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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
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━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.
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,
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ why does every story end in dying wolves wolves bleeding out wolves crushed wolves cleaved in two god,
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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.
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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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 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
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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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━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.
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
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━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.
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
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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
f a c e c l a i mxxxanja leuenberger
p l a y e dxxb yxxxepimetheus
