Difference between revisions of "ThreeSwansinAutumn"

Latest revision as of 01:18, 6 April 2010

ThreeSwansinAutumn character on StalkerofShadows/Starfall

Three Swans in Autumn - or technically, Fire Descending. Will casually go by "Tsia" or "Swan" - or whatever nom de is needed at the time.

Caste: Eclipse Nature: Survivor

Physical
Strength 2, Dexterity 3, Stamina 2
Mental
Intelligence 4, Wits 3, Perception 3
Social
Charisma 1, Appearance 4, Manipulation 5

Abilities
Caste
Bureacracy 3
Socialize 5 (Witty Repetaree, Southwestern Courtly Style)
Linguistics 3 (Firetounge - native, High Realm, Rivertounge, Guild-cant)

Favored
Presence 5 (Seduction X 3)
Perform 2 (Poetry)
Lore 4 (of Southwest)
Larceny 4 (Disguise)
Stealth 4

Other
Dodge 3
Medicine 1
Endurance 1
Awareness 1

Virtues
Valor 2
Temperance 4
Conviction 3
Compassion 1

Limit Break: Contempt of the Virtuous (Temperance)

Essence 2

Willpower 7

Backgrounds
Resources 3 - nothing but what's on her person and travelling pack, but that includes a very expensive ceremonial kimono of exceptional workmanship that she could sell if she wanted - she doesn't, currently
Contacts 3 - various persons in the noble courts of the Southwest who graduated from repeat customers of Nexus' Rankarine Awning Salon to those actually convincved that had fallen in love with her
Backing (Guild) 3 - defunct and not paid for, at your request, but here as prerequisite to Guild-cant

Charms
Ox-Body Technique (one -1 health level and two -2)
Seasoned Criminal Method
Flawless Impenitrable Disguise
Reed in the Wind
Easily-Overlooked Presence Method
Mental Invisibility Technique
Wise-Eyed Courtier Method
Mastery of Small Manners
Motive-Discerning Technique
Knowing the Soul's Price

Flaws
Enemies (Guild) 3

Three Swans in Autumn politely declines the postcoital offering – she doesn’t want to stain her teeth. Tonight’s man re-reclines and limply grabs her hand, taking a drag; she smiles at him, despising. You certainly are the type to get infatuated by older women for a little while or more, she half-thinks, then remembering that he’s actually the elder of the two. It’s an easy thought to fall into, anyway; they’re on a different schedule from the rest of us. Like dog years, she thinks, tousling his hair. “Just the same brilliant shade of red” as her own; it was certain he’d point that out again.

Here is a man who indubitably thinks himself unique, or incredibly romantic in the old epic-verses sense, or some sort of pleasant tragedy. And he’s embarrassingly, innocently quotidian, even up to that; if not at the Rankarine Awning Salon, typically the trough of lonely or culturally stuffy southern nobles on business trips. Like many in his situation, just before moving on to Serious and Important Things, Jan Phate Ohn – that was his name – had realized that he wanted to go Scavenging, soaking up Forks hash – which he probably considered communion with his Aspect – and the wine and women and song of Nexus – no; faux-Southwestern-Courtly by-way-of-Nexus women, because after all the Southwest was the province of tyrants and other effeminate men with absolute power and beautiful women held behind silk curtains who were just waiting, simultaneously, to be freed by some liberal young Lookshy officer and to start using all her old servile habits to dote on and fuck-however-he-likes him, and ooh, isn’t that so exotic. Maybe such malice wasn’t warranted. He was gentle with her and had gone to great lengths to show his appreciation for her poetry and the rest of the hours-long traditional foreplay business, even though it was clear he didn’t really understand it.

But there were ways in which he was, if not unique, distinct. It had been one of the uncommon evenings where the act itself was enjoyable. Given that he was Dragon-Blooded and obsequiously gentle, that oughtn’t have been surprising. But it was also an unusually awkward minutes-after. Something perturbed her; what was it? The climax, obviously. One of those “perfect clarity” moments that flickers away so swiftly, like when you compose a brilliant stanza and your brush’s away and by the time the brush has come into your presence the stanza has done the opposite. She could have sworn that the room lit up in pure light – which was, she considered, either the ridiculous delirium of passion or perhaps the “anima effect” of the Fire Aspect. And she remembered thinking something with absolute clarity and authority – the thinking, not her memory of it.

Something perturbed her; what was it? Something like – she racked her brain – “Why is HE on top and YOU on the bottom? You ought be a queen and not a slave.” Was she really that resentful, as a person? Because she had unquestionably thought it – not in her own voice; if it sounded from someone far away and from on high, that was because it came in the voice she had invented for herself, in her idle thoughts, of the father who had sold her off in her youth, or perhaps simply impregnated her mother to do the job herself. But the entendre was unquestionably her own poetic voice, in her less inspired moments, anyway. And if she was thinking in the voice of that idea-of-father then it was indubitably her voice of resentment. At this moment, at least, this rare moment, she felt disconsolate about her attitude as well as her station. Her “father” did have a point, anyway. Around her stood a physically amenable but inwardly deleterious and boring life; a – well, perhaps the “curtain of silk” image she had ascribed to the boy was not so culturally solipsistic after all.

She felt overcome by rediculousness. She was certain this was akrasia… she gets up, gives a kiss, genuine somehow, to the sleeping stoner with great things ahead of him, and searches a drawer for her moving-around clothes. A slice of cloth is knotted into a sack, and into it goes – no, not any coins or jewelry, that could rattle – some personal amenities and her kimono of that evening, a custom-made piece perfection with the same dark-brown background as her skin and a depiction – pun on, actually – of her namesake; Three Swans quite literally in Fire, Descending. Her hair was re-bunned, and – out she slipped, to, needing the minute after she left to be far away from her employers – which might be hard, the being the Guild – her “homeland.”

Two weeks later, as she comes into sight of the great glass glint, the curtain of silk never looked so good.

~ mUrielw

Whoever wrote this, please put your name on it, and then read BestPractices. :)
~ Shataina

Sorry.
~ mUrielw

Very nice, thanks Uriel!
StalkerofShadows