Scripturient
Serf
- Local time
- Today 1:03 AM
- Messages
- 8
- Age
- 41
- Pronouns
- Her/She
"If all we have is this imagined empty canvas of endless possibility...this potential heaven...then let it be our haven. A place of marriage between two souls desperate to feel something beyond the cruel tedium of real life. If we truly be the masters who dream these dreams then let our innermost desires fuel the adventures we create and the love that we make here, let it all unfold endlessly or for only a brief moment in time but for as long as it breathes let it devour and I will forgive you your boldness if you will be so good as to forgive me mine..." ~ Scripturient
Hola! I'm Scripturient and welcome to my introduction.
I've been writing role-play for 15+ years of my life and pride myself in having grown much throughout the years. Developing my skill as a writer has been a serious endeavor for me and I've always striven for improvement and have found that in order to best aide in this pursuit of self-betterment its been crucial for me to seek out writers who's skill level matches or (even more helpful) surpasses my own. I am a multi-paragraph storyteller who puts strong effort in character development and as much as I do enjoy a good 'love at first sight' story I have oft times an even greater adoration for a challenging love/hate dynamic between mains. It should also be noted that I will never write stories where the main focus is smut, sex of course will always make an appearance in the worlds we create together (slow burn and sexual tension is a requirement for me) but it should be treated as a cherry on top of the sundae rather than the sundae itself. Kink-wise I am - so sorry to the majority who read this - a vanilla(ish) sundae type of girl. Those who reach out should be aware that the stories I tell through my characters come saturated in mature and dark themes. Lastly, I ask that my partners use discord as a homebase for all OOC socializing and collaboration as well as use actual pictures (or no pictures at all) for FC's.
And now…my girls…
Hola! I'm Scripturient and welcome to my introduction.
I've been writing role-play for 15+ years of my life and pride myself in having grown much throughout the years. Developing my skill as a writer has been a serious endeavor for me and I've always striven for improvement and have found that in order to best aide in this pursuit of self-betterment its been crucial for me to seek out writers who's skill level matches or (even more helpful) surpasses my own. I am a multi-paragraph storyteller who puts strong effort in character development and as much as I do enjoy a good 'love at first sight' story I have oft times an even greater adoration for a challenging love/hate dynamic between mains. It should also be noted that I will never write stories where the main focus is smut, sex of course will always make an appearance in the worlds we create together (slow burn and sexual tension is a requirement for me) but it should be treated as a cherry on top of the sundae rather than the sundae itself. Kink-wise I am - so sorry to the majority who read this - a vanilla(ish) sundae type of girl. Those who reach out should be aware that the stories I tell through my characters come saturated in mature and dark themes. Lastly, I ask that my partners use discord as a homebase for all OOC socializing and collaboration as well as use actual pictures (or no pictures at all) for FC's.
And now…my girls…
UNAVAILABLE
Genre: Modern Supernatural
"Either werewolves or brain cells...either way I'm killin' somethin' tonight."
Full name: Leora "Harvey"
Face Claim: Eliza Dushku
Species: Human
Occupation: Hunter
Notable features: Alcoholic / Stubborn / Reckless / Lost / Chaotic / Dark witted
Age: 39
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Height: 5'5
Sexuality: Straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Harvey tends to keep to herself but not in the "shy, keeps her head down" sort of way, more like in the "she just wants the world to leave her the fuck alone" kind of way, at least that's the vibe she (strongly) gives off but really she just doesn't want to feel anymore, nor does she want to get anyone else killed, she can't take much more guilt you see, something she'd never admit to readily so it's just easier to appear heartless to keep people away. If it ever were to happen however, if someone were to infiltrate her heavily guarded heart, she'd be fiercely protective.
History: Leora was always a free spirit; loving, happy, tender. She grew up in Oregon; normal life, loving parents, only child. She was a literal Prom Queen, a girly-girl in many ways, a stark contrast to the reckless, bitter alcoholic she is today.She met her husband Ahmik through a friend. He was wild, untamed, lived remotely. A hunter and tracker, he lived off the land and taught her how to do the same. She fell in love with him and his family (notably Mata Toma, Ahmik's mother) who were of the Coquille tribe living along coastal land. Leora loved her visits to the reservation, she basked in the culture and love his family showered on her and afterwards, for a brief moment in time she lived with them there, trying to heal after the tragedy that occured. Mata always said Leora had a good spirit but after Ahmik and Ahote's passing she feared for her deeply, she'd seen the shift in her eyes and the numb, distant coldness take hold. The day she left the reservation was the day she stopped answering to Leora as Leora had died with her husband and son and she refused to use a dead woman's name. From that day forward she was just Harvey.
She found "The Order" nearly a decade ago, or more like it they found her after discovering a string of her kills which all too easily led straight to the grungy, cheap motel she'd holed herself up in. After a few blows and some conversation, a sort of reluctant but mutual agreement was reached. Harvey would join The Order and swear allegiance to its mission since it was made clear to her that she didn't really have a choice in the matter, it was either join or be killed and since Harvey had yet to accomplish her vendetta against the werewolf who had killed her husband and son, she begrudgingly acquiesced. She submitted to The Order and its intensive training program as well as to being microchipped, she even took the dipherium, the cocktail The Order injected their Hunters with to enhance their "natural human abilities". Where it didn't quite level the playing field it at least made the fighting more fair and as much as Harvey hated shooting up every month and as much as she loathed the feeling of being traceable 24/7 by big brother, in the end she told herself that it would be well worth since playing good little soldier gave her access to resources she could use to find and kill her ultimate target, namely the werewolf Dolan Cole.
Story: "The Order", an organization of (human) hunters who's proclaimed goal is to maintain a healthy equilibrium between preternatural entities and the human populace. While not officially admitted however, it is widely understood that The Order finds no moral hesitancy when it comes to alliances of convenience and scientific experimentation if said collusion and research can be justified in furthering its own unspoken goal of supernatural exploitation and eventual subjugation. The drug they give to each hunter for example, dipherium, is a direct result of said experimentation. Combining a slew of occulticly "infused" ingredients, it's main components however include modified DNA derived from uncanny donors. These ingredients when mixed properly induced enhanced strength, speed, endurance, and healing. Over time the drug loses its potency and boosters are required.
Nearly a decade after joining The Order Harvey has yet to achieve her goal and has long since resigned herself to the fact that the werewolf Dolan Cole is likely dead and thus so is any chance she will have to ever feeling the vindication she's craved for years. She'd been told hunters tended not to live past thirty and now she's pissed because she was lied to about that. Career life expectancy aside, she figured the booze would take her out way sooner than it has because of the dipherium. She'll turn 40 this year if she lets herself but as the nights march on the number 39 seems a nice, little odd number to hang her hat up on. It's mostly just a joke since Harvey had never been the "easy way out" kind of gal and yet reality is that she's become very reckless these last couple months, almost as if she's courting her demise subconsciously. For instance, it seems she's actually managed to forget her last shot of dipherium. It's weirdly just slipped her mind altogether somehow and the poor things starting to feel the effects.
It's October now and she's holed up in Seattle in some grimy no-name motel ordering disgusting Chinese take-out she barely touches while playing drinking games with no one but herself. One swig for every negative thought she has. She's good at the game. She's built a pyramid made of empty whiskey bottles she's erected on the rickety wooden table beside the TV she's set on a channel that only gets snow. She keeps the room dark because she likes the television statics light.
Story Notes: So, obviously all of Harvey's issues stem from loss. She's lost her husband and her baby at the hands of a werewolf and through those losses she's lost herself and what very little she didn't lose of herself on the night they were killed she's been slowly drowning with whiskey. This girl does not want to be here, yet she's very against the direct route of just taking her own life so she's stopped taking her monthly dose of dipherium instead. When our story begins she will just be starting to feel the effects of coming off the drug which will be a severe power nerf, rendering her merely mundane-human level strong. She'll be slower and weaker of course as well as immunocompromised compared to the healing capabilities the drug had given her before, she'll prolly also start feeling the consequences of her years of drinking sooner rather than later. It should be noted however, that all she needs to do in order to remedy herself is to just start shooting up again. Easy-peasy! But unless she has a real reason to shoot up (one way more convincing than dying) the girl just won't do it. That's where YC comes in…
Just how beautifully and twistedly poetic would it be if the girl who's whole purpose in life is torturing and killing werewolves (oh, did I mention torturing?) were to fall in love with a wolf? That the one person that could turn Harvey back into Leora be a wolf? Well, that's my vision. How clean the process is I can't promise anything, but I can promise a good time. Looking forward to your own thoughts and visions.
Genre: Modern Supernatural
"Either werewolves or brain cells...either way I'm killin' somethin' tonight."
Full name: Leora "Harvey"
Face Claim: Eliza Dushku
Species: Human
Occupation: Hunter
Notable features: Alcoholic / Stubborn / Reckless / Lost / Chaotic / Dark witted
Age: 39
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Dark Brown
Height: 5'5
Sexuality: Straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Harvey tends to keep to herself but not in the "shy, keeps her head down" sort of way, more like in the "she just wants the world to leave her the fuck alone" kind of way, at least that's the vibe she (strongly) gives off but really she just doesn't want to feel anymore, nor does she want to get anyone else killed, she can't take much more guilt you see, something she'd never admit to readily so it's just easier to appear heartless to keep people away. If it ever were to happen however, if someone were to infiltrate her heavily guarded heart, she'd be fiercely protective.
History: Leora was always a free spirit; loving, happy, tender. She grew up in Oregon; normal life, loving parents, only child. She was a literal Prom Queen, a girly-girl in many ways, a stark contrast to the reckless, bitter alcoholic she is today.She met her husband Ahmik through a friend. He was wild, untamed, lived remotely. A hunter and tracker, he lived off the land and taught her how to do the same. She fell in love with him and his family (notably Mata Toma, Ahmik's mother) who were of the Coquille tribe living along coastal land. Leora loved her visits to the reservation, she basked in the culture and love his family showered on her and afterwards, for a brief moment in time she lived with them there, trying to heal after the tragedy that occured. Mata always said Leora had a good spirit but after Ahmik and Ahote's passing she feared for her deeply, she'd seen the shift in her eyes and the numb, distant coldness take hold. The day she left the reservation was the day she stopped answering to Leora as Leora had died with her husband and son and she refused to use a dead woman's name. From that day forward she was just Harvey.
She found "The Order" nearly a decade ago, or more like it they found her after discovering a string of her kills which all too easily led straight to the grungy, cheap motel she'd holed herself up in. After a few blows and some conversation, a sort of reluctant but mutual agreement was reached. Harvey would join The Order and swear allegiance to its mission since it was made clear to her that she didn't really have a choice in the matter, it was either join or be killed and since Harvey had yet to accomplish her vendetta against the werewolf who had killed her husband and son, she begrudgingly acquiesced. She submitted to The Order and its intensive training program as well as to being microchipped, she even took the dipherium, the cocktail The Order injected their Hunters with to enhance their "natural human abilities". Where it didn't quite level the playing field it at least made the fighting more fair and as much as Harvey hated shooting up every month and as much as she loathed the feeling of being traceable 24/7 by big brother, in the end she told herself that it would be well worth since playing good little soldier gave her access to resources she could use to find and kill her ultimate target, namely the werewolf Dolan Cole.
Story: "The Order", an organization of (human) hunters who's proclaimed goal is to maintain a healthy equilibrium between preternatural entities and the human populace. While not officially admitted however, it is widely understood that The Order finds no moral hesitancy when it comes to alliances of convenience and scientific experimentation if said collusion and research can be justified in furthering its own unspoken goal of supernatural exploitation and eventual subjugation. The drug they give to each hunter for example, dipherium, is a direct result of said experimentation. Combining a slew of occulticly "infused" ingredients, it's main components however include modified DNA derived from uncanny donors. These ingredients when mixed properly induced enhanced strength, speed, endurance, and healing. Over time the drug loses its potency and boosters are required.
Nearly a decade after joining The Order Harvey has yet to achieve her goal and has long since resigned herself to the fact that the werewolf Dolan Cole is likely dead and thus so is any chance she will have to ever feeling the vindication she's craved for years. She'd been told hunters tended not to live past thirty and now she's pissed because she was lied to about that. Career life expectancy aside, she figured the booze would take her out way sooner than it has because of the dipherium. She'll turn 40 this year if she lets herself but as the nights march on the number 39 seems a nice, little odd number to hang her hat up on. It's mostly just a joke since Harvey had never been the "easy way out" kind of gal and yet reality is that she's become very reckless these last couple months, almost as if she's courting her demise subconsciously. For instance, it seems she's actually managed to forget her last shot of dipherium. It's weirdly just slipped her mind altogether somehow and the poor things starting to feel the effects.
It's October now and she's holed up in Seattle in some grimy no-name motel ordering disgusting Chinese take-out she barely touches while playing drinking games with no one but herself. One swig for every negative thought she has. She's good at the game. She's built a pyramid made of empty whiskey bottles she's erected on the rickety wooden table beside the TV she's set on a channel that only gets snow. She keeps the room dark because she likes the television statics light.
Story Notes: So, obviously all of Harvey's issues stem from loss. She's lost her husband and her baby at the hands of a werewolf and through those losses she's lost herself and what very little she didn't lose of herself on the night they were killed she's been slowly drowning with whiskey. This girl does not want to be here, yet she's very against the direct route of just taking her own life so she's stopped taking her monthly dose of dipherium instead. When our story begins she will just be starting to feel the effects of coming off the drug which will be a severe power nerf, rendering her merely mundane-human level strong. She'll be slower and weaker of course as well as immunocompromised compared to the healing capabilities the drug had given her before, she'll prolly also start feeling the consequences of her years of drinking sooner rather than later. It should be noted however, that all she needs to do in order to remedy herself is to just start shooting up again. Easy-peasy! But unless she has a real reason to shoot up (one way more convincing than dying) the girl just won't do it. That's where YC comes in…
Just how beautifully and twistedly poetic would it be if the girl who's whole purpose in life is torturing and killing werewolves (oh, did I mention torturing?) were to fall in love with a wolf? That the one person that could turn Harvey back into Leora be a wolf? Well, that's my vision. How clean the process is I can't promise anything, but I can promise a good time. Looking forward to your own thoughts and visions.
This wasn't about the girl. Harvey had to remind herself of that as her hazel eyeballs continued to steal shameful glances at the unconscious beauty lying all supine and pristine behind her in the backseat of Harvey's '76 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Really, there was quite literally in fact no girl at all for this to possibly be about. Oh, it was true that there used to be. Once upon a time, pre-bite, but now? Just another rabid animal to be put down. It would be a "mercy" killing, so to speak. And Harvey was, if anything, merciful.
Rewind...
Her plan, one month in the making had gone off without a hitch and she'd been rather lucky in a sad, poetically maudlin sort of way to find such a fitting target. She was a beautiful, happy, relatively young thing (as far as werewolves went). Fresh. Effervescent. Gregarious. Full of life (though not for long) and most important of all...loved. She was perfect...but...this wasn't about the girl...
"Oh, thank fucking Christ...I thought no one was gonna stop for me...I was this close to bursting into tears..." Harvey had laid on the desperation thick enough to persuade even the most suspicious of skeptics. She'd even dressed the part of a harmless, bougie woman stranded in some bad, unforseen turn of luck. She was wearing a dress for fucks sake! Of course, nothing had been wrong with the car, it was all a rouse to catch her target off guard just long enough to taze her in the throat, a tactic that almost didn't work well enough so Harvey had to zap the bitch a second time.
Time skip...
To make things easier on herself Harvey parked on the side of the wolfs house right on top of the grass. Getting in was cake and she wasted no time breaking into the gate leading into the back yard and winding her way towards the rear entrance of the house. Lock picking while under-the-influence 101 always came in handy.
The thing about unconscious bodies being super heavier than awake bodies? Yeah, definitely true but this one wasn't so bad honestly, there was definitely a difference in difficulty between dragging a males body across a lawn and up a few steps compared to dragging a females, especially a females as slim as Sarah's but that isn't to say it was a breeze.
Harvey let the body rest on the carpet while she went back to her car for more stuff. She'd put together a duffle filled with everything she'd be needing for the night and thanks to the fifteen feet of chain she'd brought, carrying the bag turned out to be more of an effort than dragging the wolfs carcass had been.
Truth be told, from initial scene of crime to actual scene of crime it did take Harvey a minute, what with all the driving, dragging, finding a proper chair, keeping the wolf propped and vertical while chaining her up. It was all very hard work, none of which she was sure would be appreciated one iota by the bitch for whom it had all been accomplished.
Now Harvey raked her fingers through the sleeping wolfs mass of healthy, shiny blonde curls, pushing back her head to view that lovely face in the light. She'd seen her enough times, in the pictures she'd covertly taken of her as well as live in person. She'd studied her features; the way she moved on and off stage, the way that perfect button nose crinkled when she really, really smiled and the way that smile always managed to reach all the way up to penetrate behind her pretty green eyes. This one was all in. She wasn't one foot already in the ground like Harvey, oh no. This one still relished life and with an innocent, sweet enthusiasm that left Harvey with a bitter taste in her mouth.
Let her sleep for awhile longer, Harvey thought to herself.
See? Merciful.
The place wasn't too shabby. Certainly wasn't fancy. It was just normal. Boring really, in all the ways a comfortable home should be boring.
I should burn it down.
Putting an inspired pin in that thought, Harvey made her way slowly down the hall, her eyes unable to help but linger over the framed pictures of a 'perfect' couples blended lives; their friends, their families, the breadth of their love on display, each image a reminder of what had been taken from Harvey, each smile for the camera a big fuck you to her pain, each "cheeeeese" a penny in her hate bank. Restraining herself was not a virtue that came easily for Harvey, nor was it necessary for her to be right here and now and yet Harvey surprisingly controlled her very strong impulse to rip every single portrait from the wall and replace it with a hole made from her fist and managed to make it to the wolfs bedroom with relative ease, though she would not be walking out with quite same degree of constraint.
It was just a bedroom; vanity, dressers, bed, closet...but Harvey wasn't really seeing any of it, instead Harvey's mind had overlaid reality with visions of her past; her own vanity, hers and Ahmik's dressers and closet...hers and Ahmik's bed...
Harvey had to physically shake her head to dislodge the mirage and the subsequent emotions it had evoked, that her sight had to land on her own reflection in the mirror directly above the wolfs vanity was unfortunate. Staring back at her was a stranger. An ugly, sad pretender wearing a Leora shaped skin suit, not super unlike Edgar the bug villain from the 'Men in Black' movie except for instead of sugar water she drank straight whiskey. Harvey began to laugh at that. A loud, hearty laugh that nearly doubled her over.
Still laughing, Harvey stumbled towards the vanity and chose at random a stupid, girly item which happened to be a tube of lipstick called...Harvey squinted to read the microscopic writing at the side of the tube..."Cherries in the Snow"...how very vintage. It had been years since Harvey had worn anything on her face besides a scowl. If her math was correct, eleven years, but then her math was likely wrong because, well...fuck math. But hey, it appeared red was still her color. After she was done painting her lips Harvey used the cosmetic as a pen and the mirror as paper to randomly scrawl in Tututni, "Can you forgive?".
It was a very good question but the answer was obvious.
Once dropped the lipstick fell against the surface of the vanity, leaving a crimson smudge only to roll off the edge onto the ground where it hit the floor and continued its roll under the bed.
"Oops."
Getting down on hands and knees Harvey peered underneath the bed planning to keep the lipstick, thinking maybe the wolf would appreciate a little color, something to help her become casket-ready. Immediately she saw the open tube but as soon as she began to reach for it she spotted a curious box.
it was large, in mint condition and whatever was being stored inside was obviously very special since no one kept tissue pepper unless the item wrapped inside of it was important. Harvey set the box on top the bed, lifted its lid and began to tear at the paper so impatiently you would have thought whatever lay inside was a gift for her and in the end perhaps it was, only one gifted to her by a twisted God that despised her.
Harvey did not move or breath upon the big reveal, she simply stared unblinking, stunned. For a split second Harvey swore she could remember what happy felt like, like a kick within her stomach from her unborn child, so real was the feeling that her hands actually rose to clutch at her abdomen but found it was flat instead of distended and full of whiskey instead of full of a baby. half a second later...a switch was flipped...
Makeup, brushes, perfume, everything that was atop the vanity, every girly thing flew into the air and collided with the wall. Every drawer that could be yanked from its cubbyhole was yanked, every item of clothes ripped from their hangers, every shoe thrown, every mirror shattered, every burlesque feather that she could find plucked, every item of lingerie torn, and the worst of it was saved for that dazzling piece of shit dress. Every shade of eyeshadow, every hue of lipstick, every caked mascara wand, and every drop of perfume was used to sully the wolfs happy until satin, silk and jewel encrusted appliqués were unrecognizable and Harvey's hands were stained and stank. Because now?
This was about the girl.
Rewind...
Her plan, one month in the making had gone off without a hitch and she'd been rather lucky in a sad, poetically maudlin sort of way to find such a fitting target. She was a beautiful, happy, relatively young thing (as far as werewolves went). Fresh. Effervescent. Gregarious. Full of life (though not for long) and most important of all...loved. She was perfect...but...this wasn't about the girl...
"Oh, thank fucking Christ...I thought no one was gonna stop for me...I was this close to bursting into tears..." Harvey had laid on the desperation thick enough to persuade even the most suspicious of skeptics. She'd even dressed the part of a harmless, bougie woman stranded in some bad, unforseen turn of luck. She was wearing a dress for fucks sake! Of course, nothing had been wrong with the car, it was all a rouse to catch her target off guard just long enough to taze her in the throat, a tactic that almost didn't work well enough so Harvey had to zap the bitch a second time.
Time skip...
