Rockette

Welcome to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

^{"Lady In Red; 1492, Artist: Uknown."}

Maharet.Roquelaure

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_{The Lady In Red; Mistress Mekare; Maman Sang.}
Vampire | Ancient of the Nyctari Family | Smuggler of "imported goods."

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ᴀɢᴇ — _{"but tell of days in goodness spent."}

Based upon initials impressions, Maharet appears, unassumingly, stranded in her early thirties; time eludes the eternal, and she cannot say or remember how much she had been aged before the blood and night became her mistress and her master. An accumulation of paintings and depictions of her likeness can be dated back into the late 1400’s, leading into the Early Renaissance. Among her own people, Maharet is considered entirely ancient, an elder by blood and vanity into this age.

ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ — _{"she walks in beauty, like the night."}

Vixen-esque: a rictus befitting the illusion of a vulpine seductress by the sharp planes of her countenance and the critical deduction of her slanted, almond featured eyes. Every definition of Maharet’s psyche is poised, refined, an incredibly obtuse elegance practiced from an early age and systematically exercised, and nurtured through her adaptation of many centuries. Through the ages; the fashions, the technology; the many lives and facades she has underwent, there has been one consistent factor to her assemblage: the mane of red hair that has oft been trademarked in her various cameos through paintings and visual captures. Never once altering within colour, but having beheld many a style in her age. A dark ginger within the cold, and a warm flame in the sun, and left alone in a tumble of waves that’s almost artful in every slight curl, offset by the steelish azure of her eyes and pale complexion. Sweeping back her fringe exposes the unique bridge of her nose, proud, and complemented by the slight of her brow; akin to something delicate. However, beneath the softness of her wide, bow shaped mouth is the feral monster lurking beneath.

Maharet’s dress sense over the years had adapted to a peculiar, often bi-polar style, switching on her whims and whichever time has best suited her current deposition, similar to her method of decoration and decorum. Interchanging to heavy, mauve velvet, to waif skirts and chiffon in the finest of materials she has imported over time, Maharet is never seen donning a duplicate in her wardrobe and proudly owns a plethora of styles and fabrics within her arsenal of fashion. Time has bequeathed the vampire with a lithe body, slender in appearance, never burdened by the limitations of mortal flaws, further brightened by her ancient prowess and the uniqueness of blood. She carries herself with a languid simplicity, all gathered into a five-six frame, deliberate and exact, deducting her purpose with coiled muscle, almost lazy and bored with the sheath of her eyes shuttering the steel backdrop of her glances.

ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ — _{"where thoughts serenely sweet express"}

&

When one lives as long as she, and gains with them many titles and names, time and life blurs into a myriad of shapes and forms; colours blotted into a series of hues and saturation that eventually become one thing: grey. Maharet’s personality has become such: a muted, desolate existence of tragedy and sensitivity by the sheer magnitude of her life. Bored does not even come close to describing her state of mind. However, the current listlessness she experiences does not deviate from her methods of enjoyment, gluttony is one of her favoured sins, bridled beside vanity and hubris. She indulges through the splendors of every age with a mass of subjects, toys, projects and dalliances with an abandon of pure, unsaturated hunger whenever the urge takes her. Not to be confused with carelessness, for Maharet has not lived this long by means of unattributed irrationality, or means of cruelty for her own selfish entertainment. She’s methodically careful, choosing those around her with care and finesse or simply embarks into years of solitude - it’s amazing how easily the eternal can slumber. On first impressions Maharet is deducted as soft, careful, deliberate in her idle motions, as if to betray attention away from her person, but hidden beneath the initial barrier is the wealth of knowledge and habit, the critically judging woman who takes catalog of everything around her.

But life, existence, is boring, dull; only sparked alive by the fleeting life of companions and lingering ecstasies, Maharet knows this. And any sense of morality or obligation has been heavily warped in her perception, to the exact detail of where right and wrong do not exist, but various uniforms of grey instead interchange. To inquire of the scarlet mistress if she feels guilt in her life, or any reservation, would receive a slow, disarming blink of complacency that’s frustrating to those who penchant themselves to be above the dank, dismal refuge to the trafficking of the mortal soul. Boredom can be assumed when Maharet browses, when she’s not dipping into the crime syndicate, applying her knowledge of the years through their induction and accession into the game. However, Maharet never limits herself, her tendency is to be involved in everything she is capable of dwelling into, no matter the danger or the betrayal - when you have not to live for, you have nothing to lose.

