Claro was born to a small clan native to the biting cold of the deep north. Her people have been worn hard by their savage environment, and constant warfare with the human barbarian and Chirots that share their broken, mountainous, icy climes. As a result of their long, harrowing winters, her people know almost nothing of agriculture, and so most serve as warrior and hunter both, sometimes years before their rolebirth - an unfortunate fact, progeny of raw necessity.
As the child and sibling of several prominent warriors in a well respected family, Claro came into the cold, cold world with a great deal of expectation already put upon her - expectations that were both deepened and encouraged by her stout, wide-hipped, athletic build, and sharply dampened by her total lack of any magical prowess. It did not take many grevious failed lessons, ended with burnt fingers and singed feathers, before the elders of her clan elected to discontinue her magical learning all together, leaving the young woman to hone herself with spear, blade, and bow - tasks she took to with rigorous, admirable fury from the earliest periods of adolescence, developing her unusually sturdy frame with increasing layers of muscle.
By the time Claro was of age, ready for the ceremony of Rolebirth, she was already an accomplished young huntress, favoring the use of a long spear in the thin air of the steep slopes, where mountain goats could scarcely escape her swooping stabs, and as such, with the help of her father and brothers, attended the ceremony in a fresh suit of fine banded leather and mail armor, an ensemble completed by a glaive and shortsword, her talents with both securing her future and honor as a clan warrior, securing her the right to choose from future suitors as she pleased, without the direction of her family... a choice she would never have the chance to make.
Not long after Claro was officiated as a warrioress of her clan, boarder disputes with a large hunting tribe of Barbarian humans, pushed out of their ancestral lands by a brutal drought the spring and summer past that had whithered their prey herds, began to grow more and more alarming. Several times, Torian hunting parties were attacked in their night camps, resulting in a number of bloody skirmishes, several of which Claro participated in directly, earning herself a total of seven kills before, in her fourth engagement, an unseen arrow leapt up from murky underbrush to catch her through one of her downy white wings in the apex of one of her fearless, spear-weilding swoops, sending her plummeting helplessly into a stand of ironwoods with brutal, bone jarring force as the other warriors of her scouting party all fought and died, or fled with blood dripping and bowels dangling through the frigid night.
The buxom Torian's stay with the Iron Range barbarians was not a kind one - she wasn't given long to recover from her violent crash, but rather found herself taken again and again by an almost tireless supply of thick, muscled, bearded men with cold blue eyes and a dark thirst for her birdsong squeels of pleasure, pain, and defeat. The cold men taught her as much about pain, humiliation, and carnal, brutal submission as any of her clan had ever taught her of pride, valor, and war, using her without discretion or pity, forcing her by way of crude magic to grow ripe for nursing, and to feed and tend the small children of the clan between long hours spent squeeling and crying beneath grunting men, her wings, hands, and feet all chained together with heavy, hobbling iron.
Months passed in a pride-crushing blurr of fucking and resentful mothering, her body growing even more accustomed to the bitter cold in her constant, and often wet, soiled nudity, her muscles and bones absorbing constant batterings and bruisings, since no number of pistoning pricks or concubine piercings would fully curb her impudent, prideful tongue... But one night, the chieftan of these savage men, drunk and swollen with pride after a feast to celerbrate some great victory beyond the camp's walls, dragged her by the hair to his tent and buggered her relentlessly without so much as a drop of oil to ease the merciless use of her gorgeous derriere, eventually passing out in exhaustion atop her trembling, agonized form... she clumsily pulled herself off of, and out from under the man, stealing the keys to her bindings from his belt and fleeing naked into the night, her mended but weak wings just barely carrying her clear of the encampment before the drunken watch could notice her flight.
It was not in triumph that Claro returned, naked and battered, to the ancestral home of her tribe... but rather, with mounting despair. The small buildings lay abandoned, hastily stripped of valuables and belongings by fleeing owners. Surprisingly, though, whatever force that had caused her clan to flee in such haste had not sacked the village, and the poor thing was able to scrounge together some leather armor, a feeble armarment, and just enough supplies to begin a wandering journey southward, half searching for answers to where her people had gone... and half blindly fleeing the rough, calloused, pitiless hands of the many men who'd come to know her so intimately and unwillingly for the last half year of her young life, her wanderings carrying her slowly south, towards civilization wholly alien to her.