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Illyana Bárány

you want the stink of gristle buried in a muggy weather. i want the faulty mirage

0 · 406 views · located in Fae Realm

a character in “Aes Sídhe”, as played by Εpιmetheus

Description

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N A M E : xxxillyana bárány.

A L I A S : xxily.xxxinsufferable bitch.

B I R T H P L A C E : xxxjászberény, hungary.

A G E : xxxtwenty four.

S E X U A L I T Y : xxxbisexual.

C O U R T : xxxhigh.

R O L E : xxxhalf fae.xxxwarder.

O C C U P A T I O N : xxxtabloid reporter.

P R I M A R Y : xxxbarrier.


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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━god, i loved the wolf more than i loved the girl, more than i loved the lambs


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      A P P E A R A N C E .

      There was always a subtle difficulty existing on her own terms that plagued her every step. Still, it was not understandable enough to grant her some semblance of sympathy from the indifferent onlookers of her life. She would look at pictures of her mother in the photo albums and then glance towards the mirror, trying to find some difference, thinking perhaps if she stared long enough, something might make itself apparent—like the picture books her mother bought at discount stores, with the spot the difference pages, one picture missing a trio of palm trees, perhaps, or a figure missing an ear. She had all her ears. She had her mother's eyes and skin and hair and figure and not a speck of indication of where her father's features may have disappeared off to. And she did not dare to ask.

      Suffocation festered under the protective wrap of her mother, a chiding remark or bruising grip wherever she tried to run off into some mischief. First she cropped her hair short, thinking perhaps that would separate her enough from her mother's visage to remind her that she was not a commissioned doll to reattempt life through. Then she grew it long. Still she could not escape the sculpted features and lean, gangling limbs that always gave her away.

      When she pushed her way into the land of milk and honey, seeking freedom (but more importantly, seeking escape), she tied her hip-length hair in a ponytail and did not care how she appeared to the world, felt comfort in knowing these people knew of no comparison that could be made. A year later, she cut her hair to her shoulders and began dressing in the casual, feminine style she had so often seen her mother in, would sneak glances at a mirror or a particularly reflective shop window, looking for the very thing she had run from. Still, she thinks, no matter how intently she stares into the eyes of the reflection, still, still it feels two dimensional, too fake. She does not feel like her mother, but she does not feel like herself either. She does not feel like anything.


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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ why does every story end in dying wolves wolves bleeding out wolves crushed wolves cleaved in two god,


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P E R S O N A L I T Y .

It was the quick wit of mischief and a hardened ambition that raised a girl from the cobblestoned lined streets of market town to a small studio on the star paved roads of the most overpriced city on earth (or so it feels). She did not lose that as she aged, although now the innocent mischief of the past has shifted to a deviousness required for her work, and it does not nearly as good as it used to. But she is accustomed to swallowing her voice, if nothing else.

Work ethic and passion were not enough alone to make it in the starving world she launched herself into. Still, she could not bear to see herself in the tailor shop all her life, so she snarled, flashed her canines and fought—fights— for the hunt with the best of them. Only with her neck bared to the world and the hungry carrions did she learn that naivety had no place in her life. Even now she reserves the kindness and loyalty and love that threatens to overspill— the weight crushing her lungs— for only friends she knows will last. (And basic decency? Give it nine weeks, minimum.)

She could be doing worse. So much worse, she tells herself. It does little to assuage the guilt that attacks like cornered prey at the most inopportune moments. She beats it down with another cup of coffee and sleepless night. She copes with her ills by committing smaller evils. A stolen taxi here, a cut line there, and maybe she's so rotten to her core that invading people's privacy and hurting them means nothing to her. It's stupid. She knows.

Her tongue has since sharpened itself on the whetstone of the back of her teeth; it's had plenty of time. Too snappy to like but too talented to fire, she remains more or less isolated in her place of work, which is something she finds just fine. She maintains a particular distaste for rubbing elbows with the slimeballs that seem to head the industry, drowning in their lack of self awareness, with their wretched smirks and satisfied leers. She may make her money by abandoning her morals, but at least she knows not to take pride in it. Or maybe that's just her clinging to the last scrap of the person she thought she was. Lately, she thinks, maybe she should have become her mother. Maybe she should have become anyone else.