However, no matter the amount of cool deduction, she is a creature of the night, of the blood and the shadows, and as such of their rein she is capable of the feral, bestial nature of their unstable desires. During the wicked hours, when Maharet steps across the threshold, she easily slips into the glutton, the wanton lady who pursues mortals based upon their beauty and favour. Though humans, frail and soft, are not the sole, [un]fortunate individuals to be subjected to her enthrallment, Maharet does not discriminate again her lessor kin [and she says this dismissively] - centuries of having endured such and witnessed changes within society has blurred the line for this particular vampire to where most faces blend seamlessly to a blur of blood, scent, and the essence that is life no matter which taint it carries.

ʙɪᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜʏ — _{"one shade the more, one ray the less"}

&

During the Early Renaissance, when the cultural movement of art and intellect pursuits began cupping the fringe of human intelligence and perspective, the first oil painting of Maharet’s nature was first displayed, bequeathing her the title of The Lady in Red. An enigma of what she was rather than who, for the man who captured her likeness in the forever swatches of colour had been found drained of his essence the following day his gallery had been embellished around the infamous piece. Though still careful and deciding in nature, some branches of the illustrious Nyctari family, known as the Nyctarius in the early royals of Italy, had been rather offended by the gall of painters, philosophers and men known to this day to have cultivated the branch between the fourteenth century and the seventeenth. To think they could seal away their beauty and power on a mere canvas or to be told within whimsical tales! Maharet was still young, fresh, youthful among the leagues of family and her creator, a woman who merely went by the name of Maman.

Vampires and other worldly creatures were still adapting, having been risen from a slumber of mysterious origins, old, decrepit elders were nearly petrified by their elongated rest and thus had taken to a gluttonous retribution and plagued most of the human realm with their - for lack of better term - disease. Most would call the time of feverish pain some other sickness, a plague of the dead, an arise of evil, satanic and barbaric with the feral condition most went under during this molestation of change. Maharet, created much sooner by Maman’s vanity and avarice to obtain many daughters, stood by to witness this carnage and felt the first struggles of bloodlust - no matter how cultivated her hunger was under Maman’s tutelage to partake of the purest of essences. But, they were not alone, many other creatures too blended along with the human kind, and for their cavernous hunger, they suffered pillages and consequences and as such, a smear of ebony came with their uttered curse.

However, Maharet, despite various warnings and advertisement against doing so, found a certain enjoyment in making appearances through the critical advancements in time, and always through the creation of a painting or the snip of a photo - though blurred. Perhaps it was her vanity, no amount of lessons could rid her of that sin, but the eternal perspective of her likeness always spurred a sense of desire in her, waking forth a long, dusted amount of lust when she managed to inspire a particular piece of fine, wonderful talent. She admired these beings who, like she, saw the world through different eyes - her perception shadowed and dead, theirs bright and ever lasting. Maman often advised against such admiration, often quoting that human life was vibrant, but also wasting, vanishing like stars and sunbursts. They were eternal, servants to the night, they would last and Maharet never quite understood that lesson until time bled into a dampened deluge of grey and black and before she realized it, centuries had leaped across her eyes in a fickle, slow, blink.

No one had ever told her of this eternity and in her only recalled moment of irrational behavior, the vampire child fled from her creator and disbanded from their family.

Becoming like a flicker of flame, Maharet wove her life seamlessly into the existence of others, she courted lords, she courted ladies, leaving their bed chambers in the night and fed on them, leaving only the whiff of her as a parting gift. She meddled into their lives, almost careless in her immersion and fed on more than her fair share, blood-drunk, she’d say and basked into the near euphoric gluttony she reaped across their hearts. She garnered many names, titles and stories, painting were made and fond memories were whispered of her, a new moniker gracing herself illustrated in the admiration of others.

