Sarien
From Lynnesheets
Contents |
[edit] in my field of paper flowers;
Name: Sarien
Player: Lynne
Concept: broken doll
Virtue: Charity
Vice: Sloth
Seeming: Fairest
Kith: Dancer
Court: Winter
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
- Spring Goodwill 1
- Mantle: Winter 1
- Sexualized
- 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
[edit] the nightmare i built my own world to escape;
Sarien doesn't remember too much of his life Before, everything he could have been washed away in the pain and madness that consumes him. He was once a shyly smiling, shy boy, quiet and intelligent and obedient and lovely, and it was this which attracted the attention of the True Fae who eventually became his Keeper, his grace and beauty and most of all his obedience.
He doesn't remember being Taken, not clearly: he was twelve, that spring, twelve and drifting towards a sort-of-flirtation with his best friend. He remembers the agony of being pulled through the Hedge, as his soul was torn from him, but it was nothing compared to the agony that would follow, as his Keeper's concubine and mindfuck victim, experiment in how beautifully a mind could break. It blurred together, the pain he suffered in his Keeper's bed and the words that broke his mind more and more, for while the Fae was brutal in bed, he never physically marred Sarien, only broke his mind with soft words and compelling whispers, blurred together until he could no longer clearly remember.
Eventually, when his Keeper grew tired of playing with him, he gave Sarien as a "reward" to another changeling in his service, who had grown to share many of the same inclinations as the True Fae. By that point, it all blurred together, and while Sarien knew that he had changed hands, it didn't matter anymore, if it ever had.
Perhaps he never would have left, if it were not for the efforts of another changeling, a young Snowskin, who, one day, guided him out of his room, quietly managed to get him out, told him to be quiet and take her hand and follow her, she couldn't stand by and let this happen anymore. She took him across the Hedge, told him to hold onto her hand tightly, and think of something from home, think as hard as he could.
(and he remembered warm eyes and a soft voice, remembered gentle kisses and golden hair, and held onto that memory for as long as he could)
He tumbled through the Hedge, alone, into the park where he and his best friend/almost-boyfriend used to play when they were younger, and walk together once they were older, and he only barely remembered the memories associated with it. Drifting, without even knowing where he was going, he wandered through the park, until he was picked up by a man. Without even questioning, as was his way, Sarien went with him.
As it turned out, he ended up working at a strip club, as a dancer, and moonlighting on the side. Sarien was quiet, and biddable, and didn't seem to care that his pimp-because that's what he was-was taking the money that he earned, he just handed it all over and continued existing in his own little world far far away from the one around him, where nothing seemed to touch him.
Until, one night, he was dancing, when the front door was kicked in, by a very angry blond man.
[edit] i lie inside myself for hours;
Sarien is sweet, endlessly kind and compassionate, gentle, and utterly broken, impulsive, weak-willed, and prone to outbursts and self-destructive behavior. He is passive and utterly submissive, is unable to say 'no', unless it involves hurting another person, and is incapable of setting any limit for himself, no matter even if he's hurt. would prefer to let the world happen to him, rather then fight, utterly suggestible, and lives in his own world, where everything is bright and beautiful (and broken into an infinity of shards). He is very childlike in personality, almost with a strange vulnerable innocence that is not quite innocence, with many perceptions that are those of a child, if twisted.
Insanely brilliant, and completely insane, Sarien's moods swing wildly, and he tends toward melancholy and depression, with no self-esteem or self-worth, with too much compassion besides: he puts more value in others then he does, or ever has, in himself, for he sees himself as just a doll, just a toy for others to use and abuse and to leave behind, offering himself up as a vessel to sate their lusts and desires on. He knows that he is pretty, and believes that's all he is, the pretty shell (pretty yet never shone, only barely glowed) . He has forgotten who he is, withdrawn so far that he lost himself somewhere along the way.
[edit] 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.
[edit] 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.
[edit] 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