To make things easier on herself Harvey parked on the side of the wolfs house right on top of the grass. Getting in was cake and she wasted no time breaking into the gate leading into the back yard and winding her way towards the rear entrance of the house. Lock picking while under-the-influence 101 always came in handy.
The thing about unconscious bodies being super heavier than awake bodies? Yeah, definitely true but this one wasn't so bad honestly, there was definitely a difference in difficulty between dragging a males body across a lawn and up a few steps compared to dragging a females, especially a females as slim as Sarah's but that isn't to say it was a breeze.
Harvey let the body rest on the carpet while she went back to her car for more stuff. She'd put together a duffle filled with everything she'd be needing for the night and thanks to the fifteen feet of chain she'd brought, carrying the bag turned out to be more of an effort than dragging the wolfs carcass had been.
Truth be told, from initial scene of crime to actual scene of crime it did take Harvey a minute, what with all the driving, dragging, finding a proper chair, keeping the wolf propped and vertical while chaining her up. It was all very hard work, none of which she was sure would be appreciated one iota by the bitch for whom it had all been accomplished.
Now Harvey raked her fingers through the sleeping wolfs mass of healthy, shiny blonde curls, pushing back her head to view that lovely face in the light. She'd seen her enough times, in the pictures she'd covertly taken of her as well as live in person. She'd studied her features; the way she moved on and off stage, the way that perfect button nose crinkled when she really, really smiled and the way that smile always managed to reach all the way up to penetrate behind her pretty green eyes. This one was all in. She wasn't one foot already in the ground like Harvey, oh no. This one still relished life and with an innocent, sweet enthusiasm that left Harvey with a bitter taste in her mouth.
Let her sleep for awhile longer, Harvey thought to herself.
See? Merciful.
The place wasn't too shabby. Certainly wasn't fancy. It was just normal. Boring really, in all the ways a comfortable home should be boring.
I should burn it down.
Putting an inspired pin in that thought, Harvey made her way slowly down the hall, her eyes unable to help but linger over the framed pictures of a 'perfect' couples blended lives; their friends, their families, the breadth of their love on display, each image a reminder of what had been taken from Harvey, each smile for the camera a big fuck you to her pain, each "cheeeeese" a penny in her hate bank. Restraining herself was not a virtue that came easily for Harvey, nor was it necessary for her to be right here and now and yet Harvey surprisingly controlled her very strong impulse to rip every single portrait from the wall and replace it with a hole made from her fist and managed to make it to the wolfs bedroom with relative ease, though she would not be walking out with quite same degree of constraint.
It was just a bedroom; vanity, dressers, bed, closet...but Harvey wasn't really seeing any of it, instead Harvey's mind had overlaid reality with visions of her past; her own vanity, hers and Ahmik's dressers and closet...hers and Ahmik's bed...
Harvey had to physically shake her head to dislodge the mirage and the subsequent emotions it had evoked, that her sight had to land on her own reflection in the mirror directly above the wolfs vanity was unfortunate. Staring back at her was a stranger. An ugly, sad pretender wearing a Leora shaped skin suit, not super unlike Edgar the bug villain from the 'Men in Black' movie except for instead of sugar water she drank straight whiskey. Harvey began to laugh at that. A loud, hearty laugh that nearly doubled her over.
Still laughing, Harvey stumbled towards the vanity and chose at random a stupid, girly item which happened to be a tube of lipstick called...Harvey squinted to read the microscopic writing at the side of the tube..."Cherries in the Snow"...how very vintage. It had been years since Harvey had worn anything on her face besides a scowl. If her math was correct, eleven years, but then her math was likely wrong because, well...fuck math. But hey, it appeared red was still her color. After she was done painting her lips Harvey used the cosmetic as a pen and the mirror as paper to randomly scrawl in Tututni, "Can you forgive?".
It was a very good question but the answer was obvious.
Once dropped the lipstick fell against the surface of the vanity, leaving a crimson smudge only to roll off the edge onto the ground where it hit the floor and continued its roll under the bed.
"Oops."
Getting down on hands and knees Harvey peered underneath the bed planning to keep the lipstick, thinking maybe the wolf would appreciate a little color, something to help her become casket-ready. Immediately she saw the open tube but as soon as she began to reach for it she spotted a curious box.
it was large, in mint condition and whatever was being stored inside was obviously very special since no one kept tissue pepper unless the item wrapped inside of it was important. Harvey set the box on top the bed, lifted its lid and began to tear at the paper so impatiently you would have thought whatever lay inside was a gift for her and in the end perhaps it was, only one gifted to her by a twisted God that despised her.
Harvey did not move or breath upon the big reveal, she simply stared unblinking, stunned. For a split second Harvey swore she could remember what happy felt like, like a kick within her stomach from her unborn child, so real was the feeling that her hands actually rose to clutch at her abdomen but found it was flat instead of distended and full of whiskey instead of full of a baby. half a second later...a switch was flipped...
Makeup, brushes, perfume, everything that was atop the vanity, every girly thing flew into the air and collided with the wall. Every drawer that could be yanked from its cubbyhole was yanked, every item of clothes ripped from their hangers, every shoe thrown, every mirror shattered, every burlesque feather that she could find plucked, every item of lingerie torn, and the worst of it was saved for that dazzling piece of shit dress. Every shade of eyeshadow, every hue of lipstick, every caked mascara wand, and every drop of perfume was used to sully the wolfs happy until satin, silk and jewel encrusted appliqués were unrecognizable and Harvey's hands were stained and stank. Because now?
This was about the girl.
Genre: Modern Supernatural
"Some people absolutely need to be blinded before they can fully appreciate the dark. It's the only way they'll ever take it seriously."
Full name: Leona Del Fiore
Face Claim: Lady Gaga
Species: Fae
Powers: Ignite - (Phoenix Bloodline) - Impervious to heat or fire. Her body naturally runs a high temperature averaging 120 degrees. She's able to manipulate flame, not create it.
Razzle Dazzle - (Autumn Court) - Primarily used for the stage 'Ona's ability to create illusions encompasses all five senses. She's gotten good enough to fool small venues; moderately sized nightclubs, theatre's and bars.
Opium - (Lived Experience) - For most of her life 'Ona has struggled with truly feeling her emotions. She has the chilling skill to go numb down to an art. That skill has manifested itself into an ability which allows her to dull a (human) persons senses (her power does not work on fae). Through intentional focus she can lull a person into a relaxed, numb state of mind to the point they can be impressionable though she has never abused this ability.
Occupation: Performance Artist
Notable features: Confident / Creative / Oddly Spiritual / Passionate / Crude / Turbulent / Unconventional
Age: 32(ish) (02/15/75)
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Born Brunette
Height: 5'1
Sexuality: Demi
Likes: Heat / Rain and the sizzle of it on her skin / Game Shows / Performing / Spicy Foods
Dislikes: Promises / People who name their cats Cali / Sensitive People / Manipulation / Weakness
Strengths: Singing / Selling herself / Acting / Intimidation / Fighting / Unhealthy relationships
Weaknesses: Offstage vulnerability / Baking / Sleeping (insomniac) / Short fuse / Faking interest
Personality: 'Ona has a hard edge to her that rightly (and gratefully) can chase away the more delicate of personalities. Individuals who smile excessively tend to make her uncomfortable. People who constantly apologize make her want to scream. She can be uncompromisingly forthright, invulnerable, and at times even mean. Many find her intimidating, a response she can appreciate. She makes no apology for preferring secure people. She admires self-will and strength in a character as well as an ability to fight back whether that be verbally or otherwise. Not all gristle and stone, her softer side is easily seen and felt by those who spend enough time around her. They will see her laugh, they will see her rage. Those with any capacity for depth perception will clearly see her heart. What is highly unlikely that anyone will ever see however, is 'Ona sad. They will never see her cry.
Friendship is important to 'Ona but she is very selective as humanity has shown it can't be trusted. Those who can withstand her personality and come to understand it may find she is a loyal friend. Anyone related to the entertainment industry and creative arts in general will find an easy in with 'Ona. Bonus points if they inspire her.
Regardless of what Kindle at times portrays onstage or what anyone could easily view online of her, 'Ona is not an overly sexual person by nature…she just plays one for the love of art when it is necessary. She understands sex. She's experienced sexual pleasure before, albeit at mostly by her own hands, but her time in porn has only encouraged her cynicism and further disillusioned her from ever feeling as if she were missing out.
The Story:
Story Notes: Sparking Development - The ultimate goal would be for 'Ona to actually open up and to eventually break down her barriers, to really feel the pain of her past and to process the emotions she's suppressed. Ultimately I am looking to grow the character.
Epiphany - Currently, 'Ona knows nothing about what she is. She's gathered some ideas of what she might be through meditation and study of various spiritualities but as of yet she is unaware of what magic runs through her veins. I'm excited to see how she would react to the truth and what court she would affiliate herself with.
Flame - 'Ona has never even been close to falling in love. She's been in short-lived relationships for one personal or professional reason or another in her past but never has it ever developed into love. It would be nice to explore whether or not she holds the capacity for it.
Burning Bridges - Because she can rub people the wrong way - many have (mistakenly) labeled her a diva, for example - it would be fun to write scenes that turn our characters into rivals or even enemies.
History:Some people weren't cut out for life, they just couldn't hack it. That will to keep going, something that should unquestionably come naturally to all living things, for some, just escaped them like the universe had simply neglected to add that part in. Batteries should always come included or else what's the point? Growing up, that seemed to be the hand her father had been dealt though he lasted a lot longer than expected. Now there was a shell of a man; bitter, joyless, mean, a horrible, nasty human being. True enough, he had every justification under the sun for being that way, at least if you asked him. Wheelchair bound after a stroke left him with half his body he relied on the state and his only remaining daughter to care of him. Effectively 'Ona served as his everything, she acted as his left side. She cooked, cleaned, helped him when he needed to shower or shit, took him to his appointments, kept his beer stocked, and made sure he never ran out of cigarettes (for her own sake). 'Ona was sixteen years old when she became a martyr.
Not ever knowing her mother, 'Ona felt a sense of obligatory devotion to her father, taking after her older half-sisters example. This was just what families did where they came from, they stuck together even when doing so was toxic. Never mind their father prior to his stroke was an emotionally and physically abusive cunt, he was all they had. Or, they were all he had. If things had worked out the way Sophie had wanted them to, she would have been the only scapegoat in the family as her martyrdom would have extended itself to her little sister. 'Ona was supposed to be the breakaway, the one who made it. 'Ona was the one with big dreams, after all, not Sophie. 'Ona had aspirations to become some famous actress or a singer one day and she was going to let her follow those ambitions because Sophie knew she had the chops to do it. 'Ona was the talented one, not her, and Sophie knew it. At least if her sister got famous she might be able to send money back home to help out. That was Sophie's plan from the beginning and it might have happened that way too if Sophie had kept on holding on, but then…she hadn't come with batteries included in her packaging.
Super Bowl Sunday was the day Sophie had decided she was done, or maybe it had been an accident, who really knows? 'Ona knew, that's who. 'Ona was the one who found her on her bedroom floor frothing out the side of her mouth, her eyes rolled back deep inside her skull. Opioid overdose. 'Ona just remembers her father looking at her as the paramedics finally gave up trying to bring her back. "God took the wrong one. Now what am I gonna do?" His words were only shocking to the coroner and EMT's, as for 'Ona they just rolled off her like water on a ducks back. It wasn't a secret Sophie had always been his favorite. He had traumatized them both the same but 'Ona had always gotten the brunt of it. Something about her mother leftover in him a darkness for the child. Subsequently, 'Ona became accustomed to his treatment of her and had grown impervious to his blows and slings.
For a time, 'Ona held firm onto the baton her sister had dropped and effectively passed on to her. She abandoned her dreams for duty and as sick as it sounds for love, or at least what 'Ona had come to know as love. To suffer an individual as despicable as her father she had to at least "love" some part of him, right? Problem was that part was just in her imagination. The little girl in her holding out hope that her father would one day see her or acknowledge her sacrifices in some way and to yes, "love" her. It just was never going to work out that way. Once he was diagnosed with lung cancer that was the straw that finally broke the camels back. It got really bad there for awhile. The fighting and mental abuse (by this point emanating from both parties) had reached a level of poison that threatened 'Ona's capacity. It was sheer luck in the end that her father finally decided to give up the ghost and with his "suicide" came 'Ona's emancipation. She was twenty years old.
Fast forward...
Hollywood, the land filled with souls for sale and bodies for rent, of hard knocks and rude awakenings. Turns out unemployment agencies were filled to the rafters with talented actors who just could never catch a break. She'd gotten a couple roles on t.v. and even one recurring spot before her offers just seemed to dry up out of the blue. Didn't help she'd caused ripples with a certain director with tons of pull in the industry. Basically blackballed, 'Ona decided to set plan B into action. She started singing at open mic nights just hoping to get herself "discovered" while waiting tables in the interim. She was a terrible waitress however and at service jobs in general and was forced to find other means to keep her belly full. Eventually 'Ona moved to San Francisco when she'd gotten the tip that that's where singers were getting offered contracts left and right. It was there she started doing porn and developed a small following which only helped her gain attention musically even if it wasn't mainly for her singing.
'Ona had always had a special fondness for fire, her fascination with it had started at an early age. She loved everything about it, the way it danced, the smell of its smoke, it's heat. She began incorporating the element into her shows as soon as she got the budget for it. One night while performing, the flames she used to decorate the stage caught her dress on fire sending her up in flames. Weird thing about that, it left her unscathed. Not one burn, not even a pinkening of skin occurred. The blaze had taken with it her clothes, leaving her naked (not anything her "fans" hadn't seen before), it even singed away most of her hair but as for her flesh, nothing, nada. The fire had done something else though, something unseen.
'Ona felt…different, like the way a near death experience leaves a person feeling changed except 'Ona never once thought as the flames were devouring her that she was any real danger of dying. On the contrary, 'Ona had never felt more alive. Her experience that night triggered something in her that ultimately set her down a spiritual path of self discovery. She quit porn, she stopped performing, deleted all her social media accounts, she basically dropped off the face of the earth for a considerable period of time before re-emerging as "Kindle".
"Some people absolutely need to be blinded before they can fully appreciate the dark. It's the only way they'll ever take it seriously."
Full name: Leona Del Fiore
Face Claim: Lady Gaga
Species: Fae
Powers: Ignite - (Phoenix Bloodline) - Impervious to heat or fire. Her body naturally runs a high temperature averaging 120 degrees. She's able to manipulate flame, not create it.
Razzle Dazzle - (Autumn Court) - Primarily used for the stage 'Ona's ability to create illusions encompasses all five senses. She's gotten good enough to fool small venues; moderately sized nightclubs, theatre's and bars.
Opium - (Lived Experience) - For most of her life 'Ona has struggled with truly feeling her emotions. She has the chilling skill to go numb down to an art. That skill has manifested itself into an ability which allows her to dull a (human) persons senses (her power does not work on fae). Through intentional focus she can lull a person into a relaxed, numb state of mind to the point they can be impressionable though she has never abused this ability.
Occupation: Performance Artist
Notable features: Confident / Creative / Oddly Spiritual / Passionate / Crude / Turbulent / Unconventional
Age: 32(ish) (02/15/75)
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Born Brunette
Height: 5'1
Sexuality: Demi
Likes: Heat / Rain and the sizzle of it on her skin / Game Shows / Performing / Spicy Foods
Dislikes: Promises / People who name their cats Cali / Sensitive People / Manipulation / Weakness
Strengths: Singing / Selling herself / Acting / Intimidation / Fighting / Unhealthy relationships
Weaknesses: Offstage vulnerability / Baking / Sleeping (insomniac) / Short fuse / Faking interest
Personality: 'Ona has a hard edge to her that rightly (and gratefully) can chase away the more delicate of personalities. Individuals who smile excessively tend to make her uncomfortable. People who constantly apologize make her want to scream. She can be uncompromisingly forthright, invulnerable, and at times even mean. Many find her intimidating, a response she can appreciate. She makes no apology for preferring secure people. She admires self-will and strength in a character as well as an ability to fight back whether that be verbally or otherwise. Not all gristle and stone, her softer side is easily seen and felt by those who spend enough time around her. They will see her laugh, they will see her rage. Those with any capacity for depth perception will clearly see her heart. What is highly unlikely that anyone will ever see however, is 'Ona sad. They will never see her cry.
Friendship is important to 'Ona but she is very selective as humanity has shown it can't be trusted. Those who can withstand her personality and come to understand it may find she is a loyal friend. Anyone related to the entertainment industry and creative arts in general will find an easy in with 'Ona. Bonus points if they inspire her.
Regardless of what Kindle at times portrays onstage or what anyone could easily view online of her, 'Ona is not an overly sexual person by nature…she just plays one for the love of art when it is necessary. She understands sex. She's experienced sexual pleasure before, albeit at mostly by her own hands, but her time in porn has only encouraged her cynicism and further disillusioned her from ever feeling as if she were missing out.
The Story:
Story Notes: Sparking Development - The ultimate goal would be for 'Ona to actually open up and to eventually break down her barriers, to really feel the pain of her past and to process the emotions she's suppressed. Ultimately I am looking to grow the character.
Epiphany - Currently, 'Ona knows nothing about what she is. She's gathered some ideas of what she might be through meditation and study of various spiritualities but as of yet she is unaware of what magic runs through her veins. I'm excited to see how she would react to the truth and what court she would affiliate herself with.
Flame - 'Ona has never even been close to falling in love. She's been in short-lived relationships for one personal or professional reason or another in her past but never has it ever developed into love. It would be nice to explore whether or not she holds the capacity for it.
Burning Bridges - Because she can rub people the wrong way - many have (mistakenly) labeled her a diva, for example - it would be fun to write scenes that turn our characters into rivals or even enemies.
History:Some people weren't cut out for life, they just couldn't hack it. That will to keep going, something that should unquestionably come naturally to all living things, for some, just escaped them like the universe had simply neglected to add that part in. Batteries should always come included or else what's the point? Growing up, that seemed to be the hand her father had been dealt though he lasted a lot longer than expected. Now there was a shell of a man; bitter, joyless, mean, a horrible, nasty human being. True enough, he had every justification under the sun for being that way, at least if you asked him. Wheelchair bound after a stroke left him with half his body he relied on the state and his only remaining daughter to care of him. Effectively 'Ona served as his everything, she acted as his left side. She cooked, cleaned, helped him when he needed to shower or shit, took him to his appointments, kept his beer stocked, and made sure he never ran out of cigarettes (for her own sake). 'Ona was sixteen years old when she became a martyr.
Not ever knowing her mother, 'Ona felt a sense of obligatory devotion to her father, taking after her older half-sisters example. This was just what families did where they came from, they stuck together even when doing so was toxic. Never mind their father prior to his stroke was an emotionally and physically abusive cunt, he was all they had. Or, they were all he had. If things had worked out the way Sophie had wanted them to, she would have been the only scapegoat in the family as her martyrdom would have extended itself to her little sister. 'Ona was supposed to be the breakaway, the one who made it. 'Ona was the one with big dreams, after all, not Sophie. 'Ona had aspirations to become some famous actress or a singer one day and she was going to let her follow those ambitions because Sophie knew she had the chops to do it. 'Ona was the talented one, not her, and Sophie knew it. At least if her sister got famous she might be able to send money back home to help out. That was Sophie's plan from the beginning and it might have happened that way too if Sophie had kept on holding on, but then…she hadn't come with batteries included in her packaging.
Super Bowl Sunday was the day Sophie had decided she was done, or maybe it had been an accident, who really knows? 'Ona knew, that's who. 'Ona was the one who found her on her bedroom floor frothing out the side of her mouth, her eyes rolled back deep inside her skull. Opioid overdose. 'Ona just remembers her father looking at her as the paramedics finally gave up trying to bring her back. "God took the wrong one. Now what am I gonna do?" His words were only shocking to the coroner and EMT's, as for 'Ona they just rolled off her like water on a ducks back. It wasn't a secret Sophie had always been his favorite. He had traumatized them both the same but 'Ona had always gotten the brunt of it. Something about her mother leftover in him a darkness for the child. Subsequently, 'Ona became accustomed to his treatment of her and had grown impervious to his blows and slings.
For a time, 'Ona held firm onto the baton her sister had dropped and effectively passed on to her. She abandoned her dreams for duty and as sick as it sounds for love, or at least what 'Ona had come to know as love. To suffer an individual as despicable as her father she had to at least "love" some part of him, right? Problem was that part was just in her imagination. The little girl in her holding out hope that her father would one day see her or acknowledge her sacrifices in some way and to yes, "love" her. It just was never going to work out that way. Once he was diagnosed with lung cancer that was the straw that finally broke the camels back. It got really bad there for awhile. The fighting and mental abuse (by this point emanating from both parties) had reached a level of poison that threatened 'Ona's capacity. It was sheer luck in the end that her father finally decided to give up the ghost and with his "suicide" came 'Ona's emancipation. She was twenty years old.
Fast forward...
Hollywood, the land filled with souls for sale and bodies for rent, of hard knocks and rude awakenings. Turns out unemployment agencies were filled to the rafters with talented actors who just could never catch a break. She'd gotten a couple roles on t.v. and even one recurring spot before her offers just seemed to dry up out of the blue. Didn't help she'd caused ripples with a certain director with tons of pull in the industry. Basically blackballed, 'Ona decided to set plan B into action. She started singing at open mic nights just hoping to get herself "discovered" while waiting tables in the interim. She was a terrible waitress however and at service jobs in general and was forced to find other means to keep her belly full. Eventually 'Ona moved to San Francisco when she'd gotten the tip that that's where singers were getting offered contracts left and right. It was there she started doing porn and developed a small following which only helped her gain attention musically even if it wasn't mainly for her singing.