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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ why do i have the same emptiness the cavernous hunger that could swallow cathedrals


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L I K E S .

storms. xx.x chai lattes. xx.x muay thai. xxx boxing. xxx incense. karaoke boxes. .xxx speeding on highways. x.xx blackberries. strawberry rhubarb pie. xxx the republic. xxx kant. xxx watching figure skating. xxx clubbing, occasionally. xxx gin fizzes.x... trying new foods. xxx vacation time. xxx night jogging. ....xsufjan stevens.

D I S L I K E S .

deadlines. xxx caffeine. xxx household chores. xxx online shopping.xxx harlequin romance novels. xxx american football. pomegranates. xxx getting sick. xxx sad music. xxx morning talk shows. xxx cashmere. xxx her boss. xxx time management. extended inactivity. xxx reading and writing emails. xxx high heels. xxx cotton candy. xxx


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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━in an impulse to sink my teeth into anything that smiles at me the wrong way oh god everything i let go of bleeds out so quick and dear god


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    S T R E N G T H S .

    C L E V E R . xxxIf there is a way to be found, she will find it. Occasionally ingenious and often underhanded, she uses every method at her disposal to get the results she wants.

    T H O R O U G H . xxxIn work and in life, she is always sure to investigate every possible angle before making any sort of decision.

    A D A P T I V E . xxxThere are few things in life that knock Ily so far into shock she fails to muster words, or a sharp retort. For the most part, she reacts to disastrous events with a nihilistic acceptance.

    W E A K N E S S E S .

    C A L L O U S . xxxOnce a staunch follower of morality and ethics, Illyana has since decided to shove it down, away from the forefront of her mind. She does little to contribute to the overall happiness of society and neither does she appear to care about strangers.

    S E L F - P R E S E R V I N G . xxxNaturally, she places her own well-being and success above those of strangers, but even her loyalty to friends (strong, certainly) does not top her instinct to save her own hide first.

    L E V I T Y . xxxShe has a hard time taking trying matters seriously, treats everything with a hint of a joke, even when she should be directing every ounce of her energy to the matter at hand. But everyone needs some kind of coping mechanism, no?

    M A G I C & E Q U I P M E N T .

    P R I M A R Y . xxxA lack of knowledge and control drags down Illyana's natural ability to generate barriers. At the onset of their journey, she can do little more than manifest a barrier as a small shield for herself and maybe one or two others. She seems to react instinctively to danger, and cannot always manage to manifest a barrier on command. With more training and experience, she'd find herself capable of forming full dome-like barriers with a large surface area. Her power also has promise as an offensive ability, used to block in opponents and compress them.

    E Q U I P M E N T . xxxShe does not carry much with her—a pocket knife, a small canister of mace, brass knuckles. She is prepared for any manner of human confrontation, but woefully unprepared to deal with the likes of the fae.

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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━i’m begging you i don’t want to be the wolf anymore and my god


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H I S T O R Y .

The memory of an unquenchable hunger for more, more, more that threatened to consume her haunts her still. At every turn, there was her mother's hand on her shoulder, pulling her back from the precipice of the cliff she so desperately wanted to launch herself off of, and for a time, she resented her for it. (These days, she forgives herself for it nightly, saying all children do, yes, all children, only to wake in the morning with the same crimes as the day before). Illyana wanted to see so much more than just the world; she wanted to see the people in it.

Her mother begged her to stay. The deep and wretched kind of begging, wild eyes and grasping hands, so heavy—the weight of her mother's pleas were so heavy. She cried on the plane, feeling like if she bottled her tears and sold, she would never be able to pay the price of what she'd lost. But it was too good to pass up, too good to say no, too good to not leave her mother alone for no reason other than Illyana's own desires. It would be worth it, would all be worth it once she graduated. She'd go home, with all the spoils to lay at her mother's feet, would beg the same way her mother begged and it would all be fine.

Ethics was something she never expected to find in the stone cold hallways of academia. Nonetheless, when Professor Brüyer read the words of Kant aloud, Illyana felt found. Not by herself, no, she'd never find herself, but this was a close enough approximation. She continued to study journalism, but also took on the study of Morality and Ethics. For the first time in a year, she felt clean.

