Calla

CALLA the plague forger malicious • quick • nonchalant ‹━━━━━━━━« ❧

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Calla's life started simply enough. It just didn't stay that way. When she was old enough, her father gave her the hammer. She took to the forge like fire to a dry forest. She could bend any metal to her whim, could carve any intricate design into it she desired. Her work was beautiful but efficient, and she had clients from across Sorineth. But still, it wasn't enough. She needed to be better. She figured out Plague magic, after some rigorous training under Hellreek's finest. With that knowledge, she began to apply it to her work. Blades she crafted now spread plague. Breastplates infected foes with welts and sores. A gift turned into a nightmare when the recipent died of tuberculosis. The world went crazy for her gifts, but so did those scorned by them. Forced to flee her home, Calla wanders the lands in search of any clan that will take her and her cursed metals.

Calla does not come across as unnerving at first sight. She seems regular, normal even, until one really gets to know her. She's not shy about it; she talks openly about the expected pain one of her creations should give. She's almost nonchalant about it, talking about it offhandedly as if it were the weather. But there's a glint in her eye that says she knows exactly what she's saying. One should be scared of her. After a while, her unashamed maliciousness is very clear. She intentionally put more into assassination devices with glee, trying to give the poor soul the most gruesome death she can imagine. It's disturbing at best, and downright horrifying on the worst of days. She's quick, though, and is fast to play it off as just work. It doesn't matter that she thinks up torture methods as fast as one would blink. It's just work.

Calla arrives to Anville quietly and finds herself a niche job down in Badend, crafting specialty weaponry for the assassins and mercenaries. She works within one of the larger forges, hammering away at her latest orders. As she makes friends, more learn of her talent, and word spreads in the subtle way that secrets tend to, down in Badend.

One day, as she leaves the forge following a day spent before roaring flames, a beautiful young dragon approaches her. He is slender, handsome, and practically dripping with finery. 'A customer,' Calla presumes, and humbly bows as she addresses him.

"Greetings, Serah, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?"

For as tired as she may be from a hard day's work, her customs and courtesies are immaculately well-kempt. The stranger's, however, are far from it. He regards her for a moment, icy eyes giving her disheveled appearance a once over, and just as Calla is about to comment on his rudeness, he draws a weapon.

Calla's first instinct is to draw one of her own specialty items the moment she sees the glint of metal drawn from a well-hidden holster within his sleeve, but she hesitates just long enough to see that he hasn't drawn the dagger to strike, simply to present it. By the odd sheen of red that seems to lurk beneath the shining silver surface, Calla immediately recognizes it as one of her own pieces. The stranger addresses her with a voice far harsher and raspier than she would have imagined him having.

"You're the drakaina who crafted this, are you not?"

"I may be, Serah. I have crafted many items, and I remember my clients well. Though, I do not remember you. How exactly did you come by this blade?"

Calla is defensive, wary of this stranger. Her civility diminishes as she realizes he may not be a prospective client, but a failed target with a bone to pick. Red eyes glimmer and yellowed teeth flash, clear warnings to anyone. The stranger doesn't wilt beneath her threat, but rises to it, Calla notices, as she feels a bizarrely cold breeze whip past her through the balmy evening air.

"How I obtained it is not your concern." His gaze turns to the dagger in his hand as he turns it over on his palm, almost seeming to show it off. It's a slip of metal, with no discernible hilt, but the wickedly pointed end is sharpened to a fault. "Though, what I would like to know," he continues casually, conversationally, "is how you've managed to craft such enchantments into steel."

His gaze flickers up from the dagger to meet Calla's gaze. She unflinchingly returns his stare, entirely unwilling to budge. She doesn't deign to reply, so the stranger continues.

"Hexes and curses, glamours and luck, these things I've known could be melded to metalworks, but disease? That is, indeed, a peculiar trait for metal to take on."

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