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it is currently season 1, the year 1449 NE. The continent of Tnarem balances on a precarious edge between survival and destruction. Wars rage between nations, fractures open in the Mete. The world as the Tnaremi people know it is dying and they are left with a choice: act or perish with it.
All of the information you need to become better acquainted with the world of Sergonia and its inhabitants can be found here. Anyone wishing to join the Ericourt will be able to find the essentials here.
Elie wants to be perfect—her most prominent desire is to fulfill the role of Sjay on Sergonia. She aspires to represent health, beauty, fertility and youth. She wants to be remembered by this and this alone. Her aunt achieved such notability for her accomplishments in her younger days, when she was perhaps the most attractive woman in Tnarem. Now, as she is older, Elie wants nothing more than to take her place, and be beloved and lusted after by all.
Amelie is a devout worshiper of the Pantheon, as any decent Caemire ought to be. She sees the gods and goddesses as her closest friends and confidants, and is often found leaving offerings or praying at the doms of her darlings and most-beloved, Sjay and Mekhr. However, she has an unequivocal preference for the sister-goddess, with whom Elie feels she shares a remarkable resemblance. Historically, her aunt, Larian, has possessed an even more striking likeness of Sjay, for which Amelie is forever thankful. It would have been a bore to spend her entire youth as the most exquisite maiden in Tnarem, after all—and Larian's looks are bound to fade as she accepts the role Ona and her breasts begin to sag from storing milk for greedy, Beringar babies. Meanwhile, Amelie has the goddess to thank for the pertness of her modest bosom and the width of her hips—both of which, by the grace of Sjay, she's been blessed to receive attention for since their development in her late adolescence.
If one were to take just a moment's glance at the Princesse, she might just blend in with the summer drapes! She is pale and waifish like a cool breeze, and you'd miss her just as quickly as she'd come. That's not to say she's not anything special—but she's not quite anything you'd notice without really looking first, which explains the flowers. Elie has never been seen publicly without a flower in her hair—it's her own personal touch, Elie's brand of beauty. To her, it represents everything: the fertility of Lornesse, for which Amelie feels she is the sole representation, especially since her aunt went South with Beringar seed in her rose box. She is now the epitome of Caemire allure, and feels it in the swing of her newly matured hips. (Elie was indeed a late bloomer—most likely due in part to her repulsion of actual food, but that's beyond the point.) She maintained a rather plain figure until she was nearly twenty, when a slight gain in weight allowed her femininity to make its debut at court. Her breasts, however, have remained unimpressive, but she feels quite proudly of them, and often corsets her midsection tightly enough to encourage young men to stare. Still, the best part of her is most likely her face—which is soft , feminine, and strangely inviting for a Caemire. It's in her eyes, which are pale blue in typical Caemire fashion, but look like they're listening, and feeling too—perhaps—like a doe's might.
Elie didn't mean it—really, whatever she said, she didn't mean it. She never means to do anything wrong, but simply can't seem to put her words in the right place at the right time, which causes a great deal of miscommunication. For example, she might say, "Your dress is looking much better than the last one, Saskia. Gods, that thing was impossible to look at," but she meant, "You're looking absolutely stunning, sister! Sjay has blessed you, hasn't she?" Surprisingly, she's aptly aware of her inability to carry a decent conversation, but feels no shame in it—for the opinions of the Gods are the only ones that will determine where she ends up Lebeanach. So long as her intentions are kind and pure, the Gods ought to know it, and that's what she'll tell anyone she offends. But! If Elie is offended, it's another story, and she'll have a panic attack if anyone, even the most meager of servants, shares a foul taste with her. The Princesse is easily frazzled indeed, and perhaps it'd be better if she kept her mouth shut altogether.
Some might find kleptomaniac tendencies to be charming, or entertainment in watching a grown woman converse with her tea ware. Elie considers these things a part of her life, and thus blessings from the Gods. Who else might have such a beautiful collection of porcelain? No doubt anyone in Tnarem has anything that can compare, so she ought to be proud—and Elie claims to have read in a book that talking to your teacups makes them grow. (It was a book on botany—not teapotany, and the author had meant to discuss flowers, but Amelie can't be bothered with such pointless specifics. She's much too busy!) Tea ware tends to listen better than people do, anyway. She's always been the baby and no one has ever really wanted to talk, let alone hear, except Mother—who was beautiful and always listened. But since Amelie's mother has died, she's taken on a new cast of beautiful listeners and has picked a new woman to aspire after. Besides, teacups never leave, or break, and neither do mirrors—unless, of course, you break them. And delicate, beautiful Princesses of the Reiux do not break anything, except for maybe hearts, and political ties.
