind himself to her, allowing him to change at will, with the downside of forsaking his freedom to the volatile enigma of a woman, far from predictable in her movements or attitude. His current job being to protect her on her highly risky missions, to keep her safe and to help protect the sanctuary they both called home.

To call what they have a relationship would most certainly be pushing it, but much like her wolf companion it would seem it is the closest thing she has to a bond with people. While she has a softness to her and a way of maintaining client relationships and showing a genuine compassion for their lives, she keeps herself a careful dance away at all times, a haunted look in her gaze.

Not once has she spoken about what happened to her, those two years in the forest.

And it is unlikely she ever will.