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|Surname| |Rathmore|
|Race| |Human| |Amnian|
|Age| |24| |Born 18th of Tarsakh 1327 DR|
|Height| |An inch or two taller than most women|
|Appearance| |Natasha's visage holds an imposing countenance of deadly beauty; dark raven hair cascading over her shoulders when free, each strand were a shadow whispered on the wind. Impeccably maintained charcoal brows rest arched above merciless amber irises, encased within dark thick lashes. Her features are youthful and maintain a smug air of superiority, full rouge lips a striking contrast to her cream complexion.|
|Weapon| |Scimitar|
|General Health| |Good Health|
|Personality| |Proud, ambitious, ruthless and making no apologies for who or what she is, Natasha is a woman who knows what she wants, and will do almost anything to get it. She will often speak bluntly and honestly, the only exception being that the opposite would yield a more favorable result.
There is a controlled calmness to her presence; a woman not easily rattled nor provoked. Each movement, every stride and word has a purpose whether for her own selfish desire or some greater goal. Despite her level of control, however, there remains an underlying streak of dark tension within her - one that is given away by a subtle restlessness in her fingers, as if she were a spring coiled too tightly. When angered that coil within her releases and her relative youth becomes apparent, exploding into a destructive force of hateful vengeance which is rarely satiated without bloodshed. That being said, in all other circumstances is well aware of when to temper herself in the interest of achieving her goals.
Natasha maintains a bleak outlook on the world around her, though never one of pity. She views it as a harsh fact of life, a dark truth that the weaker minded shy away from. Holding no qualms about discussing such things, she is a woman who enjoys intelligent conversion, and at times the trading of clever barbs and wits.|
|Deity| |Bane|
|Initial Alignment| |Lawful Evil|
|Base Class & Proposed Development| |Rogue/Fighter/Blackguard/WoD|
|Languages| |Common, Elven, Thorass, Rogue's Cant|
|Background| |Natasha grew up in the middle-class society of Athkatla, Amn's capital city. She was a well-to-do child in her youth, working hard to earn the respect and admiration of her parents. Such innocence was short-lived, however. The patriarch of the Rathmore household was a man who brandished an iron fist, raining down blows on those within striking distance. It was Natasha who took most of these, at first a helpless attempt to see that no harm came to her younger sister. As she grew her helplessness became quiet defiance to injustice. Defiance became hate. Hate resulted in the slaying of her attacker, determined to see him pay for what he had done. Though it was ruled a case of self-defense, Natasha's mother and sister shrank away from her, casting the adolescent out of the family home and onto the streets.
With nowhere left to turn and seeking some semblance of order, Natasha enrolled in the Athkatlan City Watch around the time of her eighteenth year, where she was provided with food, shelter and training. She relished the feeling of a blade in her hand, and the power that came with her role. But it wasn't, enough. She'd had but a taste and now desired a full meal, driven by her desire to purge that feeling of helplessness within her. To better herself, and everyone around her. In the privacy of her quarters within the barracks, Natasha began to research the arcane in an attempt to make herself a more formidable opponent. It was in the darker side of the arcane that she delved deepest, reading into all manner of rituals and spells. Rather than practicing the art of casting, she applied her learning directly into her flesh in the form of artfully done ritualistic tattooing from which she would draw power.
It was during patrol in the Temple District that Natasha discovered Bane. At first she resisted, attempting to fine the priest who preached in it's streets. The message was too real, and the words spoken stirred a deep fear within her. During the second encounter, however, she halted her stride and began to listen to those empowering words. Sensing the darkness and pain that loosely curled around her heart in wisps, and the potential in what she could become through conversion, the priest channelled his time and effort into coaxing her down that path with promises of power and purpose. The path of Bane was the path of the panther, not the gazelle. It took little convincing.
Entering her adult years, Natasha had fully embraced the call. Her endeavours had turned hungrily to the divine will of Bane and in doing so she was blessed with unimaginable strength and potency on the battlefield. It was no secret that Amn was corrupt in it's roots, but even the guard that surrounded her feared the change that had manifested over the years. When an escorting contract was drafted with the guard, the opportunity was seized by her superiors and Natasha received her next assignment - to guard a trade caravan from Athkatla to Baldur's Gate. Over many weeks the convoy travelled until reaching their destination, far from Amn. It was here that the woman was timidly handed her papers of dismissal; parchment that became splattered with the blood of it's deliverer before being swept away in the stormy weather of the Gate.|
|Goals| |Undisclosed|