Mien: Thorn scarred and consumed from within, Lesly's mien is a specter of a woman with long blue-black hair and eyes that burn a sulphureous, feral yellow. Her skin is like bleached parchment pulled over elfin bones to form a sharp and striking face that hits upon a peculiar range of expression from triumphant, to frustrated, to jovial, to sorrowful and back. Each imperfection like the blundering stroke of a pen. An indistinct haze hangs at the edges of face and form that seems to pulse and vibrate to the rhyme and reason of something other than the heart held within her breast. A feeling of weight, of anticipation following in her every step as some twist of fae power within her threatens to escape the confines of her body and proclaim itself to the world at large.

Her form is slender, resting on the strange boundary between emaciation and simply slender in those ways the eye is trained to follow. The scars of the Hedge no less healed here then they are upon her face and rarely shown off in favour of comforting, familiar and worn clothes like jeans and sweaters despite the time of the year. Uncomfortably for most, her hands are perpetually damp with ink and water... and always smell a little too strongly of soap, detergent... and blood.

Whether behind the mask or mien, her voice is the same. Soft and sweet and gentle but hiding a lethal sharpness that quivers behind every word and note. It's range tortured, if not molded, by the durance to go well beyond what most might think likely or possible.


Mask: The Mask is a less remarkable specimen than the Changeling that hides behind it. Gone are the scars of the Hedge, the skin like parchment and the unnatural glow of feral eyes. In it's place is a pretty little wisp of a woman with blue black hair and pale green eyes. That peculiar mobility of expression shines through in the elfin qualities of bone and flesh that still define her aesthetic. Beyond this, however, most can clearly note the strange nature of her voice and that her hands always feel uncomfortably cold.

Notable Merits: Striking Looks 1



Prologue:

A story has to have a beginning, it's an immutable law of the Narratives that bind the real and fantastic as equally as any other facet of Creation. For Lesly Black, it was a comfortable start in a sleepy mid-western suburb. There was no adversity or adventure like her curious soul craved as white-collar life coddled and shielded her against the worst that might be found at the time. That thirst for wonder, for adventure, drew to the printer word and the stories that could be found there. It still made her no less of a troublesome ward for her brother, Jacob... but at least the worst of her adventure-seeking could be curbed with candy and a book. A gift for language and expression became the corner stone of her life from those earlier days as she grew into herself.

Travel became inevitable.

First, it was for college. Her parents able to scrounge together everything she needed to see her through. Then it was for the sake of work. Her fingers always busy shaping someone else's vision through editing or research as part of the endless grind of the publishing machine. It stayed that way even as she continued to work on her manuscripts.  The frustration of her vision running away with her in tandem with the growing exhaustion that came from the commitment of revision, of review, of seeking opinion and input building and building in the back of her mind. It never quite seemed good enough to send the draft off. The dream seemed on the verge of death when her brother passed away suddenly and obligation, and love, brought her back to her sleepy and uninspiring roots to set to the matter of his estate in the absence of anyone else close at hand.

It would be in the midst of this that she would meet them.

The Fetch:

It was a friend's encouragement to start sending out drafts to various publishing houses even if Lesly, herself, didn't think it was good enough to pass muster despite everything she knew of the process. Too clinical, too on the nose, a thousand criticisms and more sat in the back of her mind but she did it anyway... If only to say she had tried. To get a letter back saying how they loved her work and would like to meet was a surprise... for more than a few reasons but she agreed and returned their letter per the instructions laid out in the neat little scripts that lined the page. Not typed but written with an admirably steady hand. How could she have known of the deal being struck and what would come next?

It began with a meeting with the editor, reviewing and talking shop. Nothing unusual if perhaps for the fact she had never heard of him or who he represented... Or for that matter didn't recognize the various titles that lined the walls of his little office. Something about them assured her, no, demanded of her that she believe their authenticity despite her better judgement and who was she to dismiss a chance at being published? Of achieving her dream? They shared coffee and shook hands with promises that next time they'd meet with another of his colleagues at hand to settle the deal in full, promising there'd be a long and interesting road ahead.

Like so many in pursuit of that dearest desire, she returned and met her jailor with a smitten smile. Something other than Lesly emerged from the office that day but it was something endowed with some critical aspect that was absent in the mortal woman it had assumed the place of. The promise of success fulfilled but not for the soul that so desired it.

Durance:

What can one say of the life of a bird in a cage? First, she wrote for them and felt joy in every moment that she held them enthralled. The glow of success intoxicating and blinding to the truth of the situation as the demands of her next work, her next performance, her next piece grew and grew and grew and doubt crept into her heart followed shortly by despair as she found herself slipping and losing ground to their keeper's twisted and endless pursuit of novelty. Soon, they no longer clapped, they no longer laughed, or cheered but whispered scathing critiques and made every effort into the cruel twist to some new joke as their affections dried up and flowed elsewhere.

Creativity died that slow death once more as every decision, every mote of inspiration was mired with fear that it wouldn't be good enough. That perfection that came so easily before simply could not happen again... That she was once more a failure, a has been, another casualty in pursuit of the dream. The nights grew longer, darker, colder, and the pain of hunger grew worse and worse as that insecurity, that frustration, ate at her from within until she couldn't bear it any longer. She screamed and howled and shrieked... and the gilded and bejeweled bars of her cage, now rusted over, creaked and groaned as if in sympathy. The death rattles of those trapped in the darkness with her lost beneath the thunder of her agony.

It was not what she wanted but purpose was given to her again, no longer the song bird but painful portent of doom and death.

Escape:

This new and curious toy became the jewel in the Siren of Iron's grim crown as they put her now wicked and bitter song to use again and again against the toy soliders of their fellow Gentry. Her song carved stone, splintered wood, and shattered steel. Her hands staining darker and darker with every story she cut to an end. Pride and confidence was insidious, though, to even one of the Gentry as they pushed and pushed and pushed until their tale of relentless victory could not carry on and the fickle natures of Fate and Glamour demanded a shift in tone and narrative. From the misery of others spun a champion, a polar opposite, to the Siren of Irons and in their clash confidence felled the fae for all their efforts to stifle every stratagem, every story, every anecdote the spun to weasel free of that destined terminus.

Lesly's cage fell then to the cold earth, it's rusted bars groaning beneath the abuse before turning to a tortured shriek as each snapped like overtaught strings. Each roll and bounce battering and buffeting her as the wreckage of her past glory and grim imprisonment carried her into the Hedge and on the path to freedom. Her panicked shrieks tearing as badly at the mystic growths that surrounded her as their thorns tore at her until she came to rest in a small glade. Pain and exhaustion demanded their due as they tore through her mind and burned to the bone but that fear of what would be done to her should the Keeper live and the nightmare that had been the swirling, abstract chaos of Faerie's battlefields lingered to freshly in her mind and so she did all that she could do... Hoarsely shriek at the the barriers before her and stagger along those path ways that opened... only to find herself dumped into the dread mid-summer heat in a cold and forgotten alley way.

The distant memories of a world forgotten asserting themselves in the banal solidity of the mortal man's existence as glamour spun to form a dimly remembered mask around her. The fresh horrors of Arcadia dulling but still etched deep into soul and flesh.