Academic (2) - No Information Elie is very selective about the knowledge she chooses to acquire. If someone has shared with her a detail that she wishes she'd never known, she'll wipe the memory of it from her head and will move on with her life as if she'd never been told. (It took months for Amelie to accept that her mother had died, for example—"She's not dead, she's in her chambers, sleeping!" is all she said for months, it seemed.) But for things she cares to know, it's the exact opposite. She'll often twist and turn information to adhere to her own wants and needs, but that doesn't mean that she doesn't realize or comprehend the truth. It's just fun for her to make playthings out of the world! Things are a lot more interesting that way, and perfect too.
Diplomatic (2) - No Information People, Amelie has realized, are not perfect. They don't understand her and they make things up that make her look bad, or even worse—like a servant once called her, "crazy". Just because Elie likes things to be perfect doesn't make her crazy, it makes her a Caemire—she is descended from gods, after all. And the Gods are perfect, so she must be as well—nothing she says or does is meant for harm, and she never hurts anyone because she doesn't will them to be hurt. They're lying! It's blasphemous and hurtful—and they make her cry!
Martial (2) - No Information Elie is quite fond of music and dance, and had it not been for her gifted phalanges, she'd not have much physical prowess at all. She'll spend hours on a ballroom floor with a noble man, performing traditional footwork and turning under his arms and into his chest and back out again, exuding youth and beauty. Or she might practice her harp alone in her quarters for a whole day, with only her mirrors to keep her company. These are her passions, her favorite pastimes—sans, perhaps, trying on corsets.
Relationship with House
Amelie adores her family—specifically, her family name. What it means to be a Caemire and, especially in her case, a Caemire woman, is a blessing from the Gods. She is blessed with blood that is beautiful, pure, blue, and—in every way—perfect. It is for this reason that she takes such great pride in her people, even when they upset her, which is quite frequently. Elie is very sensitive. Her family knows this, but instead of treating her as they should a sensitive person, they tell her she's sensitive—which is a very sensitive subject! This is often as things are, and yet they get frustrated with her! Thankfully, since her mother has passed, she's been able to forge what she thinks is a rather positive, close relationship with her aunt, Larian. Such a shame that she's been shipped down south to serve as a fine, leather mounting piece for a Beringar prince.
Amelie has always been a beautiful face at court—even when she was small and her cheeks were packed with sweets. Things have seldom changed since then. It is well-known that the easiest way to the Princesse's heart is through candies and compliments, both of which she can seem to never get enough of. She is quite loyal to her vanity, in fact—and is also known to compare herself to the goddess, Sjay. Her fascination with the deity has caused her to create a rather impressive collection of mirrors and tea ware, and she's seldom seen without geraniums, daylilies, or delphinum blooms in her hair. When she was younger and her playmates pulled the flowers out or did anything else she wasn't fond of, she would often burst into screaming fits that would leave her bright pink and struggling to draw breath. Much to the embarrassment of the Caemires, Elie is still prone to these inconvenient outbursts and their frequency has unfortunately increased since the death of her mother.
Perhaps the greatest rumor surrounding Elie pertains to the subject of her rather questionable sanity. It's not uncommon to hear that the Princesse's quarters contains a thousand mirrors, or that she only drinks tea with milk and honey and refuses to swallow anything that isn't candied or filled with jelly. Her collections are also said to go far beyond her mirrors and tea ware; it's been speculated that her quarters are overrun with stolen porcelain of all kinds—dining sets, vases, trinkets fashioned to resemble the sigil of her house, among other things. She's been rumored to take something from every room she enters, especially if that room belongs to her aunt. Servants often claim that Elie had a habit of sneaking into Larian's quarters and snatching perfumes and powders, and most disturbingly of all, wearing her corsets—when she was Queen and not around. According to rumor, the Princesse might just be obsessed with her aunt, and unhealthily so.
After Mother died, nothing ever felt real again.
The world used to be a place full of tangible objects—soft things, that didn't break even if you threw them at stone walls. Things you could touch, and feel, if you really wanted to. The dresses were prettier then, and the fabrics nicer. The beds more comfortable, and sweets sweeter, somehow. Even Amelie, the youngest, smiled more often and felt less obligated, more beautiful, and better too. She was not yet a woman then, and hadn't known sadness or the hard, permanent feeling of it. She knew not yet what it might have felt like to shatter from the inside out and in front of everyone; to hear the sound of glass breaking and its echo ruminating through the hallways of everything she'd ever known.
