Sigil: City of Doors

Name: Elsa
Aliases: Elsa, Star, Elsa Star Dust
Gender: Female
Race: Construct
Age: ~ 2 years

Profession: Basher.

Languages: Common. Barely. Some Sigilian.

Accent: Flat with little inflection and a hoarse quality to it, a harshness that makes it hard to understand her / form words at times.

Physical Information
Height: 7 feet
Weight: 300 lbs
Body build: Big Boned

Skin type: Smooth, save for seams at the joints. She is also double-jointed.

Hair style: Swept in back with a blue Bow.
Scars: All over, with stitches. Significant one circling the neck, all the way around
Tattoos: No (not yet) .
Piercings: Numerous

Colouring:

Hair: Black
Eyes: Black/Red
Skin: Greyish Blue

Mental Information
Alignment: CN/CE/CG
Philosophy:

If it moves, Kill it. If it speaks, Listen. If it is Flesh, Sample. If it Loves, Fear.

All are Stars.

Deity/Beliefs: The Lady (although she does not pay or observe any kind of active worship. She avoids the Martyrs).

Personality:
Tends to be a chamelon in this regard - she reflects the personality of those closest to her, gentle, or not so gentle.

She avoids the Martyrs, associates openly with Dustmen or Xaositect, and Indep. She is (now) Neutral towards Harmonium, and likes/seeks out Mercykillers. Her faction is Society of Sensation. She also gets along easily with the nonviolent Xaositects (the violent ones she obliges with oblivion).

Additional Information

Gear: Gear appropriate for a Fighter, although she does favor very large weapons. . Lately, she wears an odd helmet, with a glowing Word above her head.

Her favorite piece of gear is a Solar Plushie (with one wing missing).

Jewelry: Piercings along her face and body, and they look painful.

General Health: Healthy

Favorite Food/Drink: Pure Water and Flesh, but Elsa lacks a developed (or working) digestive system. She likes to taste things (being a Sensate), but will void (vomit) them up minutes later.

She is essentially a corpse being run by a supercharged battery (her brain and nervous system). She more truly feeds off of electricity, not proper food. Also, her limbs are special, in that they do not properly decay like ordinary flesh would; they have been treated with some kind of powerful preservative/strengthener. Thus, while she can temporarily attach and use other limbs, those always stiffen, become almost useless, and rot.

Weaknesses: Love/Hate relationship with Fire, Acid. Adores Lightning and "Likes the Pretty Lights (magic)".

It wasn't Darkness.

It was it's opposite - not Light, for that, too, had color.

This was Grey - a nothingness inspiring little save loathing. From whence this feeling came, She was not sure, but it was

present, growing stronger with every beat of a distant drum.

"There, now. Elsa. Open your eyes."

She complies, and squints at the brightness. A face, blurred, indistinct, swims in front of her, then coalesces and sharpens. No color, still, but definition.

The face of the Master. Close, the face inspects his work, hmmming softly.

Her teeth snap, trying to close on the bulbous nose, but he deftly avoids it. He is unsurprised by the attempt. He retrieves the Mask, a brutal marriage of leather and iron, and pushes it against her skin, buckling it into place.

"Elsa, you need to learn. Learn to stop biting your flesh - or trying to taste mine" he murmurs. She relaxes, yet the lesson slides down her consciousness and is excreted, pushed outwards, into oblivion. It leaves no lasting impression on her.

She tries to turn her head, and only slightly succeeds. Movement forward or back is met with utter failure.

"Your vision should show an improvement, now. No colors, no, but sharper. What can you see?". He holds up a thin wand before her, the tip glowing blue. Moves it from side to side, up, down. She has little trouble following it, but is distracted by movement to the side. She strains to look, and is successful in turning just a little.

To the side, a tank of glass, filled with an emerald liquid. Floating in the tank, is an arm, complete, from shoulder to

. . . . fingers.

The fingers splay against the glass of it's transparent prison. The limb jerks, and floats upwards, then seeks egress there, but is foiled by the steel mesh of a heavy lid. She feels the yearning to join their Flesh also, but cannot move.

Then she understands, flash of memory joining with her current reality.

The Room of Jars.

