RE: The Grand OC SII: The Re-OCening: Week 21: MASK!
04-25-2017, 11:53 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-25-2017, 11:53 PM by AgentBlue.)
Username: Agenmom
Name: Mother Siege
Species: Witch
Gender: she/hers
Color: Fortification brown
Description: Ever felt trapped without knowing why? Ever looked out the window at an empty horizon and felt the urge to leap through? Ever, in short, had cabin fever without the cabin?
Then the withered hand of Mother Siege is upon your heart.
She lurks in corners, unnoticed, a stooped crone reaching only five feet tall, with long arms ending in skeletal hands. Give your Ma a hug, dear.
Items/Abilities: Siege - she claims it to be pronounced sie-ge, a hard g, but the traditional meaning applies just as well. People build walls around their hearts all the time, replacing their faces with indifference or false happiness. She just helps.
Weavers' hands, she calls them, those shriveled digits of hers, topped with brown, cracked fingernails that scuttle, spider-like, over the back of your neck. Pluck, pluck go your heartstrings. The warp and weft of dual misery and fear bind together, forming thread that weaves around your soul. She ties you to the job you hate, the partner you no longer love, the house you said you'd move from three years ago, but the rent is too high for you to afford the movers.
Biography: Still, you smile. This is fine.
Name: Mother Siege
Species: Witch
Gender: she/hers
Color: Fortification brown
Description: Ever felt trapped without knowing why? Ever looked out the window at an empty horizon and felt the urge to leap through? Ever, in short, had cabin fever without the cabin?
Then the withered hand of Mother Siege is upon your heart.
She lurks in corners, unnoticed, a stooped crone reaching only five feet tall, with long arms ending in skeletal hands. Give your Ma a hug, dear.
Items/Abilities: Siege - she claims it to be pronounced sie-ge, a hard g, but the traditional meaning applies just as well. People build walls around their hearts all the time, replacing their faces with indifference or false happiness. She just helps.
Weavers' hands, she calls them, those shriveled digits of hers, topped with brown, cracked fingernails that scuttle, spider-like, over the back of your neck. Pluck, pluck go your heartstrings. The warp and weft of dual misery and fear bind together, forming thread that weaves around your soul. She ties you to the job you hate, the partner you no longer love, the house you said you'd move from three years ago, but the rent is too high for you to afford the movers.
Biography: Still, you smile. This is fine.
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime