Information

Rory_895
Legacy Name: Rory_895

The

Glacier Irion
Owner: ~~acid_711~~

Age: 16 years, 9 months, 2 weeks

Born: August 24th, 2009

Adopted: 16 years, 9 months, 2 weeks ago (Legacy)

Adopted: August 24th, 2009 (Legacy)

Statistics

Level: 1
Strength: 10
Defense: 10
Speed: 3
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 0
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

basics

dossier

Rory has a raw, feral sort of elegance though she would not be classified as beautiful. Her complexion is sallow; her cool, dry skin like paper. She is a product of the slums and it shows in her androgynous, emaciated build, with understated breasts and a delicate jaw. Her eyebrows are dark and dense, as is her furling sooty hair, the tips lifting off her shoulder blades as if electrically repulsed. Pale streaks crackle like lightning across a night sky, their spark reflected in her brilliant silver eyes that shift between mirrored clarity and fogged opacity. She has a full mouth with pale lips that curl into a surprisingly sharp smile.

Civil, collected, elegant, with an enviable sang-froid, Rory is -cool-, personified. She has an unmistakable attitude and little actual respect for those around her; at her best she is derisive, at her worst she is caustic. Dangerous because she is capricious, indifferent to the point of being desultory, her flashes of cruel condescension coupled with abrupt brutality are more shocking because they are unexpected.

Though not rebellious, Rory will not stand to be ordered around by anyone less intelligent and capable than herself. She prizes her ability to keenly and accurately distill importance in a thought, come to a decision about the best course of action, and then carry it through accordingly. The antithesis of that is zealous, well-intentioned, but clumsy fumbling. A little foresight and precise execution require only her minimal energy.

Rory is uncomfortable with intimacy and neither wants to open her heart nor peer into other souls. Because she is not motivated to seek goodwill from those around her, she comes off as unreliable and careless, with a perverse streak for messing with others. Not only does she get a rise from ruffling feathers, her flippant irreverence fuels high-stakes shows of one-upmanship. She entertains dangerous actions and dangerous thoughts, addicted to the adrenaline rush when her life hangs in the balance. She lives on the edge where she can boast perspective and mock the petty worriers scurrying by.

We come from the land of the ice and snow

She knows what it feels like to be unable to sleep. Jubilee Fawkes is intimately familiar with the night -- with each phase of the moon as a mark of passing time and increasing urgency, the pressure of impending but unobtainable sleep always at the peripherals of her headache.

She lies awake, eyes wide open in the darkness, and listens to the noises within herself. Her organs move and churn like so many pieces of machinery. There's a wetly rhythmic slosh, and a constant gurgle of leaking water somewhere, at the opening to some orifice. There is no pain, only strangeness. She runs one hand over her stomach and senses, not with nerve endings but with the habit of contact, a curious itch that begins to tingle warmly. She's clawed marks down her flank though her nails only felt like light dancers tripping across her skin.

She learned long ago to internalize fear and discomfort and anxiety, banish them for the paranoia they more than often were. Now, slowly and steadily, she picks apart her racing mind. She touches and prods the neural networks, looking for but one single concrete thought from within the kaleidoscope of simultaneously firing synapses like distant flashes of thunder. They pelt her with minuscule shocks, a windfall of shooting stars. So there, and then not (so quickly!) and she doesn't know if she is imagining imaginations.

She is very much alone and afraid. Why? Because there is no one else here, in this room, in this bed. Should someone else be here? Her mind recognizes stirring emotion beneath the question and she forces herself, with that particular logical lucidness born of pure will, to take another path.

She is alone because there is no one else occupying the same observable time and space; that is definitional. And there is no one else because she is alone. Alone. No one else is here. She is here.

She likes this tautology. Her mind is delighted by its simplistic beauty and truth. She understands alone, and everything about the associated state of being. She understands. The two clauses of cause and effect chase each other. She sees them (pursuing or following, conclusion or assumption?) twisting endlessly in figure eights. A three-dimensional Moebius strip, which, she realizes, is the physical projection and manifestation of infinity.

She hears them, too. Their periodic cycling resonates at exponentiating frequencies. The amplitudes superimpose and her body, each ligament and tendon, thrums in time . . . . . ........ to infinity, and beyond.

She awakes next morning, on the floor. There is a trickle of blood under her left nostril and her cheeks are tight with dried sweat or tears. She looks into the mirror, and does not comprehend.

soundtrack

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Pet Treasure

Lightning Mosaic Tile

Snow Queen Pelt Scarf

Frozen Orbs

Information

Rory_895Legacy Name: Rory_895

Statistics

Pet Treasure

Pet Friends

Rory_895
Legacy Name: Rory_895