Post by SYLVIE ST-CYR on Feb 13, 2013 13:22:30 GMT -5
| [atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 460px; background-image: url(http://i44.tinypic.com/34fb0ns.jpg);-moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; -webkit-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; border: 4px ridge #7a9aa9, bTable][tr][cs=2] Marquise Sylvie Marie St-Cyr. 33. French Aristocracy. Monica Belucci. | |
[rs=2]  ] | Personality: Sylvie is a pure psychopath. She's incapable of the finer emotions such as love, compassion, and mercy. She's entirely self-centered and has no empathy, no concept of other people as beings with thoughts, feelings, and lives of their own. It's not that she can't fake it – she can be quite charming when she chooses – but it's all a façade. She simply doesn't care. She has no sense of shame or regret and is completely amoral. She does what she wants and takes what she wants. Concepts like right and wrong are completely alien, the only brake on her behavior is whether she thinks she can get away with it. Sylvie has one, single, dominating passion in her life – revenge. She didn't love her family any more than she loves anyone, but they were hers and they were taken away from her and somebody has to pay for that. Several somebodies, in fact, from that jumped-up peasant actress who spoke against them, to everyone on the so-called ‘court’ that convicted them, to the executioner himself. Her hit list includes everyone involved, no matter how peripherally. If she were honest with herself (which will never happen, as she's about as introspective as a doorknob), revenge is just an excuse for the glorious feeling of power she gets from hurting people. Even if she managed to kill them all, she wouldn't stop. She's an addict and murder is her drug. Sylvie has a lot of hate, especially for people who don’t know their place. Minor social climbers are merely viewed with detest and contempt, her serious loathing is reserved for those upstart republicans, who she regards as filthy subhuman vermin who should be exterminated. Anyone who offends against her sense of the proper social order (which can include practically anything, such as a servant she decides is insufficiently obsequious), is in for trouble. She will remember, and she carries a grudge like it had brass handles. Description: Sylvie is stunningly beautiful and she knows it. Her eyes are brown, a deep warm amber that darkens almost to black when she’s angry. She has ebony hair that, when loosened, cascades over her shoulders and down her back, but in public is always curled and piled perfectly into whatever style is currently the height of fashion. She dresses to accentuate her beauty and wealth, in exquisitely cut gowns and expensive jewelry. She favors black, claiming she's in mourning, though will sometimes wear a deep blood red. She’s slightly taller than average, and her manner is almost invariably haughty, head held high, the better both to display her graceful neck and look down her nose at her inferiors. History The eldest child of the wealthy and aristocratic St-Cyr family, Sylvie was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Whether she might have turned out better (or at least with less capacity for destruction) with a different upbringing is open to question, but sadly she wasn't. Her parents, who were arrogant and cruel even by degenerate Ancien Regime standards, raised her to believe she could do no wrong. She was an aristocrat, placed by God far above those barely-human peasants, whose sole purpose was to serve and please their betters such as her. Her mother and father set the example, punishing harshly those who labored on the estate for minor – or even imagined – infractions. She followed their lead and grew up a vicious bully, delighting in torturing anyone who couldn’t fight back, be they animal or human. When Sylvie was fourteen, her parents sent her to live with some distant Borgia* cousins in Tuscany. She was maturing rapidly into a stunningly beautiful young woman, and the plan was for her to entrance some foreign prince into marriage, thus bringing royal blood into the family and moving them even higher up the social ladder. That never came to fruition, but it did save her life, as she was out of the country when the revolution occurred. Her parents were particularly good examples of everything the republicans hated, and it wasn’t long before they were denounced by a vengeful peasant, resulting in the execution of her entire family, including her younger siblings. Sylvie was shocked and furious, and immediately set about planning and preparing for revenge. Her cousins, likewise horrified (and who wouldn’t have dared cross her anyway) helped with a will. They passed along their extensive knowledge of assassination, particularly poisons and poisoning, and had made for her a number of evil devices, such as rings with hidden compartments and gloves with tiny claws in the fingertips. When the Chouannerie approached her about overthrowing the republican government and restoring the proper order, she was ready and willing and joined them gladly. With the success of the royalist coup, Sylvie became the Marquise de St-Cyr, a position which she greatly enjoys. Despite her gender, she ranks very high among the aristocracy, in part because even the Chouannerie is a little afraid of her. She has yet to marry, as she’s unwilling to cede any of her power, but she plays the field, dangling the possibility like bait. Some are shrewd enough to recognize that she’s literally poison, yet her beauty and seductive wiles draw men like moths to a flame regardless. All the while, Sylvie has continued to pursue her private vendetta, tracking down those responsible for the destruction of her family. While she’ll gladly kill republicans in general, those particular ones she wants to make suffer. The St-Just bitch may be out of her reach in England, but she’s already tracked down several of the others. They were ‘persuaded’ to give her more names before receiving the reward for their treason, allowing her to work her way up the chain toward her ultimate target, the mysterious man who arranged for the St-Cyrs arrest and execution. Recently, though, she has hit a dead end. All leads point to a performer known as The Crow, whispered to work directly for her target, but the raven-haired juggler disappeared two years ago. Temporarily thwarted, Sylvie has been forced to simply watch and wait, taking out her frustrations on those unfortunate enough to be in her service. However, word that Marguerite St-Just has brazenly returned to France cheered her considerably. If the upstart strumpet thinks that fop of an English lord she got her hooks into can protect her from her just desserts, she’s sadly mistaken. RP Sample “Please, m’lady. Oh God please.” The man lying strapped to the table before Sylvie sobbed and whimpered, all of his foolish republican defiance gone. He’d imagined himself as some noble rebel, but he was revealed as a pathetic, broken thing now. He stank of filth, his body smeared with blood and vomit, and he’d soiled himself early on in the proceedings. Parts of him were simply gone (including that part he’d most treasured) and pus seeped from deep burns that had festered in the noxious environment of the torture chamber. Sylvie reveled in watching people suffer, but this one had begun to bore her. He’d already told her everything he knew and everything he even thought he knew, now he was ranging out into anything he could think of to make the pain stop. She’d wrung him dry and he no longer had any value. He wasn’t even fun to torment any more. With a quiet and contemptuous huff, the noblewoman reached out and laid a gloved hand against his cheek, almost as if she was comforting him. She stroked his face in a gesture that might have looked gentle, but for the tiny, razor-sharp claws set in the glove’s fingertips. They were coated with a virulent poison and she drew them down from his temple and through one of his eyes before bringing one finger to rest against his lips in a shushing gesture. Then, with a practiced flick of her hand to shed the blood, Sylvie turned away. The Crow, she thought, mulling the names she had extracted from the prisoner, Sparrow. The Crow would lead her to the mysterious Falcon. What was it with these vermin and their bird names? On the table, the man began to gasp for breath as the poison crept into the nerves controlling his lungs, but his killer was already gone. |
CC. 46. I live here  . |