'Ona had always had a special fondness for fire, her fascination with it had started at an early age. She loved everything about it, the way it danced, the smell of its smoke, it's heat. She began incorporating the element into her shows as soon as she got the budget for it. One night while performing, the flames she used to decorate the stage caught her dress on fire sending her up in flames. Weird thing about that, it left her unscathed. Not one burn, not even a pinkening of skin occurred. The blaze had taken with it her clothes, leaving her naked (not anything her "fans" hadn't seen before), it even singed away most of her hair but as for her flesh, nothing, nada. The fire had done something else though, something unseen.
'Ona felt…different, like the way a near death experience leaves a person feeling changed except 'Ona never once thought as the flames were devouring her that she was any real danger of dying. On the contrary, 'Ona had never felt more alive. Her experience that night triggered something in her that ultimately set her down a spiritual path of self discovery. She quit porn, she stopped performing, deleted all her social media accounts, she basically dropped off the face of the earth for a considerable period of time before re-emerging as "Kindle".
The air outside that night had been warm with all the electric hungover feeling of a random summers rainfall, merely a drizzle but enough to lace the breeze with the sweet smell of petrichor mixed with the subtle fragrance of trash from nearby waste bins the city had placed here and there to discourage the homeless from littering. Nothing could have been more perfect as the eager throngs began to amass inside the stark concrete building conveniently positioned on the corner of Oakdale and Pennsylvania right in the heart of the historic warehouse district of San Fran. Each and every individual would be handed a blindfold and instructed to put it on when and only when the room turned blue, an apparent subsequent change between the white fluorescent glow it was bathed in at the moment. Undoubtedly, the distinct assortment of enthusiasts would receive this directive with mixed reactions. In some, it may be received with a certain degree of suspicion, likely from those new to the artist they had come to see for maybe the very first time, perhaps brought or dragged out by a friend more familiar with Kindles brand of entertainment. Certainly the sketchy surroundings they found themselves amidst would not help to soothe their unease in the least. The space was cold, bare, dirty and by all appearances inhospitable with around a dozen thick, graffitied support columns separated into two rows designating north, south, and center where a large stage had been erected for the nights performance. Whats more, chances were they would have already arrived skeptical and apprehensive as they would have had to travel through the worst part of town before even arriving at their destination. Far from incidental, this was a feature of the venue that had lent itself to its sale as the concept was to put the audience on edge at the outset, more akin to a haunted house than any concert. As for other attendees, the blindfold would have been expected to arouse anticipation as well as other feelings of a more sensual nature, and these obviously would be the types amongst the artists fanbase originally turned on to Kindle through her past seedy work in pornography. Then of course, there would also be foreseen purely art and music driven fans of various backgrounds as well as the underestimating critics of both the sleazy and honest sorts awaiting their opportunity to either eviscerate or praise the rising star respectively and Kindle, for her part, could not wait for the show and judgment to begin.
Deceptively, though the stage appeared empty, Kindle was there, a silent, solemn figure masked in glamor to hide herself from the gathering crowd who grew and whispered around her. Their din of anxious, excited chatter filling her ears, their energy already making her skin tingle and the little hairs on the backs of her arms and nape of her neck stand on end. Like a ghost she stood there motionless, her head still as haunting hazel eyes swept with a hyper focus over all the people who'd paid good money to see her, chin dipped slightly under a dark shaggy mane. If someone could see her in these moments, they might fall under the assumption that this was all some strange, unnerving performative art piece, and in a way…they would be right, though it would have all been entirely self masturbatory being as she was invisible and all. In actuality, Kindle was gearing herself up by emotionally feeding off the vivacity of the warehouse's congregants, her thrill and delight increasing, her ego expanding by the second. Then the lights turned blue triggering a rippling crest of diverse vocalizations to spread throughout the crowd compressing against her stage and she watched as blindfolds were placed over a sea of faces as a tiny smile curved her lips. Gradually a hush would fall across the sea, only then would she use her gift to amplify her voice…"How obedient." To which she would receive a faint, nervous chorus of laughter before giving them a show they would never…fucking…forget.
The performance would begin with a poetic story about two little girls held captive by a monster, that they were in fact, inescapably bound to this monster, their monster. She spoke graphically about some of the horrors the little girls were subjected to without even a hint of emotion in her voice. Then she would tell her captivated audience how the older sister had one day tried to sacrifice herself to their monster just so that the younger sister might have a chance to break free but that her plan hadn't worked and that in the end the older sister was slain. Kindle did this all the while using her 'Razzle Dazzle' to create through their own senses exactly what she wanted them to feel. The soft growing pulse of a beat only just starting to become audible and as she wove her tale it grew in its intensity. The second part of the story told of how, now alone with her monster, that little girl gradually became a monster herself until one day she was just grotesque enough to slay her monster for good. Played overhead through speakers, that pulsing beat had gradually led into the opening sounds of the first single from her new album, "Zillion Points of Light".
"Fuck the industry!" She would let out a guttural scream, making a deliberate choice to confuse the meaning of the story she had just told. Had it been personally based or just some creative message about her time in porn or Hollywood in general? Had it been both? They'd be left to wonder as they were directed to unmask themselves in order to, as she so delicately put it,"make way for my fucking band, you blind fucks!" The rest of her performance would comprise heavy rock-pop, nudity, ballads, dancing, and lots of pyrotechnics, or at least, what appeared to be pyrotechnics to the untrained eye. At one point the crowd and critics would swear they had witnessed Kindle on fire as the microphone (which eventually she did use) became ablaze and spread up her arms and down her back. By the end Kindle would be rendered victoriously spent, having given every last part of herself to her audience which according to the riotous applause they submerged her with, told her they had indeed received approvingly. Who knew what the reviews would be like in the morning and who really fucking cared?
Gradually the satisfied crowd would begin to exit the warehouse one by one taking home with them their own individual memories and judgments of the spectacle they had just experienced, it would only be when just a dozen or so of these patrons were left that a certain peculiar fellow with slicked back hair, 5 o'clock shadow and a leather jacket would suddenly approach the bar that had been set up along the back wall of the warehouse. It had been busy serving drinks all night and yet, they had been under explicit instructions to keep the drinks coming until otherwise instructed to do so. Sam Morelli would saddle up to the counter, looking tired and a little worse for wear. He'd order a beer, the first of several he was planning on ordering that night before he went home or at least as many as he could drink before 'Ona's glamor was made impossible to maintain by too much booze.
By the end Kindle would be rendered victoriously spent, having given every last part of herself to her audience which according to the riotous applause they submerged her with, told her they had indeed received approvingly. Who knew what the reviews would be like in the morning and who really fucking cared?
As soon as Kindle set a single, dirty bare foot offstage all the procured energy she'd held tight inside of her body for the purpose of delivering a meaningful performance began to shift, and with every step that carried her away from the sea of noise she'd created, her exhilaration progressively diminished. "Backstage" - which amounted to just one large adjacent roped off room connected to the performance space - the air was cold and still. Here, the roar of the crowd, somewhat muted, unavoidably lost its power, relinquishing her from its captivating thrall. Here, 'Ona could disrobe her persona and relax back into her own skin, a soporific process that usually left her feeling tranquil in the post-coital afterglow of a performance well received.
Her team knew better than to pester her after a show, these moments of dissimulation and decompression were important to her and to them as well, as self-preservation and job security would undoubtedly prevail in their support of this boundary of hers since 'Ona's wrong side was not a tribulation any rational person who valued peace would willingly suffer…especially if they only knew…
In the corner of the room had been assembled for her a vanity on which was littered the tools of her makeup artists trade. A large mirror hung from the wall bordered by large lightbulbs which shone the perfect brightness and intensity while along the wall sat a portable clothes rack where hung her street clothes the likes of a pair of skintight black jeans, a simple man's white undershirt and a leather jacket, some black doc martins in a size 6 lay placed underneath the suspended apparel. 'Ona's first stop, the vanity, where she wouldn't bother to lower her body into the dark, leathered captains chair that was positioned there in front of it, her depreciating energy wasn't burdensome enough to warrant that, instead she'd merely grip its raised frame and lean against it as she studied her face in the mirror straight ahead of her. Looking back at her would be the flushed, morose face of a woman in mid-reflection. Layers of her unkempt, dark mane settled messy upon her head, lustrous locks of various lengths framing her face, nearly eclipsing it before she gave her head one intentional shake which drove those tufts back revealing two penetrating pools of hazel gleaming against the mirrors light, rich golds and greens intermixed within limbal rings, creating a variegated storm.
Tonight had been more than acceptable and though she told herself she didn't care she knew the reviews in the morning would reflect that fact and yet even still, 'Ona was…bothered…not by her performance but by the audience itself, in particular, one man situated towards the front of the stage. At first she hadn't noticed him, busy assessing her congregation and absorbing their aroused energies, it wasn't until her eyes just so happened to sweep over him that she'd realized him. He was striking if only for his otherness. In a roomful of misfits and perverts, of the young and wayward, this man was an island unto himself, strange and unfitting. Curious, he'd disquieted her as soon as she'd registered him. His gaze seemed to linger where she stood invisible, masked by glamour. He never looked directly at her, but around her, as if he could sense her. It had been a strange moment for her. She'd been doing this for years and never had she experienced a situation quite like it, never had she had to question as she had tonight. It had all been so peculiar, a small thing really and yet it had just…bothered her. Not enough to ruin her show but just enough to unnerve her slightly. Of course, she had gotten through the performance just fine. As soon as she'd begun addressing her audience the man was all but erased from her mind although it had been noted and pissed her off the fucker hadn't put on his blindfold after being given strict instructions and clear indications to do so. Regardless, it wasn't until afterwards as she gazed into her own hazel orbs in the mirror that the occurrence revisited her.
After a time of pointless, irritated fixation, 'Ona pushed away from the chair she'd gripped, her knuckle joints surprisingly sore and tight as she let her grasp slip from the back of the seat, she even felt a rush of blood flowing through her fingertips again as if the circulation had been momentarily cut off due to severe clenching, something left unconsidered as she began to strip.
Sam had become a ritual by now, something to slip into after her shows to blend in with her leftover audience, he was her fly on the wall, just some rando greaser hanging out, grabbing a few beers before he hit the road. Just laid back and quiet enough not to raise suspicion, just a little too odd and disheveled enough to ward off approach. Sam was her spy, Sam was fun and his clothes were extremely comfy. Wearing the costume made her job so much easier, one less thing to concentrate on; a little stubble and dark under eye here, a little sculpting and editing there, a nice bulge between his thighs because, why not? She liked Sam, he deserved it. No male illusion of hers was going to walk around like a Ken doll. A man needed something to be proud of.
'Ona made sure to cater to her Kindle's fan base and to herself, so she made sure where it was possible that none of her shows were dry events. Thus, Sam Morelli would saddle up to the counter, looking tired and a little worse for wear. He'd order a beer, the first of several he was planning on ordering that night before he went home or at least as many as he could drink before 'Ona's glamor was made impossible to maintain by too much booze.
Sam wasn't a difficult character to embody for 'Ona, much of him was just an artistic amalgamation of every talent agent she'd ever had in her career, swirl in every skeezy casting director she'd ever had the displeasure of interacting with, sprinkle a dusting of every man who'd ever fucked her (figuratively and literally) and BAM! … you had yourself the likeness of one Sam Morelli.
With a clench of his jaw Sam would clear his throat and run pale fingers through his slicked black hair. The sound of thick glass hitting the counter beside him followed by a man's voice asking for another round barely elicited a glance from Sam who was preoccupied eavesdropping on a couple beside him talking about how good Kindles ass had looked in that g-string, followed by an even less savory conversation regarding her…other assets. It wasn't anything new or surprising. 'Ona had no delusions about what helped sell her product. Their money was just as green as someone else who actually respected what she did. 'Ona new she could sing, knew she could entertain, and more importantly she had something to contribute, so what if her ass helped to facilitate her spotlight. Sex was the bread to her butter.
"You look terrible."
The insult hit her out of no where, shots fuckin' fired without cause. The jab was hurled so unexpectedly for a second she'd nearly forgotten who she was sitting there masked as. She had to remind herself she was Sam, the world wasn't looking at 'Ona or Kindle right now and that being fact, okay yeah…Sam did look like shit, but even still…
"Hey, fuck you too!" Sam shot back, brows furrowed, dumbfounded and offended after taking a moment to process what had happened. His voice would register as male to any ears who might hear, especially to the asshole beside him which at the very end of his comeback Sam finally peered at through bloodshot hazel eyes.
Fuck.
All the expression in Sams face departed in an instant as he locked eyes with the man, recognizing him immediately as the man who 'Ona'd sworn could sense her through her veil. She couldn't help but wonder with a little shudder of anxiety if he could see through her Sam right now. The movement of his hand caught her eye as he dropped his blindfold on the counter…his unused blindfold. The ripple of irritation that shot through her quickly chased away any anxious agitation he had initially evoked. Sam ground his teeth tensing the muscles of his jaw making them flare with a long exhale through his nose as he turned his attention to the inner pocket of his jacket where he began to fish for something, using the distraction as a way to give 'Ona time to disperse her vexation before she lost her shit (and her poker face, namely, Sam).
What fucking part of "put on the blindfold when the lights turned blue" was so difficult for this guy to understand? She'd been trying to give her audience an auditory, sensual experience. 'Ona had put a lot of fucking thought and meaning into the concept and all she'd asked was for a little fucking audience participation, goddamnit!
As she vented inside her own head Sam could be seen struggling to remove whatever was in his pocket he was after. The fresh pack of Marlboro's had wedged itself sideways and it finally took a somewhat violent yank to rip it out of its confines. Sam screwed up his maw, his lips twisting into an aggravated grimace which he had to darkly laugh away under his breath in order to keep from angrily crumpling them within his fist.
"Ya know…" Sam began offhandedly, barely noticing the beer that had long been set in front of him by the bartender as he ripped the plastic off the red and white box of cigarettes and tossed it on the counter before lifting the lid to tear away at the annoying inside paper of the packaging, the last barrier standing between him and his addiction. "…I'm just in fucking awe at the creativity of that woman." He declared, giving a nod towards the blindfold the jerk had dismissed so thoughtlessly. "I mean, who's ever thought of that? Do you know how much careful thought she had to have put into that? How much meaning she wanted the audience to get out of it?" His cigarette had been by now pulled from the pack and was being used by Sam to gesticulate as he spoke with surprising passion about Kindle. One might get the impression this dirty, questionable character was a fanatic the way he spoke of the entertainer, the way his eyes held such zeal. "Some people just don't give a fuck…they don't respect the art…" He shook his head, profoundly disappointed as he held the unlit cig between his first two fingers and wrapped the remaining three around the neck of his neglected beer bottle lifting it to his lips before reversing momentarily to ask, "…ya know?" He finally took a swig, barely swallowing it before nearly jumping out of his seat, "I mean…" He leaned in as if about to speak confidentially and yet he'd maintain the same volume he'd been using, "…the visual deprivation and how that lends to the story…the two little girls…it's like she wanted the people to feel the darkness they felt…the aloneness…" he trailed off as his pupils bore into the assholes own hoping he felt like the insensitive prick he was for not engaging with Kindles vision, with her vision. Sam gradually leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle again to take a proper drink but once again, falling short… "Can you believe some fuckers choose not to put on the fucking blindfold? … Fuckin' disrespectful if you ask me." He drove his point straight home as subtly as 'Ona could muster before finally sating her thirst with a nice, full drink of Guinness.
Deceptively, though the stage appeared empty, Kindle was there, a silent, solemn figure masked in glamor to hide herself from the gathering crowd who grew and whispered around her. Their din of anxious, excited chatter filling her ears, their energy already making her skin tingle and the little hairs on the backs of her arms and nape of her neck stand on end. Like a ghost she stood there motionless, her head still as haunting hazel eyes swept with a hyper focus over all the people who'd paid good money to see her, chin dipped slightly under a dark shaggy mane. If someone could see her in these moments, they might fall under the assumption that this was all some strange, unnerving performative art piece, and in a way…they would be right, though it would have all been entirely self masturbatory being as she was invisible and all. In actuality, Kindle was gearing herself up by emotionally feeding off the vivacity of the warehouse's congregants, her thrill and delight increasing, her ego expanding by the second. Then the lights turned blue triggering a rippling crest of diverse vocalizations to spread throughout the crowd compressing against her stage and she watched as blindfolds were placed over a sea of faces as a tiny smile curved her lips. Gradually a hush would fall across the sea, only then would she use her gift to amplify her voice…"How obedient." To which she would receive a faint, nervous chorus of laughter before giving them a show they would never…fucking…forget.
The performance would begin with a poetic story about two little girls held captive by a monster, that they were in fact, inescapably bound to this monster, their monster. She spoke graphically about some of the horrors the little girls were subjected to without even a hint of emotion in her voice. Then she would tell her captivated audience how the older sister had one day tried to sacrifice herself to their monster just so that the younger sister might have a chance to break free but that her plan hadn't worked and that in the end the older sister was slain. Kindle did this all the while using her 'Razzle Dazzle' to create through their own senses exactly what she wanted them to feel. The soft growing pulse of a beat only just starting to become audible and as she wove her tale it grew in its intensity. The second part of the story told of how, now alone with her monster, that little girl gradually became a monster herself until one day she was just grotesque enough to slay her monster for good. Played overhead through speakers, that pulsing beat had gradually led into the opening sounds of the first single from her new album, "Zillion Points of Light".
"Fuck the industry!" She would let out a guttural scream, making a deliberate choice to confuse the meaning of the story she had just told. Had it been personally based or just some creative message about her time in porn or Hollywood in general? Had it been both? They'd be left to wonder as they were directed to unmask themselves in order to, as she so delicately put it,"make way for my fucking band, you blind fucks!" The rest of her performance would comprise heavy rock-pop, nudity, ballads, dancing, and lots of pyrotechnics, or at least, what appeared to be pyrotechnics to the untrained eye. At one point the crowd and critics would swear they had witnessed Kindle on fire as the microphone (which eventually she did use) became ablaze and spread up her arms and down her back. By the end Kindle would be rendered victoriously spent, having given every last part of herself to her audience which according to the riotous applause they submerged her with, told her they had indeed received approvingly. Who knew what the reviews would be like in the morning and who really fucking cared?
Gradually the satisfied crowd would begin to exit the warehouse one by one taking home with them their own individual memories and judgments of the spectacle they had just experienced, it would only be when just a dozen or so of these patrons were left that a certain peculiar fellow with slicked back hair, 5 o'clock shadow and a leather jacket would suddenly approach the bar that had been set up along the back wall of the warehouse. It had been busy serving drinks all night and yet, they had been under explicit instructions to keep the drinks coming until otherwise instructed to do so. Sam Morelli would saddle up to the counter, looking tired and a little worse for wear. He'd order a beer, the first of several he was planning on ordering that night before he went home or at least as many as he could drink before 'Ona's glamor was made impossible to maintain by too much booze.
By the end Kindle would be rendered victoriously spent, having given every last part of herself to her audience which according to the riotous applause they submerged her with, told her they had indeed received approvingly. Who knew what the reviews would be like in the morning and who really fucking cared?
As soon as Kindle set a single, dirty bare foot offstage all the procured energy she'd held tight inside of her body for the purpose of delivering a meaningful performance began to shift, and with every step that carried her away from the sea of noise she'd created, her exhilaration progressively diminished. "Backstage" - which amounted to just one large adjacent roped off room connected to the performance space - the air was cold and still. Here, the roar of the crowd, somewhat muted, unavoidably lost its power, relinquishing her from its captivating thrall. Here, 'Ona could disrobe her persona and relax back into her own skin, a soporific process that usually left her feeling tranquil in the post-coital afterglow of a performance well received.
Her team knew better than to pester her after a show, these moments of dissimulation and decompression were important to her and to them as well, as self-preservation and job security would undoubtedly prevail in their support of this boundary of hers since 'Ona's wrong side was not a tribulation any rational person who valued peace would willingly suffer…especially if they only knew…
In the corner of the room had been assembled for her a vanity on which was littered the tools of her makeup artists trade. A large mirror hung from the wall bordered by large lightbulbs which shone the perfect brightness and intensity while along the wall sat a portable clothes rack where hung her street clothes the likes of a pair of skintight black jeans, a simple man's white undershirt and a leather jacket, some black doc martins in a size 6 lay placed underneath the suspended apparel. 'Ona's first stop, the vanity, where she wouldn't bother to lower her body into the dark, leathered captains chair that was positioned there in front of it, her depreciating energy wasn't burdensome enough to warrant that, instead she'd merely grip its raised frame and lean against it as she studied her face in the mirror straight ahead of her. Looking back at her would be the flushed, morose face of a woman in mid-reflection. Layers of her unkempt, dark mane settled messy upon her head, lustrous locks of various lengths framing her face, nearly eclipsing it before she gave her head one intentional shake which drove those tufts back revealing two penetrating pools of hazel gleaming against the mirrors light, rich golds and greens intermixed within limbal rings, creating a variegated storm.
Tonight had been more than acceptable and though she told herself she didn't care she knew the reviews in the morning would reflect that fact and yet even still, 'Ona was…bothered…not by her performance but by the audience itself, in particular, one man situated towards the front of the stage. At first she hadn't noticed him, busy assessing her congregation and absorbing their aroused energies, it wasn't until her eyes just so happened to sweep over him that she'd realized him. He was striking if only for his otherness. In a roomful of misfits and perverts, of the young and wayward, this man was an island unto himself, strange and unfitting. Curious, he'd disquieted her as soon as she'd registered him. His gaze seemed to linger where she stood invisible, masked by glamour. He never looked directly at her, but around her, as if he could sense her. It had been a strange moment for her. She'd been doing this for years and never had she experienced a situation quite like it, never had she had to question as she had tonight. It had all been so peculiar, a small thing really and yet it had just…bothered her. Not enough to ruin her show but just enough to unnerve her slightly. Of course, she had gotten through the performance just fine. As soon as she'd begun addressing her audience the man was all but erased from her mind although it had been noted and pissed her off the fucker hadn't put on his blindfold after being given strict instructions and clear indications to do so. Regardless, it wasn't until afterwards as she gazed into her own hazel orbs in the mirror that the occurrence revisited her.
