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| Aisling | |
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| Topic Started: Feb 19 2011, 05:41 PM (160 Views) | |
| Aisling | Feb 19 2011, 05:41 PM Post #1 |
sparks fly up innocent
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Beware the fragments and grammatical incorrectness of this. 'S how she wants to talk in my head. =/ Name – Aisling [pronounced 'ash-ling'] Age – Unknown; appears 17 Gender – Female Alignment – Chaotic Neutral Social Class – Former nobility Occupation – Seeress/Dreamwalker Race – Daoine Sidhe Weapons – None Physical Appearance – Crooked curls of ebony tumble over folds of torn linen. The girl is pale, the moon personified, with eyes of gold-flecked green, absorbing a world only she can see. Her body is lithe but frail, a willow amongst redwoods, but stunted and small from lack of nourishment, light, and love. A pretty porcelain doll, less than five feet high even in the tallest of glass slippers, but already broken and irreparable. Even without the streaks of dirt, stark contrast against milky white, the distance in her hazel orbs make clear the fey quality that envelops her tightly. Chiming bells fill her voice, one alluring but without intent, and beneath the folds of a tattered dress, she bears the scars of a past only reality could dream into existence. Personality – She treads the line of light and dark, sanity and the abyss. Events of the past have left her haunted, forcing her to retreat to her sanctuary down a spiraling path so twisted return is difficult and nigh impossible. But better to know a man for a man and a star for a star than to gaze at the world before you and see nothing but shades of gray sculpted into shapes of fantasy. And so she tries, despite the scars that etch upon her skin and soul. Whimsical are her sentences, baffling is her logic, and behind the words so reminiscent of child's play is a knowledge of the storm that brews and comes. Emotions are the butterflies that play across her face, a myriad of colors and shapes. But amongst the pieces of shattered glass lies awareness, both in her sanctuary and out, and to say that she is blind would be a lie most grave indeed. It is in dreamscapes that she can articulate herself more clearly, and bare a side usually locked away from the world. For those observant or perhaps just mad, the connections she makes between the sounds she hears translate into splashes of color, in quite a literal fashion. Her world is lively, more than you ever could know. (In plain speech, she has synethesia, more specifically sound-color synethesia.) History – They'll tell you a story of lords and ladies, with their pretty children in pretty frocks. Little chicks, all in a row. And they dream, glorious images of colors and shapes, tied together by the finest strands of spidersilk. But what they won't say, will never say, is the conformity by which these chicks must abide, without a single feather out of place. To see or say elsewise is to weave oneself into web of lies, tangled and tight, to draw the attentions of lions and jaguars. Flesh heals; the heart doesn't. All it takes is once to break you, make you. First Five Abilities
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