TiSeeing as Herbert's going to be staying out of the way, I'll wait for other people to post.
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Name: Stormy Jeans
Age: 48
Personality: In three words: tender, calm, forgiving.
History: “It’s pretty far-out; man… maybe later over tea, yeah?”
Occupation: Reveals secrets hiding in the soul and marks them upon skin with indelible ink; she’s a tattoo artist. Also, a part-time mystic.
Age: 48
Personality: In three words: tender, calm, forgiving.
History: “It’s pretty far-out; man… maybe later over tea, yeah?”
Occupation: Reveals secrets hiding in the soul and marks them upon skin with indelible ink; she’s a tattoo artist. Also, a part-time mystic.
Appearance I:
A seemingly ever-present smile is plastered on her round face, underneath a large slope of a nose. Narrow, droopy eyes the colour of almonds sparkle, and above laze unkempt eyebrows. Her hair is the colour of hazelnut shells, and dances in disorderly waves to her lower back. Often she thinks birds might be nesting in it. Fine wrinkles line the corners of her lips and eyes, giving her a rather kindly expression.
Semblance Type: Enlightened
Semblance Appearance:
It’s a visage that might be made from folded waves of the deepest blue polished lapis, in possession of unnaturally bright flecks of gold that one would be forgiven for thinking emanated their own light. A bold brow crashes over two, perfectly circular eye-holes. Towards the lower edges, eight, thick tentacles splay off from just below where the absent mouth might be on such a façade. Two reach back on either side, designed to caress the skull, above and below the ears. The remaining four curve in such a way to hold the chin and trail down the neck. Suckers of exquisite detail cluster around the tips of these wandering appendages.
Semblance Abilities:
“Quit harshing my mellow” – Can reduce or completely negate the sound within a small area or that produced by an individual. Manifests itself as shimmering white light at the edges of its affect, almost like the shadows underneath a rippling pool.
It goes up to eleven – Can take the sound within an area and amplify it. Appears as an aurora of bright greens and orange-reds around the target.
Sugar Magnolia – From her form, emanates supernaturally-calming, ambient sounds and a faint pulsing of violet light. What each individual hears will likely be different, and the sound may well be different each time it is heard.
Don't Think Twice, It's All Right – Creates a glittering stream of pink smokes that chimes with a thousand tinkling bells and smells of sweet and foreign mysteries. When inhaled, pain, both physical and psychological is numbed. It only lasts for five minutes and then needs to be reapplied or it fades quickly over the course of about thirty seconds.
Appearance II:
The colours of her person become more vibrant, and flowers seem to forever weave their way into her hair.
Interested.
I haven't played the inspirations, but I am interested. I do have a question though, what is this significance of this "Wearing a Semblance allows the absorption of that essence." ?
I left it ambiguous as to where Zeiss and Dylan are, in case anybody wanted to interact with either.
Dylan Stroud
“You fancy me a skald, eh?” Now he was at her side and walking in lockstep. Rain fell, churning up smells of what the city once was. “I am afraid if I was to draw from personal experience then stories of heroics would be few and far between. I’m no Siegfried.”
Dylan looked up at the hidden heavens and heavy clouds, hanging there in seeming suspense with the threat of a torrential downpour. “At least the moon will not be jealous tonight.” He grinned.
Wetted hair was beginning to cling to his scalp and nape and clavicle. Lamplight danced in the wide pools of his eyes, and sparkled in the tiny puddles they splashed through, and shimmered in the moisture on his skin. However, it cast his companion in a new light entirely, without her jacket now, much of her form was visible, a tracing of temptation, and in the unnatural orange light, her hair might indeed be flame.
Rivulets ran through the crevices of the paving stones, splashing up as Dylan let his feet take him where they may, his destination a mystery. The silhouettes took a journey through the avenues of time, across the uneven cobblestone of memory. Hands cupped in front from his face and he struggled, but eventually succeeded, in lighting a cigarette.
Trailing smoke as he waved his hands about, he went on, “I do have a few tales involving horses and nuns,” he shook his head, his smile was empty, and the wrinkles seeming more pronounced as he thought of days gone by, “but those are far too adventurous for present company.”
After a long drag, he let free a blue, withering cloud. “I was in a circus for a long time, if you would fancy that.” He seemed to smile at something very far towards the horizon, “Those years of my life were most delightful. The whole circus was a colossal family. They taught me to juggle and walk the tightrope, and all other manner of showman’s tricks. I was a fast learner, but I had an unfair advantage." He gave a fanged smile, "Everyone there was peculiar to some degree. Next to a bearded lady I seemed quite normal.”
