#introduction. caldra

[adaquam]

[ ivana baquero, cis woman, twenty-nine, she/her ] for the crimes of piracy CALDRA THORNE is hereby wanted. those who surrender them dead or alive to the crown will receive ONE HUNDRED pounds. they’re famously known to be part of the THE HARBINGER as their REAVER. before engaging be warned as they can be RUTHLESS AND ARROGANT, but if you’re lucky they’ll be METICULOUS AND CHARISMATIC. legends say that when you speak their name you’re reminded of blood-slicked steel glinting beneath the moonlight, swung with ceremonial grace / laughing at the gallows, lips stained with someone else’s wine / a fire-lit silhouette watching a sinking ship, smoke curling from the ruins. 

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒

full name. caldra thorne nickname(s). don’t date of birth. may 19th, 1700 age. twenty-nine affiliation. the harbinger  role. reaver birthplace. andalusia, spain current location. tortuga, saint-domingue gender & pronouns. cis woman, she/her orientation. bisexual biromantic

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

positive traits. meticulous, charismatic, candid, dexterous negative traits. ruthless, arrogant, disputatious, selfish mbti. entp-a – the debater enneagram. 8w7 – the independent moral alignment. true neutral deadly sin. greed heavenly virtue. patience zodiac. taurus character parallels. yennefer of vengerberg, the witcher / thea queen, arrow / o-ren ishii, kill bill / loraine broughton, atomic blonde / kuvira, the legend of korra / ardyn izunia, final fantasy XV / drusilla, buffy the vampire slayer

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒

mother. annet thorne, status unknown  father. merrick thorne, status unknown siblings. six or so siblings, status unknown

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘

tw: violence, murder, cults

You were born in the gutter, in a salt-cracked shack at the edge of a forgotten inlet. Your mother prayed to stars that wouldn’t listen as she scrubbed floors until her knuckles bled. Your father drank himself into oblivion and prayed the sea would swallow him whole. The others – siblings, cousins, strays who came and went – begged for scraps and prayed to survival, as though it were the highest form of reverence. 

But not you.

Even as a child, you know that you are not one of them. Not by temperament, not by destiny. Your parents tell you that suffering makes you strong – but their suffering reeks of surrender. You watch your kin beg and scavenge and call it virtue. You find their complacency revolting – how they would bow to the world rather than trying to break it. You look at your family and you see a cage – not cruel, not violent, just insultingly small.

By the time you turn ten, you have already made up your mind. You walk out before sunrise without so much as a goodbye. You steal a dagger from your brother and a coin from your father – a spectre hovering over them as they sleep in their own filth. They are beneath you – they have always been beneath you. And deep down, you think they knew it too.

THE CLAVE finds you in a border town – small, starved, and covered in mud, but dangerous. They recognise something in you – talent, sure, but also promise. Precision, purpose, poise. They call themselves warriors – disciples of order, servants of ritual and focus above all else. They see the way you fight like it means something, every motion sacred, and they mistake it for discipline. They mistake you for one of them.

They train you in the old ways – breath before blade, silence before strike. The Clave value balance, restraint.  You learn their form and memorise their chants. You study anatomy like scripture – learn the fastest ways to gut a man or make him talk. You master your blade like an extension of yourself – the perfect soldier. But while the others fight to protect, you fight to dominate. Where they seek peace, you find pleasure. And soon the whispers start.

They say you do not kill with regret, but with reverence. You do not mourn your enemies, you admire them – what a gift it must be to die by your blade. You dance through blood with a smile that is far too wide and orchestrate battles like ballet. They try to tame you, to shame you. They call your viciousness a flaw instead of an evolution. When they cast you out, they do so in silence – afraid that uttering your name might invoke your wrath.

When you return, it is with vengeance. You move through them like smoke – silence, sacred, unstoppable. They had moulded you into a weapon, and now they would see you turned against them. You slit their throats without ceremony and wet your boots with their blood. When it is done, you light their sanctum with oil and ritual salt. You watch as the flames dance, whisper blessings over charred bones. Your blade hums against your spine, as though pleased.

After this, the world is yours.

You drift from port to port like a ghost – offering your sword to whoever pays the most coin, or whoever offers the most beautiful prey. You do not kill for justice, but for pleasure. Not everybody is worthy to die by your hand, and you pick your victims with almost religious scrutiny. You carve a reputation as a mercenary with taste – never random, never messy, always clean and deliberate. Always with the scent of smoke left in your wake. Your sword is your god and fire is your offering – you are but a vessel of righteousness.

Eventually, the HARBINGER finds you. You are recruited without ceremony – a note nailed into the corpse of your latest client; a meeting aboard a sacred ship and a shaking of hands. It is a perfect fit – you all share the same madness, after all. They do not test you, do not question your skills – your name is already worth more than your weight in gold. They anoint you with a title: REAVER. A warrior of ritual precision – a weapon deployed only when the strike needs to be swift, focused, and final. You are a warrior who bows only to gods of your own design, who fights like prayer, who offers death as a gift.

They whisper that you speak to your blade, that you kiss it goodnight. That you remember every name you’ve ever carved into bone. And perhaps you do. Because when the fog rolls in and the ocean goes still, you do not sleep. You listen. To the fire, to the ghosts – to the beating inside your ribs that is always slightly out of time.

Worthy is the one who dies by your hand, and unworthy is the world that dared to try and keep you small.