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She walks the halls with a half-smile, a subtle lift of her lips, and a wicked glint of humor in her eyes. She's got a pixie cut, a pixie's face, and a pixie's sense of humor. She has mischief in her bones. Her kind don't go around singing sailors to their death anymore, but there's a remnant of the sentiment. It was funny, back then, and they needed something to replace that. Jokes and pranks and breathy quiet giggles. She's soft-spoken in the sense that she doesn't feel the need to be loud. She doesn't need to reach out. Her kind are inherently mistrusting, far from quick to let people in, and she's no different, not willing to let very many people see beyond her hard outer shell. And yet she's got a charisma, a wide circle of acquaintances, and she has no problem with that. She runs a girl gang, so she likes to say, vicious biting females with the same kind of sharp minds and tongues and wit. She doesn't like to hang with men that much, the way they seem like they've all got something to prove. They way they act like they've got some massive chip on their shoulders, the way they carry bloody hearts in their teeth like hunting lions. Don't they know the lionesses do all the hunting anyway? Her and her crew wear their leather jackets and their lipstick redder than broken hearts and keep their nails sharp and their pocket knives sharper, and they walk like lionesses. She can play her part as a siren, vicious seductress, but she doesn't have to. She plays the part as a vicious queen, the kind with the guillotine at the ready, and she finds that works just as well.
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She was born in the water. Not true, probably, but that certainly what it feels like, and she's half sure it must be true. Why else would she feel more at home beneath the waves than on land? Regardless, she was born and that wasn't the last of it. She hardly remembers her youngest years, of course, who does, but she spent her formative years in a cave by the waterfront, most of her hours wasted playing in the water, turquoise tail flicking about as she traveled miles each day. The body was cold, far from the warm sunny beaches her parents told her existed in other places. The Caribbean, Spain, the Mediterranean. She dreamed of visiting all these places, of seeing worlds beyond her icy blustering sea. Shores with actual sand as opposed to treacherous rocks and boulders and cliffs. But her family was more than just a family; it was a clan. Loyalty was utmost, an intrinsic value. If she were to leave her family, it would mean death. Figuratively, of course. But her family was her home, and she couldn't stand the thought of not being able to return home. She walked the streets of Oslo, dreaming and wishing. And her family took note. Her mother was the matriarch, the true head, and though her father protested, he could do nothing. She told Niska to go. Even gave her a starting place. A school to teach her how to make the most of her abilities. A school with an ocean of its own (and a forest too), and she nearly cried (but she didn't), but she was also so unbelievably happy. She's going to see the world, she knows she will. And after she does that, she's going to go back home.