After a time of pointless, irritated fixation, 'Ona pushed away from the chair she'd gripped, her knuckle joints surprisingly sore and tight as she let her grasp slip from the back of the seat, she even felt a rush of blood flowing through her fingertips again as if the circulation had been momentarily cut off due to severe clenching, something left unconsidered as she began to strip.
Sam had become a ritual by now, something to slip into after her shows to blend in with her leftover audience, he was her fly on the wall, just some rando greaser hanging out, grabbing a few beers before he hit the road. Just laid back and quiet enough not to raise suspicion, just a little too odd and disheveled enough to ward off approach. Sam was her spy, Sam was fun and his clothes were extremely comfy. Wearing the costume made her job so much easier, one less thing to concentrate on; a little stubble and dark under eye here, a little sculpting and editing there, a nice bulge between his thighs because, why not? She liked Sam, he deserved it. No male illusion of hers was going to walk around like a Ken doll. A man needed something to be proud of.
'Ona made sure to cater to her Kindle's fan base and to herself, so she made sure where it was possible that none of her shows were dry events. Thus, Sam Morelli would saddle up to the counter, looking tired and a little worse for wear. He'd order a beer, the first of several he was planning on ordering that night before he went home or at least as many as he could drink before 'Ona's glamor was made impossible to maintain by too much booze.
Sam wasn't a difficult character to embody for 'Ona, much of him was just an artistic amalgamation of every talent agent she'd ever had in her career, swirl in every skeezy casting director she'd ever had the displeasure of interacting with, sprinkle a dusting of every man who'd ever fucked her (figuratively and literally) and BAM! … you had yourself the likeness of one Sam Morelli.
With a clench of his jaw Sam would clear his throat and run pale fingers through his slicked black hair. The sound of thick glass hitting the counter beside him followed by a man's voice asking for another round barely elicited a glance from Sam who was preoccupied eavesdropping on a couple beside him talking about how good Kindles ass had looked in that g-string, followed by an even less savory conversation regarding her…other assets. It wasn't anything new or surprising. 'Ona had no delusions about what helped sell her product. Their money was just as green as someone else who actually respected what she did. 'Ona new she could sing, knew she could entertain, and more importantly she had something to contribute, so what if her ass helped to facilitate her spotlight. Sex was the bread to her butter.
"You look terrible."
The insult hit her out of no where, shots fuckin' fired without cause. The jab was hurled so unexpectedly for a second she'd nearly forgotten who she was sitting there masked as. She had to remind herself she was Sam, the world wasn't looking at 'Ona or Kindle right now and that being fact, okay yeah…Sam did look like shit, but even still…
"Hey, fuck you too!" Sam shot back, brows furrowed, dumbfounded and offended after taking a moment to process what had happened. His voice would register as male to any ears who might hear, especially to the asshole beside him which at the very end of his comeback Sam finally peered at through bloodshot hazel eyes.
Fuck.
All the expression in Sams face departed in an instant as he locked eyes with the man, recognizing him immediately as the man who 'Ona'd sworn could sense her through her veil. She couldn't help but wonder with a little shudder of anxiety if he could see through her Sam right now. The movement of his hand caught her eye as he dropped his blindfold on the counter…his unused blindfold. The ripple of irritation that shot through her quickly chased away any anxious agitation he had initially evoked. Sam ground his teeth tensing the muscles of his jaw making them flare with a long exhale through his nose as he turned his attention to the inner pocket of his jacket where he began to fish for something, using the distraction as a way to give 'Ona time to disperse her vexation before she lost her shit (and her poker face, namely, Sam).
What fucking part of "put on the blindfold when the lights turned blue" was so difficult for this guy to understand? She'd been trying to give her audience an auditory, sensual experience. 'Ona had put a lot of fucking thought and meaning into the concept and all she'd asked was for a little fucking audience participation, goddamnit!
As she vented inside her own head Sam could be seen struggling to remove whatever was in his pocket he was after. The fresh pack of Marlboro's had wedged itself sideways and it finally took a somewhat violent yank to rip it out of its confines. Sam screwed up his maw, his lips twisting into an aggravated grimace which he had to darkly laugh away under his breath in order to keep from angrily crumpling them within his fist.
"Ya know…" Sam began offhandedly, barely noticing the beer that had long been set in front of him by the bartender as he ripped the plastic off the red and white box of cigarettes and tossed it on the counter before lifting the lid to tear away at the annoying inside paper of the packaging, the last barrier standing between him and his addiction. "…I'm just in fucking awe at the creativity of that woman." He declared, giving a nod towards the blindfold the jerk had dismissed so thoughtlessly. "I mean, who's ever thought of that? Do you know how much careful thought she had to have put into that? How much meaning she wanted the audience to get out of it?" His cigarette had been by now pulled from the pack and was being used by Sam to gesticulate as he spoke with surprising passion about Kindle. One might get the impression this dirty, questionable character was a fanatic the way he spoke of the entertainer, the way his eyes held such zeal. "Some people just don't give a fuck…they don't respect the art…" He shook his head, profoundly disappointed as he held the unlit cig between his first two fingers and wrapped the remaining three around the neck of his neglected beer bottle lifting it to his lips before reversing momentarily to ask, "…ya know?" He finally took a swig, barely swallowing it before nearly jumping out of his seat, "I mean…" He leaned in as if about to speak confidentially and yet he'd maintain the same volume he'd been using, "…the visual deprivation and how that lends to the story…the two little girls…it's like she wanted the people to feel the darkness they felt…the aloneness…" he trailed off as his pupils bore into the assholes own hoping he felt like the insensitive prick he was for not engaging with Kindles vision, with her vision. Sam gradually leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle again to take a proper drink but once again, falling short… "Can you believe some fuckers choose not to put on the fucking blindfold? … Fuckin' disrespectful if you ask me." He drove his point straight home as subtly as 'Ona could muster before finally sating her thirst with a nice, full drink of Guinness.
Genre: Modern Supernatural
"When you don't know who you are you can be anyone or no one at all. Sometimes the freedom feels like heaven but most of the time it's hell."
Full name: Lola Gil
Face Claim: Britney Murphy
Species: Human (Discarded Vessel)
Occupation: Unemployed
Notable features:
Age: 32
Eye Color: Light Brown
Hair Color: Blonde
Height: 5'3
Sexuality: straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Wooden / Co-dependent / Contemplative / Sensual / Numb/ Fearless / Insecure / Impulsive / Liar
History: "You see her?"
The boy couldn't really. Not through the blood and dirt caked in his eyes.
"You see her?!"
The mans grip was like iron twisting scalp skin by long, greasy, tequila-drenched hair owned by one Diego Morales who's broken mouth twisted and spat out pieces of his own teeth. He made many sounds as he choked on his own blood but none resembling syllables either in English or in Spanish.
"Come closer, mija."
The smells of dust and gasoline finally made way for the soft, sweet scent of the 'Queen of the Night'. The orchid cactus bloomed only once a year, filling the entire dessert with its perfume. It wasn't poisonous, just beautiful. Like her. Or so Diego once thought.
Blinking through the crimson fuzziness of his vision he finally saw her. She got down real close, even lying on the dirty desert floor to get on his level where his temple dug into a large rock half buried in the sand. Big doe eyes dead and unnerving. Vacant. Expressionless. Had they always been that way?
"You see her now, chico?"
Diego's "si" came out deformed thanks to his lack of incisors but unfortunately he was understood well enough by the man Pascual who promptly severed the beaten boys carotid artery with his navaja. Only then did Lola's eyes flicker alive if only for a moment.
Story: Maybe she could have been somebody a long time ago. But now? Ella es Nadie. (She is nobody.) Except of course to Pascual. To him she is his vengeance, his vessel in which he pours all of his spite and vindictiveness. She is completely human, completely innocent and completely broken. Her only crime was being born to a woman who shattered and blackened the once Supremes heart, turning him away from the sacred path and towards the dark...a road to be covered with bodies...starting first with the bitch who'd betrayed him, Lola's mother.
Afterwards, in Pascual's keep, Lola Gil became Nadie. Kept under the influence of some very potent blood magic, Nadie was used. She effectively became Pascual's daughter and eventually Pascual's lover. A brainwashed puppet and perpetual victim, she did what she was told and she baited who she was told to bait, until the night Diego Morales was killed and for the first time she felt something new, something she hadn't been told to feel…and it scared her...
Story Notes:
"When you don't know who you are you can be anyone or no one at all. Sometimes the freedom feels like heaven but most of the time it's hell."
Full name: Lola Gil
Face Claim: Britney Murphy
Species: Human (Discarded Vessel)
Occupation: Unemployed
Notable features:
Age: 32
Eye Color: Light Brown
Hair Color: Blonde
Height: 5'3
Sexuality: straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Wooden / Co-dependent / Contemplative / Sensual / Numb/ Fearless / Insecure / Impulsive / Liar
History: "You see her?"
The boy couldn't really. Not through the blood and dirt caked in his eyes.
"You see her?!"
The mans grip was like iron twisting scalp skin by long, greasy, tequila-drenched hair owned by one Diego Morales who's broken mouth twisted and spat out pieces of his own teeth. He made many sounds as he choked on his own blood but none resembling syllables either in English or in Spanish.
"Come closer, mija."
The smells of dust and gasoline finally made way for the soft, sweet scent of the 'Queen of the Night'. The orchid cactus bloomed only once a year, filling the entire dessert with its perfume. It wasn't poisonous, just beautiful. Like her. Or so Diego once thought.
Blinking through the crimson fuzziness of his vision he finally saw her. She got down real close, even lying on the dirty desert floor to get on his level where his temple dug into a large rock half buried in the sand. Big doe eyes dead and unnerving. Vacant. Expressionless. Had they always been that way?
"You see her now, chico?"
Diego's "si" came out deformed thanks to his lack of incisors but unfortunately he was understood well enough by the man Pascual who promptly severed the beaten boys carotid artery with his navaja. Only then did Lola's eyes flicker alive if only for a moment.
"Fool. There's no one there."
Story: Maybe she could have been somebody a long time ago. But now? Ella es Nadie. (She is nobody.) Except of course to Pascual. To him she is his vengeance, his vessel in which he pours all of his spite and vindictiveness. She is completely human, completely innocent and completely broken. Her only crime was being born to a woman who shattered and blackened the once Supremes heart, turning him away from the sacred path and towards the dark...a road to be covered with bodies...starting first with the bitch who'd betrayed him, Lola's mother.
Afterwards, in Pascual's keep, Lola Gil became Nadie. Kept under the influence of some very potent blood magic, Nadie was used. She effectively became Pascual's daughter and eventually Pascual's lover. A brainwashed puppet and perpetual victim, she did what she was told and she baited who she was told to bait, until the night Diego Morales was killed and for the first time she felt something new, something she hadn't been told to feel…and it scared her...
Story Notes:
Her world had never been this loud before, not ever. Why was it wailing like that? It was like a bombardment, like actual bombs being dropped on top of her head.
The passenger sitting shotgun beside Carlos directly leaned in through the little window that separated compartments and snapped the command viciously at the woman holding the screaming infant across from Nadie. She'd been trying to shush it since Monterrey but nothing had worked. She'd tried feeding it, rocking it, patting its back, singing to it. Nothing. But now, spurred on by Carlos' partner, aka the angry-man-with-the-gun, the woman began her efforts once again at double urgency, practically begging the swaddled bundle of squalls to quiet.
After another five loud minutes the angry man had gotten out of the van, marched around to the side sliding doors and ripped out mother and child who were both crying now. Soon, Nadie was watching the image of the woman holding her baby in the middle of the dessert getting smaller and smaller as the van they once rode in (somewhat) comfortably drove away, stranding them. It was hard for Nadie to wrap her head around just how she should feel about the situation so she let her big eyeballs glance around at the other immigrants sharing her space. She noticed how they barely lifted their heads to watch the ejection and subsequent abandonment and so it was that this lack of a reaction sent a clear message to her that this was all very normal, that she wasn't required to feel anything at all about any of this and so Nadie didn't flinch, she just watched the two sad souls fade into a dot and disappear, thinking to herself in solace that at least it was quiet now.
She was used to living inside her head where the space she occupied was small. Where life was a movie scree of sorts, though more like watching a movie screen through a whispy, dream-like fog. She was there, going through the emotions as life played out on one big, fuzzy panoramic blur before her eyes but she couldn't interact with it, not really. She couldn't command it. She could only suffer along. Especially, at first. Oh, at the beginning there'd been nothing but the confused, muffled torture of a little girl confined but eventually...well, Nadie was proof a person could become accustom to absolutely anything.
But things were different now...
Nadie wasn't used to running away, so much so that the actual physical act of her legs pumping up and down underneath her body which made up the action that equated to literal running felt wrong. It felt like she were a fish trying to fly. It felt unnatural. Her adrenaline pumping, her breath gasping, her heart pounding so hard it made her think it might explode.
Please explode.
Nadie was suddenly halted in her tracks, a rifle aimed at her midsection by hands attached to a man with blood splatter on his clothes. Blood that had belonged to Carlos.
It had been right after crossing the Rio Grande when they'd all disembarked the raft and set foot one step closer to the U.S. border that things had gone awry. There'd been men waiting for them with mean-looking weapons far scarier than the rifle 'angry-man' carried. At first sight there had been panic as realization set in Carlos that he'd been set up by his compadre. There had been words spoken in the heat of anger and even a fist thrown. But only one. In the end Carlos lay dead and the small group was taken by the cartel minus one: Nadie, who was taken by Carlos' killer, the angry one with the rifle, the one who'd thrown to the elements mother and child and the one who'd managed throughout his brief struggle with Nadie to maintain his erection for her.
She was used to no one hearing her. She'd stopped screaming on the inside years ago. She was used to just watching the movie play out. She was a receiver. She was used to obeying and so she got down on her knees and simply waited to receive.
The sound of a car engine and the rolling of tires over the gravely terrain is what paused the one-handed unbuckling of the mans britches. He fell still for only a moment before reaching down to grip a fistful of blonde hair, enough to firmly drag her off into the darkness with him just as the lights of a vehicle swept over where they both had been.
There wasn't much that could hide a person out here on the plains, best bet was to keep moving and rely on the nightfall to secure sufficient cover from any potential searching eyes or border patrol.
With rifle under his armpit the man yanked the blonde up onto her feet telling her to keep moving without a peep, instructions that were wholly unnecessary since Nadie had no intentions of disobeying. She was unaccustomed to having a working fight or flight response trigger and now it seemed to be glitching, forcing her back into her go-to default of acceptance. That she'd ran from him initially had been a surprise to even herself. He'd slapped her across the mouth as hard as he could knocking her to the ground for slowing down on their journey to god knew where and the pain from his ring slicing open her lip had been so technicolor vivid that it had brought memories back to her that she had no idea ever existed.
"Shut that kid up!"
The passenger sitting shotgun beside Carlos directly leaned in through the little window that separated compartments and snapped the command viciously at the woman holding the screaming infant across from Nadie. She'd been trying to shush it since Monterrey but nothing had worked. She'd tried feeding it, rocking it, patting its back, singing to it. Nothing. But now, spurred on by Carlos' partner, aka the angry-man-with-the-gun, the woman began her efforts once again at double urgency, practically begging the swaddled bundle of squalls to quiet.
After another five loud minutes the angry man had gotten out of the van, marched around to the side sliding doors and ripped out mother and child who were both crying now. Soon, Nadie was watching the image of the woman holding her baby in the middle of the dessert getting smaller and smaller as the van they once rode in (somewhat) comfortably drove away, stranding them. It was hard for Nadie to wrap her head around just how she should feel about the situation so she let her big eyeballs glance around at the other immigrants sharing her space. She noticed how they barely lifted their heads to watch the ejection and subsequent abandonment and so it was that this lack of a reaction sent a clear message to her that this was all very normal, that she wasn't required to feel anything at all about any of this and so Nadie didn't flinch, she just watched the two sad souls fade into a dot and disappear, thinking to herself in solace that at least it was quiet now.
She was used to living inside her head where the space she occupied was small. Where life was a movie scree of sorts, though more like watching a movie screen through a whispy, dream-like fog. She was there, going through the emotions as life played out on one big, fuzzy panoramic blur before her eyes but she couldn't interact with it, not really. She couldn't command it. She could only suffer along. Especially, at first. Oh, at the beginning there'd been nothing but the confused, muffled torture of a little girl confined but eventually...well, Nadie was proof a person could become accustom to absolutely anything.
But things were different now...
"Slut!"
Nadie wasn't used to running away, so much so that the actual physical act of her legs pumping up and down underneath her body which made up the action that equated to literal running felt wrong. It felt like she were a fish trying to fly. It felt unnatural. Her adrenaline pumping, her breath gasping, her heart pounding so hard it made her think it might explode.
Please explode.
"Where you think you're going, slut? My cocks right here not over there."
It had been right after crossing the Rio Grande when they'd all disembarked the raft and set foot one step closer to the U.S. border that things had gone awry. There'd been men waiting for them with mean-looking weapons far scarier than the rifle 'angry-man' carried. At first sight there had been panic as realization set in Carlos that he'd been set up by his compadre. There had been words spoken in the heat of anger and even a fist thrown. But only one. In the end Carlos lay dead and the small group was taken by the cartel minus one: Nadie, who was taken by Carlos' killer, the angry one with the rifle, the one who'd thrown to the elements mother and child and the one who'd managed throughout his brief struggle with Nadie to maintain his erection for her.
"On your knees."
She was used to no one hearing her. She'd stopped screaming on the inside years ago. She was used to just watching the movie play out. She was a receiver. She was used to obeying and so she got down on her knees and simply waited to receive.
The sound of a car engine and the rolling of tires over the gravely terrain is what paused the one-handed unbuckling of the mans britches. He fell still for only a moment before reaching down to grip a fistful of blonde hair, enough to firmly drag her off into the darkness with him just as the lights of a vehicle swept over where they both had been.
There wasn't much that could hide a person out here on the plains, best bet was to keep moving and rely on the nightfall to secure sufficient cover from any potential searching eyes or border patrol.
With rifle under his armpit the man yanked the blonde up onto her feet telling her to keep moving without a peep, instructions that were wholly unnecessary since Nadie had no intentions of disobeying. She was unaccustomed to having a working fight or flight response trigger and now it seemed to be glitching, forcing her back into her go-to default of acceptance. That she'd ran from him initially had been a surprise to even herself. He'd slapped her across the mouth as hard as he could knocking her to the ground for slowing down on their journey to god knew where and the pain from his ring slicing open her lip had been so technicolor vivid that it had brought memories back to her that she had no idea ever existed.
"Not a fucking word."
Genre: Modern Supernatural (Vampire Masquerade)
"Two seeds, one love, both children of God.
One light, one dark, both saved, both marked.
Two roads, one path. Two eyes one has.
One dreams, one crafts. One cries, one laughs.
Two seeds, one love, both children, both God."
Full name: Orianthe Temple
Face Claim: Christina Ricci
Species: Vampire (Malkavian)
Powers:
Occupation: Mortician/Taxidermist
Notable features: Insane / Innocent / Evil / Sad / Unpredictable / Tender / Vengeful
Age: 26
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Brunette
Height: 5ft
Sexuality: Straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: The real world can be a wide open scary place for anyone let alone a young woman who spent most of her developing years inside a sadistic commune. Ori's personality was formed through abnormal and abusive relationships which molded her into a fearful, child-like version of what she could have been. Trapped inside a wide-eyed and curious lens, she is innocently intrigued by the world around her yet often finds herself hurt and confused by it. Always a victim in need of a protector. Enter Flay. Flay's entire identity was forged through survival. Ori could not protect herself, she could not deal with the suffering inflicted upon her and so Flay was born. Flay is the constant inside of Ori's head, always whispering, chiding, making her laugh, trying to teach her though she isn't the best student. When Ori's emotions begin to turn even the slightest shade dark thats when Flay takes over. Flay, the angry ball of trauma stuffed deep down inside of Ori come to life, loves her Orianthe and takes her job as her sisters defender very, very seriously.
History: Driven half mad by religious fanatics, Orianthe grew up in a cult lead by one charismatic leader who unfortunately favored her. No one knew his full name, he just went by Caleb and he was sick.
Caleb had convinced Morningside Church back in '95 that he was one of Gods anointed, called to usher in a new race of enlightened beings that would never grow old or perish but would be fruitful and multiply like the stars in heaven throughout the heavens. His first task was to rid the church of all but twelve chosen 'Adams' which he would anoint as his apostles. He would then separate his 'Eve's' from their natural born children for easier control over them.
Under Calebs guidance the church became obedient, with night sermons and mandatory confessionals for the congregants where blood would be spilled in payment for sins. Collected in a basin every Sunday, Caleb would add a single drop of his own blood from the tip of his pinky finger to show how just by one drop from the Holy One their DNA and consequently their sins could be purified. This mixture would then be laced with LSD and ingested by the entire congregation.
From the time she could walk, Orianthe knew nothing of normalcy outside of what the church taught her which included depraved punishments for wrong-doings which included starvation, and all manners of abuse and psychological torture. One day after noticing Orianthe for the first time Caleb set her on his knee and whispered a secret to her that would result in serious ramifications for the young girl. He told her that he and her were different from the others, that they were in fact, Gods in human disguise. He told her that one day when she was older he would take her as his wife, that their consummation would bring an end to this world and birth a new one for the others to live in and through there love all would be made one.