"Elsa". Her eyes, the flat, dead gaze, lock onto the Master. "Identify". The wand touches several objects, and when coming to rest at each one, she responds. Her voice is without emotion, almost mechanical.

"Chair".
"Table".
"Vase".
"Glass". "Yes, but what else?" She doesn't need to think, just responds "Wa-ter". "Water, Elsa". "Water".

The wand continues to move, and at each stop, she identifies it's target. Satisfied, the Master puts the wand away.

"Sleep, Elsa".

She closes her eyes, and sleep of Oblivion. The last image, almost burned onto the retina's of her new eyes - a windows,

with words upon it, written in soap. She cannot identify them using the arcane art that is reading, for it is not part of her learning.

"The Divine Tinkerer - by P. G. Milion"

Chapter 2
===========
Consciousness, again. She awakens, staring at the swaying grey mist above her. Her vision sharpens, and the word SEPULCHRE comes to mind. From whence did this memory arise? Unknown; yet it has a rightness to it.

Her vision sharpens once again. The mist is gone, replaced by a more ubiquitous object: spiderwebs. Still defined by shades of grey with no color. She turns her head, and there is much more freedom of movement than before.

She is on a table. Horizontal. The spiderwebs she was staring at, above her, adorning a crumbling ceiling. Movement is still restricted; she looks, seeing the heavy straps.

Yet she is whole! At least, more than before. The creatures she recognizes as arms have been joined to her, and she feels a rightness to it. This feeling . . . a dim echo, from the limbs themselves, as if, they, too, possessed thought.

"Happy Birthday to you, happy birthay to yoooouuuuuuuu" the Master enters, and he is . . . . singing. If it could be called that, once again a vague memory rises to the surface. His voice is far from entrapturing, and she is not enthralled. It has the quality to it that she has come to know as drunkeness, this quality also affecting the Master's actions, as it has in the past.

He is carrying something - a gilded box, with light adorning it. Candle, she remembers. Some memories are contemporary, this one of them. In this case, singular: one candle, a large one, atop the gilded box.

"Congratulations, Elsa. It's your birthday - this, the day you are born. Now, technically, you are zero years old, but let's nevermind that, too confusing. Let's say one year. .. . ." his voice continues on, yet it has now become a drone to her ears. He often rambles such, and the difficulty in following it's flow often exhausts her patience. Her eyes affixed to the box, and the light.

The Master reaches the table, and sets the box down on an adjoining, smaller one, a workbench. Turning, he loosens the straps binding her to the table. "Sit up - Rise" he Commands. She has difficulty, not possessing anything below her groin; balance is an issue. He helps her up, and then picks the box back up, holding it close to her, as if offering it.

"Now, make a wish! Then blow out the candle" he Commands. She looks at him. Stares. He scratches at his day old beard and returns it, then jumps a little. "Ah. Elsa, a wish is a desire - what do you want most, right now? Now, don't tell me! Just think of it, put it in your mind, focus. ". She nods slowly. She has one desire, if plural in nature; legs. She should have legs, she knows. His voice again.

"Now, with that in mind, blow out the candle. Use your breath to extinguish it. Now." he Commands again.

She leans over to blow out the Candle. There is a sizzling sound. Her vision, blinded, the light is too close. The Candle burns a large patch of skin on her forehead.

PAIN. Pain, a sensation akin to touch, if a GIANT is kin to a mouse. It comes and goes, the feeling there one moment, gone the next. Always unexpected, always mastering her like his voice. She shudders, for this is not pleasant, it overwhelms her, overwhelms thought.

"hRARGGHGH!" she screams. She is a victim, she cannot do anything.

Yet
removed from PAIN,
and, thus,
seemingly able to THINK;


one of her new allies comes to her rescue.

A blur of motion. Her arm.

She knocks the Box and Light away from her with a powerful blow. The box is odd; it collapses, almost in upon itself. It is weaker than even Flesh. Cake, a voice inside her says.

The Cake collapses, splattered over Master and driving him back. The candle, extinguished by the spray of confectionary effort.

The Master makes a disgusted sound, then this turns into quiet laughter.

"Well, that's one way of doing it . . . . " he chuckles. Wipes the cake from his eyes and face.

"Happy Birthday, Elsa. I hope you get your Wish".

Yes.