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Granted to her since the day she was made, Ombre's primary enchantment - long since dubbed 'Bleached Hues' - is both a beloved and core gift, as well as a biting bit of mockery should you glance at it too long. When inactive it manifests as nothing more than a floating triangle above her orchid, a soft hum cooing from it as it bobs so slightly and merely exists there. When active, however, it's quite obvious. The necklace she wears will flicker with glints of light, the triangle will gleam and flicker all the same, her eyes may even garner a mild glow, and all at once the world will fade to nothing more than a monochrome visage. The enchantment is a color sucker - a vicious blinding thing that rips away all that is beautiful and bright and pretty. A land of black and white and grey is what you will be garnered for as long as Ombre deems it needed.
But lighting is not affected, you see, and this is where the mockery exists. For an overwhelmed soul such as she, one who begs for minimal sound and minimal light, the Bleached Hues seem to almost make things ever more reflective. It's a trick of the enchantment, she knows that well enough. But sometimes it truly feels as though she's been given this reprieve of a double edged sword, for even when the colors fade and the world mutes a little, the blinding lights glimmer and glow tenfold to compensate.
'Rays of Sorrow' is an enchantment garnered later in life after a curious stint in the woods, and along with it a few other gifts. It is one she activates far lesser, but it's represented by her Nutgrass or Nutsedge adornments. When allowed to be visible, these plants will appear ghostly and translucent almost, a soft sheen to them, and when the enchantment is active it is not uncommon for the strands to sway and glow brightly with mild fragmentation of the form. Surprisingly it isn't the glow that leaves her hiding it, but the afflictions it causes. Rays of Sorrow opens old wounds, y'see, healed or not. Those who've lost, are losing, and are going to lose will be forced to experience those scenarios, those times, those wishes, those grievances, and there will be no reprieve. It is a choking enchantment, and it is unkind even to Bre, who cannot feel it's affliction proper. Despite her crudeness she does not wish such terror on a soul, not when she herself has experienced loss greater than many could have.
But lighting is not affected, you see, and this is where the mockery exists. For an overwhelmed soul such as she, one who begs for minimal sound and minimal light, the Bleached Hues seem to almost make things ever more reflective. It's a trick of the enchantment, she knows that well enough. But sometimes it truly feels as though she's been given this reprieve of a double edged sword, for even when the colors fade and the world mutes a little, the blinding lights glimmer and glow tenfold to compensate.
'Rays of Sorrow' is an enchantment garnered later in life after a curious stint in the woods, and along with it a few other gifts. It is one she activates far lesser, but it's represented by her Nutgrass or Nutsedge adornments. When allowed to be visible, these plants will appear ghostly and translucent almost, a soft sheen to them, and when the enchantment is active it is not uncommon for the strands to sway and glow brightly with mild fragmentation of the form. Surprisingly it isn't the glow that leaves her hiding it, but the afflictions it causes. Rays of Sorrow opens old wounds, y'see, healed or not. Those who've lost, are losing, and are going to lose will be forced to experience those scenarios, those times, those wishes, those grievances, and there will be no reprieve. It is a choking enchantment, and it is unkind even to Bre, who cannot feel it's affliction proper. Despite her crudeness she does not wish such terror on a soul, not when she herself has experienced loss greater than many could have.
Considered a mix of a gift from a trip to the woods, alongside a curious representation of things best left where they lie, Ombre is consistently followed by a singular crow no matter where you may spot her.
The crow itself is, by all accounts, a very strange bird. It's never close beside her, but always near, typically perched on a statue of sorts or in some banister nearby where it may loom above it all. From an outsiders perspective it's merely a quiet bird, estranged from the world and one who prefers only the company of its connected. But Ombre knows, she knows, and she's seen how the bird looks at her. It knows her in and out. It knows her wants, her desires, her messes. It is to her, this crow, what she'd been to many before. It is her danger. Her teapot with a poison cavity. Her little mind reader.
She fears the day it learns to do more than caw.