But as time often proved to her, again and again, this too did not last. Maharet fell into a fitful slumber, sealing herself into a deep state of comatose to waste away her tragic being. Perhaps a bit theatrical, as later those of her ancient family would call her foolish and woeful, Maharet cared not for these sparing details for at the centre of her being pooled all the greys of her life into a weighted stone. She barely acknowledged fellow creatures, figuring them beneath her and so she slept, for how many years, she cannot discern.

This was until the Nyctari family woke her up.

Rousing the Lady in Red from her rest, it produced a cannibalistic slaughter, Maharet’s near mad feeding frenzy sating the hunger of a beast long induced into hibernation. Though viewed as almost taboo, to feed on those of her species, Maharet’s power of blood kept her from succumbing to a bestial insanity associated with cannibalism among their people. So, when the haze of red fled from her vision, they told her in somber words that Maman was dead. Initially surprised that the woman had lived so long, they admitted fleetingly that the ancient being was nearing a petrified state of withering bone and no amount of feeding could stave off her decomposition, much to their dismay when Maman literally was spent into a fine powder in her final hours. Instructions were left in her demise and in such was the demand that Maharet be awoken, for what purpose the Nyctari family was never informed and much to Maharet’s depressing displeasure.

ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ — _{"meet in her aspect and her eyes"}

.Maharet doesn’t have a permanent affiliation with the current Nyctari families line of work, but neither does she aspire to loyalty to the lesser Nyte Kings and their flair of exposure. Yet, since her awakening, she seems to flit between the two, for whatever purpose that cannot be discerned just yet.
.Dues to Maharet's cache that was tucked away with her into slumber, she bears an array of finery and wears, along with that was left over from Maman's many riches and splendors. Due to such inheritance, many individuals come to Maharet oft to search and browse for something different. If one cannot find such treasures on their own, this vampire is sure to have it. Not one for money [she has plenty], Maharet requires a varied sort of "currency".
.Maharet has many vassals and thralls, though she despises the latter word, and has built a net work of finesse to further backbone her imports.
.It's unknown if the vampire lady is involved within the human, and non-human, trafficking ring.

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Misfits: Reloaded

Wonderful, I'll edit that in right away!

Misfits: Reloaded

Well, I didn't check back to see the wealth of females characters present, with Emily, it adds three.
So, for the sake of equality in the gender ratio, I can alter my character - if need be. I suppose that would depend on the final selection and further submissions, as well.

Misfits: Reloaded

Emily Perish.
"Emmy"

Emmy Perish

Appearance

Cherubic in face and stature, Emily Perish barely crests a five-foot build and her weight can be configured in comparison to a sack of fluff when hoisted over one’s shoulder. Described as short, flitty, and almost doll-esque in her veneer, Emily has the pure, utter look of disarming innocence and manipulation to the masses. Refined further by her pale, sallow complexion with the faintest bite of rouge to her bow shaped mouth, she can achieve expressions of complacent kindness and harmless qualms. She heralds a sort of delicacy and traditional beauty, but the sort that most find in the pages of a childlike tale befitting the princess locked in a tower.

Emily’s sense of style has developed into the embellishment and suffocating, to don herself in heavy coats no matter the weather and sheathing her person in full length-ed garb from head to toe. Not able to withstand the cold has often cantered after her and has panned into a near uncontrollable compulsion to dress up in whichever wears she can find. Almost ridiculously donned and considered an improvement when she procures a decent, although loose sweater over a pair of lord-forbid tights tucked into the heavy tread of her laced up boots. [Perhaps this a need to shield herself, but a girl would never say.]

Hair the colour of rust, that almost darkens to bark in the winter, is not contained about her rounded cheeks and dark, almost black-blue eyes, incapable of being swept back into a proper tail or even doused down into a manageable curl. Wearing it long keeps it moderately tamed enough to keep the tresses from suffering humidity and having long been used to the heat on her neck, it’s be taken note of worry when Emily fusses with it - often indicating a nervous habit when she’s twisting it around her fingers.

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Full Name

Emily Aspen Perish.

Age

Nineteen.

Sex

Female.

