Felicia Ainsworth
The Demons had opinions on what was to come next; tear down the imposter, claim the throne, set flame to the tree, desecrate the sanctity of the place, fell the tree and a thousand other permutations. So many of them within the means and methods that lingered in the delicate chains and canvases of her bag of ephemera or simply through the pieces and parts of her understanding of the... meta- and actual physics of the world's make up. Yet others of the Chorus, though, with more tempered or insidious preferences applauded her discretion, encouraged her to drawer closer and closer to the beast whilst it's attention was else where. It was these voices that held sway amongst the cacophonous shrieking of the Chorus in the moment but not quite for the reasons they thought. She knew everything was building up to a battle and to have one of theirs down and sleeping in the clutches of the creature did not sit well at all with the gentler, compassionate aspects of the Maker's psyche. Aspects that were now very distinctly at war with those of the Chorus and of her transfigured body.
This was a form wrought for destruction, for bloody purposes, not for anything noble like the rescuing of the fallen... but her claws did open an opportunity for scaling the tree to liberate Liel from their enforced nap time that wouldn't have been otherwise present with her far more delicate, natural digits.
So the Maker continued to close the distance and begin the climb with deliberate, concerted care as she drew on every little bit of physical awareness and dexterity she might summon up and further channeled the essence of her charged soul through the medium of her body to twist the world and circumstances to her advantage, her desire. Hazy recollections of hide and seek as a child with hardly so monstrous a physique as she now possessed churning up from the indistinct fog of the utter depths of her wounded, re-knitting memories of a past that she wasn't sure was beneath the Grey or Indigo Sun... The imagery mingling almost schizophrenically with surges of adrenaline, of stalking something from shadow to shadow with dry, burning, consuming hunger for a taste of something... For a chance to inflict irrevocable change.
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: 2/3
Physicality: 1/3
Perception: 4/4
Qualia
Sorcery: 3/6
Interaction: 6/6 (+3 from Signature Item)
Intellect: 1/3
Sortilege: 0/2
Hidden Knowledge: 9
Injuries:
Wounds:
Anguish:
Rests: 1 round, 1 round, 10 minutes, 1 hour