The crow itself is, by all accounts, a very strange bird. It's never close beside her, but always near, typically perched on a statue of sorts or in some banister nearby where it may loom above it all. From an outsiders perspective it's merely a quiet bird, estranged from the world and one who prefers only the company of its connected. But Ombre knows, she knows, and she's seen how the bird looks at her. It knows her in and out. It knows her wants, her desires, her messes. It is to her, this crow, what she'd been to many before. It is her danger. Her teapot with a poison cavity. Her little mind reader.
She fears the day it learns to do more than caw.
A collection of items she's garnered.
Architectural accents styled after the "art deco" period sit tight and form fitted around Bre's neck. They're made of a polished mix of ceramic, slight metal lining, flecks of glass to glimmer and glean, and whatever strange essence is used to harness such designs on an Esk's soul. It's been with her since her creation, styled after the place she fell in and the things she used to wear before such a fall took place. She treats it kindly.
Architectural accents styled after the "art deco" period sit tight and form fitted around Bre's neck. They're made of a polished mix of ceramic, slight metal lining, flecks of glass to glimmer and glean, and whatever strange essence is used to harness such designs on an Esk's soul. It's been with her since her creation, styled after the place she fell in and the things she used to wear before such a fall took place. She treats it kindly.
Floating precariously like a pendant, just barely connected to her necklace, an oval of polished opalite sits prettily.
Background
Tumultuous | Fatale | Overwhelmed
In her past life, Ombre has gone by a far different name. Known then as Talia, she was a rather strange human from France circa the 1900's. Known by few in good favor outside of being a pretty lil sight, she was a moll with a manicured set of talons and blood tinting her lips, and who despite her rather apathetic visage always fell easy for pretty faces. Talia had lived a life of wealth and finery since the early days, but she never took her wealth for granted. She worked for her place - in her own way - and though it landed her in the throes of folk who didn't hide the blood under their nails she was comfortable. In a way, she fit in with the area, and it was one of the reasons those folk kept her close.
Tal was a sharp witted gal, y'see, but she was also far too empathetic to be considered right. Not a witch by any standards, not a fortune teller, but the gal had a knack. She could sniff out truths like a bloodhound, could pull out and display those things that people kept locked tight and hidden in their chests - she knew where to hit because she knew what you were hiding. No one could quite figure out how she knew, and when questioned she'd place a pretty hand on your arm and giggle sweet and syrupy. She saw people differently, that's all they knew. Saw colors no one could, could read a face and hands and thoughts like a fine printed encyclopedia. She was, on all accounts in her field, a danger. A gorgeous gun with a flighty trigger. A teapot with a poison cavity. It isn't exactly surprising that the caïd had kept her close in once you realize that, and it shouldn't be surprising either that she damn well lost herself when the things she loved were stripped from her fingertips.
Despite her promiscuous and dangerous field, it should be reminded that Talia was a wealthy girl who enjoyed the fine things. And for her, "fine things" came in the form of art and performance. Beneath her vicious exterior and crude but formal manners, much like with a pretty face she'd crumble and fall before decadent works and orchestrated shows. Much of her earnings were spent solely on operas, ballets, exhibit rental fees, and even supplies to make paintings. It was a hidden part of her, something softer and precious that she hid as far away as she could from those who knew her, enough so that she owned a separate property for it entirely, those pretty paintings.
Talia didn't make traditional art, but it was beautiful no matter how you looked at it. Mixed medias of oils, foils, maybe objects if she could - she'd paint what she saw the world as. How it looked and felt to her. Flashes of colors over mangled people, flowers blooming from the eyes, blood and ink soaking a soul. A woman, endlessly pretty and pale and ruined by shackles and others. The things she painted could, in one word, be called a mess. And they were. Her studio was horrifically messy, jars everywhere, paint all along the ground, canvases left and right - it was utter chaos, but it was her. It was her freedom. It was what she longed for, a simple life of quiet to tend to her paintings and staying with her loved ones. She didn't want the hand she'd been dealt, but it supplied her the money to keep up the hobby. To keep up the sights. It was fine to deal with, and she was content over the years.
