Felicia Ainsworth
Violence then. Lovely.
Isn't it just? Who doesn't like a dust up to settle a matter of what belongs to who?
Finally! Mayhem, Murder, Violence! A Language, A song, A dance!
Careful, little painter. We don't want to spoil our work with impatience...
It would almost be an understatement in the moment to say that the Maker's mind and soul were now suddenly a very, very, very active and loud place as the Chorus, stirred by the promises of cherished and wanton destruction, shrieked, sang, cried, laughed, and battered at the walls of her mind. Their presence crushing in on the Maker again as the others leapt to action and seeming to almost root her in place before she finally relented as there was no other option apparent given that her prior suppositions had been off the mark... but then it begged the question as to what the Ravens had been so eager to see beyond these doors? What were they so devastated by the absence and isolation of? Surely, not this thing? They shrieked at it like an intruder, a desecrater, a literal blight.
It didn't matter for the moment though as she did the only thing that made sense in the moment; she agreed with the Chorus.
It was never a pleasant sensation as she stared at, past, and through the creature into the shadows, past the shadows, and into the darkness beyond, eyes blackening with every beat of the heart. The Chorus all the while shrieking with manic delight at the promise of what was to come, threatening her focus, threatening the careful flow of energies. The Abyss was not a kind thing to touch, not a kind thing to interact with, but all the same she invited that utter nothing into herself and felt the poison surge through her.
Already pale skin grew almost translucent as black bile flowed through veins and arteries, charged with the hateful absence of the Night. Bones soon began to twist, shatter, and reshape with grotesque, alien rapidity as the energies of the Dark were wed with that of the Gold Sun twisting and corrupting her frame as it was stretched out from the diminutive figure she cut to something towering and bestial. Every change keenly felt as muscle and sinew soon joined in stretching taut, snapping, and reknitting to accommodate this new savage aspect. Drunk now on the pain now and the cacophony of competing influences within her, she barely noticed as newly predator teeth tore up, out and through from a ravaged gum line to form a far too broad maw. Her delicate bones, flesh, and sinew of her hands shattering, snapping, and reknitting in kind only for each finger to swell and bulge at the second knuckle before bursting into long, sickeningly black talons.
The Maker's mind was a shocked haze for just a moment longer then before the Chorus forced her into a laser focus, forcing their shared body forward towards the entity with hungry anticipation.
Character Arcs
- Establishment - Current Step: The Need for Proof
- Develop a Bond - Current Step: Getting to Know You
Description
Description
It's the eyes, really, that most fixate upon first. The hues of crimson and gold spinning, twisting, merging in their depths as they seem to give a clear window into the utter depths of Felicia's mind with their uniquely expressive quality. That there feels to be a thousand, a hundred thousand, pairs of eyes staring back from behind those initial windows to the soul only seems to cement the impression of something troublesome, something worrying to compliment the elfin quality of her sharp features and diminutive frame. That sensation of malice, of gleeful cruelty, welling up from somewhere in those depths even as she comports herself with nothing but cheerful, if stoic, mannerisms and inexhaustible impressions of attention to the minute aesthetics of every gesture, motion, and twist of both herself and the world around her.
In matters of garb, she tends to play to the company she plans for with blouses, dresses, and pants of riotous colors among the bohemian communes of Fartown to the carefully coordinated yet still somehow esoteric gowns and suits of high society galas and soirees. Each and every ensemble meticulously planned and coordinated like one of the great works of her brushes. The only break from this carefully crafted aesthetic seems to be her hair, pale and bloodless as her complexion. It's length healthy, glossy, and well tended but cursed with creative differences in how it curls and falls. Despite this, it seems always to blend, practically meld, seamlessly into any trim of fur or feather that might adorn a chosen outfit.
Like those glimpses of alien malice and cruelty in the depths of her eyes, there always seems to be a discordant element that shadows her. Whether it be a flicker of something other in the crimson depths of her eyes, the way her shadow seems to twitch and twist without her ever moving, or how her reflection never quite seems to be her... It becomes all too clear that her body and soul might be host to something besides merely the artist... Worse still is the careful and delicate work of brush and needle; whisking away bruises here, deep scratches or cuts there, all damning evidence of struggles with the self.
In the Guise of Immanis
The energies of the Abyss are, by its very nature, an instrument of the Dark and unkind as a rule to the essential fabric of whatever is and may be. It is only by the tempering elements of the Gold Sun that the taking in of such hostile energies is more than merely an elaborate form of suicide. The raw stresses of this are quite evident then when Madame Ainsworth invokes so terrible a spell. Her already pale skin grows to be a lifeless gray, gaining an unseemly translucence that is easily pierced by even the wane light of Fartown beneath the Indigo Sun. The lines and forms of every bone visible from just the right angles as they shatter, stretch, and mend with an agonizing rapidity to drag her up to a daunting height. Sinew, muscle and tendon all the while snapping, recoiling, and reforming to accommodate this new and predatory bearing. Veins and arteries, in kind, flow with noxious black as the corruptive energies swirl and take root, her eyes draining of that distinct crimson and gold hue leaving only a single prick of light nearly drowned in a sea of impenetrable black.
Were that these the extent of the horrors wrought by the invoking of the Eye of Immanis for one can't help but stare as razor-like teeth push aside whatever may block their way, twisting and gnarling the line of gum and tooth to pierce and part the flesh of the cheek revealing a hideous, too broad maw. A likewise change playing out in the hands as bones shatter and twist as tendons and sinew reinforce to accommodate the agonizingly slow-yet-quick emergence of seven inch talons, black as jet, that now adorn each finger tip. This final change marking the ultimate perversion, turning tools of creation to tools of abject and potent destruction.
Pools
Certes
Accuracy: 3/3 + 3 From Eyes of Immanis
Movement: 3/3
Physicality: 1/3
Perception: 4/4
Qualia
Sorcery: 3/6
Interaction: 6/6 (+3 from Signature Item)
Intellect: 1/3
Sortilege: 1/2
Hidden Knowledge: 10
Injuries:
Wounds:
Anguish:
Rests: 1 round, 1 round, 10 minutes, 1 hour
