Sarien

From Lynnesheets

Revision as of 07:02, 12 December 2007

in my field of paper flowers;

Name: Sarien
Player: Lynne
Concept: broken doll
Virtue: Charity
Vice: Sloth
Seeming: Fairest
Kith: Dancer
Court: Spring
Image Song: Evanescence, Imaginary

Attributes:

Intelligence: 4
Wits: 3
Resolve: 1

Strength: 1
Dexterity: 3
Stamina: 2

Presence: 3
Manipulation: 2
Composure: 1

Skills:
Mental Skills:

• Academics 5
• Occult 3
• Investigation 2

Physical Skills:

• Athletics 3
• Weaponry 1

Social Skills:

• Expression 4
• Socialize 1
• Empathy 1
• Persuasion 1

Merits:

• Striking Looks 4
• Summer Goodwill 1
• Mantle: Spring 1
• Eidetic Memory
• Hedgespun Raiment
• Encyclopedic Knowledge: Tactics (2)
• Barfly

Defense: 3
Health:
Size:
Speed:
Willpower: 2
Wyrd 1
Glamour 5
Clarity:
Initiative:
XP: 10
Spent: 10
Unspent: 0

Contracts:
Fleeting Spring

• Cupid's Eye

Separation

• Lightly Tread
• Evasion of Bonds
• Breaching Barriers

Dream

• Pathfinder

Eternal Spring

• Gift of Warm Breath

the nightmare i built my own world to escape;

Backstory.

i lie inside myself for hours;

Personality.

where the wind will whisper to me;

In his Mask, Sarien is a tall-5'11"-, very slender, perfectly beautiful young man, very feminine in appearance, with long red hair and empty green eyes. He carries himself with a perfect, floating grace, an otherworldly grace even in the Mask. His clothes tend to be too big, somehow exposing tantalizing bits of pale skin without realizing it, and he doesn't seem to care whether or not he's dressed as a woman or a man. Sometimes, he wears a long white dress, seemingly made of silk.

the goddess of imaginary light;

In his Mien, Sarien is even more otherworldly, an ethereal beauty that seems more dream then reality, delicate and so very breakable, with moon-pale skin and deep, striking green eyes, his hair falling to the floor, loose, a rich, deep and bright red: delicately pointed ears poke through his hair. His smile is sweet and blank, empty as his eyes, that always glimmer with unshed tears. He looks so very young, fourteen or so, perfect and haunting, and so very still and fluttery, giving off the air of fragile innocence, and he is so androgynous no one can tell without taking off his clothes that he's actually physically male. His white dress is spun of mist that was woven from his own tears: silk itself feels like sandpaper, the cloth is so very soft and smooth.

where the raindrops as they're falling tell a story;

swallowed up in the sound of my screaming/cannot cease for the fear of silent nights/oh, how I long for the deep sleep dreaming/the goddess of imaginary light