But of course, as per usual, contentment is fickle. A close friend moves away with children she adored, her own life takes for a tailspin when pregnancy is a possibility quickly swiped away by loss and inability, and Talia, sweet sweet Talia, is left in the ruins as her mind breaks little by little. She's distant. Snappier. Sensitive. That gorgeous gun she'd been made to be had always had a faulty trigger with it's sensitivities, and someone kept edging it to shoot. Empathy is kind when you can control it, but when you're forced to walk through the city and feel everything from everyone and you can't stop it, empathy is no longer kind. It is a curse. It is a horrific thing that rips for your throat and suffocates what it touches in a woolen blanket. There is no freedom with empathy such as hers. There is no freedom when you cannot have piece and quiet. There is no freedom when the people you work with force you to interact with liars, filth and stains of humans. When they force you to touch them, trick them, lure them. There is no freedom in this anymore, not when your trick of wearing gloves no longer works and the world is too bright and too loud and too much.
She debated, for a long time, if taking an "easy way out" would have been better. If it would have lent nicer than eternity. She'll never know the answer.
It is, perhaps, a gift in a way where she went lost. A night where the delicate tightrope she tumbled and swayed on in those last few years was shaking with a vigor, one that lead her to a home away from home. She hid, stared, stood. Closed off the world enough so that not even the curator could be rid of her.
She went away in that place. Became lost, became nothing, and became something new altogether.
As a spirit, 'Talia' is a dead name given as a gift only to those who are close, beloved, and adored. 'Ombre' was a code, meaning "shadow" or "shade", and for her it'd been given as a gift. A testament to how she hid in plain sight beside the enemy with a knife made out of a prettily done manicure and well learned education. But in modern terms, in the now, Ombre is her in her entirety these days. She's a shadow of what used to be, a ghost haunting the halls of a place beloved by many, and in a way the title is rather fitting for someone who has been, for nearly her entire life, a variety of shadow.
In terms of attitude however, Ombre has retained that rather vicious nature. She's a volatile thing with an apathetic and crude façade, and unless you know her personally you'd likely think her a right bastard. With a flair for the dramatics and erratic tendencies, Bre is altogether and old lady who's lived many years and knows what she wants in the world: aesthetics, artistry, good music, good wine, good stories, and pretty women. Though cordial and endlessly formal, she is by no means polite and will give her patience and aid with vicious barbs to boot. The years as an Esk have allowed her to expand her education which has truly only worsened her ever shifting attitude, for when you can no longer bite you must learn to bark instead, and you must learn to bark well.
Ombre's often cruel and chaotic nature is a rather good façade, however, for deep down she's still got that soft spot for the things she adores and all the art in the world. Being an Esk hasn't dampened her empathy - if anything it's heightened it, which is arguably awful - so most times life is still a balancing act. She goes out of her way not to be physical, goes out of her way build walls upon walls upon walls of a maze deep within her mind - 'mind palace' she calls it - and she is wary of those who try to get close. These days Bre takes to solitary living and quiet contemplation amongst her extensive statues and paintings with only a crow to call a companion, and to dare have someone wish for closeness is,,, strange.
She fears, in all honesty, to be abandoned again. She lost her dearest companion, the small ones she considered her own, a small one she never even got to meet, and in many ways she lost herself. Beneath her cruel nature, there is worry. Beneath her dramatics, there is melancholy. And within her mind palace, there is Her. Quiet, painting still, listening to music, thinking of pretty women, and wishing to all hell that the noise and brightness of the world would disappear even if for only a little while.
Altogether, she is,,, an experience to be around. Drama personified, formally crude, intelligent to a fault, and barbed all over. There is no piece of her these days that has not been shattered by her very hands, polished, sharpened to fine points, glued back together, and then broken again to repeat the process once more. She is deadly. She is dangerous. And though she can no longer be violent she is still, in many ways, a gorgeous gun with a flighty trigger. A teapot with a poisonous cavity. She's good at what she does, making art, finding art, being art, and she's good at being a walking breathing neon sign of "go away." But she's lived her days alone plenty, and perhaps it's time for someone to find her when she goes to pick up the porcelain visage that is her body, and grab her wrists before she can shatter it all over again. Perhaps it's time for someone to finally be allowed to call her Talia again.
In her past life, Ombre has gone by a far different name. Known then as Talia, she was a rather strange human from France circa the 1900's. Known by few in good favor outside of being a pretty lil sight, she was a moll with a manicured set of talons and blood tinting her lips, and who despite her rather apathetic visage always fell easy for pretty faces. Talia had lived a life of wealth and finery since the early days, but she never took her wealth for granted. She worked for her place - in her own way - and though it landed her in the throes of folk who didn't hide the blood under their nails she was comfortable. In a way, she fit in with the area, and it was one of the reasons those folk kept her close.
Tal was a sharp witted gal, y'see, but she was also far too empathetic to be considered right. Not a witch by any standards, not a fortune teller, but the gal had a knack. She could sniff out truths like a bloodhound, could pull out and display those things that people kept locked tight and hidden in their chests - she knew where to hit because she knew what you were hiding. No one could quite figure out how she knew, and when questioned she'd place a pretty hand on your arm and giggle sweet and syrupy. She saw people differently, that's all they knew. Saw colors no one could, could read a face and hands and thoughts like a fine printed encyclopedia. She was, on all accounts in her field, a danger. A gorgeous gun with a flighty trigger. A teapot with a poison cavity. It isn't exactly surprising that the caïd had kept her close in once you realize that, and it shouldn't be surprising either that she damn well lost herself when the things she loved were stripped from her fingertips.
Despite her promiscuous and dangerous field, it should be reminded that Talia was a wealthy girl who enjoyed the fine things. And for her, "fine things" came in the form of art and performance. Beneath her vicious exterior and crude but formal manners, much like with a pretty face she'd crumble and fall before decadent works and orchestrated shows. Much of her earnings were spent solely on operas, ballets, exhibit rental fees, and even supplies to make paintings. It was a hidden part of her, something softer and precious that she hid as far away as she could from those who knew her, enough so that she owned a separate property for it entirely, those pretty paintings.
Talia didn't make traditional art, but it was beautiful no matter how you looked at it. Mixed medias of oils, foils, maybe objects if she could - she'd paint what she saw the world as. How it looked and felt to her. Flashes of colors over mangled people, flowers blooming from the eyes, blood and ink soaking a soul. A woman, endlessly pretty and pale and ruined by shackles and others. The things she painted could, in one word, be called a mess. And they were. Her studio was horrifically messy, jars everywhere, paint all along the ground, canvases left and right - it was utter chaos, but it was her. It was her freedom. It was what she longed for, a simple life of quiet to tend to her paintings and staying with her loved ones. She didn't want the hand she'd been dealt, but it supplied her the money to keep up the hobby. To keep up the sights. It was fine to deal with, and she was content over the years.
But of course, as per usual, contentment is fickle. A close friend moves away with children she adored, her own life takes for a tailspin when pregnancy is a possibility quickly swiped away by loss and inability, and Talia, sweet sweet Talia, is left in the ruins as her mind breaks little by little. She's distant. Snappier. Sensitive. That gorgeous gun she'd been made to be had always had a faulty trigger with it's sensitivities, and someone kept edging it to shoot. Empathy is kind when you can control it, but when you're forced to walk through the city and feel everything from everyone and you can't stop it, empathy is no longer kind. It is a curse. It is a horrific thing that rips for your throat and suffocates what it touches in a woolen blanket. There is no freedom with empathy such as hers. There is no freedom when you cannot have piece and quiet. There is no freedom when the people you work with force you to interact with liars, filth and stains of humans. When they force you to touch them, trick them, lure them. There is no freedom in this anymore, not when your trick of wearing gloves no longer works and the world is too bright and too loud and too much.
She debated, for a long time, if taking an "easy way out" would have been better. If it would have lent nicer than eternity. She'll never know the answer.
It is, perhaps, a gift in a way where she went lost. A night where the delicate tightrope she tumbled and swayed on in those last few years was shaking with a vigor, one that lead her to a home away from home. She hid, stared, stood. Closed off the world enough so that not even the curator could be rid of her.
She went away in that place. Became lost, became nothing, and became something new altogether.
As a spirit, 'Talia' is a dead name given as a gift only to those who are close, beloved, and adored. 'Ombre' was a code, meaning "shadow" or "shade", and for her it'd been given as a gift. A testament to how she hid in plain sight beside the enemy with a knife made out of a prettily done manicure and well learned education. But in modern terms, in the now, Ombre is her in her entirety these days. She's a shadow of what used to be, a ghost haunting the halls of a place beloved by many, and in a way the title is rather fitting for someone who has been, for nearly her entire life, a variety of shadow.
In terms of attitude however, Ombre has retained that rather vicious nature. She's a volatile thing with an apathetic and crude façade, and unless you know her personally you'd likely think her a right bastard. With a flair for the dramatics and erratic tendencies, Bre is altogether and old lady who's lived many years and knows what she wants in the world: aesthetics, artistry, good music, good wine, good stories, and pretty women. Though cordial and endlessly formal, she is by no means polite and will give her patience and aid with vicious barbs to boot. The years as an Esk have allowed her to expand her education which has truly only worsened her ever shifting attitude, for when you can no longer bite you must learn to bark instead, and you must learn to bark well.
Ombre's often cruel and chaotic nature is a rather good façade, however, for deep down she's still got that soft spot for the things she adores and all the art in the world. Being an Esk hasn't dampened her empathy - if anything it's heightened it, which is arguably awful - so most times life is still a balancing act. She goes out of her way not to be physical, goes out of her way build walls upon walls upon walls of a maze deep within her mind - 'mind palace' she calls it - and she is wary of those who try to get close. These days Bre takes to solitary living and quiet contemplation amongst her extensive statues and paintings with only a crow to call a companion, and to dare have someone wish for closeness is,,, strange.
She fears, in all honesty, to be abandoned again. She lost her dearest companion, the small ones she considered her own, a small one she never even got to meet, and in many ways she lost herself. Beneath her cruel nature, there is worry. Beneath her dramatics, there is melancholy. And within her mind palace, there is Her. Quiet, painting still, listening to music, thinking of pretty women, and wishing to all hell that the noise and brightness of the world would disappear even if for only a little while.
Altogether, she is,,, an experience to be around. Drama personified, formally crude, intelligent to a fault, and barbed all over. There is no piece of her these days that has not been shattered by her very hands, polished, sharpened to fine points, glued back together, and then broken again to repeat the process once more. She is deadly. She is dangerous. And though she can no longer be violent she is still, in many ways, a gorgeous gun with a flighty trigger. A teapot with a poisonous cavity. She's good at what she does, making art, finding art, being art, and she's good at being a walking breathing neon sign of "go away." But she's lived her days alone plenty, and perhaps it's time for someone to find her when she goes to pick up the porcelain visage that is her body, and grab her wrists before she can shatter it all over again. Perhaps it's time for someone to finally be allowed to call her Talia again.
BoundaryThe art museum that Ombre calls home is extensive and ornate. Visitors still frequent it regularly, and it isn't exactly strange to find people standing around and looking on at statues and old paintings - maybe even more curious items gifted from private collections. The museum's focus is towards paints and carvings however, even with the strange bits and bobs in between. Old oil works from famous artists, mixed medias from more modern donations, cherish and prized items kept behind glass cases. It's a lovely sight truly, should you have the time to visit it. And if not for the artwork, the architecture of the building itself is gorgeous - just simple enough to be easy on the eye, but still just ornate enough with all its gilding and inlays to leave a mark on the memory.
