Caedan Navarre is not an exceptional beauty, by any means. She is far from glamorous, even further from striking. She turns few heads, attracts even fewer stares. Yet something she possesses draws people to her, an intangible, undefinable something. Those who have spent any time with her at all, will whisper, "It's in her eyes." And perhaps they are right. Any fleeting attention she may spare to a curious onlooker is known to make the hairs on the back of one's neck rise, when that disconcerting stare is leveled upon the object of her interest. She is not shy in her study, though aside from the blatant examination, her ethreal silence is what tends to unnerve citizens more than that piercing slate-blue stare. Just as soon as she has finished her investigation, her gaze shifts, dismissing that whom had managed to curb her attention for longer than the few seconds normally garnered by the local populace.

Her auburn hair is an unruly foe, tousled curls that plague her brow without cessation. Caedan is constantly forced to push them away in order to see, and just as quickly as they are tucked behind an ear, more take those conquered locks' place. It is unlikely those curls have seen semblance of comb, nor brush in years, though they are frequently washed, and occasionally tied back from her face by a simple band of leather, though it is unlikely she cares enough to manage such a feat on her own. She is barefoot, more often than not, though she possesses a pair of boots which she habitually leaves behind in the various establishments she frequents. Her code of dress is simplistic, at best, ranging from the single dress she owns, to the garment in which she sleeps, which is more frequently than not, that very same dress.

Any attempt at engaging the demented teen proves to be futile, more often than not. Her mood is a fickle thing, her mind incapable of rational thought. Caedan is able to concentrate on any given subject for only a certain amount of time until she grows frustrated, belligerent, like a toddler denied a piece of candy. Physical touch is rarely accepted, and barely tolerated. The dangerous, blissfully unaware femme fatale is above all else, quite insane, tormented by a fragmented psyche that renders her prone to the most harsh of mood swings with the drop of a dime. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing, she watches, silent, volatile, capable of unimaginable cruelty for one so young, so innocent in expression.

The cell she called home was minimistically furnished, lacking even a bed. There was an alcove, made out of the sharp limestone that constructed the interior of the spartan room; that alcove served as a warm enough nook to catch a few hours of troubled sleep, the body occupying that space pricked constantly by the shale and covered in a blanket of shadows. There was never any light. Never. For nine years, Caedan existed in darkness. To this day, when asked how she fares, her answer is a melancholy, though honest, "I am existing." For truly, the life she led before her saviors stumbled upon that stark cell was barely an existance at all. She was kept alive — barely — and left alone. She would not see another human face for upwards of three years at a time; food was administered through a small slot in the bottom portion of the door. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. She existed. Barely.

Years passed before she even had an inkling as to why she had been taken from the home of her diplomatic father. Bait, leverage, she was told, one day, as the bevvy of prisoners in the prison camp were marched down candle-lit hallways before being taken to 'interrogation' rooms. Those inhabiting the detention center were society's undesireables, the misfits sent to seclusion so as to avoid the chaos they were sure to create. If they could have whatever power they may possess tortured from them, they were free to leave; those that would not, could not sacrifice their genetic make-up, were placed back into their cells to survive years upon years of constant darkness, interrupted only by the harsh glare of the lights within the chambers spoken of only in whispers. Caedan was never the recepient of these whispers; she experienced the nightmare her life had become firsthand. There was never any physical contact aside from those sessions, and the pain so frequently applied, had found acceptance, in her rapidly breaking psyche.

Until one day, she snapped. The teen was effectively turned into first, a raging maniac, before settling into a vegetable-like state, one in which reality was unnecessary, shunned, even. Caedan went through the motions, battling demons and angels alike, and still, she existed. She fought hard, however, clinging with a tenacity she didn't know she possessed to any thread of reality with which she many come into contact. If the cell had any windows, her captors would have been startled to find that each and every day, during every waking hour, she was fighting. Those malicious spirits that plagued her fragile psyche and tormented her body and soul became her target, and she taught herself to slay those invisible beasts. Without ever having handled even a dagger in all her life, she was expertly handling a wide-range of both melee and long range weaponry without difficulty. Yet, this alternate reality existed only in her stricken mind, epic battles fought in the recesses of a lost memory. However, proof of her grusomely won altercations began to manifest themselves in her newly-limber body, new muscle added every day to pale flesh. Even the way she carried herself began to exhibit an uncharacteristic grace, for she had never learned the wiles of womanhood, nor the poise of a lady.

One day, everything proverbially changed. In her reclusive cell, a commotion was heard outside, the door slung open, certain freedom to be claimed as soon as she stepped out the door. Only, Caedan couldn't. She was fighting again, trying desperately to best that nightmaric foe before the door slammed shut and freedom was lost. It was a young man who paused outside that creaking portal, a blank expression upon his face. She fought, desperately, spinning and dodging the imaginary beast, before surrendering and sinking down upon the ground that consisted of a welcomingly cool stone. Quinton stood there, staring in disbelief. Jack shouted urgently, and with a last glance, he fled to join his brother in escape. She remained, head buried in her hands, salty tears of defeat spilling down her cheeks. The door continued to swing enticingly, alluringly, mockingly, and finally, she stood to slam it shut. The toe of a boot caught it before it could close, and without a second thought, she felt herself hoisted into strong arms and secreted away. Somewhere along the way, she lost consciousness, perhaps when the sun's rays touched pallid skin for the first time in nine years.

