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Desstra

Desstra Shayne Cloviant (Or just plain 'Dess', as she likes to be called) was born into a rather wealthy family of wine makers in the High Reaches area. The only daughter out of five children, she was lavished with love, and spoiled rather thoroughly.. although she had a falling out with her dear daddy after she hit 35 and still hadn't married to the benefit of the house, even going so far as to sabotage what her father expected to be her 'last hope' of a good husband. A headstrong woman with a somewhat unrealistic view on life, she's assured herself she'll fit in just fine at the Seacraft Hall, where a cousin informed her good work could be found - after she was booted from her home. Well, softly nudged out 'Until she can learn to behave!' were more the exact words. So now, with few skills to aid her, she's determined to wring out a living - finding herself a hint excited over this 'Quaint little adventure' until 'Daddy gets his head back together and realizes he couldn't possibly be serious!"

She is the Creator of the evil.. the most vile dance of them all --- Dum da da DUM! Straight from Keroon! The Makeroona!! SHe is also part time Beauty consultant, Fitness trainer, Interior Decorator and Hair arteest..

At 5'8", Dess is neither skinny nor plump, but rather, sleekly built - muscles defined but elongated gracefully beneath her smooth skin. She's obvious well acquainted with the sun, for she has a healthy glow about her, and her long hair, although a natural mahogany, is shot through with streaks of dusky blond. Her face seems made up of angles, her cheekbones sloping down from her pixies jawline, her glittering, green eyes slanted slightly, and her mouth a swollen V above a pointed chin. Even her nose is set at a gentle incline. She carries herself with a quiet grace, and self assurity that's probably been hard gained by her 35 Turns, 8 months, and 12 days turns of life.

Presently, a jade green dress, made of a slippery, springy material, hugs her torso before flaring softly against the round of her hips and falling in a gentle cascade to her ankles. About the hem and neckline, silvery threads weave delicate ivy patterns, dancing and shimmering in whatever light is provided and making the dress itself take on some life. On her feet, rope sandals wind up and around her ankles before clasping off to one side on a smooth, brown bead. Her hair hangs in long waves to just below her bottom, free this day, but for several small braids that have been woven from the crown of her hair and spun together into an artistic design at the back curve of her head. Lingering about her is the scent of salt and grass, the smell of the sea on storm tossed days.