Ombre typically likes to stay away from the hustle and bustle of the day to day goings, but she can frequently be seen in the painting galleries and in the statue holdings. There's massive sculptures outside of the busts, and spotting the monochrome false-dog sitting on one of the pedestals isn't exactly out of the ordinary. She's frequently spotted before a painting - Camille Monet on Her Deathbed - usually perched on one of the benches nearby. It isn't exactly known why she chooses there to settle, but settle she does, and for a long time just as well. There are times though, when the crowd is small and the galleries are being switched, that Ombre will take to settling on the empty pedestals. Perhaps it's out of vanity, perhaps it's to feel part of the world again, but she'll sit there on empty displays for hours. It's almost as if she were guarding the place, but her fur shines too prettily to just be a sentinel. She's a work of art in those moments, bitter and observant and tender all the same. The museum is a soft spot for her, all things considered. Her eternal home and ball and chain now, but once upon a time it'd been an escape just like her studio. A place to flee to, to be lost within, to become one with artistry and thinly veiled depravity. Nowadays? It's just home. There isn't much else to consider it, even if she still loves it all the same. Crowds, quiet, and everything between. |
Her Creator
It isn't often you run into an artist with a true bite to their bark, and it isn't often they keep it. X had found Ombre when she was mid contemplation, and had watched her for years as her hands stained with coal, graphite, blood and oil slick. There was a cadence to her soul, a beauty to the vicious, and with a talent such as she it isn't surprising X took it upon themselves to transform such a visage. They'd called it a gift, this eternity, and had said it was a chance to forever be with all the things she wanted in life. A chance to forever be with all the art she could've ever hoped to create.
Ombre, respectfully, had very mixed feelings about such a gift.
She and X are not on bad terms to say the least, but they are not companions as others might believe they were. They are one of the few who call her Talia still - if very rarely - and she begrudgingly accepts it considering X is her creator, at the end of the day. Bre isn't exactly fond of being an Esk, isn't fond of the concept of eternity when eternity means a life lived in this hell of too loud and too bright, but she's content with the idea of existing. She holds no anger to X, nothing true anyway, and there is only mild resentment and frustration that comes with their excitability and - as stated - the concept of her eternity. But she enjoys the mild consistency, and the eagerness that X always presents with when questioning her past is curious. Childish. Familiar.
She can deal with it.
It isn't often you run into an artist with a true bite to their bark, and it isn't often they keep it. X had found Ombre when she was mid contemplation, and had watched her for years as her hands stained with coal, graphite, blood and oil slick. There was a cadence to her soul, a beauty to the vicious, and with a talent such as she it isn't surprising X took it upon themselves to transform such a visage. They'd called it a gift, this eternity, and had said it was a chance to forever be with all the things she wanted in life. A chance to forever be with all the art she could've ever hoped to create.
Ombre, respectfully, had very mixed feelings about such a gift.
She and X are not on bad terms to say the least, but they are not companions as others might believe they were. They are one of the few who call her Talia still - if very rarely - and she begrudgingly accepts it considering X is her creator, at the end of the day. Bre isn't exactly fond of being an Esk, isn't fond of the concept of eternity when eternity means a life lived in this hell of too loud and too bright, but she's content with the idea of existing. She holds no anger to X, nothing true anyway, and there is only mild resentment and frustration that comes with their excitability and - as stated - the concept of her eternity. But she enjoys the mild consistency, and the eagerness that X always presents with when questioning her past is curious. Childish. Familiar.
She can deal with it.
art by Tayleaf
An Old Friend
Back when they were humans, they were good friends once upon a time. Beatrice had been brought in from a place a good ways away, and considering she was the wife to a decent ranker, and Bre was the personal moll, the temptress took to her like meat to blade. They were, on all accounts, essentially inseparable during Bea's time within France's boundaries. Ombre had taken care of her, cultivated her image, taught her how to hold herself in such an environment and lavished her with rather inappropriate affections for the times and marital status. If one were to glance, they were good friends. The best, if anything. Ombre had been there for her children, for her, and whilst they were the best of pals there was something hiding beneath the surface. A few too long glances, soft touches, blown smoke and lipstick stained kisses given to hands and arms and ankles and jaws beneath the darkness to mean nothing.
But Beatrice left when her children were a bit older, and Ombre was left to fight for herself. Boundless, without a lighthouse to guide her home anymore. She was, once upon a time, angry that the girl had gone off to America with her husband, had thought they had something more substantial than that. But the anger was short, for she knew Bea had no choice in the matter, and instead it'd given way to a bitter sadness.
Nowadays, Ombre doesn't know what happened to her. She hopes her well, hopes her perhaps living an eternity just like she is so they have the chance of meeting again and hopes just as well she's found peace in a grave - and though there is still a part of her that yearns, the majority longs only for presence as oppose to the rekindling of that secret not-fully-formed-affair. In truth, she merely wants to see her friend again. Maybe share some wine they cannot drink and listen to some music and read some curious stories just like they used to.