“It was a new kind of liberation. We were carefree in every way. Our time together was spent travelling or performing, or chasing farmer’s daughters, or carolling through the streets of Prague, or enjoying the Absinthe bars of Paris, or dreaming deeply in the silks of Istanbul, or skating upon the frozen Thames.” He looked at his muse, his own stolen star, a gift from the gods. She had the beauty of the night-time skies, and all that was best of dark and light, met in her aspect and her eyes. With the alcohol loosening his tongue, he told her all the wonders he saw with his troupe, of the close shaves with law, and of the nights in courtly manors - as well as those in wayside ditches, of ephemeral lovers and haunting performances. The nights spent running from women through cities, or looking for girls that hid from him. Stories of opium and alcohol, of food so fine it made his mouth water even then, and of the days when they had naught but gruel.
It was only a crossroad that stopped his rambling; not entirely sure where he was, even his feet stopped moving. He looked left, then right, and then straight ahead. “Say,” He began, offering the cigarette with a dainty hand, as well as an apologetic look, “You should have stopped me rambling, now my feet have gotten me lost.”
“You fancy me a skald, eh?” Now he was at her side and walking in lockstep. Rain fell, churning up smells of what the city once was. “I am afraid if I was to draw from personal experience then stories of heroics would be few and far between. I’m no Siegfried.”
Dylan looked up at the hidden heavens and heavy clouds, hanging there in seeming suspense with the threat of a torrential downpour. “At least the moon will not be jealous tonight.” He grinned.
Wetted hair was beginning to cling to his scalp and nape and clavicle. Lamplight danced in the wide pools of his eyes, and sparkled in the tiny puddles they splashed through, and shimmered in the moisture on his skin. However, it cast his companion in a new light entirely, without her jacket now, much of her form was visible, a tracing of temptation, and in the unnatural orange light, her hair might indeed be flame.
Rivulets ran through the crevices of the paving stones, splashing up as Dylan let his feet take him where they may, his destination a mystery. The silhouettes took a journey through the avenues of time, across the uneven cobblestone of memory. Hands cupped in front from his face and he struggled, but eventually succeeded, in lighting a cigarette.
Trailing smoke as he waved his hands about, he went on, “I do have a few tales involving horses and nuns,” he shook his head, his smile was empty, and the wrinkles seeming more pronounced as he thought of days gone by, “but those are far too adventurous for present company.”
After a long drag, he let free a blue, withering cloud. “I was in a circus for a long time, if you would fancy that.” He seemed to smile at something very far towards the horizon, “Those years of my life were most delightful. The whole circus was a colossal family. They taught me to juggle and walk the tightrope, and all other manner of showman’s tricks. I was a fast learner, but I had an unfair advantage." He gave a fanged smile, "Everyone there was peculiar to some degree. Next to a bearded lady I seemed quite normal.”
“It was a new kind of liberation. We were carefree in every way. Our time together was spent travelling or performing, or chasing farmer’s daughters, or carolling through the streets of Prague, or enjoying the Absinthe bars of Paris, or dreaming deeply in the silks of Istanbul, or skating upon the frozen Thames.” He looked at his muse, his own stolen star, a gift from the gods. She had the beauty of the night-time skies, and all that was best of dark and light, met in her aspect and her eyes. With the alcohol loosening his tongue, he told her all the wonders he saw with his troupe, of the close shaves with law, and of the nights in courtly manors - as well as those in wayside ditches, of ephemeral lovers and haunting performances. The nights spent running from women through cities, or looking for girls that hid from him. Stories of opium and alcohol, of food so fine it made his mouth water even then, and of the days when they had naught but gruel.
It was only a crossroad that stopped his rambling; not entirely sure where he was, even his feet stopped moving. He looked left, then right, and then straight ahead. “Say,” He began, offering the cigarette with a dainty hand, as well as an apologetic look, “You should have stopped me rambling, now my feet have gotten me lost.”
Dylan Stroud
For the most part, Dylan sat silently with merely the toying hint of a smile, an attentive listener, save for when she was particularly playful; that earned the smile of a satyr. At the end of her explanation, he found himself nodding shallowly, impressed at her concise and fluent explanation, despite her increasingly rosy cheeks. The news that she was not a fighter was a massive relief; he was careful to hide his face when he could not avoid raiding, but he couldn’t avoid defending himself.
In the corner, the jukebox was skipping on a record, until somebody gave it a hearty whack. It let out gentle crooning from the 50s, and Dylan found himself swaying with nostalgia. The gentle pattering of light rain could be heard on the roof. The storm was moving in.
Before answering her question, he tilted his head to the right and met her gaze, his lips barely curling upwards, his eyebrows rising in the middle of his brow. “There is nothing wrong with introspection, my dear, under any state of consciousness.”
Then he laughed drily. “What am I like?” He thought for a moment, “Nice enough, I suppose. Nowadays I collect and chronicle, I seek out seeds of humanity and caution in the hopes of salvaging something paradoxically beautiful from such dire days.”
