Post by Delphi Renaud on Aug 10, 2021 22:37:51 GMT -8
Bount
Basic Info
Now here we go again.
Now here we go again.
Name:
Delphi Renaud // Vix(en)
Chronological Age:
~41
Biological Age:
~22
Heritage:
Gemischt, Solovey Branch
Physical Info
I kind of wanna be more than friends.
I kind of wanna be more than friends.
Hair:
Straight locks of pink gliding to the small of her back and properly groomed with delicate brushwork every morning and evening -- and oftentimes throughout the day.
Build:
Slight and lithe but with distinct muscles built in the back of her shoulders & calves, allowing for a panther-esque appearance while seeming non-threatening. Five six in height with the fingers of a piano prodigy and a notably flat chest.
Clothing:
A mockery of dyed and refashioned Quincy uniforms, cheekily lit up with bright red and other splashes of colors most would find garish. She likes to stand out, alarming and venomous and all-too-apparent. She owns a reliable array of sundresses and hats for more relaxed occasions, and prefers cotton pajamas for her evenings. After all, it's important to be both fashionable and comfortable.
Extras:
Eyes of stunning teal and the stick of a lollipop hanging lolled from her lips are the leading suspects behind her attention caught on you. Her eyeliner is sharp and non-descript, opting not to paint her nails as they only frustrate her when they begin to chip. An earring the shape of a flower with five crystalline petals adorns her right ear, inlaid with sculpted amethyst reflecting an intangible image you could swear is looking back at you. Her canines are sharp and, barring the occasional snaggletoothed display, reasonably menacing when bared.
Her Schrift remains on her upper left arm; but it’s rarely uncovered, the letter so faded it’s barely recognizable, and she chooses to never speak of what it means anymore.
Spiritual Info
So take it easy on me?
Doll Name:
Atropo Wisteria
Doll Body:
In its sealed state the Doll Atropo Wisteria embodies the form of the crystal earring Delphi is always seen wearing. The unsettling tone of amethyst is actually the soul of Atropo Wisteria, whispering incessantly into Delphi’s ear at any matter of interest in order to goad, guide or comment on her actions. A lavender mist will begin to leak from the earring should the Doll become agitated or Delphi have need of her appearance, petals dripping off into a viscous liquid akin to spilled perfume until no petals remain and the Doll’s shape emerges from the mess.
Atropo Wisteria’s true form is a demented, misshapen-woman, appearing at first beautiful and enticing from a frontward visage until your eyes trail to the lobster-like claws protruding as her arms and the strange hobble off-setting her balance. Tendrils and spider legs jut from her back and feel around the air, her eyes blank and milky to denote her blindness. Her tongue lashes, long and forked, tasting what scents her nose catches and leading her quicker to their sources. She uses all senses save her sight to search out a target and capture it within her grasp, though her approach is rarely physical with the other tools at her disposal.
The relationship between Host and Doll would appear highly cooperative or at worst amicable when the two are seen in action together, but a closer look would see to Delphi’s shaking hands and the strain of her smile -- holding back the dam of spite that permeates her biting into her own lip. Delphi is ultimately powerless in Atropo Wisteria’s presence, genuinely afraid of her Doll’s retaliation should she say the wrong thing or lead the wrong conversation. While Atropo Wisteria does not immediately give the impression of an abuser of the Bount, the careful way Delphi addresses and dances around her is enough of a tell to show of something more behind the screen.
Historical Info
I'm afraid you're never satisfied.
The Past:
Delphi was not a happy child nor was she particularly difficult, striking the fine line between completely disinterested in her family’s affairs and worried enough of being an outcast to follow them. Delphi as a Quincy spent her entire life up to a certain culminating point avoiding loneliness at all costs, and conformed enough to the societal norms and regulations put on her by a traditional Quincy family to skate by. Her situation was not aided by her mix-blooded position, saved solely by the relatively small influence her branch of the Solovey carried in the first place. Her mother never quite forgave her for her father’s affair, and the marriage was ultimately political as a bid to make a name for themselves. It’s hard to say whether she was the reason they never quite caught the glory they were hoping for, but it was easy enough for the others in her family to blame the smallest infractions on her mistake of a birth.
Navigating a life where those around you were hounding for the chance to cast you aside, while embodying a fear of being left with nothing, she continued to do as she was told and train as she was taught to be trained all while building absolute resentment for not just her lineage, and blood, but her faction’s very place in the world. She learned to care just as little for the Shinigami who haunted them like spectres of death, and less so for the demons they fought as a purpose … but the more she began to care less about everyone around her, the less she felt concerned for the very people she was being raised to protect. What had mortals ever done for her, really? How did being Quincy benefit her? She felt like a sheep-herder, a dog bred to protect livestock that were under constant attack and seemed entirely helpless while the farmer waited with his shotgun for an excuse to put her down.
