[OOC: Lev/Lyubov is bigender, I'll be using "they" in most posts, but your character might see them as a specific gender or be unsure; both ICly and OOCly, you're welcome to ask for clarification. If your character has any familiarity with observant Jews, they'll likely pick up that Lev/Lyubov is taking care to flag observance in spite of the long hair, the flowery frilly shirts and the skinny jeans—specifically, under the wide-brim Haredi-style fedora, they're wearing a skullcap/kippah, they wear their forelocks separated out and curled, and they wear an undershirt with four tassels, though that's not easily noticeable, since they tuck the tassels out of sight most of the time, and the undershirt's just a regular undershirt.]
AURORA: the shade of the fading light
Granted, they're not good at running, not even short-distance sprints (especially not short-distance sprints), but hiding seems on its face impossible: it's hard to hide when you're two metres tall and your eyes glow lilac in the dark (and so does your forehead, and the glowing star is technically a third eye). But they weren't expecting the star-shaped entities to pounce, and their first instinct is to turn and run for the tree-line.
But first they must catch you, etcetera.
It's difficult to run in heels, balancing a walking stick and a lantern that's already threatening to go out, but zig-zagging and dodging behind fenceposts and isolated trees seems to help. And once the trees are at an acceptable enough density to merit as a "wood" or at least a "copse", they come to a stop, lean against the nearest large tree-trunk and sink helplessly to the ground, panting. They take off their hat, double-check that the yarmulka hasn't come loose, and fan themself with the hat, trying to catch their breath. Their face feels hot and flushed.
They need a plan. Or help. Help would be great.
ARRIVAL + HOROSCOPE (Libra): you may have my precious bones on my return
Leaving the meeting with the mayor, still motion-sick from the ferry, Lev's feeling broody. The details of their alleged death that they can recall are vague, maybe by necessity—a headache, a stiff neck, their husband double-checking their pupils with a pen-light (and how alarming that he'd slipped into his professional mien, no-nonsense and reassuring and preternaturally calm), an ambulance ride—and they imagine that part of the bargain they'd just made is that they'll emerge from all of this tzures more or less as they had been, but the vagueness nags at them. Surely viral meningitis is no death sentence. Surely ...
Well, nothing to be done for it but to plunge ahead and trust that the Infinite One will come through for them. That part's always been easy. This is no worse than being homeless, and likely a little better. They've survived worse.
Except ... they do not feel even tentatively hopeful. A startling bitterness wells up within their heart, searching for a target. In absence of anyone near and dear, or anyone new who's made themselves an enemy, this new-found vengefulness latches onto the first true enemy they can think of: wasn't good old Nicky Two buried all right and proper? They should've tossed him out with the industrial waste, laid him to rest in a landfill, in an abandoned mine, in some unclean and forsaken place.
Overcome with anger, Lev stops in the middle of the street, and announces to the nearest passer-by, in an accent a little bit German, and a little bit Russian and a great deal synagogue-in-the-Pale-of-Settlement, "monarchy is a kind of idolatry, and all kings are idols!"
And they look very serious as they say it. The hat's brim is covering up the glowing star in the middle of their forehead, but under its brim, their eyes flash and glow, lilac and purple with the occasional gold spark.
Lev/Lyubov Morgenshtern | Original Character | New Player
[OOC: Lev/Lyubov is bigender, I'll be using "they" in most posts, but your character might see them as a specific gender or be unsure; both ICly and OOCly, you're welcome to ask for clarification. If your character has any familiarity with observant Jews, they'll likely pick up that Lev/Lyubov is taking care to flag observance in spite of the long hair, the flowery frilly shirts and the skinny jeans—specifically, under the wide-brim Haredi-style fedora, they're wearing a skullcap/kippah, they wear their forelocks separated out and curled, and they wear an undershirt with four tassels, though that's not easily noticeable, since they tuck the tassels out of sight most of the time, and the undershirt's just a regular undershirt.]
AURORA: the shade of the fading light
Granted, they're not good at running, not even short-distance sprints (especially not short-distance sprints), but hiding seems on its face impossible: it's hard to hide when you're two metres tall and your eyes glow lilac in the dark (and so does your forehead, and the glowing star is technically a third eye). But they weren't expecting the star-shaped entities to pounce, and their first instinct is to turn and run for the tree-line.
But first they must catch you, etcetera.
It's difficult to run in heels, balancing a walking stick and a lantern that's already threatening to go out, but zig-zagging and dodging behind fenceposts and isolated trees seems to help. And once the trees are at an acceptable enough density to merit as a "wood" or at least a "copse", they come to a stop, lean against the nearest large tree-trunk and sink helplessly to the ground, panting. They take off their hat, double-check that the yarmulka hasn't come loose, and fan themself with the hat, trying to catch their breath. Their face feels hot and flushed.
They need a plan. Or help. Help would be great.
ARRIVAL + HOROSCOPE (Libra): you may have my precious bones on my return
Leaving the meeting with the mayor, still motion-sick from the ferry, Lev's feeling broody. The details of their alleged death that they can recall are vague, maybe by necessity—a headache, a stiff neck, their husband double-checking their pupils with a pen-light (and how alarming that he'd slipped into his professional mien, no-nonsense and reassuring and preternaturally calm), an ambulance ride—and they imagine that part of the bargain they'd just made is that they'll emerge from all of this tzures more or less as they had been, but the vagueness nags at them. Surely viral meningitis is no death sentence. Surely ...
Well, nothing to be done for it but to plunge ahead and trust that the Infinite One will come through for them. That part's always been easy. This is no worse than being homeless, and likely a little better. They've survived worse.
Except ... they do not feel even tentatively hopeful. A startling bitterness wells up within their heart, searching for a target. In absence of anyone near and dear, or anyone new who's made themselves an enemy, this new-found vengefulness latches onto the first true enemy they can think of: wasn't good old Nicky Two buried all right and proper? They should've tossed him out with the industrial waste, laid him to rest in a landfill, in an abandoned mine, in some unclean and forsaken place.
Overcome with anger, Lev stops in the middle of the street, and announces to the nearest passer-by, in an accent a little bit German, and a little bit Russian and a great deal synagogue-in-the-Pale-of-Settlement, "monarchy is a kind of idolatry, and all kings are idols!"
And they look very serious as they say it. The hat's brim is covering up the glowing star in the middle of their forehead, but under its brim, their eyes flash and glow, lilac and purple with the occasional gold spark.
WILDCARD: PM me to plot!