A silence settled like fine snow, and sat there, until it was chased off by ponderous tones of silk and satin, “I suppose what I’ve been looking for is meaning. I thought I found it, when I partook in every vice and sin available to me, but earthly pleasures are fleeting, and left me feeling hollow.” He finished what he determined would be his last drink here and looked at her. “No matter how sensual it is in that most carnal of moments.”
“I also do things for the war here, of course, but…” a deep sigh, “I fear I have drunk too much to make sense, and I am a dreary topic of conversation anyway.” He stood, unfurling enough money to settle the tab, and then some.
Turning to the woman, he beamed, a held out an arm, oddly stable for his apparent state, “Would you accompany me on this fine night, O muse of mine? Witching hour is fast approaching, and I could really use a walk to clear my head.”
For the most part, Dylan sat silently with merely the toying hint of a smile, an attentive listener, save for when she was particularly playful; that earned the smile of a satyr. At the end of her explanation, he found himself nodding shallowly, impressed at her concise and fluent explanation, despite her increasingly rosy cheeks. The news that she was not a fighter was a massive relief; he was careful to hide his face when he could not avoid raiding, but he couldn’t avoid defending himself.
In the corner, the jukebox was skipping on a record, until somebody gave it a hearty whack. It let out gentle crooning from the 50s, and Dylan found himself swaying with nostalgia. The gentle pattering of light rain could be heard on the roof. The storm was moving in.
Before answering her question, he tilted his head to the right and met her gaze, his lips barely curling upwards, his eyebrows rising in the middle of his brow. “There is nothing wrong with introspection, my dear, under any state of consciousness.”
Then he laughed drily. “What am I like?” He thought for a moment, “Nice enough, I suppose. Nowadays I collect and chronicle, I seek out seeds of humanity and caution in the hopes of salvaging something paradoxically beautiful from such dire days.”
A silence settled like fine snow, and sat there, until it was chased off by ponderous tones of silk and satin, “I suppose what I’ve been looking for is meaning. I thought I found it, when I partook in every vice and sin available to me, but earthly pleasures are fleeting, and left me feeling hollow.” He finished what he determined would be his last drink here and looked at her. “No matter how sensual it is in that most carnal of moments.”
“I also do things for the war here, of course, but…” a deep sigh, “I fear I have drunk too much to make sense, and I am a dreary topic of conversation anyway.” He stood, unfurling enough money to settle the tab, and then some.
Turning to the woman, he beamed, a held out an arm, oddly stable for his apparent state, “Would you accompany me on this fine night, O muse of mine? Witching hour is fast approaching, and I could really use a walk to clear my head.”
Dylan Stroud
Another glass of murky red liquid was placed by Dylan, his third of the night. The tickling, bittersweet euphoria of blood and alcohol toying with his mind in tandem was all too familiar to those who shared his affliction. That haze didn’t stop both his eyebrows rising.
“Wait, wait, wait,” He waved his hands at the air and the dawning realisation, “You mean to say,” His accent seeming to shift across all regions of Europe as he spoke, and, was that a slight slur? “that you developed this system yourself?” He paused. “My, that is impressive.”
At the topic of the war arose, he nodded grimly, but there seemed to be a noticeable spark in those twinkling eyes. “You think after enough times, losing a friend would become easier. I suppose I am thankful at least that I am still human enough for that not to be true.” He reached for his cup, and found it empty – he hadn’t remembered drinking it, but tapped it on the bar all the same, hoping to rectify the problem swiftly. “I do find myself fascinated with its affects though; war seems to strip people bare, and expose something primally earnest, but unique in them.”
He shook his head, “But yes, too much killing indeed,” he stretched, casting an idle gaze about the room, “but perhaps one of the many things we should leave for when we are alone," He winked. "It is the funniest thing, but I heard the walls have ears here.” He returned to his fourth (or what it his fifth?) drink. The deep crimson liquid reflected Dylan’s deep scowl.
“Why is it just you working on this ‘Stasis Magic’?” There was something earnestly intrigued about his tone, the way it lifted at the ends, “If you want my untrained opinion, it seems far more useful than a simple paralysis. I'd throw as many minds as I could at the problem. Is it hard to understand?”
Another glass of murky red liquid was placed by Dylan, his third of the night. The tickling, bittersweet euphoria of blood and alcohol toying with his mind in tandem was all too familiar to those who shared his affliction. That haze didn’t stop both his eyebrows rising.
“Wait, wait, wait,” He waved his hands at the air and the dawning realisation, “You mean to say,” His accent seeming to shift across all regions of Europe as he spoke, and, was that a slight slur? “that you developed this system yourself?” He paused. “My, that is impressive.”