Graduation came and went, but it did not bring the comfort she'd expected. Even with a grant, there was not enough to cover expenses for another two years of school or even four, and she never did get a flight back home. Shame clung to her like a veil, stuffed her mouth and bound her hands, and her mother's number taunted her from the screen of her cell until she could not bear to see it anymore. Still, her fingers ghost over the keypad where she knows the numbers lie. She has never gotten past the first four numbers.

Broke and faced with the unique lack of options only a recent college graduate would know, she took the first job she found. It didn't matter that it rotted her, consumed her until she felt like a cheap halloween costume. At least she could make rent. And she was good at it too. No one had to know about the back alley deals she made with the curious creatures with the wings and the horns who always seemed to know anything she wanted to know too. No one would have cared anyway. Nothing mattered to the hollow husks behind the desks. They wanted results. That's what she got them.


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━━━━━━there has to be something salvageable something good that isn’t just a killing blow god why are the wolves never spared what turned them bad what turns me good


c h a r a c t e rxxs h e e txxbyxxxlayla
f a c e c l a i mxxxanja leuenberger
p l a y e dxxb yxxxepimetheus

So begins...

Illyana Bárány's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Orhien Naena Character Portrait: Amaya Kyotsuki Character Portrait: Mariko Kimura Character Portrait: Kazimír Šťastný Character Portrait: Aurora Kinski Character Portrait: Ryu Se-Ri Character Portrait: Alize Morleaú Character Portrait: Cullen Lawrence Character Portrait: Kelvin Woods Character Portrait: Petunia Griffin Character Portrait: Illyana Bárány Character Portrait: Ryu Yeong Character Portrait: Tae Jeong Character Portrait: Lilith Averescu
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

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#, as written by Layla
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▁ ▂ ▃xxxH I G Hxxxxxx ▁ ▂ ▃xxx31/12/17 : 1100xxxxxx▁ ▂ ▃xxxW H E R ExxxW O R L D SxxxC O L L I D E
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xxxxxxThe moon released its cold, blue breath. Her sisters followed; speckles of starlight coming to life across the cold expanse overhead. And like a milky way on earth, the faelights that hovered untethered to mortal devices illuminated a path deep into the woods. Human passersby steered clear of the forest that emanated terror and demise, ushered away by a cleverly crafted glamour.
xxxxxxThose that dared venture into the sprawling canopies and distant shadows would find a mirage—an illusion that broke like water when prodded. And through this unseen wall—magic. For on the final night of every year, exiles and Fey without allegiance—or "freefolk," as was polite to call them—gathered in the fringes of New York City to celebrate the end of the earth's rotation.
xxxxxxThrough the veil were colours unseen by the human eye. Beads of light hung from the branches of ancient trees, their fingertips caressing the tips of faerie wings. A river snaked through the celebrations, spelled to bubble with a thick and cloying liquid of darkest gold.
xxxxxxFey danced to music that swelled like waves and descended in waterfalls. An alluring flute murmured its tune from the fingers of a sylph, urging lost humans to dance their worries away. Until their feet blistered, bled, and broke.
xxxxxxThe couples and groups twirling to the symphony were immune to such temptations, as they, too, had been forged of impossible things. A little blue boy giggled in his mother's arms as she twirled him 'round and 'round, her lips peeling back to reveal small, pointy teeth that could shatter human bones. Another girl blushed, her skin morphing into the emeralds and mahoganies of the trees behind her as if she could disappear into the belly of a trunk.
xxxxxx"Oi, watch it!" shouted a man—who was also a goat. Thankfully, from the waist down. He glared over his shoulder at the rather ordinary looking fellow stumbling past him. The subject of his distaste grunted and waved his mug of honeyed tea, its contents sloshing over the sides and between his fingers.
xxxxxx"S'ry," he murmured, scrunching his nose. Suddenly, a sneeze erupted from him, the strength of it tossing him backward into a crate of candied apples and lifting the skirts of some wayward ladies. They squealed, sending of breath of frigid air that melded his hand to his mug.
xxxxxx"Oh, come on," he groaned, rolling onto his side and falling to the dirt. He blinked. And squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them. Closed. For surely, he must be mistaken. Or inebriated.
xxxxxxFor through the thicket of bushes and leaves, a set of ruby orbs peered into the revelry. But before the man could yell, the redcap scuttled away into darkness, leaving only a murky memory in its wake.

