07-28-2023, 01:44 PM
The desire to survive pressed gifts like jewels into her grasp, and Nesrin gripped tight. It never felt like a curse to force her will on others to get the things she needed or wanted, her focus so razor-sharp in its intention she never even remembered being Sick. She was barely thirteen when that world first opened up like an oasis spring in the desert, cynical already, and yet still a child with a child’s natural beguilements. Of course magic was real; as real as the dreams she had always had at night, each coveted like treasure for the escape they offered from a world in which she was forced to hide to survive.
Before that she learned things no child ever should, yet even in youth and supposed innocence Nesrin understood that out of the strangers she might turn to, women would care for a little girl better than men. Childhood taught her fear, from an alcohol-soaked father to the turbulent world around her that did not deign to notice the child cowered in its shadows. Disasters wrecked the globe in the years before her birth, and Nesrin never knew anything different from the broken pieces left in its wake; a society in restless and angry flux, its people railing against what had been taken from it. Sometimes she imagined her mother was in those protesting crowds. But if fear watered the ground on which she grew, it was a resilient weed which sprung up again and again from the cracked dirt.
Of course, the perfumed-shrouded whorehouses of the backalley souks were not safe forever. Nesrin did not idolise virtue but the idea of violation flooded her cold. If a child might be justifiably protected, the freshest flush of womanhood was instead like dusting off an unexpected diamond, and no one could afford to keep it hidden. But Nesrin would give nothing of herself except what she was willing, and certainly not to line the purse of another, no matter what they felt she owed.
So she fled.
By now home was a forgotten concept, as spurious as the ghost of a mother she had never known. The universe had furnished her with something of more value than the novelty of her virginity, and with that gift Nesrin would make something of herself. She did not know if her father ever searched for her. To this day she does not know if he lives.
For the next two years she survived. Necessity makes a good teacher, but it was still just surviving, and Nesrin wanted more than to chase a staid existence. By fifteen she was living on a university campus in Giza, masquerading as a student. There would be no piece of paper at the end of it, but she hardly needed one: the learning was the point, and it was not only books she studied, but the people and the ways they bent to her gifts.
It was where she met Balthazar. With red hair and milk-bottle skin, he stood out for all the wrong reasons in the slick desert heat. But his voice was thick with British aristocracy and it made an interesting mark. Cairo was in the thick of more civil unrest; a dangerous choice of study for a Custody man, and especially one interested in what amounted to historical esoterica. The monuments and ancient architecture that might have once lured academics and tourists alike had all but been shaken to their roots by natural disaster and terrorist infighting.
Her skin prickled unease when he attempted to befriend her, naturally suspicious before she calculated for the advantage. She’d lied about everything; her name, her age. Her entire persona here was an artifice. Yet it transpired in a slip that he knew her birth name, and when she was finished being terrified of what it meant, she was impressed and curious as to where the knowledge could possibly have come from. And why. She was familiar enough with the con to feel its soft little touches, but if she knew anything about cults, it was that they gave before they collected.
But the Asquiths were monied. So Nesrin took.
As far as cults went, it wasn’t a bad one, and if it was stooped in archaic ritual and ideology Nesrin had no real trouble ingratiating herself. But she was careful not to let the reliance make her soft: to use them more than she trusted them, at least until she was certain what price they meant to extract from her. The Asquiths have paid for her education. In DVII they are akin to royalty in their infamy and wealth, but Nesrin has always lived on their fringes. She’s the poor friend of one of their rich sons, kept afloat because it pleases such people to feel charitable. In fact she’s never even been to the rolling estates Balthazar always described in Giza. The distance suits her though; she’s seen first hand the ravages of the media, when Balthazar’s sister was recently crucified at the trial of her husband’s murder, and ultimately cast loose from the family as a result. Publicly at least.
