Myca Bellamy
From Lynnesheets
Contents |
it's the same old thing as yesterday;
The Bellamy family, of old blood and wealth, with a hereditary title to their name, viscounts, had nonetheless fallen on hard times, like so many others, in the years since the Plague. With every passing generation, births in the family dwindled, until at last, no children were being born, and their family line looked to be coming to an end. Until, however, a young, desperate couple, the last son of the family and his wife, took a chance, and spent most of the last of their wealth on having an Anathema child being created. Anything to prevent the death of the family name.
And Myca Bellamy was the result. Talented, soft-spoken, and beautiful, she was the hope on which their family had staked everything, and for a while, they dared themselves to hope, that they had gotten the best of the devil's bargain that they had made. That, despite everything, this would turn out alright.
It wouldn't. Myca-delicate, beautiful Myca-was ill. Consumptive.
And ill luck continued to plague the family, with the death first of Myca's mother when she was eight (she, at least, remained resting in peace): her father never remarried, but almost seemed to give up after the death of his wife, living on only as a shadow of his old self: his daughter, he ignored and neglected, leaving her to the care of servants until her grandfather stepped in and took the girl into his custody, and her greatest memories of her father were the ghostly shell he had become, until at last he died, two years ago (and, oops, rose as an animate and had to have his head cut off, but that is beside the point, really). Out of propriety, she remains in mourning for him, having recently moved into half-mourning, but she never really knew him.
She remains her grandfather's heir, but she knows that most likely, she will die before her grandfather, and the only legacy she will leave behind is of sorrow, shadows, and ash.
And she goes on living, day after day, opens her eyes each morning and closes them each night, without a clear goal in mind or really, one at all, slowly losing everything to hold on to.
(and she waits for the day when she will not open them at all)
That's my soul up there;
Myca is a quiet, gentle girl, soft-spoken and ladylike, and always, always sad, melancholy and nervous, a haunted creature, too serious, who has spent her whole life surrounded by shadows. She is good at hiding what she feels, at pretending that everything isn't falling apart around her, that maybe, just maybe, she can be content. Maybe, once, years ago, she sought to learn how to live, but this, like everything else, has begun to slip away, absorbed into numbness and apathy. She does, however, accept her mysterious, impending death with remarkable serenity, especially given that she has never really lived.
there's a butterfly trapped in a spider's web;
Myca is a slender, delicately-built young woman, of more then remarkable beauty and just over average height, her face and form graced with haunting loveliness that will be remembered long after she is gone, with long black hair and long-lashed, violet eyes. Much to the jealousy of her social peers, she has the perfectly porcelain complexion and fragile, doll-like beauty that is so very prized...without effort. She carries herself in a graceful manner, yet somehow floating, almost as if separate from this world. She is always to be seen in the pale lavender, grays, and occasionally blacks (and deepest violet) of mourning, and she has only rarely been seen to smile, never to laugh.
but it's my destiny to be the king of pain;
Name: Myca Bellamy
Age: 17
Calling: Anathema
Attributes:
Vitality: 2
Coordination: 3
Wit: 3
Intellect: 4
Charm: 2
Will: 3
Prowess: 6
Qualities:
- Haunting Beauty
- Photographic Memory
- Upper Class
- Patron 3
- Private Library 3
- Wealth 1
Impediments:
- Panic Disorder (minor, for Mentally Unstable)
- Melancholy
- Fits (Severe)
Features:
- Anathema
- Genetic Engineering
- Mentally Unstable
- Physical Impurities
Corruption:
Physical: Illness *
Desire: Anhedonia *
Drive:
Wealth: 6
Starting Equipment:
armored rubber coat
silver-plated respirator
parasol sword
-in progress, 24 pounds left-
Skills:
- Medicine 1
- Unarmed Combat 2 (Footwork, Free Dodge)
- Etiquette 3 (Decorum, Manners, Titles)
- Ride 1 (Horse)
- Art 3 (Portrait Painting, Watercolors, Sculpture)
- Performance 2 (Singing, Recitation)
- History 2 (Genealogy, Reconstruction)
- Melee Combat 2 (Riposte, Free Parry)
- Language: Italian (Conversation, Writing, Reading) 3
- Language: Latin (Reading, Liturgical) 2
- Concentration 2 (Dull Pain, Thoughtmask )
with the world turning circles inside my brain;
To be sick, means that you are unable to do what you once were able to. To be dying, means that you are not allowed ties with the living. Even if you love them.
My heart is freezing. I thought that it would.
And this is the meaning of wasting, of decaying, until there is nothing there, nothing to see ... and the silence. The silence is when the ringing stops.
i have stood here before inside the pouring rain;
i have stood here before inside the pouring rain/with the world turning circles running 'round my brain/i guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign/but it's my destiny to be the queen of pain
