Fiametta
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Mask A head full of sun-kissed copper hair is usually the first thing that people notice about this young woman, an effortless wavy tumble that will fall to her mid waist unless gathered up, kissed with gold in the right light. Pale skin is almost luminous, though there’s a little sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose to warm her. Stormy dark blue eyes regard the world at a somewhat dreamy distance, though her emotions flash through them unrestrained, their intensity sometimes unsettling if it lingers. Her build is on the slim side of conventionally appealing, just enough curve to draw the eye of those who appreciate such things. There’s a certain restlessness about her, as if she needs to be on the move. Mien Hair of seemingly living flame tumbles about her shoulders and to her waist unless bound, casting a radiant and shimmering glow around her, augmented by pale skin and the gleam in her eyes, her emotions as quick to shift as a wildfire’s path. Her footsteps are heralded a soft crackle and crunch, not unlike the sound of a bonfire just starting to catch, or footfalls through fallen dry leaves. Small embers briefly appear in her wake, mottled reds and oranges, browns and dark greens as if the fire from within her cools to hues of autumn. The Present: She arrived in the city a few years ago, though not with great fanfare. She's danced at a few clubs, always under a different name, racking up the cash but never staying long. Almost as if she was seeking something specific, and then when found, she once more vanished back into the shadows. But she never misses a performance by a certain local ballet company, though those two worlds don't seem to overlap very often. Recently, she's gotten a job at what looks to be a new and premiere club in the city, as one of their dancers. The Past: Sixteen years ago, another young woman disappeared, far away from Chicago. There was a blip of interest locally, especially since she had a very young child. And she looked like the type of person who inspires searches, vigils, media pressure. Looks can be deceiving. Lots of people disappear under the age of 21. And if they were involved in things that only "those type of people" do, interest fades fast. She probably ran into the wrong customer, got too high, maybe she abandoned her child to go run the streets. Bad things happen, if you're not "good." Sure, her car was in the lot. Her bag and its contents dumped on the ground nearby. There were a few tips in the first months, a pretty redheaded thing spotted in odd places, but nothing substantial was ever found. A shame. If only people made better choices. The Inbetween An eternity as a living torch or lantern--lighting the way and then the spectacle as countless prey were torn to pieces, and then standing vigil over the debauchery of the hunters afterwards. Lonely forests. Broken streets. A house where one must be careful, so careful to stay hidden until it's time to run. Her Keeper molded her, stoked her, delighted in spinning her humanity away until she was perfect; until she wasn't. And then she was hidden away elsewhere--though someone else now basked in her dimmer light, and near him, away from the worst of the horror, she remembered glimmers of who she might have been, once upon a time.
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