Court became a lonely place without Mama. Amelie had confided in and known only one person really, and it was her. Saskia had always her nose in book and Merek was a boy, so he was no fun. Father was the worst of all, really—he'd not even take note if she should scream from the top of her lungs that she were dying, which she had, every time she'd thrown a fit. That's what they'd call it—a fit, and it made Elie feel as if she were nothing. It was a fit for her to throw herself onto the ground, crying and not able to breathe, turning pinker and pinker with every passing moment that felt like an hour. It was a fit when she woke up in her quarters, half a day later, alone and afraid to look at anything except her own reflection. Aunt Larian often sat with her, cooing that she was beautiful, and that's what she had gotten from her mother. And so she'd look and look until she felt better and knew that the Goddess had blessed her, and there was never any cause to have been upset in the first place.
That was three years ago, when they started to use the "C" word—that awful thing, that curse. Elie had done nothing to deserve to have such slanderous accusations thrown in her face, staining her nicest, newest dress. She'd noticed the way that people would sometimes look at her, as if she'd spilled something. It wasn't fair—she was beautiful and she was perfect, just like Larian, just like mother, just like the Goddess. They were all wrong—everyone. And she didn't need friends that were wrong, she needed friends that would listen.
"Don't I look just marvelous in this?"
Elie admired herself in the vanity, which haloed her perfect form in exquisite gold and glass. Her hair hung in tresses that teased the small of her back and danced in the breeze from an open window. The curtains danced with it, and she was happy to see the Goddess' righteous answer. "I might have thought so," she said, shrugging, as she took a sip from the teacup she'd rested upon a nightstand. She turned to admire her ass in the mirror—the corset, she noted, had indeed been custom tailored for her aunt, and Amelie wasn't quite in love with the way that it made her hips look. "Perhaps a bit fleshy," she muttered, poking at the modest cellulite on the back of her upper thigh. It was accentuated by the build of the piece, she realized, her hips had been blessed perhaps even more than Larian's, which was wonderful—just, not in quite this corset. "But damn good!"
Elie took another sip of her tea and nodded. "Yes, absolutely breathtaking," she said, and attempted to rub her lipstick smudge off of the cup. (This one was special, #132. She'd taken it from a breakfast with the Alvestons, and liked it because of the flowers painted around its rim.)
It wasn't rare for her to sneak into her aunt's quarters when she wasn't present. The Queen had many duties, after all—and being in her closet at 3:00 in the afternoon certainly wasn't one of them. Amelie was blessed to have her youth, of course, and had nothing better to do than to step into her aunt's lingerie and see what she might look like if she were the most beautiful woman in Tnarem. "It might look better in green though, what do you think?"
She was talking to the cup, and she already knew his answer. "I think so too. It should bring out my eyes."
It was when her aunt married the Southern beast that Elie realized she had become the most beautiful woman in the world. Well, perhaps not Sergonia in its entirety—but least her little part of it. She took to wearing more luxurious dresses and winking at the handsome Lornessian boys she'd known all her life. They'd not known her, of course—except for in the ballroom. She'd been far too shy to make acquaintances outside of how-do-you-do's and would-you-like-to-dance's, but once her hand was in a man's and she was in his arms, she felt blessed. Even better if he'd brought a treat for her in his coatpocket—a pastry, especially. She felt the most alluring with powdered sugar on her lips and her hair done up nicely. The Goddess would look down upon her and smile, and Elie would often smile back.
This is what youth is supposed to be, nothing's broken—and no one really knows you, do they?
Elie supposed that they hadn't had the time to know her, but she wouldn't have wanted them to in the first place. She was something to look upon—not to talk to, of course. And they'd all been busy setting up official things for the Reiux, things she didn't want to understand. It was all so ugly and complicated. It was no wonder that her aunt had gotten bored enough to spread her legs for that burly Beringar buffoon. At least it had made her a princess somewhere, even if it was somewhere that Elie prayed she'd never have to visit. She couldn't imagine how lustful the men must be down South, how they'd look at her—it'd be too much, it'd be unhealthy to feel so beautiful.
Even the Goddess must have modesty, no? For if she had none, she would not bless maidens with youth and beauty, for she'd forever want to remain the most perfect in the world. And Elie was thankful for this, for if the Goddess hadn't blessed her, or her aunt, or her mother, or sometimes even her sister, she couldn't have been real—for no one would have known her, and thus, no one would have loved her. Real things are tangible, after all—and Elie can touch her face, knowing that it's soft, and knowing that she too, despite the rigid ends and fragility of her, was created and made to be perfect and real by the Goddess herself.
How wonderful it is to be blessed!
Magical Abilities Explained
Consequences of Being Awake
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Last seen Feb 9 2017, 10:36 PMCreated on January 28th, 2017has made 6 postsplayed by Cim