Felicia Ainsworth
Teeth ground, joints popped and clicked, and the Maker watched the woman run ahead to investigate just who had been watching them, who had followed them. There was a feeling of trepidation and a wonder to how many more surprises might arise from their poking about the matter of a stolen name, a war between two wings and eight legs... The whispering of the Chorus, softening from the exultant shrieks of blood lust, painted no uncertain picture that there was a price to her involvement and it would be coming as much from torments without as from within. One particularly cheeky of the legions strong within her soul reminding her all too keenly that the currency of many an artist was the suffering they endured in the pursuit thereof.
There was also the lingering, uncomfortable thoughts now of having been party to the end of something. The dull suspicion that this was not the first time nor the last but none the less... poignant... Perhaps not quite tragic for the circumstances but it was no doubt the death of one dream for another to live. There was something to that in kind that she tucked away for later. The itch to hold a brush in hand burning from the ruined tips of her fingers all the way up to the back of her eyes, setting the brain alight as she turned her attentions on the being they'd released.
"Thieves tend to be a tricky sort. I hope you're the friend the Ravens are so eager to have back? Else there's more than a few questions we'll need to get through." Felicia asked struggling for a moment to do so as a woman, rather than as a raven, might though her 'natural' voice remained a deeply unpleasant variety of discordant cords punctuated by pops and creaks of a jaw that was not designed any longer for something so constructive as civil conversation. The ravaged flesh of cheek and peeled back line of lips only adding further grotesqueries even as she tried to remain composed. The deadly, taloned hands at her sides snapping closed and forcing open with a deliberate energy that hadn't been wholly satisfied by the demise of the Aspirant Courtier. Her attention split now between Xanah's investigation, the Entity, the Chorus, and the darker impulses churning through her poisoned, twisted form.
Character Arcs
- Establishment - Current Step: The Need for Proof
- Develop a Bond - Current Step: Building a Relationship.
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: 4/6 (1E) + 3 From Eyes of Immanis
Movement: 3/4
Physicality: 1/3
Perception: 3/4
Qualia
Sorcery: 3/6
Interaction: 6/6 (+3 from Signature Item)
Intellect: 1/3
Sortilege: 1/3
Hidden Knowledge: 8
Injuries:
Wounds:
Anguish:
Rests: 1 round, 1 round, 10 minutes, 1 hour
|
|