Nesrin prefers the shadows and the people who dwell there. She is well travelled and speaks several languages, a natural sponge for knowledge and learning. She has never shared what she can do with her patrons, though there is clearly a deep vein of mysticism within the Di Inferi’s teachings that might have made the confession to her advantage. Of their resources she makes great use. But she does not seek elevation among them. She does not seek elevation at all. Yet neither is she deaf to all their teachings.
She has grown a personality she knows the Asquiths find pleasing, but beyond their reach is someone else. It would be remiss not to have a contingency. Though Nesrin has long realised the way she’s been patiently primed (it’s not like she lacks the means for discerning answers for herself), it was not until the announcement of channelers that the first inklings of intention were made clear to her, and she realised how deep the conspiracy went.
It will send her to Moscow.
Black curly hair, large dark eyes, desert skin dotted with freckles. Nesrin knows how to slip beneath notice. Most would not pause for a second glance, for she usually courts a scholarly air, and pays little apparent mind to the things around her. Yet she is a woman layered in artifice. Once engaged, she is confident and charming; a story-teller, con-woman, and charlatan to her core. It makes her affable and easy to trust, for few would figure her as a threat. There is something preternaturally compelling about her voice that most are inclined to like. She leaves a pleasant taste.
Beneath is something beguiling and devious that few are ever invited to glimpse in full. Usually others are surprised to discover she is at ease with vice, even if she does not always choose to partake. Such qualities are easy things to manipulate in others, and it is a world she has always called home. Nesrin is a ruthless self-survivalist who puts herself first, yet has never been tested with care of another. She does not know what family is but doesn’t crave it either. She uses people, though not necessarily to their disadvantage. She prefers symbiosis; working smart rather than hard. Though there is something in the power of it.
She will both sacrifice for gain or patiently play the long game, yet when the risks mount too high she will cut her losses clean. Her soul is one marked with the resilience to rise from the ashes.
Power level: 27
Talents: compulsion, illusion, dreamwalking
Previous Lives:
2nd Age: Lilis Moiraim, an advisor of no real note in the Age of Legends who used her position to sabotage the forces of the Light.
3rd Age: The Forsaken, Merihem
5th Age: Naamah, Angel of Prostitution, and instigator of the fall of the Watchers, which ultimately led to the earth being wiped clean in the Flood.
6th Age: Angrboða, Norse jötunn integral to the final destruction of the gods of the 6th Age.
Before that she learned things no child ever should, yet even in youth and supposed innocence Nesrin understood that out of the strangers she might turn to, women would care for a little girl better than men. Childhood taught her fear, from an alcohol-soaked father to the turbulent world around her that did not deign to notice the child cowered in its shadows. Disasters wrecked the globe in the years before her birth, and Nesrin never knew anything different from the broken pieces left in its wake; a society in restless and angry flux, its people railing against what had been taken from it. Sometimes she imagined her mother was in those protesting crowds. But if fear watered the ground on which she grew, it was a resilient weed which sprung up again and again from the cracked dirt.
Of course, the perfumed-shrouded whorehouses of the backalley souks were not safe forever. Nesrin did not idolise virtue but the idea of violation flooded her cold. If a child might be justifiably protected, the freshest flush of womanhood was instead like dusting off an unexpected diamond, and no one could afford to keep it hidden. But Nesrin would give nothing of herself except what she was willing, and certainly not to line the purse of another, no matter what they felt she owed.
So she fled.
By now home was a forgotten concept, as spurious as the ghost of a mother she had never known. The universe had furnished her with something of more value than the novelty of her virginity, and with that gift Nesrin would make something of herself. She did not know if her father ever searched for her. To this day she does not know if he lives.
For the next two years she survived. Necessity makes a good teacher, but it was still just surviving, and Nesrin wanted more than to chase a staid existence. By fifteen she was living on a university campus in Giza, masquerading as a student. There would be no piece of paper at the end of it, but she hardly needed one: the learning was the point, and it was not only books she studied, but the people and the ways they bent to her gifts.