It was Caleb who had given her the name Flay after watching her kill a family of rabbits with a butter knife when she was ten. There was no telling how with the dull instrument she was able to disembowel and skin them near expertly, but it was impressive and inspired by her he used the moment to confess another secret, that being a God did not mean that you had to be benevolent, that deep inside they were both good and evil, innocent and filthy, Jesus and Satan.
When Flay was 16 the state moved in, alerted to the isolated commune by concerned individuals who had happened upon 'Eden' and by force came to remove the children from the location - all 26 of them. All Flay can remember from that day besides the words he whispered in her ear is Caleb holding her close to him and the pain the blade caused her when he stabbed her in the chest before dropping her from the upper floor of the church as he committed suicide by cop. All went black for Flay after that as the fall had knocked her into a coma that lasted for nine months.
After she woke up and her body and brain had been given enough time to heal from her injuries she was thrown into foster care and given a therapist who's arsenal of prescriptions promised to keep the whispering voices in her mind at bay. Diagnosed with PTSD, HPPD, DID, and unifferentiated schizophrenia Orianthe, with the help of "the-rapists" began to lead a semi-normal life. Morbidly obsessed with death, blood and bodies she became a mortician and just so she would have an excuse to kill something every once in a while she took up the hobby of hunting and taxidermy. Eventually though she became discontent with the constant feeling of numbness because of the slew of medications she was on. Her inability to express herself fully was too tragic an existence to keep living through so she ultimately decided to stop taking her meds and that's around the time she meets your character.
She was in the midst of a manic high, dancing beneath the strobing neon lights of the aptly named Club NUMB when her eyes locked onto him. He was a beautiful lure, a magnetic force that drew her into his orbit and into his world.
Story:
Story Notes:
"Two seeds, one love, both children of God.
One light, one dark, both saved, both marked.
Two roads, one path. Two eyes one has.
One dreams, one crafts. One cries, one laughs.
Two seeds, one love, both children, both God."
Full name: Orianthe Temple
Face Claim: Christina Ricci
Species: Vampire (Malkavian)
Powers:
Occupation: Mortician/Taxidermist
Notable features: Insane / Innocent / Evil / Sad / Unpredictable / Tender / Vengeful
Age: 26
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Brunette
Height: 5ft
Sexuality: Straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: The real world can be a wide open scary place for anyone let alone a young woman who spent most of her developing years inside a sadistic commune. Ori's personality was formed through abnormal and abusive relationships which molded her into a fearful, child-like version of what she could have been. Trapped inside a wide-eyed and curious lens, she is innocently intrigued by the world around her yet often finds herself hurt and confused by it. Always a victim in need of a protector. Enter Flay. Flay's entire identity was forged through survival. Ori could not protect herself, she could not deal with the suffering inflicted upon her and so Flay was born. Flay is the constant inside of Ori's head, always whispering, chiding, making her laugh, trying to teach her though she isn't the best student. When Ori's emotions begin to turn even the slightest shade dark thats when Flay takes over. Flay, the angry ball of trauma stuffed deep down inside of Ori come to life, loves her Orianthe and takes her job as her sisters defender very, very seriously.
History: Driven half mad by religious fanatics, Orianthe grew up in a cult lead by one charismatic leader who unfortunately favored her. No one knew his full name, he just went by Caleb and he was sick.
Caleb had convinced Morningside Church back in '95 that he was one of Gods anointed, called to usher in a new race of enlightened beings that would never grow old or perish but would be fruitful and multiply like the stars in heaven throughout the heavens. His first task was to rid the church of all but twelve chosen 'Adams' which he would anoint as his apostles. He would then separate his 'Eve's' from their natural born children for easier control over them.
Under Calebs guidance the church became obedient, with night sermons and mandatory confessionals for the congregants where blood would be spilled in payment for sins. Collected in a basin every Sunday, Caleb would add a single drop of his own blood from the tip of his pinky finger to show how just by one drop from the Holy One their DNA and consequently their sins could be purified. This mixture would then be laced with LSD and ingested by the entire congregation.
From the time she could walk, Orianthe knew nothing of normalcy outside of what the church taught her which included depraved punishments for wrong-doings which included starvation, and all manners of abuse and psychological torture. One day after noticing Orianthe for the first time Caleb set her on his knee and whispered a secret to her that would result in serious ramifications for the young girl. He told her that he and her were different from the others, that they were in fact, Gods in human disguise. He told her that one day when she was older he would take her as his wife, that their consummation would bring an end to this world and birth a new one for the others to live in and through there love all would be made one.
It was Caleb who had given her the name Flay after watching her kill a family of rabbits with a butter knife when she was ten. There was no telling how with the dull instrument she was able to disembowel and skin them near expertly, but it was impressive and inspired by her he used the moment to confess another secret, that being a God did not mean that you had to be benevolent, that deep inside they were both good and evil, innocent and filthy, Jesus and Satan.
When Flay was 16 the state moved in, alerted to the isolated commune by concerned individuals who had happened upon 'Eden' and by force came to remove the children from the location - all 26 of them. All Flay can remember from that day besides the words he whispered in her ear is Caleb holding her close to him and the pain the blade caused her when he stabbed her in the chest before dropping her from the upper floor of the church as he committed suicide by cop. All went black for Flay after that as the fall had knocked her into a coma that lasted for nine months.
After she woke up and her body and brain had been given enough time to heal from her injuries she was thrown into foster care and given a therapist who's arsenal of prescriptions promised to keep the whispering voices in her mind at bay. Diagnosed with PTSD, HPPD, DID, and unifferentiated schizophrenia Orianthe, with the help of "the-rapists" began to lead a semi-normal life. Morbidly obsessed with death, blood and bodies she became a mortician and just so she would have an excuse to kill something every once in a while she took up the hobby of hunting and taxidermy. Eventually though she became discontent with the constant feeling of numbness because of the slew of medications she was on. Her inability to express herself fully was too tragic an existence to keep living through so she ultimately decided to stop taking her meds and that's around the time she meets your character.
She was in the midst of a manic high, dancing beneath the strobing neon lights of the aptly named Club NUMB when her eyes locked onto him. He was a beautiful lure, a magnetic force that drew her into his orbit and into his world.
Story:
Story Notes:
Mary was one of those corpses you had to stand back and just admire, and so Orianthe had, with hazel eyes filled with awe and a slack jaw that parted her cherry red lips as her mind projected a mosaic of holy mandelbrots across the girls naked flesh. The soft dull whispers that were always present in her mind had fortunately not interfered with her nightly ritual of choosing precisely which cabinet called out to her the loudest. The teenager was so pristine that she feared cleaning her would only desecrate the virginal relic that lay on her mortuary tray, and so she had performed the embalming without it, an act she was also reluctant to carry out but did so only because it was part of the job requested of her by the girls family. Only 16. Dead from a dysfunctional heart and not by any outside calamity that would have blemished the porcelain shell of the deceased.
That was over two hours ago, now Mary lay in her soft, rose pink casket in the reposing room awaiting her presentation that was scheduled to take place in the morning. Apparently the girl had been a cheerleader as conveyed by the Center High School Cougars cheerleading uniform Orianthe had dressed her in. No doubt the past-time had been significant to the girl or else her family would not have chosen it, but it still hurt to have to adorn her in something so temporal and silly. Ignoring it now she focused instead on Mary's face which was so innocent and pure Orianthe could have cried crimson tears knowing that if she could she would make her eyes open once again if only to whisper to her many sacred secrets. The kind of secrets that would change her life. The kind that could enlighten or if she chose could damn that life eternally. Maybe it was a good thing she was really dead afterall because this way her soul could at least carry on in blissful ignorance. Dipping down she kissed Mary's cold forehead before prying herself away to travel down into the underbelly of the mortuary where things looked less pleasant and more real.
Below the polished funeral homes floor where it wasn't fit for grieving eyes to cast their sight, Orianthe began to clean up the mess she had made. The sterilization process she underwent was thorough and done with an overly meticulous touch by a woman who used the familiar regiment as a tool of distraction for unwelcome thoughts that otherwise would envelop her and drive her into a fugue state, but tonight she could tell that this ingrained practice just would not suffice, as she was already beginning to revisit memories she knew she oughtn't and so for just these moments she turned to music.
"Not this again." The familiar voice complained inside her head as Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata began its first movement. Orianthe ignored the voice, something that was difficult to do and all too often impossible, like ignoring your best friend...or yourself. She'd try though, focusing hard on the piano notes in an attempt to drown her out. She loved this piece like she loved the rain, like she loved the idea of love, like she still loved 'him'.
"Something with a beat might be nice." Orianthe dropped her metal instruments into the sink in such a way as the noise they made against the stainless steel momentarily drowned her out, not that it would make any difference. "You know, something that wasn't composed by a deaf fuck." Even if she wouldn't admit it, Flay was only mad because the music reminded her of him too and Orianthe knew it, she just couldn't understand why it made Flay so upset when it made Orianthe feel so calm. Caleb had only ever loved them, even if the way he did it sometimes was...unconventional. An enlightened kind of love could never be anything but challenging to fully comprehend. It was a love that surpassed any emotion a human or even a vampire or any other creature could ever fathom. It transcended all earthly creations as verily as Malkav had. Malkav, who overcame the ephemeral and now resided within all of his children, like some invisible bodhisattva. It had taken Orianthe forever to understand, but the moment she was embraced it had become ever so much clearer until one day she manifestly realized the truth that she had forgotten, the truth Caleb had wanted her to see, the truth Malkav gradually revealed to her...she was God...they were God.
With her tools soaking in the vat of chemical solution she had mixed, she sprayed and wiped down her body tray until the silver of it shined so clean she could see her reflection, the image of which she used as she tore out the tie holding back her short dark hair which fell in a shaggy mess to frame her darkened eyes and pale face. She ran her fingers through it gently as she went to replay her Sonata from the beginning. The first movement was always the most magical for her and despite an audible groan from Flay that echoed in her mind, she just had to hear it again.
Caleb had introduced her to classical music before she could talk. It was the soundtrack to her childhood, to her adolescence. It was the music of the heavens and she was a deity fallen, trying to remember. Orianthe removed her heels before hopping up onto the table to lay down flat as if she were a cadaver and watched the vibrantly colored fractals that played across the ceiling that danced excitedly with every slight movement of her eyes. Her hands slid up under her black velvet and lace blouse to softly caress the skin of her abdomen with her fingertips soothingly as she raised one knee in the air causing her matching skirt to expose her thigh. Concentrating on the fractals allowed her to see into another dimension, one that was ever present for her but what with the thoughts, the indistinguishable whispers and Flay, she could too easily forget about. She visited now though as Beethoven serenaded her. "Fuck me." Flay whined. "Shhhhhhhh." Orianthe shushed her quietly, gently closing her eyelids and tilting her chin upwards as she attempted to bask in symphonic delight.
That was over two hours ago, now Mary lay in her soft, rose pink casket in the reposing room awaiting her presentation that was scheduled to take place in the morning. Apparently the girl had been a cheerleader as conveyed by the Center High School Cougars cheerleading uniform Orianthe had dressed her in. No doubt the past-time had been significant to the girl or else her family would not have chosen it, but it still hurt to have to adorn her in something so temporal and silly. Ignoring it now she focused instead on Mary's face which was so innocent and pure Orianthe could have cried crimson tears knowing that if she could she would make her eyes open once again if only to whisper to her many sacred secrets. The kind of secrets that would change her life. The kind that could enlighten or if she chose could damn that life eternally. Maybe it was a good thing she was really dead afterall because this way her soul could at least carry on in blissful ignorance. Dipping down she kissed Mary's cold forehead before prying herself away to travel down into the underbelly of the mortuary where things looked less pleasant and more real.
Below the polished funeral homes floor where it wasn't fit for grieving eyes to cast their sight, Orianthe began to clean up the mess she had made. The sterilization process she underwent was thorough and done with an overly meticulous touch by a woman who used the familiar regiment as a tool of distraction for unwelcome thoughts that otherwise would envelop her and drive her into a fugue state, but tonight she could tell that this ingrained practice just would not suffice, as she was already beginning to revisit memories she knew she oughtn't and so for just these moments she turned to music.
"Not this again." The familiar voice complained inside her head as Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata began its first movement. Orianthe ignored the voice, something that was difficult to do and all too often impossible, like ignoring your best friend...or yourself. She'd try though, focusing hard on the piano notes in an attempt to drown her out. She loved this piece like she loved the rain, like she loved the idea of love, like she still loved 'him'.
"Something with a beat might be nice." Orianthe dropped her metal instruments into the sink in such a way as the noise they made against the stainless steel momentarily drowned her out, not that it would make any difference. "You know, something that wasn't composed by a deaf fuck." Even if she wouldn't admit it, Flay was only mad because the music reminded her of him too and Orianthe knew it, she just couldn't understand why it made Flay so upset when it made Orianthe feel so calm. Caleb had only ever loved them, even if the way he did it sometimes was...unconventional. An enlightened kind of love could never be anything but challenging to fully comprehend. It was a love that surpassed any emotion a human or even a vampire or any other creature could ever fathom. It transcended all earthly creations as verily as Malkav had. Malkav, who overcame the ephemeral and now resided within all of his children, like some invisible bodhisattva. It had taken Orianthe forever to understand, but the moment she was embraced it had become ever so much clearer until one day she manifestly realized the truth that she had forgotten, the truth Caleb had wanted her to see, the truth Malkav gradually revealed to her...she was God...they were God.
With her tools soaking in the vat of chemical solution she had mixed, she sprayed and wiped down her body tray until the silver of it shined so clean she could see her reflection, the image of which she used as she tore out the tie holding back her short dark hair which fell in a shaggy mess to frame her darkened eyes and pale face. She ran her fingers through it gently as she went to replay her Sonata from the beginning. The first movement was always the most magical for her and despite an audible groan from Flay that echoed in her mind, she just had to hear it again.
Caleb had introduced her to classical music before she could talk. It was the soundtrack to her childhood, to her adolescence. It was the music of the heavens and she was a deity fallen, trying to remember. Orianthe removed her heels before hopping up onto the table to lay down flat as if she were a cadaver and watched the vibrantly colored fractals that played across the ceiling that danced excitedly with every slight movement of her eyes. Her hands slid up under her black velvet and lace blouse to softly caress the skin of her abdomen with her fingertips soothingly as she raised one knee in the air causing her matching skirt to expose her thigh. Concentrating on the fractals allowed her to see into another dimension, one that was ever present for her but what with the thoughts, the indistinguishable whispers and Flay, she could too easily forget about. She visited now though as Beethoven serenaded her. "Fuck me." Flay whined. "Shhhhhhhh." Orianthe shushed her quietly, gently closing her eyelids and tilting her chin upwards as she attempted to bask in symphonic delight.
"You bit me." The mans voice was shaky but relatively calm as he pulled back his hand from his wounded neck and saw the blood glistening off the only light the alley had to offer. The dim glow came from the streetlamp just barely visible at the end of the way but it was enough to reflect off the crimson liquid and reveal to the man that he had in fact been bitten by the tiny woman now curled up in a fetal position beneath his body. He could remember now how she had lured him from the street and made him kneel at her feet. He was on his knees before he knew it, listening to her talk about how fortunate he was to be looking up at God herself. Then she'd leaned down, and that must have been when she bit him. "You fucking psycho!"
His label echoed in her mind, resonating like a bell as Orianthe ceased her disconsolate sobbing and suddenly fell completely still on the filthy, wet ground. Her fingers were still tangled in the hair she had been trying to rip from her scalp amidst the tempest of confused agony she'd suddenly found herself in brought on by nothing more than the sound of a car backfiring nearby. An awful sound that had risen to the surface of her mind the one of many forbidden memories of a single bullet fired that she was incapable of processing, a memory only her sister was equipped to handle...and so she did...happily. Flay opened those hazel eyes now as Orianthe dreamed safe and soundly tucked deep away inside the mind they both shared.
From her huddled position beneath the kneeling human she peered around her hands still embedded in her short, tousled locks and giggled balefully, her fangs extending visibly once more for the man to see. Somewhere between her sisters withdrawal from the world and Flays emergence into it, their vampiric powers had stopped working on the mundane one, a fact of reality that registered just fine with Flay since his blood would taste more the better laced with fear. Her giggles had yet to fully stop when she all at once and quickly sat up on her own knees and pinned the man by the broad chest against the alleys grimy wall, a move backed by a strength that knocked the breath out of him. Where Orianthe, being the benevolent God she was chose to dull those delectably horrified emotions with her power of 'passion', Flay chose to amplify them, and when the mans right hand came up to defend himself she broke the arm it was attached to only to find the timber of his scream invigorating. He gripped for life onto her cold wrist as he bellowed in terrified confusion and began pleading with barely decipherable words aimed to touch her somewhere deep down in the cockles of her dark heart. She clicked her tongue at him as if she were communicating with a squirrel, the red scattered and smeared remnants of Orianthe's tears masking a good portion of her pale skin. "I am the way..." she whispered as she leaned in to nuzzle his ear. "...truth and life...but I'll accept psycho." Her bite was sharp and fit exactly into the same holes her sister had made, yet unlike her sister she would drain the man until he was nothing but a dead, dried out shell before discarding his body in a dumpster. Even Flay knew about the Masquerade and though she didn't really care about the Camarillas game she did care about Orianthe and so would do what she could to maintain the charade.
With tummy full and the beast satiated for now, Flay turned her attention to the itch she had been needing to scratch for a very long time. The fly in her sisters ointment that had been buzzing around annoyingly but had thankfully gone unnoticed by the innocent Orianthe and Flay had made plans to make sure things stayed that way for her. Honestly, if she had her way she would just kill Stepan and be done with ever having to hear about him again, and if his Primogen status wasn't an issue she would have. She loved her sister but Orianthe's delusional love for the man was misplaced and hopelessly tied to her love for Caleb, the snake. Orianthe could never know about his betrayal because she simply couldn't handle it. No, that was for Flay to remember and live with, for her to handle. It was her job to keep them both safe and she was very good at her job.
Of course, Stepan was not the fly that needed swatting away tonight but that pretty little childe of his...his chosen love...his Bets. Bets had become a ticking time bomb of a problem and before she blew up in Orianthe's face she needed to go, and because she would never go on her own Flay needed to convince her that leaving was in her best interest. Maybe her sister was rubbing off on her and that was the reason she hadn't considered killing the bitch before but more likely it was that a person who was dead could no longer scream for mercy and where was the fun in that?
It didn't take long for Flay to collect from home the items needed for her wicked plan and after washing her face and changing into something more her style she was in the mortuary setting the scene before even an hour had passed. She began by pulling out every tray from the body freezer. She would take her time lifting and arranging the heavy, naked corpses around the room, sitting them in clever poses and tacking open their milky, faded eyes so that they could watch the show that was to unfold for their viewing pleasure before lighting candles for ambience, much nicer than the fluorescent glare the ceiling could offer. When she finally stood back in her black leather pants and MCR crop top to admire her work she began to giggle. Twirling around a couple times in her excitement, she grabbed hold of a particularly hideous corpses cheeks and touched foreheads with it. "Ooh, just you wait!" She squealed with excitement. "The look on her face!" She patted its cheeks twice then dropped its face back into its canted position against the wall. Her boots were the only sound outside her head as she walked over to the body table she'd positioned in the center of the room, there she imagined a naked Bets strapped down and sprawled out, the thought coaxing a chill up her spine. It was time.
The call to Bets would be a short one. "Bets!?" She'd say with a desperate, strained voice to resemble a panicked Orianthe. "It's Stepan, somethings wrong! I just can't...he needs you! You need to come to the mortuary now! Please hurry!" Hanging up she sighed in satisfaction her head twisting to address her audience of cadavers. "And that ladies and gentlemen, is how you catch a bird."
His label echoed in her mind, resonating like a bell as Orianthe ceased her disconsolate sobbing and suddenly fell completely still on the filthy, wet ground. Her fingers were still tangled in the hair she had been trying to rip from her scalp amidst the tempest of confused agony she'd suddenly found herself in brought on by nothing more than the sound of a car backfiring nearby. An awful sound that had risen to the surface of her mind the one of many forbidden memories of a single bullet fired that she was incapable of processing, a memory only her sister was equipped to handle...and so she did...happily. Flay opened those hazel eyes now as Orianthe dreamed safe and soundly tucked deep away inside the mind they both shared.
From her huddled position beneath the kneeling human she peered around her hands still embedded in her short, tousled locks and giggled balefully, her fangs extending visibly once more for the man to see. Somewhere between her sisters withdrawal from the world and Flays emergence into it, their vampiric powers had stopped working on the mundane one, a fact of reality that registered just fine with Flay since his blood would taste more the better laced with fear. Her giggles had yet to fully stop when she all at once and quickly sat up on her own knees and pinned the man by the broad chest against the alleys grimy wall, a move backed by a strength that knocked the breath out of him. Where Orianthe, being the benevolent God she was chose to dull those delectably horrified emotions with her power of 'passion', Flay chose to amplify them, and when the mans right hand came up to defend himself she broke the arm it was attached to only to find the timber of his scream invigorating. He gripped for life onto her cold wrist as he bellowed in terrified confusion and began pleading with barely decipherable words aimed to touch her somewhere deep down in the cockles of her dark heart. She clicked her tongue at him as if she were communicating with a squirrel, the red scattered and smeared remnants of Orianthe's tears masking a good portion of her pale skin. "I am the way..." she whispered as she leaned in to nuzzle his ear. "...truth and life...but I'll accept psycho." Her bite was sharp and fit exactly into the same holes her sister had made, yet unlike her sister she would drain the man until he was nothing but a dead, dried out shell before discarding his body in a dumpster. Even Flay knew about the Masquerade and though she didn't really care about the Camarillas game she did care about Orianthe and so would do what she could to maintain the charade.