Sexuality

Bisexual-Pansexual; Emily does not defer to one’s state of sexuality, but rather their compatibility to [current] herself. This could also be in relation to the fact that Emmy is very naive to these intricacies of attraction.

Birthplace

London

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Characteristics

In commonality, Emmy can be disarmingly sweet and a compliment to those around her, building up a bravado of cheer and wide smiles, laughter and obnoxious joviality. But those that smile the most often have the most to hide and Emmy would gladly give a cold, cynical detachment in place of her fabricated niceness if not for the compulsion to be, well, not like her mother. In this, Emily is an enigma, not for the sake of mystery in the uniforms of cliche, feminine wiles, but because she’s nothing more than a quivering pile of pent up mommy issues. A mask, a mirror, Emmy has perfected the fine art of giving people what they want for the sake of throwing a majour tantrum about it later in the solitary confinement of her home, and bemoaning of that “no one understands her”. She’d say she has a reason, but that’s up to personal speculation.

Friendly to the point of annoyance, Emmy hangs upon her peers with a weight of familiarity and kinship, if not forced, and Emmy’s saccharine habits often break down suspicions to what is really pooling around inside her head. To break open the seams would reveal something dark and dismal, warranted by a desire to change herself and her life, to be purely and utterly honest and if she were under confession: to be loved. However, genuine circumstance leaves her afraid, unable to respond acutely to truth and preferring to mark lies, upon lies, upon lies until a bedlam of mistrust and hate festers.

Though considerably intelligent, if her habit of study and rigorous note-taking had anything to do with it, Emily often downplays this in favour of appearing airy and bubble-headed. Smart girls don’t woe and depress, they achieve and strive, and Emmy won’t accept any less from herself even if she has to lie to herself everyday.

Goals and aspirations

Emmy has often, waspishly, admitted to wanting to be an educator. But then she had also wanted to be a cook, a dancer, a singer, a politician even. Her desires and goals reflect the usual uproar and fashion of her peers, but if one were to inquire what Emmy truly wants, she’d fumble and admit that she really doesn’t know. Maybe it’s to finally break away the shell of her issues and qualms, to live honestly, but Emmy wouldn’t, isn’t, one to admit truths like that.

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CV

Graced with high marks, Emmy was always astute and well educated in academics but paled when it came to arts of visual aide and choir. She was more logical than whimsical in her studious career and was just fine when she was praised for her power of deduction rather than creativity. She did what she had to, if only to use her academic prowess to further enhance her chances of leaving her mother behind and enjoying the splendors of her life in London. Emily was bequeathed the chance to attend prestigious universities once she graduated, back-boned and shelled by scholarships when her mother could not hope to afford such pomp education.

She’s done a fair number of odd jobs since was capable at sixteen, and her latest occupation was assisting in managing a hole-in-the-wall establishment of a bookstore.

Crime

The file says: destruction of property, and a rather flimsy DUI [at best, she'd mutter], but Emmy would laugh, barbarously so, and say that it was just a misunderstanding! Though caught in the act, Emily was beyond inebriated to really even understand what she was doing, but being among a group of unsavory youths by simply being “in the area” doesn’t sit quite well when a brooding judge is staring down her nose at you. Being her first offense, Emily was instructed to undergo classes to try and stave off the inevitability to become an alcoholic, catch ‘em young was her arresting officer’s motto, and to attend community service for the amount of wreckage she endorsed while at the local park because people really, really love their slides and swing sets and don't take kindly to a dismal little buggy of a vehicle being meshed against them in a heap of smoldering plastic and steam.

Background

While her production of self could be classified as “well off”, Emmy’s life was anything but. For the sake of woeful hubris, Emily never did allow people to come over to her house, no matter how lavishly she painted it up to an illustration of perfection, and avoided car pools to ward off the embarrassment because just - no. Emily didn’t accept her life for what is was, she refused to believe that poverty in the ghettos of London was to be her foundation. But, her mother seemed happy enough, bright even, and Emily could never quite grasp why. It perplexed her at a young age and no amount of better teachings in the ways of life from Margaret Perish could convince her cherubic daughter otherwise.

Thus spurred the long, drawn animosity between the two women of pale-faced-blue-eyed likeness.

