so I did do that Cal thing
Title: The Pampered Princess
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Alanor (do you consider Alanor a fandom?)
Word Count: 910
Disclaimer Alanor is very loosely based on L.K. Hamilton's Meredith Gentry series. The rpg opened in April of 2002. The premise of the RPG belongs to Riana, the creator and previous owner.
Summary: Guess this is "for" Icey because she's the one that suggested I write it. Calanthe's past. Which turns out to be kinda dark. I wanted to delve into Cal's past because ...I just wanted to. She's a really happy-go-lucky-ish character and I feel kinda bad making her past so twisted. But it explains a whole lot about her...kinda. For those that don't know since I haven't played her recently in Alanor, Cal is about six hundred years old Italian-nimbus thief. She's extremely cheerful and...silly. Her mantel is an emperor tamarin named Orchis.
She was cold, tired, and dirty. She was dressed in rags that she stole from the gravekeeper, huddling in a forest next to a town. Again.
The Italian Renaissance may have been more focused upon the glories of man and less upon religion, unlike its northern counterparts, but it had still scorned upon the poor men and, of course, woman. Even so, those were the days where she danced in the city with happiness and joy, whirling around Florence like the pampered princess she was.
Post-Renaissance Italy and the invasion of that…crazed man was another story. Her poor, beloved Boticelli had been “enslaved” and his later paintings lacked the luster that she once adored! Those weren’t worth trying to steal anymore. Her family...her father’s family had dwindled. The Italian Medici’s had met there downfall. They were a ghost of what they once were and slowly dying out.
Not that it matter. That was years ago. Decades ago.
She had been removed from the Medici line years ago before its downfall. There was no point of an illegitimate girl-child in the family. The death of her father in the heart of those merry years of the Renaissance combined with scheming other families had thrown her into the streets. Her mother was long gone. She had been a pretty maid in the house of the Medici’s. Forgettable.
She had her father’s taste for art. She herself was forever doomed to her maroon skies and purple would-be-trees-if-they-didn’t-look-like-a-child’s-scribbles. Atlas, she was doomed to the art of finger painting and smears in the mud. That’s why she stole. She liked pretty things.
She had been a pampered princess. She may pretend to act stupid, insane because it was easier that way. If she continued to act like an idiot, it would soften the blow of her life. After years, decades, it just became easier to act like that. Numb the mind to everything that happened to her.
Today her flesh is still raw, healing. She smelled and was burnt skin and bones. They had found her again. She had been labeled a witch and was burned at stake. She probably was one. She, after all, had just woken up six feet under and rose from her unmarked, unsanctified grave. That made her sad. She didn’t even get a proper ritual. The Catholic in her cried. Again.
Orchis stared at her with his wild, strangely too intelligent eyes. He chattered nonsensically, jumping around and waving his tiny fists at her. He had felt the pain through their bond and the monkey was displeased. He always had been there with her. That was probably another reason why she was labeled a witch... because she seemed to communicate to him, understand his feelings. That and her feigned ditzy nature and habit of screeching songs of flying ponies and skies that rained flowers and stars. Oooh! She was possessed by demons, they sometimes say.
Calanthe twiddled her thumbs and she stared at the shadows of a horde of people in the town. It was painful for her, playing with her thumbs. The flesh hadn’t healed yet and she could see the bones and muscle in her hands, arms. She tried to touch her skull earlier…that had hurt. The town was awake in the middle of the night. Flames met the dark sky; embers flickered across the sky amidst the screams, angry-scared murmurs. Someone had seen her rise from her grave. They were searching for her.
“Quite the act if I do say, Signora,” a figure behind her said. Calanthe turned to see a beautiful specimen of a man though his color was something she had never seen before. He had shimmering forest green hair; his skin was an iridescent shade of green, and he had tri-colored, cat-like eyes of purple, gray, and white. He didn’t look Italian, French, or anything like that to her. That and an otherworldly emerald radiated from his skin. A beautiful tropical bird was perched on his shoulder.
“Are you an angel?” Calanthe wondered out loud. Her voice cracked though even now she sounded loud and childish.
The man laughed. “No. I’m like you though, an immortal. I have to wonder, good Signora, if you get off doing that…burning. Some of us are rather masochistic. Has to be something about being unable to die.”
Calanthe looked at him with her wide-eyed, curious human green eyes. How could she be like this man?
The man laughed at her. “Don’t tell me, you don’t know what I am? What you are, a fey?”
“Fey?”
His inhuman eyes looked at her with curiosity. Calanthe felt unclean in his presence. He was so beautiful while she was a pile of slowly healing flesh. The inhumanly being walked closer to her and held his glowing hand to her.
“I've watched you since you entered that town. You don’t belong there. Why don’t I show you a place where you belong? You belong in the court of the faerie.”
And so she accepted his hand. A century later she was exiled from that faerie court of his. She had been caught stealing the faerie king’s jewels, weapons-actually she just about took something from everyone. He saw her off with an odd smile.
She would move on. Living on impulses and quick fingers. That was her way. She was old now, centuries old, but her mentality seemed to be frozen. She was always that pampered princess dancing and singing in the towns, moving towards things that caught her eye. It was-is-so much easier to pretend to be silly, stupid. That way, she doesn’t have to think.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Alanor (do you consider Alanor a fandom?)
Word Count: 910
Disclaimer Alanor is very loosely based on L.K. Hamilton's Meredith Gentry series. The rpg opened in April of 2002. The premise of the RPG belongs to Riana, the creator and previous owner.
Summary: Guess this is "for" Icey because she's the one that suggested I write it. Calanthe's past. Which turns out to be kinda dark. I wanted to delve into Cal's past because ...I just wanted to. She's a really happy-go-lucky-ish character and I feel kinda bad making her past so twisted. But it explains a whole lot about her...kinda. For those that don't know since I haven't played her recently in Alanor, Cal is about six hundred years old Italian-nimbus thief. She's extremely cheerful and...silly. Her mantel is an emperor tamarin named Orchis.
She was cold, tired, and dirty. She was dressed in rags that she stole from the gravekeeper, huddling in a forest next to a town. Again.
The Italian Renaissance may have been more focused upon the glories of man and less upon religion, unlike its northern counterparts, but it had still scorned upon the poor men and, of course, woman. Even so, those were the days where she danced in the city with happiness and joy, whirling around Florence like the pampered princess she was.
Post-Renaissance Italy and the invasion of that…crazed man was another story. Her poor, beloved Boticelli had been “enslaved” and his later paintings lacked the luster that she once adored! Those weren’t worth trying to steal anymore. Her family...her father’s family had dwindled. The Italian Medici’s had met there downfall. They were a ghost of what they once were and slowly dying out.
Not that it matter. That was years ago. Decades ago.
She had been removed from the Medici line years ago before its downfall. There was no point of an illegitimate girl-child in the family. The death of her father in the heart of those merry years of the Renaissance combined with scheming other families had thrown her into the streets. Her mother was long gone. She had been a pretty maid in the house of the Medici’s. Forgettable.
She had her father’s taste for art. She herself was forever doomed to her maroon skies and purple would-be-trees-if-they-didn’t-look-like-a-child’s-scribbles. Atlas, she was doomed to the art of finger painting and smears in the mud. That’s why she stole. She liked pretty things.
She had been a pampered princess. She may pretend to act stupid, insane because it was easier that way. If she continued to act like an idiot, it would soften the blow of her life. After years, decades, it just became easier to act like that. Numb the mind to everything that happened to her.
Today her flesh is still raw, healing. She smelled and was burnt skin and bones. They had found her again. She had been labeled a witch and was burned at stake. She probably was one. She, after all, had just woken up six feet under and rose from her unmarked, unsanctified grave. That made her sad. She didn’t even get a proper ritual. The Catholic in her cried. Again.
Orchis stared at her with his wild, strangely too intelligent eyes. He chattered nonsensically, jumping around and waving his tiny fists at her. He had felt the pain through their bond and the monkey was displeased. He always had been there with her. That was probably another reason why she was labeled a witch... because she seemed to communicate to him, understand his feelings. That and her feigned ditzy nature and habit of screeching songs of flying ponies and skies that rained flowers and stars. Oooh! She was possessed by demons, they sometimes say.
Calanthe twiddled her thumbs and she stared at the shadows of a horde of people in the town. It was painful for her, playing with her thumbs. The flesh hadn’t healed yet and she could see the bones and muscle in her hands, arms. She tried to touch her skull earlier…that had hurt. The town was awake in the middle of the night. Flames met the dark sky; embers flickered across the sky amidst the screams, angry-scared murmurs. Someone had seen her rise from her grave. They were searching for her.
“Quite the act if I do say, Signora,” a figure behind her said. Calanthe turned to see a beautiful specimen of a man though his color was something she had never seen before. He had shimmering forest green hair; his skin was an iridescent shade of green, and he had tri-colored, cat-like eyes of purple, gray, and white. He didn’t look Italian, French, or anything like that to her. That and an otherworldly emerald radiated from his skin. A beautiful tropical bird was perched on his shoulder.
“Are you an angel?” Calanthe wondered out loud. Her voice cracked though even now she sounded loud and childish.
The man laughed. “No. I’m like you though, an immortal. I have to wonder, good Signora, if you get off doing that…burning. Some of us are rather masochistic. Has to be something about being unable to die.”
Calanthe looked at him with her wide-eyed, curious human green eyes. How could she be like this man?
The man laughed at her. “Don’t tell me, you don’t know what I am? What you are, a fey?”
“Fey?”
His inhuman eyes looked at her with curiosity. Calanthe felt unclean in his presence. He was so beautiful while she was a pile of slowly healing flesh. The inhumanly being walked closer to her and held his glowing hand to her.
“I've watched you since you entered that town. You don’t belong there. Why don’t I show you a place where you belong? You belong in the court of the faerie.”
And so she accepted his hand. A century later she was exiled from that faerie court of his. She had been caught stealing the faerie king’s jewels, weapons-actually she just about took something from everyone. He saw her off with an odd smile.
She would move on. Living on impulses and quick fingers. That was her way. She was old now, centuries old, but her mentality seemed to be frozen. She was always that pampered princess dancing and singing in the towns, moving towards things that caught her eye. It was-is-so much easier to pretend to be silly, stupid. That way, she doesn’t have to think.