This wasn’t what made her crack. Ultimately, despite her mounting hatred for everyone she knew and everyone she met, the life of a Solovey - purebred or not - wasn’t the worst set-up, and she did find interest in taking over the business of a small museum curation her branch was privy to. What finally cut the thread was entirely out of her control … or, not entirely, but enough that she can’t really be blamed.
You see, Delphi spent her entire life as a survivor. She made a ridiculous decision, in the heat of the moment, where only her instincts and every stupid, asinine, inexplicable thing she was raised to believe came to a head -- she took the lunge meant for a little human boy she passed out by a park on a pre-drill patrol, and her body was met with the jaws of the largest Hollow she had ever encountered. It’s not that she couldn’t form her bow or employ her schrift, but it happened so quickly and she couldn’t think about how much she hated this stupid kid for putting her in this stupid situation.
The burning is what she remembers the most. Like her body, her lungs and mind and heart and soul -- every inch of her, for all eternity, was on never-ending fire. She didn’t even hear herself scream, or thrash. She knows the Hollow died at some point - his bite had grown slack and soon she didn’t feel it at all, but she doesn’t remember killing him and she doesn’t know how she got away from the slides or the swings or the trees that had surrounded her before. The next thing she knew when she was at all lucid was a cold, stone floor, leaves crunched beneath her trembling hands and an agonizing whisper plucking at her mind like they were a harp. It was almost as painful as when she was on fire.
She survived this as she survived everything else, but at a much greater cost. She was poisoned by the Hollow’s infection, her very soul burnt down to smoldering ashes where only the dimmest light remained and that light was the only part of her left. A monster - a horror - rose from those ashes and supplanted itself as a dark seed in her innermost wants, feeding her terrible things until her only thought was to feed it in turn.
She had no choice the first time, the second, the third. Every bite she took, every spirit she drained, her control was … limited, and she could never be sure it wasn’t a dream. She was so hungry and the victims were so weak - so easy to take - that it was a while longer before she even learned she could no longer create her bow. She could no longer flick awake the power of her Schrift as she had done for twenty years before. All she could do was choke on this lavender mist, stumbling along with the bidding of the being inside.
She pieced together the rest over the years since. Her body had almost entirely stopped its aging when it recognized itself as more dead than alive, a limbo of an existence she had briefly tried to escape before remembering the conclusion that her death would spell the absolute annihilation of her soul and she would never return to the Cycle from here. She knew there was a name for her - there were scary stories and words of warning about the Bounto that the Quincy lost their comrades to - and while she had never quite known it would feel like this to be one, she had heard of a great uncle that once lost his way as well. They never told you that you wouldn’t have a choice. That existence as this beast would be kill or be killed, and that you would constantly be at struggle with a force inside of your own body, the very constitution of your being, that wanted nothing more than to drag you down with it.
She’s still surviving, to this day. She’s learned to manage her urges and feed only when needed to continue comfortably, and she’s come to the apropos of an agreement with the wicked creature sustaining her meagre life force. She feeds, it feeds, both … survive. She hated everyone she knew and everyone she met, anyway, right? What’s so different about ...
being …
alone?
Snapshot:
//
A crawling sensation. “Take a bite.”
It wasn’t his tongue that she felt on her chin, dragging up the corner of her jaw and leaving a sickly-sweet trail that no amount of cloth could wipe the imprint of. Straw-white hair bristled against her collarbone, the head that hung over her shoulder taking up half the field of her vision. She was almost thankful for this, being saved from taking in the complete picture of the man laid out before her.
A creeping sensation. “He can’t touch you anymore, yes, yes.”
She had liked this one, somewhat. Enough. It was better than the quiet at her apartment or the creaking, cold stone of the hideout -- being with him, feeling his skin, the heat he had between his fingers that her own could no longer manage. It was brief, but it was lovely. It mattered. Not to the abomination whose spindly feelers she felt trailing up her spine, but to her, absolutely, for the fleeting vision it lasted as.
She thought she might throw up. “You need to eat.” It whispered to her. It always whispered to her. She hated the sound it made.
She did need to eat, and the human’s soul hadn’t yet departed from his mangled shell. She wasn’t given much of a choice, she knew, but she could swallow and nod and take her time leaning in - close her eyes, block it out - and bare her fangs for the tangy taste she knew was about to meet them. Feeding wasn’t the problem for her anymore, really. She had done it enough times and found her way through every emotion it could possibly elicit, in every situation consensual and not that she found herself in, but this time … it was almost too …
“I left him whole this time, for you, as a present. For you, ehe. For you, Delphi, I give this gift. I divined it for you. I made it for you. Eat it, yes? Take a bite. This time, yes, he remembered you, until the end. I didn’t make him forget. Can you … taste that?”
… vile.
Shlk.
//