With tummy full and the beast satiated for now, Flay turned her attention to the itch she had been needing to scratch for a very long time. The fly in her sisters ointment that had been buzzing around annoyingly but had thankfully gone unnoticed by the innocent Orianthe and Flay had made plans to make sure things stayed that way for her. Honestly, if she had her way she would just kill Stepan and be done with ever having to hear about him again, and if his Primogen status wasn't an issue she would have. She loved her sister but Orianthe's delusional love for the man was misplaced and hopelessly tied to her love for Caleb, the snake. Orianthe could never know about his betrayal because she simply couldn't handle it. No, that was for Flay to remember and live with, for her to handle. It was her job to keep them both safe and she was very good at her job.
Of course, Stepan was not the fly that needed swatting away tonight but that pretty little childe of his...his chosen love...his Bets. Bets had become a ticking time bomb of a problem and before she blew up in Orianthe's face she needed to go, and because she would never go on her own Flay needed to convince her that leaving was in her best interest. Maybe her sister was rubbing off on her and that was the reason she hadn't considered killing the bitch before but more likely it was that a person who was dead could no longer scream for mercy and where was the fun in that?
It didn't take long for Flay to collect from home the items needed for her wicked plan and after washing her face and changing into something more her style she was in the mortuary setting the scene before even an hour had passed. She began by pulling out every tray from the body freezer. She would take her time lifting and arranging the heavy, naked corpses around the room, sitting them in clever poses and tacking open their milky, faded eyes so that they could watch the show that was to unfold for their viewing pleasure before lighting candles for ambience, much nicer than the fluorescent glare the ceiling could offer. When she finally stood back in her black leather pants and MCR crop top to admire her work she began to giggle. Twirling around a couple times in her excitement, she grabbed hold of a particularly hideous corpses cheeks and touched foreheads with it. "Ooh, just you wait!" She squealed with excitement. "The look on her face!" She patted its cheeks twice then dropped its face back into its canted position against the wall. Her boots were the only sound outside her head as she walked over to the body table she'd positioned in the center of the room, there she imagined a naked Bets strapped down and sprawled out, the thought coaxing a chill up her spine. It was time.
The call to Bets would be a short one. "Bets!?" She'd say with a desperate, strained voice to resemble a panicked Orianthe. "It's Stepan, somethings wrong! I just can't...he needs you! You need to come to the mortuary now! Please hurry!" Hanging up she sighed in satisfaction her head twisting to address her audience of cadavers. "And that ladies and gentlemen, is how you catch a bird."
Genre: Modern/Period Supernatural (Vampire Masquerade)
"I am not a woman that needs any meaningless verbal utterances suggesting even in the slightest way that I might be loved by someone. Lusted for...now that's a different animal all together, darling."
Full name: Elise Eloise du'Clermont
Face Claim: Adrianna Lima
Species: Vampire (Lamia)
Powers:
Occupation: Night Club Owner/Investor
Notable features:
Age: 282
Eye Color: Blue/Green
Hair Color: Raven
Height: 5'8
Sexuality: Straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Articulate / Captivating / Individualistic / Passionate / Sophisticated / Glamorous / Sensual / Vain / Hedonistic / Venomous
A small quirk about Elise is that she more or less subconsciously and actively seeks brushes with her own death and not because she wants to really die but because she wants to really live.
Whereas the once young and human Elise du Clermont was prone to mixed feelings that often changed her mind, one day happy and sure, the next anxious and uncertain, now when Elise decides upon something she is immovably resolute, a characteristic her sire would attest to if he were still alive to do it. When she must she calls forth traits found in the ghost of the old Elise brought up under the scrutiny of courtly nobility. Visits to Versailles has taught her many things including charm and wit to win over favor and advantage and she will use these social gifts along with her charms if needed to further her pursuits.
In love with the idea of being in love she used to be susceptible to falling like a brick tied to a boulder and flung out into the deepest parts of her hearts ocean and it was men; debonair, enchanting, beautiful men who way back when had the dangerous potential of flinging her there. Fortunately and in no small part thanks to her late sire Elise has grown up and replaced her ideas of "amour eternel" with more imaginative ideas of how exactly to make the men who do unluckily cross her path pay for the sins of that one who'd disillusioned her.
History: Elise du Clermont was born to a prostitute and Francis Louis du Clermont, the Duke of Burgundy in the late winter of 1738, in France. Her father would tell her when she was old enough to really hear him that her mother was an angel that took one look at Elise and flew to heaven not wanting to have to compete for her fathers affections. He loved his daughter more than his wife who never knew the child ever existed since the Duke kept her locked away in his hunting lodge some many leagues from his home. Elise was constantly surrounded by adepts in their various fields of knowledge; medicine, philosophy, history, religion, art, law, even courtesans would come to teach the young girl how to be a woman.
When she had come into her own she signaled it by becoming headstrong and far too curious about the outside world for her fathers liking. Their constant fighting culminated finally one night when she told him flatly that she wanted to move away from the lodge, to experience life on her own, promising that she would never reveal her true identity lest she ruin her fathers reputation. Tearfully and after much convincing he agreed, even giving her a monthly stipend to keep her afloat out in the world.
She waved to her father as her carriage began its journey to Paris, not knowing that in less than a year she was to suffer the first of two greatest misfortunes of her life - she would fall in love. Her husband, ended up taking the shape of a tall, dashing young man who spoke French and Italian perfectly and had promised her an exciting life full of pleasure in their estate neighboring Versailles.
Life with her husband, a staunch libertine with hedonistic tendencies, was a roller coaster of sensual delights. With him she experienced love, glittering society with all its intrigues and scandals and midnight parties. She fell in love with him hard and savagely but like with all mortals they expire whether through old age or calamity and in her husbands case it was the latter. Pierced through the heart by some other woman's husband who had found out that he'd been fucking his wife. Elise's broken heart reduced her to wishing she were dead, swearing to herself that she would never fall in love again. Their marriage had lasted a total of three blissful years. Making things excruciatingly worse, shortly after her husbands death her father died from an attack of the heart adding exponentially to her pain. The fact that both men had left her with a substantial sum of money assuring her that if she were cleaver with her purse she'd never have to work again did not ease her shattered soul. Tired of France accompanied by its happy memories she moved to London feeling drawn to the rain that she'd always found tied to romanticism and inspiration.
In London she kept friends and lovers at an arms length and stayed mainly to herself as she grieved. She became a recluse for a span of time learning various languages while she drank absinthe, and smoked hashish imported from India. She still took on lovers from but it was few and far between as she waited for her depression to lift. It would be in 1767 at the age of 28 that she would meet a tall, handsome stranger that would change her life forever.
His name was Armand and he was a vampire in love with a beauty he could not resist capturing for eternity and over the years, as well as parenting her Armand seduced and spoiled her, making her fall in love with him slowly yet utterly until he haunted her every thought. Yet, blessings are quickly outlived by a vampire and Armand was no exception. When Armand met his "unfortunate" end it was at Elise's own hand as for the second time in her life she had found out that she'd been betrayed by the man she loved. Elise swore to herself for the last time that she would never love again and so far she has kept that promise. She'd rather live eternity alone than to ever feel those pangs of torment again.
Elise, a wealthy woman by then, having invested her money in successful business ventures, used that wealth to leave London for America, it was during these days that Elise became a monster, venturing out only to feed or abduct a victim to torture slowly as she tried to process her pain and anger at existence in general. Today she has calmed down some in her cruelty but she is no less restless and bored of life's joyless existence and so on a whim she decided to start a little business for her own entertainment.
Elise's baby, NUMB has gained a reputation spread by word of mouth for being a contemporary Studio 54 and just like that famous disco tech at NUMB not everyone can cross that red velvet rope but the lucky ones who did were promised a scandalously good night. It does not discriminate by species, its only prerequisite? Be beautiful. Something worth looking at. Simple. Once inside (if you are so lucky), depending on the night you might see aerial chain or burlesque performers, human statues, masked DJ's, caged dancers, fire eaters, or any number of novelty acts.
List of Services:
Cali, or Calliope as Elise, who was fond of using peoples proper names, much preferred, was a relatively new addition to the vampire's life. She was hers, contractually speaking, for the next five years or until such time Elise grew bored of her enough to sever ties prematurely or unless unfortunate circumstances required Elise to let her go sooner than anticipated for reasons besides those of a capricious nature. In other words, this arrangement was not ever meant to be a forever thing, no matter what the ebony-skinned beauty came to believe to be true, or thought she was being led to believe to be true, and Elise would never be made to feel guilty over any feelings the young woman may or may not have developed whilst serving Elise nor for any wishful thinking that may evolve over their time spent together, just as she had never felt a drop of it before with the others. Her butterflies. And there had been many.
Story:
Story Notes:
"I am not a woman that needs any meaningless verbal utterances suggesting even in the slightest way that I might be loved by someone. Lusted for...now that's a different animal all together, darling."
Full name: Elise Eloise du'Clermont
Face Claim: Adrianna Lima
Species: Vampire (Lamia)
Powers:
Occupation: Night Club Owner/Investor
Notable features:
Age: 282
Eye Color: Blue/Green
Hair Color: Raven
Height: 5'8
Sexuality: Straight
Likes:
Dislikes:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: Articulate / Captivating / Individualistic / Passionate / Sophisticated / Glamorous / Sensual / Vain / Hedonistic / Venomous
A small quirk about Elise is that she more or less subconsciously and actively seeks brushes with her own death and not because she wants to really die but because she wants to really live.
Whereas the once young and human Elise du Clermont was prone to mixed feelings that often changed her mind, one day happy and sure, the next anxious and uncertain, now when Elise decides upon something she is immovably resolute, a characteristic her sire would attest to if he were still alive to do it. When she must she calls forth traits found in the ghost of the old Elise brought up under the scrutiny of courtly nobility. Visits to Versailles has taught her many things including charm and wit to win over favor and advantage and she will use these social gifts along with her charms if needed to further her pursuits.
In love with the idea of being in love she used to be susceptible to falling like a brick tied to a boulder and flung out into the deepest parts of her hearts ocean and it was men; debonair, enchanting, beautiful men who way back when had the dangerous potential of flinging her there. Fortunately and in no small part thanks to her late sire Elise has grown up and replaced her ideas of "amour eternel" with more imaginative ideas of how exactly to make the men who do unluckily cross her path pay for the sins of that one who'd disillusioned her.
History: Elise du Clermont was born to a prostitute and Francis Louis du Clermont, the Duke of Burgundy in the late winter of 1738, in France. Her father would tell her when she was old enough to really hear him that her mother was an angel that took one look at Elise and flew to heaven not wanting to have to compete for her fathers affections. He loved his daughter more than his wife who never knew the child ever existed since the Duke kept her locked away in his hunting lodge some many leagues from his home. Elise was constantly surrounded by adepts in their various fields of knowledge; medicine, philosophy, history, religion, art, law, even courtesans would come to teach the young girl how to be a woman.
When she had come into her own she signaled it by becoming headstrong and far too curious about the outside world for her fathers liking. Their constant fighting culminated finally one night when she told him flatly that she wanted to move away from the lodge, to experience life on her own, promising that she would never reveal her true identity lest she ruin her fathers reputation. Tearfully and after much convincing he agreed, even giving her a monthly stipend to keep her afloat out in the world.
She waved to her father as her carriage began its journey to Paris, not knowing that in less than a year she was to suffer the first of two greatest misfortunes of her life - she would fall in love. Her husband, ended up taking the shape of a tall, dashing young man who spoke French and Italian perfectly and had promised her an exciting life full of pleasure in their estate neighboring Versailles.
Life with her husband, a staunch libertine with hedonistic tendencies, was a roller coaster of sensual delights. With him she experienced love, glittering society with all its intrigues and scandals and midnight parties. She fell in love with him hard and savagely but like with all mortals they expire whether through old age or calamity and in her husbands case it was the latter. Pierced through the heart by some other woman's husband who had found out that he'd been fucking his wife. Elise's broken heart reduced her to wishing she were dead, swearing to herself that she would never fall in love again. Their marriage had lasted a total of three blissful years. Making things excruciatingly worse, shortly after her husbands death her father died from an attack of the heart adding exponentially to her pain. The fact that both men had left her with a substantial sum of money assuring her that if she were cleaver with her purse she'd never have to work again did not ease her shattered soul. Tired of France accompanied by its happy memories she moved to London feeling drawn to the rain that she'd always found tied to romanticism and inspiration.
In London she kept friends and lovers at an arms length and stayed mainly to herself as she grieved. She became a recluse for a span of time learning various languages while she drank absinthe, and smoked hashish imported from India. She still took on lovers from but it was few and far between as she waited for her depression to lift. It would be in 1767 at the age of 28 that she would meet a tall, handsome stranger that would change her life forever.
His name was Armand and he was a vampire in love with a beauty he could not resist capturing for eternity and over the years, as well as parenting her Armand seduced and spoiled her, making her fall in love with him slowly yet utterly until he haunted her every thought. Yet, blessings are quickly outlived by a vampire and Armand was no exception. When Armand met his "unfortunate" end it was at Elise's own hand as for the second time in her life she had found out that she'd been betrayed by the man she loved. Elise swore to herself for the last time that she would never love again and so far she has kept that promise. She'd rather live eternity alone than to ever feel those pangs of torment again.
Elise, a wealthy woman by then, having invested her money in successful business ventures, used that wealth to leave London for America, it was during these days that Elise became a monster, venturing out only to feed or abduct a victim to torture slowly as she tried to process her pain and anger at existence in general. Today she has calmed down some in her cruelty but she is no less restless and bored of life's joyless existence and so on a whim she decided to start a little business for her own entertainment.
Elise's baby, NUMB has gained a reputation spread by word of mouth for being a contemporary Studio 54 and just like that famous disco tech at NUMB not everyone can cross that red velvet rope but the lucky ones who did were promised a scandalously good night. It does not discriminate by species, its only prerequisite? Be beautiful. Something worth looking at. Simple. Once inside (if you are so lucky), depending on the night you might see aerial chain or burlesque performers, human statues, masked DJ's, caged dancers, fire eaters, or any number of novelty acts.
List of Services:
- Three fully staffed bars (one for each level).
- Can be rented out for private parties and events.
- Underneath the main floor is an even more exclusive area of NUMB known as The Dungeon which caters to membered guests only.
Cali, or Calliope as Elise, who was fond of using peoples proper names, much preferred, was a relatively new addition to the vampire's life. She was hers, contractually speaking, for the next five years or until such time Elise grew bored of her enough to sever ties prematurely or unless unfortunate circumstances required Elise to let her go sooner than anticipated for reasons besides those of a capricious nature. In other words, this arrangement was not ever meant to be a forever thing, no matter what the ebony-skinned beauty came to believe to be true, or thought she was being led to believe to be true, and Elise would never be made to feel guilty over any feelings the young woman may or may not have developed whilst serving Elise nor for any wishful thinking that may evolve over their time spent together, just as she had never felt a drop of it before with the others. Her butterflies. And there had been many.
Story:
Story Notes:
Beige swarovski crystals twirled lazily betwixt slender, bronzed fingertips where long pointed nails glazed transparent and reflective in the passing lights just outside the tinted windows of Elise du Clermont's midnight black Rolls Royce. The wand in her hand topped with a simple mask the color of Victorian flesh had been thoughtfully chosen as to not draw the eye too apparently, though Elise's cerulean irises haunted by verdant shades of green might do just that anyways and thus compete too evenly matched with what exquisite fashion covered her eternally ripe body on this night of rare occasion outside of Club NUMB. But for all her incessant Venetian mask spinning Elise could not keep her mind from floating away from her. For only a moment at a time it seemed her attention once having becoming firmly fixed by conscious grasp would in the next instant trail off rebelliously back into the past, a place where her stubborn minds eye had been explicitly forbidden to cast its curious gaze.
Nostalgia, like most feelings of sentimentality would always be an enemy of peace, since with its sweet always came its bitter and with its bitter always came its suffering. But then, she'd only done this to herself tonight, hadn't she?
Silk chiffon. A material worn to represent wealth and standing since the 1700's had evidently come to represent much more than that to Elise du Clermont as every time she wore it (a thing she rarely did) it seemed to always transport her to her tragic human youth. For example, the weight of it on her frame felt not only akin to the lightness of a cloud but also felt plainly like the excited, tingling sensation of adventure. In fact, the very exact sort of feeling of one particular mademoiselle leaving home for the very first time to start a new life in Paris, France in the Spring of her 19th year...and that was not all...because that softly draped delicate mesh as well had the unfortunately uncanny power of evoking the recall of emotions that could only ever belong to an effulgently stupid young woman in the clutches of life's greatest and most cruelest trick...love. Thankfully however, almost mercifully then did the shimmering fabric hugging her with its devastating elegance also cast upon her senses the delightfully redolent memory of vengeance committed through her own sires end, even if it had been a fleeting satisfaction, one that still to this day came and went like the waves of an ever angry, spiteful ocean, it still at times held the magic to console Elise, if only momentarily.
Thus, with full knowledge and understanding of just what effect this textile had on the vampress, why would she choose to torture herself?
Was the answer not obvious? It was gorgeous. Daresay, spectacular.
"We're nearing our arrival point, madame."
Smoky eyes flickered towards the world outside her window just as her transport drove around a limo haphazardly parked along the side of the road where some activity was taking place towards the back of the vehicle, a situation perhaps? And one that she was not in the least curious about. "Take me around the back."
Elise had no coat to check, nor did she have any keen interest on being surrounded by drones of the colony or for all eyes to be on her all at once. She wasn't even in a social mood, so why had she come? She could be back home at NUMB where her comfort would not be in question, where she could sip on Calliope, spectate the frenzy below her birds nest and be left alone. But she was here, surrounded by architecture reminiscent of France, attending a ball thrown by once upon a time French nobles that she may or may not recognize depending on which royal courts they had haunted. Lord knows their name did not ring any bells inside her head. De Verre?...Nothing.
Her Rolls Royce slowly rolled to a stop behind the Crimson house rocking Elise gently in her seat and after a few moments of silence her driver's voice again reached her ears: "Should I circle the premises a few more times, madame?"
"You're perfect where you are." She reassured him in a soft, distant voice.
Of late her mood seemed to change like seasons to God and her choice of fashion on this night had not helped her stability. Graceful fingers splayed upon the soft silk barely covering her thigh before lightly tracing the patterned gold sequins there.
It was perfect. The stitching. The execution. Stunning. She could not possibly hate it even if it did hurt her so. It was poetry. It was resplendent and it deserved to be adored. Perhaps then she was not here purely out of boredom or morbid curiosity to watch the sheep prance and bleat before their cult leader. Perhaps she was here to honor one of the best designs she had ever seen...
There was a chill to the air that if she were human might have unnerved Elise but as it was it was easily ignored. It had taken her a handful of minutes to collect herself as memories once dredged were hard to settle back down into the murk but eventually she had stepped out of her ride with the help of her chauffeur who's years of experience with his employer aided in his taking patient care to avoid stepping on or closing her gown in the cars door, an error that he knew would not be taken lightly. Helpfully and with a focused sort of patience all her own Elise paid special attention to the piece of art she wore as well, making sure its short train was safe from the doors closure before giving Charles a little nod to dismiss him. He'd been with her long enough to know exactly what was expected of him which of course now, was nothing. He was to wait for her right here with the car until her return whenever that would be, whether that be an hour or a day, he would loyally stay put and be paid more than adequately for his dependability. Good help was hard to find they say and as far as employees go Charles was one of her best.
Having yet to raise mask to face or even to move a muscle for that matter, Elise's notice was taken suddenly by a figure approaching the halo of soft light she stood within coming from the single wall sconce directly above the backdoor...
Nostalgia, like most feelings of sentimentality would always be an enemy of peace, since with its sweet always came its bitter and with its bitter always came its suffering. But then, she'd only done this to herself tonight, hadn't she?
Silk chiffon. A material worn to represent wealth and standing since the 1700's had evidently come to represent much more than that to Elise du Clermont as every time she wore it (a thing she rarely did) it seemed to always transport her to her tragic human youth. For example, the weight of it on her frame felt not only akin to the lightness of a cloud but also felt plainly like the excited, tingling sensation of adventure. In fact, the very exact sort of feeling of one particular mademoiselle leaving home for the very first time to start a new life in Paris, France in the Spring of her 19th year...and that was not all...because that softly draped delicate mesh as well had the unfortunately uncanny power of evoking the recall of emotions that could only ever belong to an effulgently stupid young woman in the clutches of life's greatest and most cruelest trick...love. Thankfully however, almost mercifully then did the shimmering fabric hugging her with its devastating elegance also cast upon her senses the delightfully redolent memory of vengeance committed through her own sires end, even if it had been a fleeting satisfaction, one that still to this day came and went like the waves of an ever angry, spiteful ocean, it still at times held the magic to console Elise, if only momentarily.
Thus, with full knowledge and understanding of just what effect this textile had on the vampress, why would she choose to torture herself?
Was the answer not obvious? It was gorgeous. Daresay, spectacular.
"We're nearing our arrival point, madame."
Smoky eyes flickered towards the world outside her window just as her transport drove around a limo haphazardly parked along the side of the road where some activity was taking place towards the back of the vehicle, a situation perhaps? And one that she was not in the least curious about. "Take me around the back."
Elise had no coat to check, nor did she have any keen interest on being surrounded by drones of the colony or for all eyes to be on her all at once. She wasn't even in a social mood, so why had she come? She could be back home at NUMB where her comfort would not be in question, where she could sip on Calliope, spectate the frenzy below her birds nest and be left alone. But she was here, surrounded by architecture reminiscent of France, attending a ball thrown by once upon a time French nobles that she may or may not recognize depending on which royal courts they had haunted. Lord knows their name did not ring any bells inside her head. De Verre?...Nothing.
Her Rolls Royce slowly rolled to a stop behind the Crimson house rocking Elise gently in her seat and after a few moments of silence her driver's voice again reached her ears: "Should I circle the premises a few more times, madame?"