Back when they were humans, they were good friends once upon a time. Beatrice had been brought in from a place a good ways away, and considering she was the wife to a decent ranker, and Bre was the personal moll, the temptress took to her like meat to blade. They were, on all accounts, essentially inseparable during Bea's time within France's boundaries. Ombre had taken care of her, cultivated her image, taught her how to hold herself in such an environment and lavished her with rather inappropriate affections for the times and marital status. If one were to glance, they were good friends. The best, if anything. Ombre had been there for her children, for her, and whilst they were the best of pals there was something hiding beneath the surface. A few too long glances, soft touches, blown smoke and lipstick stained kisses given to hands and arms and ankles and jaws beneath the darkness to mean nothing.
But Beatrice left when her children were a bit older, and Ombre was left to fight for herself. Boundless, without a lighthouse to guide her home anymore. She was, once upon a time, angry that the girl had gone off to America with her husband, had thought they had something more substantial than that. But the anger was short, for she knew Bea had no choice in the matter, and instead it'd given way to a bitter sadness.
Nowadays, Ombre doesn't know what happened to her. She hopes her well, hopes her perhaps living an eternity just like she is so they have the chance of meeting again and hopes just as well she's found peace in a grave - and though there is still a part of her that yearns, the majority longs only for presence as oppose to the rekindling of that secret not-fully-formed-affair. In truth, she merely wants to see her friend again. Maybe share some wine they cannot drink and listen to some music and read some curious stories just like they used to.
Character Details and Notes
- Ombre's voice or vibration is a beautiful, aged thing. Wispy on the ears, she speaks with a formality and class of her time and borrowed slang from the years she's spent "living", and though always somewhat polite her words and tone truly give nothing away about her mood. She always speaks with a ferocity of a woman ready for a fight, always twisting on the rope between simply coy or truly angered, maybe even seductive. There's a rhythm to her phrases, almost poetic at times, which is rather fitting. Beneath all of this however, there is something musical to it, and properly so. It's fuzzy, so very, but beneath her bitten words and wispy purrs, there is a very distinct sound of a harpsicord being played. It keeps in tune with her words, but even when she's silent it seems to strum quiet and soft.
- Size wise, Bre is on the more middling end. Around the size of a medium-larger ended dog, she stands at equal height with a dobermann at the shoulders. She stands upright with her head held high, rarely bowing it down unless with that of a child, which only lends to her rather imposing appearance.
- Her 'unsettling' descriptor comes more from aura than true size. She's erratic and crude, and a soul is trapped inside of her that's larger than the body that houses it. Being near her at times feels like witnessing the beginnings of a war.
- Despite her crude nature, she's got a soft spot for the younger and childish. It is the softest one may see her without having to face the fight of her mind palace and its maze. She goes out of her way to seem smaller, gentler, softer when it comes to children or the child-like.
- Ombre enjoys visiting the Conservatory, and regularly will do so should the urge strike. She's got a private wing within its depths - an ethereal mimicry of her studio if it were betrothed to an opera house, with velvety curtains and floating candles and canvas, gleaming lights and gorgeous visages - but she's never seen within it at the same time as anyone else. She does, however, enjoy visiting other folks wings, and the massive amounts of shared spaces. There's a soft spot in particular for the Wellsprings, believe it or not. Many a time she's felt touched enough to offer some of her essence into its curious depths.
- As a creator, Ombre isn't much better than she already is. There is a sweetness to her, a motherly affection reminiscent of an old timey trad gal caring for her brood, but there is a barrier still. She is not cruel to her creations - in fact she's actually far more lenient with them than anything else. But she isn't ready to open up entirely either. There is still that moll's crudeness underneath her mentorship and the teachings she offers, and even then her mentorship is curious at best and unpredictable at worst. Her creations are her false children, curious pieces of her walking amongst the earth's grounds, and though she's still all bark these days it is at least softened to a rumble with these folk in particular.
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