Post by Formula on May 21, 2010 12:03:58 GMT -5
BASICS •
PERSONALITY •
Name: Maeve ;; aliases include but are certainly not limited to The Hunter and The Spine-walker. Her true name remains a mystery.APPEARANCE •
Age: 217
Race: Werecat
A mix of warm golds and reds, ticked and tawny, her more commonly used feline form looks as something made for desert palaces and gleaming sands alike. Sleek and slender in her bodyshape, the werecat bears long legs and an exceptionally willowy build. Her outward and apparent femininity detract little from the comparably – oddly! – masculine appearance of her mane, however, while her lithe elegance seems only enhanced by its presence. Pale and milky to the point of opalescence, the fur of her otherwise rugged addition is wispy and reminiscent of phantoms and moon-bred apparitions. Stretching from its place around her neck to the middle of her back, it is flecked with similarly light golds and appears again at the wrists of her paws.
Her eyes – holding striking similarity to her humanoid form in sentience, shape, and color – are large and almond shaped, glittering in a peculiarly brilliant aureate. When she changes her form into one more acceptably presentable to other humanoids, her eyes change very little, and retain much of that all too unsettling feral glint; expressive of a deeper mischief.
Her shifted state is one less striking in her own opinion, but it is worth saying she is biased to the inherent grace that her bipedal body will simply never possess. Still, she is fae-like and looks something of a ghost herself in her attempts, wholly unnatural to humans and yet intriguing enough for them to overlook the oddity of her fluid movements and silent step. Slender and golden skinned, her womanly curves are apparent but streamlined in a way that brings to mind acrobats and dancers. Her shoulders are squared and her neck long, with a defined jawline and pert nose that all scream something of an aristocrat as her deliberate movements beg of an assassin. Her lips are full and her cheekbones high, and always above her curious eyes are a set of similarly expressive brows with arch and sharp definition.
Her hair is rich beyond red, a cascade of carmines and maroons that are often left to drape haphazardly over her 5'3" figure. She is prone to braiding things into it, such as exotic feathers or golden chains, and in spite of how wild she may look, there is always a sense and undertone of finery to it. Similarly, her dignified mannerisms betray her clothing, whether she appears as a lady of leisure or her more favored wild woman in found or stolen garb.
PERSONALITY •
In a word? Wiley.BACKGROUND •
Maeve seems more akin to the old tales of tricky foxes, wise beyond her secretive years and torn between a combination of roguery and selfishness. While her morals are unspoken and yet seem to lean towards a greater good, those few who have been granted the privilege of knowing the werecat personally can vouch for her oddities and the fact that she truly does act as a fine representation of werecats not being simple human shapeshifters, but different beasts altogether.
She is inherently curious of all things around her, the things she does not understand or know of few and far between and thus warranting her utmost interest.
Of the few things she outwardly expresses a taste for – aside from her natural affinity for people of importance – the natural world ranks high among them. She is a more solitary creature and loves her time amidst trees and rivers rather than people, distinctly taking time and peace from the occasional outing and trek far from the cold clutches of manmade civilization.
Though it would be impossible to recount every miniscule detail in the extensive life of the werecat – especially when one is as secretive of their past as she is – Maeve's humble beginnings were not so humble at all. Affiliated loosely with whatever nobility the odd creatures may possess, she has alluded cryptically in younger times to some relationship – be it good or bad – with Grimrr Halfpaw himself.EXAMPLE •
It is here, however, that much of the trail of her much earlier life goes cold.
In more recent days, it is worth saying that she is no helpless kit, nor is she entirely dependant upon the people she chooses to accompany. Unlike other werecats, she does not stick to lazing upon the arm of someone important, but rather has turned herself into something of importance herself. While she bears the natural affinity for those of great fate and strength all the same, her approach and involvement is rarely anything but aggressive, and through this she has gained formal training in arts of stealth as well as weaponry.
Her most recent favor was an elven assassin by the name of Aiden Caedmon, a man who had come to favor physical arts rather than magical ones and thus gaining Maeve's interest through such a peculiar choice. They traveled together for years, neither aging as much as a human would ever and Aiden took the opportunity to tutor his much obliged companion in his darker art. Doing jobs together gained Maeve a unique perspective of the world, as Aiden's targets were nigh always of high ranking importance and thus intriguing in themselves.
For the better part of the latest two years, however, the werecat has traveled alone.
There was no deeper trauma to the split, of course, and Aiden presumably still lives today. Still, he had made the lesser of two choices presented to him by his life – or at least, the lesser in Maeve's opinion – and fell in love. The natural progression of such a relationship led him to settle down and rest his blades to the ground forever, and with his werecat companion never being interested in the role of a housepet, the two split ways under amicable terms.