"You're perfect where you are." She reassured him in a soft, distant voice.
Of late her mood seemed to change like seasons to God and her choice of fashion on this night had not helped her stability. Graceful fingers splayed upon the soft silk barely covering her thigh before lightly tracing the patterned gold sequins there.
It was perfect. The stitching. The execution. Stunning. She could not possibly hate it even if it did hurt her so. It was poetry. It was resplendent and it deserved to be adored. Perhaps then she was not here purely out of boredom or morbid curiosity to watch the sheep prance and bleat before their cult leader. Perhaps she was here to honor one of the best designs she had ever seen...
There was a chill to the air that if she were human might have unnerved Elise but as it was it was easily ignored. It had taken her a handful of minutes to collect herself as memories once dredged were hard to settle back down into the murk but eventually she had stepped out of her ride with the help of her chauffeur who's years of experience with his employer aided in his taking patient care to avoid stepping on or closing her gown in the cars door, an error that he knew would not be taken lightly. Helpfully and with a focused sort of patience all her own Elise paid special attention to the piece of art she wore as well, making sure its short train was safe from the doors closure before giving Charles a little nod to dismiss him. He'd been with her long enough to know exactly what was expected of him which of course now, was nothing. He was to wait for her right here with the car until her return whenever that would be, whether that be an hour or a day, he would loyally stay put and be paid more than adequately for his dependability. Good help was hard to find they say and as far as employees go Charles was one of her best.
Having yet to raise mask to face or even to move a muscle for that matter, Elise's notice was taken suddenly by a figure approaching the halo of soft light she stood within coming from the single wall sconce directly above the backdoor...
Genre: Modern
""
Full Name: Elise Dawn-Marie Rothschild
Face Claim: Adrianna Lima
Species: Human
Occupation: Socialite/Investor/Model
Distinctive Features: Speaks fluent French, Japanese, Italian, and Spanish.
Age: 30
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brunette
Height: 5'4
Sexuality: Straight
Likes: Compliments / Attention / Wine / Cocaine / Fast Cars / Yachts / Versace / Paris
Dislikes: Being told no / Aging / Birds / Bergamot / Driving
Strengths: Terrific liar / Rebellion / Confidence
Weaknesses: Cocaine / Liquor / Vanity / Holding grudges / Narcissistic
Personality: If over-the-top were a person, that would be Elise. Extravangent and spoiled, she loves all the finer things in life, and why shouldn't she? She can afford it.
History: Elise had not always been a Rothschild, she'd been bestowed the name through adoption. Her father had always had a thing for Latinas and was a notorious philanderer which came part and parcel with fame and old money. He had a dynasty to protect yes, but he was also a man with a heart, a heart he lost to a bronzed beauty he'd met in Spain while globe-trotting. What singled her out from his litany of other mistresses became like catnip to the gossip mill as well as a shameful scandal for the family itself. A scarlet letter of sorts would always follow Elise who of course became the blacksheep of the Rothschild clan.
A rebellious teenager, Elise would forge her own path no matter how rocky. She'd realize her beauty early on and though she had no real need for any currency besides that of her family's wealth, she craved independence, an unchaining from the golden leash her parents kept tight hold of. She'd use her face and name to her advantage until she had just enough advantage to make a clean break. Years later, she'd still be wondering whatever happened to that plan?
Of course, not everything in life runs smoothly...even for a Rothschild. For a while, Elise's Modelling career had been what any objective observer would have called successful. She'd reached the summit in her industry; she'd walked Fashion Week year after year, was on beyond friendly terms with every major fashion house and premier designer. She dated and bumped elbows with celebrities, attended every major party and event, even socialized with royalty and foreign dignitaries and all of this despite public knowledge of her love of "white horses". Her party, jetset lifestyle or that she was labelled a 'wild child' and a 'homewrecker' in the press never seemed to stop her momentum or accomplishments. Then one day...it all ended seemingly overnight and Elise Rothschild disappeared...
The Story: A woman in her early 30's could hardly be considered over-the-hill, at least in normal life, but in the world of modeling, it could amount to at least the beginnings of a dying career, especially when combined with a powerful ex that has it out for you. Sure, Elise has investments and a family name which will guarantee her dying rich, but to Elise who's vanity is on the level of Venus de'Milo and Aphrodite combined, dying rich is no consolation. At the commencement of her story she is at odds with her family and battling a drug habit.
Story Notes: Elise has returned from "isolation", fresh out of rehab, ready to reclaim her name. She is embroiled in family drama stemming from an exposed secret, thanks to her ex-fiance, Charles Dixon. She is poised to lose everything and the fight is likely, an uphill and pointless battle. Her only industry friend, Donatella Versace, at least, has taken pity on her and has invited her to walk in her show for New York Fashion Week, a show that has the potential to reinvent her career and that hope is all that is keeping Elise holding on.
""
Full Name: Elise Dawn-Marie Rothschild
Face Claim: Adrianna Lima
Species: Human
Occupation: Socialite/Investor/Model
Distinctive Features: Speaks fluent French, Japanese, Italian, and Spanish.
Age: 30
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brunette
Height: 5'4
Sexuality: Straight
Likes: Compliments / Attention / Wine / Cocaine / Fast Cars / Yachts / Versace / Paris
Dislikes: Being told no / Aging / Birds / Bergamot / Driving
Strengths: Terrific liar / Rebellion / Confidence
Weaknesses: Cocaine / Liquor / Vanity / Holding grudges / Narcissistic
Personality: If over-the-top were a person, that would be Elise. Extravangent and spoiled, she loves all the finer things in life, and why shouldn't she? She can afford it.
History: Elise had not always been a Rothschild, she'd been bestowed the name through adoption. Her father had always had a thing for Latinas and was a notorious philanderer which came part and parcel with fame and old money. He had a dynasty to protect yes, but he was also a man with a heart, a heart he lost to a bronzed beauty he'd met in Spain while globe-trotting. What singled her out from his litany of other mistresses became like catnip to the gossip mill as well as a shameful scandal for the family itself. A scarlet letter of sorts would always follow Elise who of course became the blacksheep of the Rothschild clan.
A rebellious teenager, Elise would forge her own path no matter how rocky. She'd realize her beauty early on and though she had no real need for any currency besides that of her family's wealth, she craved independence, an unchaining from the golden leash her parents kept tight hold of. She'd use her face and name to her advantage until she had just enough advantage to make a clean break. Years later, she'd still be wondering whatever happened to that plan?
Of course, not everything in life runs smoothly...even for a Rothschild. For a while, Elise's Modelling career had been what any objective observer would have called successful. She'd reached the summit in her industry; she'd walked Fashion Week year after year, was on beyond friendly terms with every major fashion house and premier designer. She dated and bumped elbows with celebrities, attended every major party and event, even socialized with royalty and foreign dignitaries and all of this despite public knowledge of her love of "white horses". Her party, jetset lifestyle or that she was labelled a 'wild child' and a 'homewrecker' in the press never seemed to stop her momentum or accomplishments. Then one day...it all ended seemingly overnight and Elise Rothschild disappeared...
The Story: A woman in her early 30's could hardly be considered over-the-hill, at least in normal life, but in the world of modeling, it could amount to at least the beginnings of a dying career, especially when combined with a powerful ex that has it out for you. Sure, Elise has investments and a family name which will guarantee her dying rich, but to Elise who's vanity is on the level of Venus de'Milo and Aphrodite combined, dying rich is no consolation. At the commencement of her story she is at odds with her family and battling a drug habit.
Story Notes: Elise has returned from "isolation", fresh out of rehab, ready to reclaim her name. She is embroiled in family drama stemming from an exposed secret, thanks to her ex-fiance, Charles Dixon. She is poised to lose everything and the fight is likely, an uphill and pointless battle. Her only industry friend, Donatella Versace, at least, has taken pity on her and has invited her to walk in her show for New York Fashion Week, a show that has the potential to reinvent her career and that hope is all that is keeping Elise holding on.
The Big Apple. One of the worlds fashion capitals that make up the "Big Four" alongside it's European sisters London, Paris, and of course the city where Elise was "discovered", Milan, or what she respectfully referred to as fashion's Mecca. New York, though not her favorite city out of the four (which would always be Paris although not specifically for its fashion) still held a certain place in her heart. She had made a lot of friends here over the years, made a lot of love too, as well as broke a lot of hearts...most notably her own.
Elise glanced down at the red IPhone in her hand. 2:42 pm. It had been only two minutes since the last time she'd checked it. "Alex, could you put on my music?" She asked her driver as she shifted in her seat restlessly, uncrossing her legs only to cross them back again the other way. She was stressing and anxiety was not a good look on her. She unlocked her phone for no reason whatsoever and stared blankly at the home screen before choosing to randomly scroll through old text messages without really thinking about it, just something, anything to keep her eyes from wandering to her little black purse at her side.
The Weeknd began to emanate from the speakers and Alex turned it up without having to be told. They say good help was hard to find, truth was it was hard but not impossible and Alex was proof of that. After several years of being away from the city that never sleeps she considered herself lucky that he was still around and available for her when she had called to make arrangements for her pick up at the airport, and after a month in rehab and a nine hour flight from Rome to New York it was nice to see a familiar face even if it was bought.
Dropping the phone in her lap Elise closed her blue-green eyes, leaned her head back against the leather headrest and tried to let the thumping beat lead her to some kind of happy place of distraction far away from reality and of where she was heading to this cold winter afternoon. Not as if she didn't want to be going to her niece's event or that she didn't want to reunite with her family. On the contrary, she missed her Gracie, she missed all of them. They used to have fun together before Elise' life turned upside down. She loved them. What she didn't love was having to apologize for her long absence with made up excuses to her or to anyone else that might be there, her other nieces or nephew who she also loved dearly or to any other members of the clan that might show up...her brother. Especially her brother because she knew he was the one person she would not be able to lie to. Oh, she might try, would likely try, but he'd see right through it and when he did she just knew she wouldn't deal well at all with the look of disappointment on his face, but even he didn't know what she'd been through. She opened her eyes and looked down at her purse, her hand reaching for it despite herself.
She had done well. No matter what look Gabriel gave her or what he might say, she was proud of herself. One month sober was something! Even if it ended today (which was feeling more and more like the case) she'd still be in a far better place than she had been thirty days ago. One might think being a Rothschild made you impervious to life's little curveballs and the depression and panic they brought with them. It didn't. At least in Elise' case. The others always seemed fine, stable even. Able to deal with the pressures that weighed on them all. But who really knew, right? Behind their broad smiles and turned up noses perhaps they felt like they were dying inside too but just couldn't or wouldn't say. Too dignified for that. Too proud. They all were. She couldn't deny that she was just as guilty of pretending. That's why she had been away so long, a curveball had been thrown and she just couldn't pretend anymore, not after...
"We're here, Lady Rothschild." Alex broke through Elise' thoughts. She hadn't realized he had stopped the car and had been staring at her in the rear view mirror. She wasn't quite ready to be here yet. "Just keep the music on, Alex. I'm not getting out just yet."
She stared down at the small silver vile she had pulled from her purse as she rolled it gently back and forth between her glossy, manicured thumb and forefinger, battling with herself quickly turning into bargaining with herself. She didn't need much. Two bumps would help get her through the door, after that there'd be alcohol inside to balance out the high if she got too antsy. After tonight she'd refrain from taking anything intoxicating until New Years she swore to herself. She'd be just a casual user, an every-once-in-a-while user; functioning, able, content. She'd be stronger than she had been because she had to be. Of course, these sorts of promises she made to herself now were nothing new but this time after four weeks clean, for the first time (at least in this moment) they felt credible to her.
"I can't feel my face when I'm with you..." Elise sang barely above a whisper along with the song as she unscrewed the top of the vile. "and I love it...and I love it."
The rush of Euphoria was instant and after her time of abstinence it was also intense as her heartbeat began to speed up and her body tingled all warm and fuzzy. She used her compact mirror to clean any residue off her nostrils before applying a fresh layer of red lipstick and quickly checking her hair, already feeling restless and needing to move her body. Scooping up her purse, Elise bundled herself up against the chilly December air if only to feel the black fur of her coat against her neck. "Im off, Alex. Stay warm." She said as she stepped out of the black escalade unaided. The world around her was brighter than usual seen through cocaine eyes, it sparkled.
Feeling confident, sexy and alive she entered 'Gracefully Vintage', her eyes immediately scanning the pretty, rich people who had come to her niece's Gallery this afternoon. Not seeing anyone she knew at first glance she shed her fur revealing a simple yet snug bronze silk dress that hugged her down to mid-thigh. "Bourbon or champagne, Lady Rothschild?" A slender man appeared beside her, his cheeks ruddy. She traded him a glass of sweet whiskey for her coat with an engaging smile. "And where do you know me from, sir?" She asked him, flirting pointlessly but amusedly, her gay-dar going off, her ego wanting to be stroked and getting the feeling that she would not be disappointed by this one. Slightly embarrassed, the man leaned towards her somewhat and spoke in a secretive manner, soft but excited, "I get Vogue in the mail and I may follow you on Instagram, too." Elise' smile widened. "Well, thank you for the follow. Tell me, is Grace around here somewhere?" She asked the man who responded by rising onto his tiptoes gracefully and pointing her out amidst the crowd. Elise was sure to thank him with a wink setting off on her mission without hesitation towards her niece. "How much for the whole lot?!" She inquired grandly to get her attention albeit louder than she had intended and thus garnering stares from guests throughout the room.
Elise glanced down at the red IPhone in her hand. 2:42 pm. It had been only two minutes since the last time she'd checked it. "Alex, could you put on my music?" She asked her driver as she shifted in her seat restlessly, uncrossing her legs only to cross them back again the other way. She was stressing and anxiety was not a good look on her. She unlocked her phone for no reason whatsoever and stared blankly at the home screen before choosing to randomly scroll through old text messages without really thinking about it, just something, anything to keep her eyes from wandering to her little black purse at her side.
The Weeknd began to emanate from the speakers and Alex turned it up without having to be told. They say good help was hard to find, truth was it was hard but not impossible and Alex was proof of that. After several years of being away from the city that never sleeps she considered herself lucky that he was still around and available for her when she had called to make arrangements for her pick up at the airport, and after a month in rehab and a nine hour flight from Rome to New York it was nice to see a familiar face even if it was bought.
Dropping the phone in her lap Elise closed her blue-green eyes, leaned her head back against the leather headrest and tried to let the thumping beat lead her to some kind of happy place of distraction far away from reality and of where she was heading to this cold winter afternoon. Not as if she didn't want to be going to her niece's event or that she didn't want to reunite with her family. On the contrary, she missed her Gracie, she missed all of them. They used to have fun together before Elise' life turned upside down. She loved them. What she didn't love was having to apologize for her long absence with made up excuses to her or to anyone else that might be there, her other nieces or nephew who she also loved dearly or to any other members of the clan that might show up...her brother. Especially her brother because she knew he was the one person she would not be able to lie to. Oh, she might try, would likely try, but he'd see right through it and when he did she just knew she wouldn't deal well at all with the look of disappointment on his face, but even he didn't know what she'd been through. She opened her eyes and looked down at her purse, her hand reaching for it despite herself.
She had done well. No matter what look Gabriel gave her or what he might say, she was proud of herself. One month sober was something! Even if it ended today (which was feeling more and more like the case) she'd still be in a far better place than she had been thirty days ago. One might think being a Rothschild made you impervious to life's little curveballs and the depression and panic they brought with them. It didn't. At least in Elise' case. The others always seemed fine, stable even. Able to deal with the pressures that weighed on them all. But who really knew, right? Behind their broad smiles and turned up noses perhaps they felt like they were dying inside too but just couldn't or wouldn't say. Too dignified for that. Too proud. They all were. She couldn't deny that she was just as guilty of pretending. That's why she had been away so long, a curveball had been thrown and she just couldn't pretend anymore, not after...
"We're here, Lady Rothschild." Alex broke through Elise' thoughts. She hadn't realized he had stopped the car and had been staring at her in the rear view mirror. She wasn't quite ready to be here yet. "Just keep the music on, Alex. I'm not getting out just yet."
She stared down at the small silver vile she had pulled from her purse as she rolled it gently back and forth between her glossy, manicured thumb and forefinger, battling with herself quickly turning into bargaining with herself. She didn't need much. Two bumps would help get her through the door, after that there'd be alcohol inside to balance out the high if she got too antsy. After tonight she'd refrain from taking anything intoxicating until New Years she swore to herself. She'd be just a casual user, an every-once-in-a-while user; functioning, able, content. She'd be stronger than she had been because she had to be. Of course, these sorts of promises she made to herself now were nothing new but this time after four weeks clean, for the first time (at least in this moment) they felt credible to her.
"I can't feel my face when I'm with you..." Elise sang barely above a whisper along with the song as she unscrewed the top of the vile. "and I love it...and I love it."
The rush of Euphoria was instant and after her time of abstinence it was also intense as her heartbeat began to speed up and her body tingled all warm and fuzzy. She used her compact mirror to clean any residue off her nostrils before applying a fresh layer of red lipstick and quickly checking her hair, already feeling restless and needing to move her body. Scooping up her purse, Elise bundled herself up against the chilly December air if only to feel the black fur of her coat against her neck. "Im off, Alex. Stay warm." She said as she stepped out of the black escalade unaided. The world around her was brighter than usual seen through cocaine eyes, it sparkled.
Feeling confident, sexy and alive she entered 'Gracefully Vintage', her eyes immediately scanning the pretty, rich people who had come to her niece's Gallery this afternoon. Not seeing anyone she knew at first glance she shed her fur revealing a simple yet snug bronze silk dress that hugged her down to mid-thigh. "Bourbon or champagne, Lady Rothschild?" A slender man appeared beside her, his cheeks ruddy. She traded him a glass of sweet whiskey for her coat with an engaging smile. "And where do you know me from, sir?" She asked him, flirting pointlessly but amusedly, her gay-dar going off, her ego wanting to be stroked and getting the feeling that she would not be disappointed by this one. Slightly embarrassed, the man leaned towards her somewhat and spoke in a secretive manner, soft but excited, "I get Vogue in the mail and I may follow you on Instagram, too." Elise' smile widened. "Well, thank you for the follow. Tell me, is Grace around here somewhere?" She asked the man who responded by rising onto his tiptoes gracefully and pointing her out amidst the crowd. Elise was sure to thank him with a wink setting off on her mission without hesitation towards her niece. "How much for the whole lot?!" She inquired grandly to get her attention albeit louder than she had intended and thus garnering stares from guests throughout the room.
UNAVAILABLE
Genre: Modern
"I swear I really do use my head for somethin' other than just a knot to keep my backbone from unravelin', I just got alot on my mind is all."
Full Name: Sue Ellen Gretchen Thatcher
Face Claim: Megan Fox
Species: Human
Occupation: Currently looking for employment
Distinctive Features: First and foremost, her southern accent and sweet (to a fault) disposition, followed by an appendectomy scar and a couple of snake bite marks she got as a kid back in 'Bama, one on her left ankle and another on her right forearm. Also, a small tattoo of an acorn on her right inner wrist.
Age: 30
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brunette
Height: 5'4
Sexuality:
Likes: Nice people / Animals / Meat and Potatoes / Skinny dipping / Rainstorms / Fishing / Cooking and Baking / Eating / Country music / Game shows / Smart People / Blue jeans / Laughing / Thrill Seeking
Dislikes: Mean people / Chrysanthemums / Guns / Being made to feel dumb / Having too many things she doesn't like
Strengths: Humility / Forgiveness / Cooking and Baking / Gregarious / Clever
Weaknesses: Gullible / Too Nice / Alcoholic (Recovering) / Promiscuous (Recovering)
Personality: While her mama always liked to tell everybody who'd listen that her "baby girl" was sweeter than pecan pie and as innocent as a "naked-chubby-cherub", Swell had always found herself in stark but silent disagreement with her. She never wanted to disappoint her mama but truth was the girl had a devilish side to her that started kickin' up around the teenage years with drugs and sex and all that came with it. Her mama, despite being wrong about the innocence part was right with the sweet part because sweet seemed to be a trait impressed upon her very soul and it's been a part of her personality that's she's carried with her practically since birth. Though definitely not innocent she is honest and extremely easy going. Her brother once noticed rather rudely that "you could use her back as a bridge and she'd barely protest." So yeah, she's got some flaws. Along with having the tendency of being a doormat in relationships she can be gullible, not in a stupid way but more in a 'it's hard for her to detect sarcasm and she thinks everybody's her friend' kinda way. Other qualities that describe her would be generous, loving, affectionate, optimistic, adaptable (extremely), thankful, insecure (mainly about her intelligence), shy at times but mostly gregarious and endearing. She'd do anything for a friend or to make one and if she hurts your feelings she's quick to apologize on account of she's quite susceptible to feeling guilt which she carries around like a handbag permanently stitched to her arm. She hates when people are mad at her or don't like her or when people don't get along in general so she tries to be super nice to everyone.
History: Born in Birmingham, Alabama, the "Magic City" like Swell herself has had its moments of controversy over the years. Home life was lovely and made up of a big brother, a mama and a daddy, big family suppers, lots of laughter and lots of hugs. The trailer park she grew up in wasn't all that bad, there was actually a nice feeling of community and a bit of a 'we're all in this together' kind of silent bond even with the tweakers, though never with the wife beaters or child abusers that would occasionally move in but would never stay long. Outside the trailer park, in town and particularly in school is where the world was different on account of people could be real mean to "trailer trash" so friends and people liking her became very important. She started hanging out with a girl named Kristen Claxton in high school and they quickly became best friends.
