I let the beast in too soon
I don't know how to live
Without my hand on his throat;
I fight him always & still
O darling, it's so sweet
you think you know how crazy
How crazy I am
Name -Wendi
Tribe -
Auspice -Philodox
Rank -Cub
Breed -Homid
Notable Traits -Gorgeous x2, Eerie, Intense, Shadowlord PB x2
Pack - none.
And it's a sad, sad world
When a girl will break a boy
just because she can
==Information known to the Nation==
Kin/Family none. No one claims Stella. Yet.
I may be soft in your palm but
I'll soon grow
Hungry for a fight,
and I will not let you win
My pretty mouth
will frame the phrases
that will
Disprove your faith in man
Homid Description Stella is a tall, slinky girl. Her eyes are green, huge, sometimes almost vacant. She looks bored, mostly. Her lips are chapped. Her nails are ragged. She has a scab on her knee. Her voice is husky, like she's on the verge of losing it. She uses a Sharpie to make notes on herself. Sometimes her lipstick smears. She moves like a dancer.
== Rumors ==
Don't you tell me to deny it
I've done wrong and
I want to suffer for my sins
I've come to you
'cause I need guidance to be true
And I just don't know where I can begin
-Stella has been garou longer than she lets on.
-She self-mutilates
-Stella is plotting something horrible.
-She's already turned to the Wyrm
-Her spirit is broken.
Background (this is not common IC information)
Every life has a turning point.
The caterpillar becomes the butterfly. The student becomes the teacher. The child becomes the mother. Good over evil, the hunted becomes the hunter.
It all sounded very clinical on paper. Perhaps all things should be so two-dimensional.
There is no need to discuss the mundane details of a life spent plugging along. Her reality then was small – ballet, calories in and calories out, bloody smashed toes on pink satin, bones so sharp inside translucent skin. The pain of sitting or laying down.
But focus. She always had focus.
Gasping awake in the dark, surrounded by the even breathing of the 20 girls in a sparse dormitory, trickling sweat down her nubby backbone. Dreams of death. Of ripping flesh and gashing teeth and a dim, throbbing hum that hid just underneath that bruised skin, even during countless plies at the ballet bar.
Perfect, she was always perfect. Her head ached.
It didn’t happen in a blur of fur and teeth. If it had, she might have kept a firmer handle on the world. Things began to slip. People she’d see – their faces would slip, like poorly made masks, and the impurity and the sludge that they carried around would twist and spread itself all over. They were horrible, all of them. Full of sin and full of rot. She just couldn’t take it.
It started slowly, the change. There was a woman she followed on the subway, watching fascinated and repulsed that the maggots oozing out of her ears crawled up the windows and over people’s shoes. It terrified her that no one noticed. A dark alley, and hands that changed into claws. Unzipping that face and those maggots burst out of that human suit like an overinflated balloon.
The ache in her head eased.
There were other times—a dozen, in total. She pretended to live life, feigned interest in the life she had been primed for. Certainly she had practice – adopted from a faceless, bloated orphanage at 6 and put into the prestigious Kirov Academy of Ballet, sentimental fodder for a failed ballerina’s maternal instincts. She was picked out of the bastardized bunch because of the gawky frame that the art requires and had no qualms about working through blisters and rips and twists.
She thought of these little ‘sidetrips’ she took when she was unable to contain herself. They were just a way of letting off a little steam.
This went on for years. She was careful – always somewhere dark, always alone, and there were never any witnesses. It eased a little of the tension she felt when she knew she had eliminated something monstrous from the world. She didn’t think about the logistics of her abilities—why stare too deeply into the abyss? She was given the power to wipe evil off the face of the earth, so that’s what she did. Thinking about it too much led to too many questions that all ended with ‘crazy’ or ‘schizophrenic’.
Eventually, she was figured out. Maybe she wanted to be figured out. Maybe ‘waking up’ behind a shopping mall with the taste of blood in her mouth and matted, wet hair between her fingers, howling at a cold, impartial moon was enough to convince her that she was crazy.
He, the man-beast that busted her, beat the shit out of her, but it was a body used to physical pain. It only served to wake her up.
Her mind flashed a million thoughts:
grateful that her reign of terror was over.
make-up wouldn’t fix her face for rehearsal.
she was a serial killer.
he overpowered her.
she deserved this.
that felt good.
she wanted more.
They were soon to leave DC. She was used to being some therapeutic agent to make a failed masters dreams come true. The difference wasn’t much between ballet and garou. Both activities usually ended with bloody, jammed bodies nearly passed out from exhaustion.
He taught her things, and drilled ideals into her head. He gave her a purpose, a way to hone her skills.
So now she’s a pet wolf, destined to be what he could not be, or so he says. He dropped her near New Orleans for the opportunity to stalk and hunt bigger prey.
She doesn’t do well with crowds, but she can be a chameleon. Her whole life has been practice for playing the role of someone that she is not. Why stop now?
Every life has a turning point.
==Soundtrack==
Fiona Apple: Criminal
Fiona Apple: Fast As You Can