At the topic of the war arose, he nodded grimly, but there seemed to be a noticeable spark in those twinkling eyes. “You think after enough times, losing a friend would become easier. I suppose I am thankful at least that I am still human enough for that not to be true.” He reached for his cup, and found it empty – he hadn’t remembered drinking it, but tapped it on the bar all the same, hoping to rectify the problem swiftly. “I do find myself fascinated with its affects though; war seems to strip people bare, and expose something primally earnest, but unique in them.”
He shook his head, “But yes, too much killing indeed,” he stretched, casting an idle gaze about the room, “but perhaps one of the many things we should leave for when we are alone," He winked. "It is the funniest thing, but I heard the walls have ears here.” He returned to his fourth (or what it his fifth?) drink. The deep crimson liquid reflected Dylan’s deep scowl.
“Why is it just you working on this ‘Stasis Magic’?” There was something earnestly intrigued about his tone, the way it lifted at the ends, “If you want my untrained opinion, it seems far more useful than a simple paralysis. I'd throw as many minds as I could at the problem. Is it hard to understand?”
Dylan Stroud
The playful smile dancing upon Dylan’s face went slack at the spectacle. For the briefest of moments there was a frown upon his face, and his eyes might have narrowed. It happened so quickly, it may not have been there at all; now, once again, it was so perfectly composed and under control that the falter absolutely must have just been a trick of the mind, surely.
Quite deliberately, he ran fingers through the mop of hair. All his awe was genuine.
“My dear,” Dylan began, his eyes flitting between napkin and woman, “You have indulged me too! Throughout my long years, I’ve never been quite so impressed by magic.” Runes were unfamiliar to him, and he knew he would be unable to recall them from such a fleeting glance. “Can you use it on people? I may not need use handcuffs ever again.” This came with a wry smile.
He raised a hand gingerly, as if the napkin might bite. With the same slender digit that he had rapped upon the bar, he pressed gently into the napkin. It felt like, almost disappointingly, a napkin - gauzy paper, almost furry with slight moisture - yet it did not budge. A little more force was applied. Still nothing. The finger withdrew.
After finishing his drink and gesturing for another, Dylan spent a moment reappraising the woman. It was plain for all to see she was unique, but to what extent, he was only beginning to realise.
The blue light on her skin was mesmerising, and he had caught himself reaching out to touch the glowing runes. The hand returned to his knee.
“Truly, there is a beauty in the craft of such magic I had heretofore feared,” He locked eyes with her, “You are giving me second thoughts; a true pioneer indeed. I wonder what other secrets you are privy too,” His toothy grin was back. With cat-like languor, he leaned upon the bar.
Slender hands made an elaborate gesture to the heavens. “But the Gods you say? I searched for mine many a year, and never found them,” an eyebrow arched and a thin smile played at the edge of his lips, the blue lights still dancing in and enhancing his eyes, “I thought most magically inclined folk had forsaken gods, how comes you are so different, my muse?” He rested a finger on pursed lips as he awaited a response.
The playful smile dancing upon Dylan’s face went slack at the spectacle. For the briefest of moments there was a frown upon his face, and his eyes might have narrowed. It happened so quickly, it may not have been there at all; now, once again, it was so perfectly composed and under control that the falter absolutely must have just been a trick of the mind, surely.
Quite deliberately, he ran fingers through the mop of hair. All his awe was genuine.
“My dear,” Dylan began, his eyes flitting between napkin and woman, “You have indulged me too! Throughout my long years, I’ve never been quite so impressed by magic.” Runes were unfamiliar to him, and he knew he would be unable to recall them from such a fleeting glance. “Can you use it on people? I may not need use handcuffs ever again.” This came with a wry smile.
He raised a hand gingerly, as if the napkin might bite. With the same slender digit that he had rapped upon the bar, he pressed gently into the napkin. It felt like, almost disappointingly, a napkin - gauzy paper, almost furry with slight moisture - yet it did not budge. A little more force was applied. Still nothing. The finger withdrew.
After finishing his drink and gesturing for another, Dylan spent a moment reappraising the woman. It was plain for all to see she was unique, but to what extent, he was only beginning to realise.
The blue light on her skin was mesmerising, and he had caught himself reaching out to touch the glowing runes. The hand returned to his knee.
“Truly, there is a beauty in the craft of such magic I had heretofore feared,” He locked eyes with her, “You are giving me second thoughts; a true pioneer indeed. I wonder what other secrets you are privy too,” His toothy grin was back. With cat-like languor, he leaned upon the bar.
Slender hands made an elaborate gesture to the heavens. “But the Gods you say? I searched for mine many a year, and never found them,” an eyebrow arched and a thin smile played at the edge of his lips, the blue lights still dancing in and enhancing his eyes, “I thought most magically inclined folk had forsaken gods, how comes you are so different, my muse?” He rested a finger on pursed lips as he awaited a response.
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