Now, Kristen had this brother everyone called Kubby and Kubby was a senior who took a quick shine to Swell almost immediately. He made her feel pretty. He used to compliment her all the time and pick flowers for her to catch her attention and make her feel special. But once he had her to the point of kissin' and huggin' and feelin' comfortable is when he started planting seeds in her mind that he watered every chance he could get until one day like magic he made her believe it was her idea to sell her body for some money they could use to leave Birmin'ham and start a new life together far away. Well, Kubby agreed whole heartedly to "her" plan and "surprisingly" already had in mind who her first customer could be, an old man who went be the name Big Easy who lived in an actual house near the river. So money exchanged hands and the thing was set up but on the day of Swell had a vicious panic attack and refused to go through with the deal which sent Kubby into a rage. When her daddy inevitably saw the scrapes and bruises and found out who had hurt her so bad that's when he found Kubby and likewise hurt him too but even worse. Kubby never told anyone who beat him up and sent him to the ER that night and Swell kept that secret too along with the Big Easy one she was already keeping. She also stopped going over to Kristen's place from that day forward. Everything got back to normal eventually but for Kubby it was just time spent fixating and festering until one day he snapped.
It was Swell's sixteenth birthday, the whole family and all the neighbors were outside having a big barbecue when Kubby come up around the side of the trailer with his double barrel and shot Swell's daddy in the face. That day and it's aftermath...is not something she likes to think about.
The Story:
Story Notes:
Genre: Modern
"I swear I really do use my head for somethin' other than just a knot to keep my backbone from unravelin', I just got alot on my mind is all."
Full Name: Sue Ellen Gretchen Thatcher
Face Claim: Megan Fox
Species: Human
Occupation: Currently looking for employment
Distinctive Features: First and foremost, her southern accent and sweet (to a fault) disposition, followed by an appendectomy scar and a couple of snake bite marks she got as a kid back in 'Bama, one on her left ankle and another on her right forearm. Also, a small tattoo of an acorn on her right inner wrist.
Age: 30
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brunette
Height: 5'4
Sexuality:
Likes: Nice people / Animals / Meat and Potatoes / Skinny dipping / Rainstorms / Fishing / Cooking and Baking / Eating / Country music / Game shows / Smart People / Blue jeans / Laughing / Thrill Seeking
Dislikes: Mean people / Chrysanthemums / Guns / Being made to feel dumb / Having too many things she doesn't like
Strengths: Humility / Forgiveness / Cooking and Baking / Gregarious / Clever
Weaknesses: Gullible / Too Nice / Alcoholic (Recovering) / Promiscuous (Recovering)
Personality: While her mama always liked to tell everybody who'd listen that her "baby girl" was sweeter than pecan pie and as innocent as a "naked-chubby-cherub", Swell had always found herself in stark but silent disagreement with her. She never wanted to disappoint her mama but truth was the girl had a devilish side to her that started kickin' up around the teenage years with drugs and sex and all that came with it. Her mama, despite being wrong about the innocence part was right with the sweet part because sweet seemed to be a trait impressed upon her very soul and it's been a part of her personality that's she's carried with her practically since birth. Though definitely not innocent she is honest and extremely easy going. Her brother once noticed rather rudely that "you could use her back as a bridge and she'd barely protest." So yeah, she's got some flaws. Along with having the tendency of being a doormat in relationships she can be gullible, not in a stupid way but more in a 'it's hard for her to detect sarcasm and she thinks everybody's her friend' kinda way. Other qualities that describe her would be generous, loving, affectionate, optimistic, adaptable (extremely), thankful, insecure (mainly about her intelligence), shy at times but mostly gregarious and endearing. She'd do anything for a friend or to make one and if she hurts your feelings she's quick to apologize on account of she's quite susceptible to feeling guilt which she carries around like a handbag permanently stitched to her arm. She hates when people are mad at her or don't like her or when people don't get along in general so she tries to be super nice to everyone.
History: Born in Birmingham, Alabama, the "Magic City" like Swell herself has had its moments of controversy over the years. Home life was lovely and made up of a big brother, a mama and a daddy, big family suppers, lots of laughter and lots of hugs. The trailer park she grew up in wasn't all that bad, there was actually a nice feeling of community and a bit of a 'we're all in this together' kind of silent bond even with the tweakers, though never with the wife beaters or child abusers that would occasionally move in but would never stay long. Outside the trailer park, in town and particularly in school is where the world was different on account of people could be real mean to "trailer trash" so friends and people liking her became very important. She started hanging out with a girl named Kristen Claxton in high school and they quickly became best friends.
Now, Kristen had this brother everyone called Kubby and Kubby was a senior who took a quick shine to Swell almost immediately. He made her feel pretty. He used to compliment her all the time and pick flowers for her to catch her attention and make her feel special. But once he had her to the point of kissin' and huggin' and feelin' comfortable is when he started planting seeds in her mind that he watered every chance he could get until one day like magic he made her believe it was her idea to sell her body for some money they could use to leave Birmin'ham and start a new life together far away. Well, Kubby agreed whole heartedly to "her" plan and "surprisingly" already had in mind who her first customer could be, an old man who went be the name Big Easy who lived in an actual house near the river. So money exchanged hands and the thing was set up but on the day of Swell had a vicious panic attack and refused to go through with the deal which sent Kubby into a rage. When her daddy inevitably saw the scrapes and bruises and found out who had hurt her so bad that's when he found Kubby and likewise hurt him too but even worse. Kubby never told anyone who beat him up and sent him to the ER that night and Swell kept that secret too along with the Big Easy one she was already keeping. She also stopped going over to Kristen's place from that day forward. Everything got back to normal eventually but for Kubby it was just time spent fixating and festering until one day he snapped.
It was Swell's sixteenth birthday, the whole family and all the neighbors were outside having a big barbecue when Kubby come up around the side of the trailer with his double barrel and shot Swell's daddy in the face. That day and it's aftermath...is not something she likes to think about.
The Story:
Story Notes:
"Well, shit my britches, would you look at that!? Swell gave a high pitched excited little shriek as she practically laid on top of the pool table to get a better look at random-guys secret talent which disgustingly enough was that he could literally swallow his tongue...or at least give the illusion of it.
She'd come out tonight, her pockets full of tip money and her head filled with promises to herself that she knew she was gonna break before she even stepped foot outside her trailer door. Now here she was barely twenty minutes in public and already she was half-way to drunk off two shots of straight Jack starin' intently into some hot guys mouth. Just so happened him and his sister were playin' pool talkin' 'bout secret talents when Swell who may have been eavesdroppin' a 'lil couldn't help but take a real interest in the conversation once the guy had revealed his ability. She'd turned with a loud gasp and expressed her sincere interest in seein' it not noticin' the look on his sisters face when she did.
"Wait, I still don't get it...how the heck are you doin' that?" Swell asked curiously bothered, leanin' forward, squintin' earnestly before decidin' she just wasn't close enough to truly understand how he was makin' his tongue disappear like that so she rounded the pool table to get closer, bouncin' past his sister who was growin' angrier by the moment, not that Swell was payin' much attention since she was on a personal, scientifically medical mission of discovery here.
The hot dude just stood there relishin' the attention, ignorin' his "sister" just as much as the southern hottie who was now so close to his open mouth she could probably smell the vodka on his breath. "OH!!" Swell exclaimed. "You don't have one of those things...those connecty thingies!"
"A frenulum." He educated her helpfully, repositioning his tongue all normal-like in order to inform her on the correct word for it before placin' it back up behind that little hangy thing that dangled like an ornament back their in his throat so that she could keep admirin'.
"Cooooool." She cooed, utterly fascinated. "What else can you do with your tongue?" She smiled provocatively, her eyes traveling the short distance to lock onto his, totally forgettin' about his sister in the playful moment of harmless flirtin' until she was grabbed by the shoulder and yanked away from the guy. "What the fuck, skank?! Back off my boyfriend!"
Swells mouth gaped in innocent shocked reaction as she stumbled back, her hip bouncin' off the edge of the pool table. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry darlin'. You're both gingersnaps...I thought you were kin! It was an honest mistake!" Swell admitted naively but honestly pointing between both their heads of red hair.
"Aw, see babe! She just thought we were kin!" The freak of nature said with an amused laugh in his voice as he tried to calm his girlfriend down who was madder than a wet hen. "It was an honest mis-..." The sound of the girls open palm slap across his face brought Swell's own open palm up to cover her shocked expression. "Yeah and you were eating up her honest mistake the whole time!" She threw at him before throwin' down her pool stick onto the billiards table and runnin' out the door with her man a'trailin' after her.
It really wasn't funny but half-drunk Swell just couldn't help herself from gigglin' which was a hilarious shame since she really did feel bad. Nothin' another shot couldn't fix though.
She was still gigglin' as she ordered her third shot and handed over her money droppin' a few bills out her pocket and onto the floor in the process. She could have hardly been less the wiser of it however as she made eyes at the 'tender, a man twice her age, her little project for the night she had decided promptly when she first walked in. She was hopin' a 'lil Shania Twain would do the trick. She'd put her name down on the karaoke list as soon as she'd gotten here but so far she was still a'waitin'.
She'd come out tonight, her pockets full of tip money and her head filled with promises to herself that she knew she was gonna break before she even stepped foot outside her trailer door. Now here she was barely twenty minutes in public and already she was half-way to drunk off two shots of straight Jack starin' intently into some hot guys mouth. Just so happened him and his sister were playin' pool talkin' 'bout secret talents when Swell who may have been eavesdroppin' a 'lil couldn't help but take a real interest in the conversation once the guy had revealed his ability. She'd turned with a loud gasp and expressed her sincere interest in seein' it not noticin' the look on his sisters face when she did.
"Wait, I still don't get it...how the heck are you doin' that?" Swell asked curiously bothered, leanin' forward, squintin' earnestly before decidin' she just wasn't close enough to truly understand how he was makin' his tongue disappear like that so she rounded the pool table to get closer, bouncin' past his sister who was growin' angrier by the moment, not that Swell was payin' much attention since she was on a personal, scientifically medical mission of discovery here.
The hot dude just stood there relishin' the attention, ignorin' his "sister" just as much as the southern hottie who was now so close to his open mouth she could probably smell the vodka on his breath. "OH!!" Swell exclaimed. "You don't have one of those things...those connecty thingies!"
"A frenulum." He educated her helpfully, repositioning his tongue all normal-like in order to inform her on the correct word for it before placin' it back up behind that little hangy thing that dangled like an ornament back their in his throat so that she could keep admirin'.
"Cooooool." She cooed, utterly fascinated. "What else can you do with your tongue?" She smiled provocatively, her eyes traveling the short distance to lock onto his, totally forgettin' about his sister in the playful moment of harmless flirtin' until she was grabbed by the shoulder and yanked away from the guy. "What the fuck, skank?! Back off my boyfriend!"
Swells mouth gaped in innocent shocked reaction as she stumbled back, her hip bouncin' off the edge of the pool table. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry darlin'. You're both gingersnaps...I thought you were kin! It was an honest mistake!" Swell admitted naively but honestly pointing between both their heads of red hair.
"Aw, see babe! She just thought we were kin!" The freak of nature said with an amused laugh in his voice as he tried to calm his girlfriend down who was madder than a wet hen. "It was an honest mis-..." The sound of the girls open palm slap across his face brought Swell's own open palm up to cover her shocked expression. "Yeah and you were eating up her honest mistake the whole time!" She threw at him before throwin' down her pool stick onto the billiards table and runnin' out the door with her man a'trailin' after her.
It really wasn't funny but half-drunk Swell just couldn't help herself from gigglin' which was a hilarious shame since she really did feel bad. Nothin' another shot couldn't fix though.
She was still gigglin' as she ordered her third shot and handed over her money droppin' a few bills out her pocket and onto the floor in the process. She could have hardly been less the wiser of it however as she made eyes at the 'tender, a man twice her age, her little project for the night she had decided promptly when she first walked in. She was hopin' a 'lil Shania Twain would do the trick. She'd put her name down on the karaoke list as soon as she'd gotten here but so far she was still a'waitin'.
Genre: Modern
"Cocks make men stupid. Hearts? That's where all womens stupidity lies. Fuck love."
Full name: Ukiah Ramos
Face Claim: Shakira
Species: Human
Occupation: Stripper/Drug Dealer
Notable features: Spanish accent / When she's really angry Ukiah defaults to launching into a Spanish tirades which is never a sign of good things to come. / Faded but still prominent scars on her chest/grey pitbull named Chopper.
Age: 32
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Bleach Blonde
Height: 5'2
Sexuality: Straight
Likes: Bad weather / Indian food / Shooting pool / "Star gazing", really UFO hunting / Downers / HipHop/R&B/Some pop/Oldies (Motown, Frank Sinatra, etc.) / Tequila / Shopping / Steak / People who know how to mind their business / Cigarettes and the occasional Cigar / Motorcycles / UFC / Fasting / Singing (in private) / High heels / Baths / Pitbulls / Money
Dislikes: The sun / Guns / Hospitals / Animal abuse / Cheaters / Therapists / Emotional wrecks / Cowards / Tofu / Drama
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: As a Scorpio from Queens, Ukiah comes across much harder and way more confident than she actually is when you get to know her. It's a practiced facade and one she is reluctant to drop for anyone. People haven't always shown the girl their good side and the ones who have always turned out in the end to be liars. She had to grow up tough. She had to thicken her skin so that life's punches didn't hurt so much (literally and figuratively). She can be reckless, judgmental, aggressive, jealous and quick to anger for sure but she can also be affectionate, sentimental, generous, honest and extremely loyal. She's not afraid to stand up for herself or one to back down from a fight even if it might be in her best interest to.
History: Born in New York, Ukiah was raised by selfish human beings who made her life a real living hell, a hell that Ukiah escaped as soon as she could through drugs, alcohol, and sex. She dropped out of high school in her senior year because she fell in love and being much older he promised to take care of her. Eventually she married him without ever really thinking through the potential consequences of marrying a man in a notorious street gang that called themselves 'The 187 Apostles'. The sad fact was that he felt familiar to her like on some primal, pheromonal level that being so young and inexperienced she just couldn't ignore. However, she could and did ignore many other things quite well, like red flags, but growing up she had gotten used to abuse, and Martin (her father) cheated on Sera (her mother) all the time, so nothing that Ukiah's husband ever did struck her as abnormal. This was just how Ukiah had known life to always be. Trauma just felt like home.
She would rightly claim self defense for stabbing her husband a few years later but only after waking up from the coma he ended up putting her in. The trial would drag on as she sat in a prison cell waiting for justice to be served but eventually she would be aquitted. The threats and harassment from The Apostles in honor of their fallen brother began almost immediately and it finally drove Ukiah out of New York. She'd found that her little brush with death seemed to have changed her in certain ways while at the same time cementing and amplifying other aspects of herself.
On the operating table, when her heart had twice stopped beating, there had been no Grim Reaper, no bright light, no old man in white sitting in judgment of her with a list of her sins. No angels. Not even the devil. There'd been just...nothing. And honestly? She didn't want to think about it and so she wouldn't. Instead Ukiah would decidedly use her power of compartmentalization and avoidance to keep Pandora's box, filled up with all her emotions, sealed tight and then she would put that box way back in the very back of her mind where it would keep company beside that old mason jar wrapped up with fraying duct tape, the one filled with all of her past childhood memories and trauma, and there she planned they would stay forever.
Story Notes: I think Ukiah deserves to find, if not a good guy, a better guy than what she had before. She's also, recently become aware that the 'Apostles' are closing in on her whereabouts and so, despite her fear of them, she's acquired a gun for protection so she may need help understanding how to work the damn thing without blowing another hole in her chest.
"Cocks make men stupid. Hearts? That's where all womens stupidity lies. Fuck love."
Full name: Ukiah Ramos
Face Claim: Shakira
Species: Human
Occupation: Stripper/Drug Dealer
Notable features: Spanish accent / When she's really angry Ukiah defaults to launching into a Spanish tirades which is never a sign of good things to come. / Faded but still prominent scars on her chest/grey pitbull named Chopper.
Age: 32
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Bleach Blonde
Height: 5'2
Sexuality: Straight
Likes: Bad weather / Indian food / Shooting pool / "Star gazing", really UFO hunting / Downers / HipHop/R&B/Some pop/Oldies (Motown, Frank Sinatra, etc.) / Tequila / Shopping / Steak / People who know how to mind their business / Cigarettes and the occasional Cigar / Motorcycles / UFC / Fasting / Singing (in private) / High heels / Baths / Pitbulls / Money
Dislikes: The sun / Guns / Hospitals / Animal abuse / Cheaters / Therapists / Emotional wrecks / Cowards / Tofu / Drama
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Personality: As a Scorpio from Queens, Ukiah comes across much harder and way more confident than she actually is when you get to know her. It's a practiced facade and one she is reluctant to drop for anyone. People haven't always shown the girl their good side and the ones who have always turned out in the end to be liars. She had to grow up tough. She had to thicken her skin so that life's punches didn't hurt so much (literally and figuratively). She can be reckless, judgmental, aggressive, jealous and quick to anger for sure but she can also be affectionate, sentimental, generous, honest and extremely loyal. She's not afraid to stand up for herself or one to back down from a fight even if it might be in her best interest to.
History: Born in New York, Ukiah was raised by selfish human beings who made her life a real living hell, a hell that Ukiah escaped as soon as she could through drugs, alcohol, and sex. She dropped out of high school in her senior year because she fell in love and being much older he promised to take care of her. Eventually she married him without ever really thinking through the potential consequences of marrying a man in a notorious street gang that called themselves 'The 187 Apostles'. The sad fact was that he felt familiar to her like on some primal, pheromonal level that being so young and inexperienced she just couldn't ignore. However, she could and did ignore many other things quite well, like red flags, but growing up she had gotten used to abuse, and Martin (her father) cheated on Sera (her mother) all the time, so nothing that Ukiah's husband ever did struck her as abnormal. This was just how Ukiah had known life to always be. Trauma just felt like home.
She would rightly claim self defense for stabbing her husband a few years later but only after waking up from the coma he ended up putting her in. The trial would drag on as she sat in a prison cell waiting for justice to be served but eventually she would be aquitted. The threats and harassment from The Apostles in honor of their fallen brother began almost immediately and it finally drove Ukiah out of New York. She'd found that her little brush with death seemed to have changed her in certain ways while at the same time cementing and amplifying other aspects of herself.
On the operating table, when her heart had twice stopped beating, there had been no Grim Reaper, no bright light, no old man in white sitting in judgment of her with a list of her sins. No angels. Not even the devil. There'd been just...nothing. And honestly? She didn't want to think about it and so she wouldn't. Instead Ukiah would decidedly use her power of compartmentalization and avoidance to keep Pandora's box, filled up with all her emotions, sealed tight and then she would put that box way back in the very back of her mind where it would keep company beside that old mason jar wrapped up with fraying duct tape, the one filled with all of her past childhood memories and trauma, and there she planned they would stay forever.
Story Notes: I think Ukiah deserves to find, if not a good guy, a better guy than what she had before. She's also, recently become aware that the 'Apostles' are closing in on her whereabouts and so, despite her fear of them, she's acquired a gun for protection so she may need help understanding how to work the damn thing without blowing another hole in her chest.
Playing den mother to a den full of sinners wasn't exactly all it was cracked up to be. The only reason Ukiah even accepted the unofficial title was because she couldn't stand incompetency or the lack of structure on or off stage. Someone had to keep those bitches in line and the money train a movin'. No one had time for petty cat fights, stage hogs, or two bit pieces of tail who didn't know their right tit from their left. It would have taken forever to convince management she was what 'The Sticky Wicket' needed to not only succeed but to prosper, so she hadn't even tried, she just did it. To get shit done you just needed to assert yourself sometimes, and if that meant bulldozing and being branded a bitch with a capital 'C'…well…she wasn't about to blame anybody for proper labeling.
Anyone with eyes and a working brain knew it was because of her that the club was rolling in more cold, hard cash than it ever had before, and not just because she had run off all the talentless wannabes and brought in the trades more serious professionals, and not just because it was not-so-secretly known that she sold a little somethin'-somethin' on the side in the form of drugs, it was because people respected her; her girls, the bouncers, the regulars, even management had come around eventually once they'd taken their heads out of their asses long enough to see what she'd actually accomplished with the place. But again, being a den mother to a den full of sinners wasn't all it was cracked up to be and today had just been one of those days…
The Brazen Head was where Ukiah went to breathe. The selection of whiskey to choose from didn't hurt but it was mostly the ambiance and the people - her people -, it just felt nice. As soon as she wandered in at around about 4:30pm she stripped off her jacket and took a long, deep inward draw of familiar scent and instantly began to relax, which was a miracle in and of itself after the day she'd had.
The pub was empty but she knew someone had to be here, probably in the back, it didn't matter. Walking behind the counter she grabbed a bottle of Elijah Craig and started pouring herself a double.
"Hey!" She bellowed into the air.
She warned.
Anyone with eyes and a working brain knew it was because of her that the club was rolling in more cold, hard cash than it ever had before, and not just because she had run off all the talentless wannabes and brought in the trades more serious professionals, and not just because it was not-so-secretly known that she sold a little somethin'-somethin' on the side in the form of drugs, it was because people respected her; her girls, the bouncers, the regulars, even management had come around eventually once they'd taken their heads out of their asses long enough to see what she'd actually accomplished with the place. But again, being a den mother to a den full of sinners wasn't all it was cracked up to be and today had just been one of those days…
The Brazen Head was where Ukiah went to breathe. The selection of whiskey to choose from didn't hurt but it was mostly the ambiance and the people - her people -, it just felt nice. As soon as she wandered in at around about 4:30pm she stripped off her jacket and took a long, deep inward draw of familiar scent and instantly began to relax, which was a miracle in and of itself after the day she'd had.
The pub was empty but she knew someone had to be here, probably in the back, it didn't matter. Walking behind the counter she grabbed a bottle of Elijah Craig and started pouring herself a double.
"Hey!" She bellowed into the air.
"Some filthy bitch is about to steal all your liquor."