Post by Cyrene St.-Amant on Dec 18, 2011 12:48:34 GMT -7
Name: Cyrene St.-Amant
Age: 20
Race: Human
Alignment: Human sympathizer to the Fey
Physical Description:
Cyrene is tall—about 5'9”— and slim, with skin like coffee with too much milk and more freckles than an Irishman. Her hair is a variation—almost a parody, really—of the flapper bob: an inch or so of coarse, dark hair like a cap on her head. Her eyes are a butterscotch color, and usually bright with either curiosity or passion.
While Cyrene is fond of the flapper dresses, pearls, and heels that are the trend of her time, she also often dresses in men's clothing. You'll see her in slacks, vests, hats, and watch chains as often as tassels and pumps, and she prides herself in being mistaken as a boy.
Personality Description:
Cyrene is curious and adventurous, but often that's to a fault. She pries where she isn't welcome—sometimes she knows this, and other times she is rather oblivious to the discomfort she causes others. She's generally cheerful, but has the potential to turn fiery and angry very quickly if she thinks she's justified in doing so.
When Cy finds something she is passionate about, she locks onto it, and will fight tooth and nail to get her way.
Short History:
Cy grew up as the oldest of four children on a farm in the Catskill Mountains, in mid-state New York. When she was ten, her mother passed away and her father began to drink. When she was sixteen, she left home, something that was half like running away and half like moving out. Since then, she's been trying to make her way in the Big Apple, sometimes pick-pocketing as a boy, other times working as a burlesque show girl—it depends on how much she can make, and how quickly she gets bored.
Cy hasn't been directly involved with the Fey since coming to the city, but has only watched their enslavement with a curious and growing fascination.
Strengths/Weaknesses
Observant
Intelligent
Agile
Headstrong
Hot-tempered
Sometimes blinded by emotion
Any Special Notes:
Not that I can think of!
Sample of Your Writing:
Cyrene slipped along the wall of the alley, holding her breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and the apples in the pockets of the gray trousers she wore seemed to be burning red-hot, dangerous, as if they were screaming to the police and giving her position away.
Sometimes Cy had to ask herself why she snatched apples off the carts on the streets, or spent her nights caked in makeup and dancing burlesque, instead of doing something respectable with her life... and then something like this would happen—a chase, some risk, and she would run into some alley or back room, her heart pumping, adrenaline pouring through her system, and she would find this big, goofy grin on her face. It was then that she'd remember that this, this was why she'd left home; left the three snotty, crying siblings wearing her hand-me-town clothing; left the peeling-paint, leaky-roof farm house with her father's flow of girlfriends and her mother's memory sneaking up on her from inside wicker baskets and behind water-bloated books on the small shelf.
Whatever bad things the city held, it was still beautiful, because every day, it did something to make her heart race and her breath catch. It reminded her she was alive.
Cy was brought back to the present by the sound of footsteps parading past the mouth of her alley, and she risked a peek around the corner. The two frowning policemen that had chased her off from the fruit-seller's were rushing down the street, away from her. She grinned again, her eyes bright, her expression oddly feline, before slipping out from between the buildings and walking, calmly, back the way she came.