gender and pronouns: cis female, she/her
occupation: company member of le théâtre de nuit
criminal occupation: none
faceclaim: maggie lindemann
Nothing you’ve ever done has been an accident. It was easy for your mother, step-mothers, nannies to look down at your dark curls and rosy cheeks with a weary smile and blame the surrounding disaster on bad luck, and it was just as easy for you to giggle and pull at your sundress and nod and pretend as though you didn’t know exactly what you had been doing when the house had nearly burnt to the ground with step-mother number five inside. But the reason you couldn’t keep a caregiver wasn’t your deadly brand of mischief or your sharp tongue or even the way you stood in the middle of the foyer and announced just how lovely being cruel felt. Because as much of a terror as you’ve always been, it’s a trait you inherited from your father. The only difference was that you were much more subtle. No less delicate, but more covert in your intentions. Your father couldn’t exactly get away with that plan of attack, all brawn and no brains as he was. No, his intentions were always clear. Yours were easily disguised by a flutter of eyelashes, pulling attention as your hand slid to knock the vas to the floor, lips curled up into a coy smile, forming around a single insincere remark. ‘Oops.’ That’s been your whole life so far. Leaving chaos in your wake without a sliver of responsibility or remorse anywhere to be found. Anyone blaming you for your own actions is sure to be met with a real-enough sounding sob story, and soon the fault is turned back around on them. How dare they make such a sweet, innocent little girl cry? Now look, your mascara is running all down your cheeks and they’re all to blame. No one mentions that your face of makeup costs as much as they make in a month, and it’s just as easy to ignore that your little pout is just barely concealing a triumphant smile.
'Do you want people to fear you, as they fear me?’ your father once asked when you were still a little girl, sitting on his desk, bare feet swinging in the crisp air, 'Or do you want them to love you, gülüm?’ The answer was simple. 'Can’t I have both, baba? I want people to fear how much they love me, or else love how much they fear me.’ You don’t remember when you realized everything you already had wasn’t enough for you. Torturing the women your father claimed he loved in his own hard-hearted way was fun up to a point, but now you’re an adult. It’s time to turn your focus outward, to more mature and worldly and lasting pursuits. It’s no longer satisfying for just the nannies and the list of maternal figures to shudder when they think of you. No, you want to infect the whole world with your special type of wide-eyed deception. The stage isn’t ideal, but it is a good starting place. And while patience has never been your strong suit, your father stands to one side with his knowing look and assures you that if the universe doesn’t make the wait worth your while, he will himself.
castmates: baylen moreau, carlotta giudicelli, christine daae, fleur renard, hadley perrin, meg giry, sebastian renard, ubaldo piangi, ursula braun, and xavier carmen
higher-ups: gabriel prideaux, gille andre, madalene giry, mathieu reyer, and richard firmin
interests: annabella chaney, claude babin, edmond ledoux, lisette sorelli, madalene giry, michel lefevre, philippe chaney, and raoul chaney
She’s the only person you’ve ever considered to be something akin to a friend. Not quite a friend, though; no, you were trained to be a solitary creature. You weren’t created to have friends. A close companion, perhaps, but not deserving of any title that expressed any sort of real fondness. That’s just not how you were designed to exist. Still, you find that you and Fleur share many similarities; she, too, can often be found tugging on pigtails or stealing candy from babies and flitting away with the lightest of tread and a tinkling giggle. She’s almost like a fairy, and it’s fascinating. Something dark and lovely and sparkling. You don’t let yourself be fooled, though. She’s not all bad, and you might just be. So she’ll never really understand you, you can never really let yourself get too close. But it’s still fun to pretend sometimes.
You’ve never known your mother. Really, you’ve never needed her. For years, it was just the you and your father in Turkey, and then one of his wives wanted to live under the lights of Paris, so now you’re here. You were afraid you’d loathe it, but it’s actually quite nice, so you never moved. Stayed just down the hall from the man who raised you, who watched as you sat at his feet, who blew cigar smoke in halos around your head when he laughed. You’re exactly like him and you know it, bad habits and all. Truthfully, all of your beautiful wickedness comes from him. Whatever shred of kindness which peeks through the cracks on rare occasions must be from somewhere else, the other half of the gene pool, because it certainly didn’t come from anyone you know. But you love him, and you like to think you’re the only person he ever has really loved. Once a nanny told you it was only because he could see you as part of him, that he could never really love anyone who he couldn’t control. You had her fired immediately, of course, but the thought still lingers sometimes. Not enough to do anything about it, but enough to wonder late at night when you can’t sleep.
There’s something in him that you can’t quite place. Of course, he’d never admit it, but you can see it behind his eyes when you stand on tiptoe and look deep into them, past the duty and the honor and the glint of his badge and the stage lights. At the right angle, they almost seem a bright glowing red before you lose your balance and topple over, and then they’re black and cold and glassy. Whatever’s burning inside of him, he keeps it well hidden, and you want to know what it is, even if you have to pluck those despicable doll’s eyes out of his skull yourself to find out.
THIS CHARACTER HAS A FLEXIBLE FACECLAIM
AND IS TAKEN BY TERESA