Caedan jerked awake, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. There was Quinton, dabbing her forehead with a moist rag, wiping sweat from her brow, soothing the nightmare away, as he did night after night. It was a year after the dramatic rescue, and by then, she had learned the full story of what had taken place. The brothers, during one of their many exploits, had been captured by mercenaries and imprisoned in the same detention facility in which she was being held. Of course, the Navarre duo were never ones to simply accept their unhappy fate, and soon, an escape plan was hatched. Needless to say, it was successful, for after securing access to the other cells within their block, they effected their escape. Each door was opened, criminals running rampant over the grounds, chaos ensued. There was one girl. One. And Quinton came back for her. Stolen away on the brothers' ship Tranquility, she was at last, safe.

The same could not be said for the current crew of the vessel. Caedan was volatile, unpredictable, the slightest occurence capable of causing her to lash out viciously to the transgressor. However, slowly, ever so slowly, she learned to trust. Within her shattered psyche, she realized the world was not full of monsters to slay, nor creatures to smite. And slowly but surely, she emerged from her protective shell, and learned to embrace the lifestyle freedom had bestowed upon her, courtesty of the ever-present Quinton and his roguish older brother.

The nightmares persisted, she would not be freed so easily from their grip. And along with the nightmares, came visions. There was enough tinkering with her mind back in the detention center to inflict any sort of side effect, and this new affliction did not come as a suprise. The brother-figure she had found in Quinton was always by her side, chasing the unwelcome images from consciousness. However, her existence was a happy one, for the most part. The crew regarded her as dangerous, and a liability, though she willingly accepted these titles, for she — above all else — knew they were completely correct.

Jack tolerated her, Quinton accepted her, and she existed, once more.

She's hardly a bard; let us make this clear first and foremost. It's a ruse, if anything, something her protectors insist on her telling people when she is lucid enough to answer a person's inquiries. After all, it was discovered with some time and logic that her habit of informing people they could well be killed were they to find out who she really was didn't quite sit well with the local patrons in taverns she came upon. Instead, she now introduces herself as Caedan Navarre, having taken the brothers' surname for lack of one of her own. However, the name you receive could be almost anything she chooses to give you, for she hardly is cognizant enough to function in any comprehensible way for the most part.

Jack has long since been missing, taken captive in one of the many altercations with those that constantly dogged the trio, and Quinton has taken over Tranquility, acting as interim captain. He is solely responsible for Caedan's safety, as various bounty-hunters have surfaced, seeking to return her to the detention facility she spent the majority of her years inhabiting. The reason for their renewed interest remains unknown. She is currently quite taken with a woman by the name of Naeva, who manages to soothe the teen's troubled mind, as well as keep the gruff Ethan — another crew member — at bay when Caedan has stolen one of his weapons, as she is want to do on occasion.

What could possibly be the reason for the resurfacing of the bounty-hunters and the veritable man-hunt issued for the unstable teen? Surely something heinous enough to cause a virtual realm-wide search, enough to make Tranquility a perpetual target in practically every port in which they docked. Home is a marked vessel, the Navarres branded as criminals and outlaws, the girl labeled dangerous, a liability to all with whom she comes into contact.

A new tale unfolds, as Tranquility lies secreted away in a cove, just offshore the coast of Cenril.

More recently, she was imprisoned within the temple of the demi-god Vakarash, for striking down several of his followers in combat. Surviving the taxing experience was not readily accomplished, for if she was not attempting to stay in one piece through various, poorly-planned rescue attempts, she was also attempting to avoid incurring the wrath of the fallen demi-god by besting yet another follower sent to taunt her. Though she carries no scars to testify of what she has endured, her mental fortitude has yet been tried, and unfortunately been found wanting. Inexplicably, the vampiric deity decided to free her, though not before imparting a dark gift.

A black mist swirls about the sword, caressing the dark, cerulean-shadowed blade, embracing it within an ominous shroud. Fallen Dream, a legend known only in the minds of those who are forced to inhabit the depths of hell. The brand is a fickle thing, having forsaken it's original owner, and returned to it's creator, who in turn, bestowed it upon the dark lord whom gifted it to Caedan. Fallen Dream is both a blessing and a curse to the teen, for it is, needless to say, a powerful weapon. If it draws blood during battle, it instills into its victim temporary paranoia and insanity, and that poor soul will be forever plagued with nightmares of the blade's creation. However, it seems to have the opposite effect upon the mentally-disturbed Caedan, for when she wields it, her mind is suprisingly to be found in a lucid state, free of confusion and dementia.

Again, she exists, now accompanied by the ethreal presence of Fallen Dream, and an aloof onyx lupine companion, as well as a forever-doting brother whom she adores above all else, as he is the sole thread that keeps her from unraveling completely. The remembrance of a hushed promise now chases away fragmented images of a frightful past, and it is to this memory does she now cling.

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