▁ ▂ ▃ ▂ ▁


xxxxxxAmaya peered through the lens of her microscope at the bronze watch on her worktop. Joji hummed overhead, the tremble and thump of his synth filling the old antique store with contemporary music. Amaya exhaled to his croon, and wiggled the burnisher into the bezel of the old watch.
xxxxxx"Hey grand- Shit!" A cacophony of tumbling wood and smashing metal followed his expletives, ending with the sharp punctuation of his pained wail. "Ow, ow, ow!"
xxxxxxAmaya did not look up from her work as she said, "That's $6,410 worth of priceless artifacts you just knocked over."
xxxxxx"My femur! My femur!"
xxxxxx"Is decidedly less valuable," she murmured, slipping the watch's crystal face over the dial. "What are you doing in my shop, Ishaan?"
xxxxxx"What most people do in shops? Buy things?" Ishaan emerged from behind a glass cabinet stuffed with various deadly instruments and one too many skulls. "Though I can't imagine how anyone finds anything in this place. When was the last time you organised?"
xxxxxx"It's organised."
xxxxxxIshaan looked around him at the various texts and materials littered throughout the store, all of which seemed to have been placed without reason. A cluster of feathered pens sat beside a fraying Jack-o'-lantern; a pile of rare manuscripts were poised precariously atop a sealed bottle of indiscernible liquid; a frightening puppet with only one eye hung beside a brilliant chandelier of molten gold.
xxxxxx"Right," said Ishaan.
xxxxxx"Well?" Amaya prodded. "Out with it."
xxxxxx"We need Pandora's Box for the New Year's celebrations."
xxxxxxAmaya lifted her head to pin Ishaan with her black stare. She raised a brow. "Do you?"
xxxxxx"Well, yes. Obviously. Because I just said-"
xxxxxx"It was a rhetorical question."
xxxxxx"Oh."
xxxxxxMoments passed, the silence interjected only by the soft ticking of the watch Amaya held in her hands.
xxxxxx"Soooo..." Ishaan began. "Can you do it?"
xxxxxx"Yes."
xxxxxx"Will you do it?" he clarified.
xxxxxx"What happened to the box I gave you last year?"
xxxxxx"Uh..." Ishaan smiled sheepishly. "We broke it."
xxxxxx"How?"
xxxxxx"Gertrude was gassy."
xxxxxx"That literally explains nothing."
xxxxxx"Gertrude is part orc."
xxxxxx"Oh. That explains everything." They shared a slow nod of understanding. Without warning, Amaya stood, wiping her hands on the cloth strewn over her chair. "Don't break anything or I'll sell your organs on the black market to make up my losses."
xxxxxxAmaya glided between the mountain of objects seemingly without care as Ishaan tiptoed behind her. She ducked, disappearing into a narrow passageway that opened up to reveal a marginally wider door. She twisted the handle and stepped in.
xxxxxx"You don't lock it?" Ishaan asked.
xxxxxx"Why? Would you steal from me?" she replied.
xxxxxx"N-no. Geez. Of course not. Please stop looking at me.”
xxxxxxA flood of cold air greeted them. Colder even than the Winter beyond the store's four walls. The room glowed with an eerie blue light. This was Amaya's real collection. The priceless Fey objects and relics beyond the innocuous storefront that declared this place the Home of Intangible Things.
xxxxxxPotions swirling with incandescent hues perched on shelves etched with ancient runes; a wiry potted plant emitted an eerie glow in a corner; a book whose cover shifted with every minute hovered within a glass dome. Yet Amaya ignored all these as she approached a box the size of her palm. She lifted it, peeling back the velvet cloth that encased it.
xxxxxx"Here," she said. "You'll owe me a favour for this."
xxxxxx"Yeah, yeah. I know the rules. But," he chewed his lip, "we were actually hoping for another favour from you. Could you, maybe, attend the celebrations and call upon the box yourself? Its sister was so unruly last year. We had no idea how to get it back in once we'd opened it."
xxxxxx"Put three objects of personal value into the box and call-"
xxxxxx"Yeah, we got your instructions last time. But those rascals inside are hard to wrestle."
xxxxxx"You'll have to pay extra."
xxxxxx"Already on it." Ishaan waved his arm. "My sister has a gem from one of the late king's crowns. So, deal?"
xxxxxxAmaya tilted her head, fixing him with her stare. "Deal."

