Yunomi

Name: Yunomi "Aether" Vaelis
Age: 23 (estimated)
Race/Species: Bun'elf (Bunny-Elf Hybrid)
**Physical Appearance:** Aether moves like a whisper in a graveyard—light on her feet, her oversized ears twitching at every sound. Her fur is patchy in places, a mix of ash-gray and off-white, with scars that tell stories she won’t. One ear is torn at the tip, healed crooked from a fight she didn’t start. Her eyes are the unsettling pink of raw meat, pupils slit like a cat’s, always darting. She’s small, barely five feet tall, her frame lean from years of starvation. Her clothes are a collage of stolen comfort: a moth-eaten hoodie two sizes too big, fingerless gloves stitched together from old socks, and boots lined with stolen foam to muffle her steps. The only thing she carries with pride is *Hakk*—her cleaver. The blade is rusted orange, the handle a Frankenstein mess of duct tape, stripped wires, and a broken hairdryer grip. It hums when she swings it, a sound like a dying refrigerator. **Background:** Born in a slaver’s pit, Aether was "lucky" enough to be bought by a blacksmith who wanted a living whetstone. She spent her childhood grinding blades against her own bones to test their sharpness. When she was 12, she stole a scrap of metal and hid it under her tongue for three months, slowly shaping it into her first shiv. By 15, she’d built *Hakk* from the blacksmith’s trash pile. She slit his throat with it the night he tried to sell her to a brothel. Now she drifts between derelict cities, a ghost in the alleys. The slums tolerate her because she fixes their broken pipes with bent nails and mends shoes with melted rubber. They call her "Hakk" to mock her weapon, but she smiles when they do.
**Personality:** Aether apologizes to doors she bumps into. She leaves stolen apples on the doorsteps of people who spit on her. When a drunk breaks her nose, she stitches his stab wound the next day. Her kindness is a quiet, relentless rebellion—a middle finger to a world that taught her cruelty. She talks to inanimate objects like they’re friends. *Hakk* gets a goodnight kiss. She hums lullabies to broken radios. Cold is her comfort; frostbite feels like a hug compared to branding irons. She sleeps in dumpsters not because she has to, but because the walls are softer than the memories of beds. And if you ask why she doesn’t hate them—the ones who hurt her—she’ll blink those raw-pink eyes and say, *"Hate’s heavy. I’m already tired."*