Name/Title: Jezebel DeLacaire
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Jezebel is of a rather short height and a small, almost emaciated, frame compared to most women. Her hair is a pale blonde with streaks of white peeking out from its disheveled state. Few things stand out more from Jezebel than the blue eyes she possesses, something she may have inherited from her Father or Mother but neither of which she ever truly remembers.
Significant Memory:
Paintings were strew all along the small room, more like a combination of a study and a bedroom than anything else. Were these her paintings? Who were they of? What were they of? Some were faces, places, beautiful vistas and wonderful pieces of art that may have been seen as great. But, weren’t they failures? Was that not why they were strewn across the floor with no care? Or was it that they were thrown there in anger? A single brushstroke ruining some, a misplaced color others. A brown here, a yellow there. Where did they come from? Why were they made?
Fear, fear was the strongest part of the memory though. What was she afraid of as she stood amongst the paintings? Was it failure? Her parents? The will of those who pushed her to earn money for them with a talent she had? She couldn’t remember, wouldn’t remember. It hurt to see it all. The memory burned like a brand. Why? Why did it burn like this? What was missing from it that she couldn’t see?
Other: She has a small locket, though she can’t remember what was inside it. Was it a picture of her mother and father? She forgot how to open it, the key needed lost both in memory and reality.
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Appearance:
Jezebel is of a rather short height and a small, almost emaciated, frame compared to most women. Her hair is a pale blonde with streaks of white peeking out from its disheveled state. Few things stand out more from Jezebel than the blue eyes she possesses, something she may have inherited from her Father or Mother but neither of which she ever truly remembers.
Significant Memory:
Paintings were strew all along the small room, more like a combination of a study and a bedroom than anything else. Were these her paintings? Who were they of? What were they of? Some were faces, places, beautiful vistas and wonderful pieces of art that may have been seen as great. But, weren’t they failures? Was that not why they were strewn across the floor with no care? Or was it that they were thrown there in anger? A single brushstroke ruining some, a misplaced color others. A brown here, a yellow there. Where did they come from? Why were they made?
Fear, fear was the strongest part of the memory though. What was she afraid of as she stood amongst the paintings? Was it failure? Her parents? The will of those who pushed her to earn money for them with a talent she had? She couldn’t remember, wouldn’t remember. It hurt to see it all. The memory burned like a brand. Why? Why did it burn like this? What was missing from it that she couldn’t see?
Other: She has a small locket, though she can’t remember what was inside it. Was it a picture of her mother and father? She forgot how to open it, the key needed lost both in memory and reality.