They have rare contact but contact nonetheless to this day.
For now, Maeve travels under her own guidance and curiosities and merely peers down on the world beyond with idle fascination. She has yet to meet another object of strong fate or intrigue that might persuade her company, but an outsider might consider her travels as a hunt for one such being.
From another role play..How Did You Find Us? •________
A noble gentleman would have realized his failures and cut his losses with a pleasant smile, and watched the woman he would have taken for himself married off to another in the ways of tradition. A noble gentleman would have bid pleasantries and given gifts, keeping his disdain for the situation under quiet wraps and careful hold so as not to make a scene or cause discomfort or feud. A noble gentleman in a Lordly position might have even invited the winner to dinner just to better promote the idea that the union had his best wishes and deepest and most earnest good will.
But, it was inconsequential what a noble gentleman would have done, as Lord Aldrich Boreas was no such thing.
It was a bitter Noctivagan morning, dark as it always was underneath the canopy of night trees that covered the territory and chilly with the lack of sunlight and increasingly harsher days as autumn progressed and drew it's undead inhabitants towards winter. The great manor in which the aforementioned Lord stood was not his own and so lacking the tell-tale decorum of the stone and marble construct that he loved, instead built of a mix of dark woods and gaudy trim, complete with heavy drapes and eerie creaking against the early breezes. The fireplace was smoldering still as if it had not been properly put out the evening before, and save for the noises of the mansion's settling the rooms were quiet save for one.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
The kitchen was well lit by strategically placed candles, and the slow and methodical noise of chopping against the designated wooden board was, perhaps, a mildly bizarre one to come out of a vampiric household, but not completely unheard of. After all, the mistress of this branch of House Bonadaire delighted in the mortal art and chemistry of cooking, even if it did little to truly sustain her or her those live-in members of her clan when the finished product was consumed.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
The knife the leather-gloved hand gripped onto was professionally wielded and expertly crafted, though little more than a basic kitchen knife, albeit a meticulously kept and so sharp one. It sliced cleanly through the pale object of choice, the bit of red ooze that managed away from it's unliving source easy to ignore but still permeating the air with it's tell-tale metallic scent. To the careful ear, the change in sound when the knife reached the center of it's soft victim shifted to claim slicing through something firm, but there was no shattering or breaking, and the strong hand that forced it seemed unstressed by the task.
He could hear it now, the pattering of young feet rousing from their coffins and stumbling in sleepy hazes down the stairs to see what the noise was, as it doubtlessly was the reason for their early rising. They were only younglings and he had known it from the moment he had chosen this house, and so Aldrich continued to cut as if completely undisturbed and unaware of his future interruptions, even as a larger and likely adult pair of steps soon came to join those tiny ones down the stairs and enroute to the kitchen door.
Chop..
As the door swung open, he continued in his cutting as if far too engrained in his work to notice, though of course he naturally did. The faces that peered in were instantly greeted with horror and it was painted on their expressions, the three pairs of eyes that belonged to the children widening and going glassy with tears as their mother's head lay impaled and spiked on the counter, it's tongue lolling out of it's mouth as the once vibrant green eyes of the woman now rolled backwards into her head, the whites still displayed as Aldrich had not even bothered with lowering the lids. Her skin had corroded in it's quality some, as without running blood to provide them with life, vampires were little more than walking corpses, proving that she had been dead for a few hours already.
He let it sink in a moment, but before they could scream, Boreas made sure to look up, though it revealed little as his face was masked with that detailed ebon carving and better shrouded with his black heavy cloak. He tilted his head to the side a bit as he stared down at them, the pair of viciously bright glacial eyes peering out from the designated holes of his mask as he, finally, stopped his cutting and slammed the blade down into the cutting board to stick upright, the dead blood oozing down it's sharper end.
All around him rested limbs and chopped up bits and pieces, a torso neatly carved like some sort of ham resting on the wooden kitchen island and, on the cutting board, the remains of what appeared to be an arm, though only the hand had not yet been diced into neat little discs and shoved in a pile at the side of the wooden plank.
This mansion was not the head of the clan, and consequently not the residence of Gualtiero Bonadaire. Still, it was a start, and the message would be vicious and ingrained into the entire bloodline as the younglings screams ripped across the surrounding air, and the husband, a brother to Cirucci Le'Feuye's betrothed, would meet his wife and children in the afterlife.
An ad posted on some role play or another.