Without the doting of a father figure, unless her uncle counted [but he was just as confusing as her mother was] and Emily refused to think that he was fit enough to be even considered such, Emily developed a cynic-pessimism rather early. She rejected various methods of reality and decided that she was going to have to reply on herself and her own strengths, know matter how few they actually were. Emily then began to ridge herself with what people typically enjoyed, all wide simpers and bright eyes and oozing cheer because no one likes a mopey girl. It was here she learned the long, well founded method of lies and she took to it like a bird in flight and did she soar.

Emmy continued to fortify this mask, slipping into her tales like an old, worn skin, a glove fitted exactly to her specifications. She molded herself constantly to the preferences of her peers and did so with finesse and class and if she happened to go home and cry herself to sleep, no one needed to know about it. Thus did Emily Perish live her life this way, never really knowing herself, letting things pile up until she could just slip into her own, pretty little lies and convince herself, just enough - that this was real.

When the chance of university came about, Emily was too chipper and pleased to leave behind their open-floor apartment, taking with her; her coats, her belongings, fitting everything pristine into her cases of splitting seam and rolling into the building with the air of that she belonged there and this was her new court. She laughed, obtuse, loud, she accepted everyone into her fold with a massive amount of exuberance that some found her odd even, bubble-headed sure, but generally harmless. And Emily didn’t mind that, not one bit, like a snake shading its skin, Emmy became just what they wanted.

But for all her strive and achievement, her lying and her woeful thoughts, it only took one night to immediately throw her entire works into a disarray and for her record to be scorned with an ill-favouring ebony smudge - and no amount of scrubbing could remove it, much to Emily’s scorn.

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Power

Snake Skin; a witty little title of originality that has taken to Emily’s ability to shed her personality and tweak it to whatever she’s in need of. The exact limitations have not been tested and various theories assume that it’s a defense mechanism, but it’s fascinating none the less when one is to witness this eerie process. Emily can sustain a staggering amount of damage, a wealth of lacerations on her figure do not weep blood, but just expose the newly regenerated membrane beneath it’s flaking exterior. Peeling back, flaying away, her skin falls away into molted pieces, leaving her pink and vibrant if not just a bit vulnerable after the shedding. Much like the animal the moniker is derived from, her eyes take on a milky colour, hazing her vision into a tunnel, limiting her just enough to be rendered almost blind, this spurs a small amount of aggression and yet need of protection on her part.

Grievous injuries, however, could ultimately be her undoing, the depth of the wound could reach past her limitations and render her immobile until new cells regenerate and heal her body a new. However, in place, a scar lingers; a vivid line of white that stands out in a morbidly fascinating feature on her exposed self.

Any further abilities have been entirely discovered, just yet.

Skills & Abilities

Build upon what you what know, rather than what you don’t.
Emily can lie her way through any situation and manipulation has oft been her glory in the wealth of social interactions, and persuasion, well, that just comes accumulated with the entire package that is Emily Aspen Perish.

Welcome to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

Not at all! I have great admiration for people who go that extra mile when crafting their characters. I'll look forwards to seeing your CS.

On a side note; which vampire series was that? I've been looking for some good vampire novels to...sink my teeth in to.

@Kingfisher

If you're not already familiar with it, I was inspired by Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles. My job gives me a lot of free time, so I was reading Blood and Gold on a break and the character literally hit me that way when I finished it - again.

Welcome to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

Work panned into a double shift, will possibly have my character up in the morning or afternoon.
I told myself I wasn't going to create a vampire, but I was inspired by a particular series and thus, my lady was created. She'll be fun.

I hope you don't mind a bit of history and lore to back-bone my character, a bit is needed considering typical longevity.

Misfits: Reloaded

Work panned into a double shift, I'll have my character up in the morning.
Taking a concept of "snake skin" and working it into an interesting power.

Welcome to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

I'll toss in my interest, as well.

Misfits: Reloaded

I'll be taking part with a female character then, I have an occupied Sunday - as usual- so I'll be taking the application with me and be able to submit it tomorrow at the latest.

Misfits: Reloaded

I'll toss my tentative interest into the pot.