▁ ▂ ▃ ▂ ▁


xxxxxxThe box held within it collective memories—whispers of another time before the courts had been forged and anarchy reigned. Four powerful faeries had gathered to forge an alliance, carving into a map the lines of their rule. The Courts embodied the balance of the natural world. The seasonal courts—Summer and Winter—would share the earth's cycle, shifting their power to reflect changes in the climate. The courts of Dark and High would create chaos and maintain order, so that the world would not fall into excess. A High Lady or Lord would command each court, with their mates at their side.
xxxxxxAmaya stood at the centre of a clearing, where a crowd had gathered in anticipation of the night's ritual. The midnight hour neared.
xxxxxxA strand of alabaster hair fluttered into Amaya’s line of vision. She beat her papery wings and the small gust that followed lifted her hair from her face. Her off-the-shoulder dress swished around her ankles, their opal colours changing in the dim light that emanated from the faelights.
xxxxxxAmaya paid her audience no head as she twisted the box’s moving parts, spinning the sundial leftward until—like a setting sun that had met its end—it was eclipsed by a silver moon. She spun both ends of the box until the flourishing green tress met its barren twin on the other side.
xxxxxxPandora’s box unlocked.
xxxxxxA burst of red light blinded the Fey, and when it retreated, a chorus of cheers rose from them. Scarlet figures of smoke and vapour danced above their heads, wielding small swords and spinning in skirts that left faint trails behind them. The musicians began their symphony.
xxxxxxAmaya tilted her head upwards to watch the memories unfurl, her eyelids fluttering shut against their brilliance. The glow of the figures bounced off the crescent moon on her forehead, the curved mark scattering the colours into a kaleidoscopic dance.
xxxxxxSuddenly, a small red dancer turned and screamed.
xxxxxxAmaya's eyes snapped open. She turned as the people forged of red smoke raced with a fervour, screeching as they fought to return to their box. Large figures of flesh and bone rose behind them, their forearms encased in metal, their faces cloaked in armour. They wore the uniforms of the High Court's royal guard—a legion sworn to protect the faerie on the throne—but their magic did not solely belong to the High Court. A faerie with a swarm of straw-blonde hair threw a column of flame into the throngs of Fey fleeing the woods.
xxxxxx"Give us the Halflings," called a woman in copper armour. "And we might consider granting you exiles and traitors a merciful death."
xxxxxxAmaya had stilled, enraptured by the woman's familiar form, and the emerald eyes that peered from the slit in her helmet. Airell. The girl had been her friend, once. Or as close to a friend as one could find when one was imprisoned in a tower.
xxxxxxThe luck fae had warned her of this. Kazimír Šťastný. He had told her of the late king's downfall and her role in his child's resurrection. He had said with some mirth that she owed him a debt. He had saved her life, he'd claimed. When he was just a child, and she the prisoner of the High Lady of the Dark Court. She had not wanted to believe him, but she did remember him. The small boy with smaller antlers who had come to her cell and offered her luck.
xxxxxx"Feykiller," Airell intoned. "I did not expect to see you. Today must be my lucky day."
xxxxxxAmaya turned and ran.
xxxxxx"Fleeing again, are we?" Airell called out. "Where is the Blood Moon our keepers worshipped?"
xxxxxxAmaya darted between the trees, whizzing left and right until Airell's flames vanished behind her.
xxxxxxA little blue girl collapsed to her knees. "Mama!" she wailed. "Mama!" But the Fey around her did not stop. They had become cruel in their haste to survive.
xxxxxx"Hold on to me," Amaya barked. She wrapped her arms around the small girl, who clung to her with a grip that was unexpected of such a small creature, and ran.
xxxxxx"This way!" she called out to the faeries fleeing aimlessly through the woods. "There's a path that leads out of the forest into a human Walmart and cave on the way should we need to hide. Follow the trees with the crawling vines and blue flowers until you near a small ravine. Quickly. Quietly."
xxxxxxThe Fey stumbled through the darkened woods, a petite Summer faerie emitting a tentative glow to illuminate their path. Amaya looked over her shoulder to see the faeries who had stayed behind to fight the invasion, and those who were sprawled on the ground. They were much too still.
xxxxxx"Found you."
xxxxxxAmaya twisted, flinging the small child forward and into the thicket—better bruised than dead—as Airell lobbed a dozen black arrows toward her with nothing but a thought.