It was where she met Balthazar. With red hair and milk-bottle skin, he stood out for all the wrong reasons in the slick desert heat. But his voice was thick with British aristocracy and it made an interesting mark. Cairo was in the thick of more civil unrest; a dangerous choice of study for a Custody man, and especially one interested in what amounted to historical esoterica. The monuments and ancient architecture that might have once lured academics and tourists alike had all but been shaken to their roots by natural disaster and terrorist infighting.
Her skin prickled unease when he attempted to befriend her, naturally suspicious before she calculated for the advantage. She’d lied about everything; her name, her age. Her entire persona here was an artifice. Yet it transpired in a slip that he knew her birth name, and when she was finished being terrified of what it meant, she was impressed and curious as to where the knowledge could possibly have come from. And why. She was familiar enough with the con to feel its soft little touches, but if she knew anything about cults, it was that they gave before they collected.
But the Asquiths were monied. So Nesrin took.
As far as cults went, it wasn’t a bad one, and if it was stooped in archaic ritual and ideology Nesrin had no real trouble ingratiating herself. But she was careful not to let the reliance make her soft: to use them more than she trusted them, at least until she was certain what price they meant to extract from her. The Asquiths have paid for her education. In DVII they are akin to royalty in their infamy and wealth, but Nesrin has always lived on their fringes. She’s the poor friend of one of their rich sons, kept afloat because it pleases such people to feel charitable. In fact she’s never even been to the rolling estates Balthazar always described in Giza. The distance suits her though; she’s seen first hand the ravages of the media, when Balthazar’s sister was recently crucified at the trial of her husband’s murder, and ultimately cast loose from the family as a result. Publicly at least.
Nesrin prefers the shadows and the people who dwell there. She is well travelled and speaks several languages, a natural sponge for knowledge and learning. She has never shared what she can do with her patrons, though there is clearly a deep vein of mysticism within the Di Inferi’s teachings that might have made the confession to her advantage. Of their resources she makes great use. But she does not seek elevation among them. She does not seek elevation at all. Yet neither is she deaf to all their teachings.
She has grown a personality she knows the Asquiths find pleasing, but beyond their reach is someone else. It would be remiss not to have a contingency. Though Nesrin has long realised the way she’s been patiently primed (it’s not like she lacks the means for discerning answers for herself), it was not until the announcement of channelers that the first inklings of intention were made clear to her, and she realised how deep the conspiracy went.
It will send her to Moscow.
Black curly hair, large dark eyes, desert skin dotted with freckles. Nesrin knows how to slip beneath notice. Most would not pause for a second glance, for she usually courts a scholarly air, and pays little apparent mind to the things around her. Yet she is a woman layered in artifice. Once engaged, she is confident and charming; a story-teller, con-woman, and charlatan to her core. It makes her affable and easy to trust, for few would figure her as a threat. There is something preternaturally compelling about her voice that most are inclined to like. She leaves a pleasant taste.
Beneath is something beguiling and devious that few are ever invited to glimpse in full. Usually others are surprised to discover she is at ease with vice, even if she does not always choose to partake. Such qualities are easy things to manipulate in others, and it is a world she has always called home. Nesrin is a ruthless self-survivalist who puts herself first, yet has never been tested with care of another. She does not know what family is but doesn’t crave it either. She uses people, though not necessarily to their disadvantage. She prefers symbiosis; working smart rather than hard. Though there is something in the power of it.
She will both sacrifice for gain or patiently play the long game, yet when the risks mount too high she will cut her losses clean. Her soul is one marked with the resilience to rise from the ashes.
Power level: 27
Talents: compulsion, illusion, dreamwalking
Previous Lives:
2nd Age: Lilis Moiraim, an advisor of no real note in the Age of Legends who used her position to sabotage the forces of the Light.
3rd Age: The Forsaken, Merihem
5th Age: Naamah, Angel of Prostitution, and instigator of the fall of the Watchers, which ultimately led to the earth being wiped clean in the Flood.
6th Age: Angrboða, Norse jötunn integral to the final destruction of the gods of the 6th Age.
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