{olivia cooke, she/her, 33} We just saw {charlotte astor} entering {the savoy}. I heard through the grapevine that their loyalties lie with {jolly rogers/herself}, and that they also go by {la petite mort}. Be careful, they work as an {assassin} and are known to be {arrogant}, {cruel}, or {vain}. However they’re also known to be {meticulous}, {clever}, and {resourceful}. – {gracie, she/her, est}
Tw violence
There is nothing particularly remarkable about her past, nothing deeply traumatic or otherwise impactful that might explain why Charlotte Astor ended up this way. Of course, there is the obvious explanation - privilege and wealth and status all gifted by the circumstances of her births. But that answer never quite satisfies, not when her brothers turned out mostly fine. No, there was always something a bit off about her.
Little Charlotte Astor with her wide and wild eyes, tasked with lessening herself, carving out anything interesting, shrinking and molding herself to fit into the expectations that came with status and wealth - the porcelain doll daughter her parents thought they deserved. She was a creature of rage, even then. And when they begged her to lessen, to peel away parts of herself to please them - Charlotte set fire to anything good and pure that might have remained. They had it wrong when they expected her to be their little angel. Angels had always been vengeful, violent spirits - sent by God to punish, to kill, to make an example. There is nothing soft, simpering, or good about a creature whose wings have always been dipped in blood.
So it was easy then, when she out shot her older brothers each and every time they went hunting with their father, to consider more. The man who approached her fit into their group with such ease she did not question anything, merely went along with whatever he asked of her at that age.
It could have been worse, she would later think, the training that turned a wild and reckless teenager into a brutal and ruthless assassin. Her parents would not notice the odd hours she kept, not would anyone question the bruises. The blood was washed away or covered up far before it might be noticed, and Charlotte loved the thrill that came with learning to embrace violence.
From her father she’d learned marksmanship - that of an old school sniper which won her a place in this new era of assassins. The rest - that was all Charlotte. She preferred to kill with a knife, there was something so intimate about watching the life drain out of her target's eyes - something that made her feel something more than mere satisfaction. But knives were messy, and Charlotte was a professional. So she learned chemical compounds and the drugs of their enemies, how to inject something in such a way that it all appears an accident. It is the terms of the agreement, she knows - but someone like her is wasted on these deaths. The Jolly Rogers have always balanced on the edge of the agreement - and Charlotte is just now learning the pain and violence that accompanies the phrase - itching for a fight.
