Millicent Grim Young Wyrm

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Character Name:
Millicent Grim
Place of Origin:
Millicent is a slip of a girl.  Her body is the colour of snow, a winter landscape of hip bones and angles, with a few gentle curves here and there.  She wears only white unless in a peculiar mood or distracted by a thought that infiltrates her in alchemical ways - quixotic and mercurial. Perfectly planned and perfectly whimsical. As of late she has been found in things more adult, more refined, with less sub-culture accouterments.  Often she wears a white silk slip-dress, milk poured over her skin, brushing softly at her upper thighs and simple straps slipping down her shoulders- absently returned to their place with slim, piano player's fingers.  The nakedness is apparent, and bone-deep, but completely unintentional.  Just like the couture messiness of her wild, wavy white hair.  Lately she has worn it down around her shoulders in a fey-mane, though when she remembers or has a hair tie she winds her hair in two buns at the crown of her head, a sea-spray of foam-white peeking out completing an angular-ness to the siren's already heart shaped features.  The only colour to the monochrome girl (for her pupils are still black) is the wild absinthe green of her eyes that spills an intense, artist's gaze on all she regards.  Her curiosity is fierce and the presence of mind behind it is intoxicating and unnerving- just like her penchant for saying things often left unsaid.  Lately, she has been found to wear a deep smoke around her eyes to ring her vein-slashed vulnerability with some mystery.  Some self-possession about it that was not there before.  A self-possession that has crept into her mellifluous siren's laughter that spills from her ash-pink, petal-shaped lips.  A mouth that more often speaks in silent words- in touches that hover lightly above the soft skin of a wrist and in the true tangles of vitae between hearts. "It was like holding soft lightning, the silk galvanics of Millicent Grim."
Sinon Lagos: Only his eyes looked away; she still occupied his attention, fully and completely.  He was just interacting with the intangible her, the one he kept in his head, built from the same clay Borges had used in his circular ruins, and animated by the holy flames.  A wet of lips with scotch, and he was thinking, thinking, thinking -- he spoke quietly, to no one, not even her.  "There is a certain awareness to you that changes like the tide.  An awareness to you, of you.  Like a part of you is beholden to the moon.  Do you feel that way?  That you slip in and out of states, or between worlds.  Hm."  Sinon took another sip, then looked at her, yet not at her.  Just verifying that the girl before him was the girl in his head.  He adjusted a small detail he had wrong; a tiny imperfection in the left ear.  When he smiled, it was amused at all of everything, and nothing.  Louder, "I think it depends on your mood, Millicent, and how you speak with someone.  Sometimes you are quick to construct an idea of them, because there is something of kindred spirits in the moment.  Other times you take much longer."
Two, very old Millicent profiles:

It was the beautiful curve of her lower back that had caught the moonlight. Twisted-twisted-twisted with the ridge of her spine. No metal- all bone. All wrapped up in milk and ivory. The smooth surface was a translucent cellophane that held her together, her naked back. Licking at her planes were the trembling fingers of black feathers. Wings- all wrapped up in wire they were; demented and malformed and so, so pretty how they snapped and snarled at her shoulder blades. Oh how her skin was begging for bruises that posed no opposition to her smoothness- just her white. Her arm lay outward, bent and laying her little curves into the thick puddle she'd been left in. A puddle of lament and release- whose ugly songs were being soaked up in the snow-white of her hair. Her little tendrils were stained with ruin. Behind the filigree of her limp lashes her absinthetic eyes had dimmed, and disappeared.  Her ashy, petal shaped lips were so soft compared to her bony, broken knees that had taken the brunt of her weight as she fell there. Strangled by your hands. A victim in the night.


She was softer than white, even though that was the only 'colour' she wore. She had white tendrils for hair that spiraled like sea-plants, waving in the sway of night. Her edges had frayed, long ago, before conception and understanding. Leather and latex, satin and tulle, all of it was nondescript, barely cobwebs for the floor. The siren held herself in a hypnotic daze, sometimes surfacing to breach a smile. Her eyes were baby-green; will-o'-the-wisps with heavy lantern lights. All of these are night-things straying you from the sand. These were the kinder days- when undertow was breath and not quite the disease it wanted to be. There were sea-secrets. Things buried here, and you could hear them if you pressed your ear to her chest. The tide licked against her ribs from the inside and songs and self-doubt were flotsam and jetsam that washed ashore. The body was just an anti-silhouette, but if you listened, there was a pretty melancholia, caught in the sea-weed and wrapped in mad /\bsinthe /\fter /'/\idnight.
Siren, Victim, Muse, Ruin
Additional Notes:
No abilities whatsoever.  
RE: Old profiles:  Those black wing tattoos were too dated.  Had become too posh and now were laughable.  So, those were gone.  Nothing marred her whiteness, save green eyes, and black pupils.  Oh, and maybe a little pink here and there.
Date Registered:
August 31, 2016, 03:01:06 AM
Local Time:
December 04, 2022, 07:22:40 PM
Last Active:
November 20, 2016, 09:35:08 PM