Member
Mcmolly
Bartimaeus
Apollosarcher
vietmyke
mickilennial
Kronshi
Estylwen
EricWald
Izurich
Supermaxx
The Kataoka family was once one of the great families of the city. At their peak, they were unequalled in both the Manifest and the underworld. While the Kataoka family focused on their pursuit of the magecraft, the numerous subsidiary families and organizations under them controlled the city's underworld with an iron fist. Leading their family was the great Hayao Kataoka; a staunch traditionalist who--were it not for his old age--would be considered one of the strongest mages of the city.
Tsune Kataoka was born into this family as a bastard--a tryst between an artist outside of the Dark Sphere and her mother--the sole granddaughter of Hayao Kataoka. For the conservative Hayao, Tsune was his worst nightmare come to fruition. His sole granddaughter--someone whom he raised from birth after the the death of his son and daughter-in-law--had come home sick and with child. To say that Hayao loathed Tsune was an understatement. No, in his eyes, she was the reason why his granddaughter was sick. Tsune was nothing more than an outsider. Someone of impure blood. Someone who didn't even deserve the name bestowed upon her by her grandmother.
While her mother truly cared for her--even negotiating with her grandfather in deep sickness to ensure Tsune's safety--her pleasant memories did not last long. The fragrance of incense. The sun shining on cotton blankets. The flowers her mother delicately arranged. Her mother calling Tsune her little Macaron--just like her father used to call her, she would say. But the sickness took her mother. Rainfall. Black and white fabrics. Coldness.
Tsune's position was precarious. Her mother's wishes protected her, at the very least. But she was not loved. The child was taught the bare minimum. She had always thought that maybe if she showed more effort and been a good girl, she would even feel a semblance of love from her family. But no matter how hard she tried or how good she was, she was never given even a glance by Hayao or anyone else. To Hayao, she was nothing more than the beast who killed his granddaughter. To her aunts, uncles, and cousins, she was the child of their oh-so-hated doted-upon sib. To those not of Hayao's blood, she was simply persona non grata lest they incur the wrath of the head.
But this precarious position no longer matters. It hasn't mattered for eight years. The Kataoka family was once a great family. Past tense. It happened in a single night. The horrors. The blood. There were only a handful of survivors. A handful of Kataokas who were hiding in personal safe houses. A few peons who were to unimportant to slaughter as they patrolled the red light district. It was only thanks to the hiding spots devised from an unwanted child that she survived. She watched as it happened. The horror. The beast. The behemoth. It punctured the only thing she could call family with its teeth--sliced them to bits.
The police said it was simply gang warfare. A coalition of upstarts sought to bring them down. An easy explanation. It was simple and believable. The power vacuum left by the sudden passing of so many Kataokas and their affiliates was good enough cover. Likewise, the only witnesses were the police and detectives that corroborated the story.
Meanwhile, Tsune no longer had a home--if you could even call it that. She was placed under the ward of one of the few of her family that survived--not that they cared to look after her--and received what little unseized familial assets she was entitled. It was enough to live. Or at least, support her until she reached adulthood.
But what was left of Tsune? Not much. The good little girl who tried her hardest to win the love of her family died that day. What was left was a girl who had seen too much. Someone who could no longer regulate their emotions. Someone who still craved love and kinship, yet no longer had an adequate understanding of them. A broken, fractured person who never had a chance to properly grow up. A girl who no longer kept the name carelessly bestowed by her grandfather and instead kept the name that gave her love.
A girl who delved into the labyrinth alone with only the memories of what she was taught.
A woman who survived 8 years alone in the city.
A woman named Macaron.
Tsune Kataoka was born into this family as a bastard--a tryst between an artist outside of the Dark Sphere and her mother--the sole granddaughter of Hayao Kataoka. For the conservative Hayao, Tsune was his worst nightmare come to fruition. His sole granddaughter--someone whom he raised from birth after the the death of his son and daughter-in-law--had come home sick and with child. To say that Hayao loathed Tsune was an understatement. No, in his eyes, she was the reason why his granddaughter was sick. Tsune was nothing more than an outsider. Someone of impure blood. Someone who didn't even deserve the name bestowed upon her by her grandmother.
While her mother truly cared for her--even negotiating with her grandfather in deep sickness to ensure Tsune's safety--her pleasant memories did not last long. The fragrance of incense. The sun shining on cotton blankets. The flowers her mother delicately arranged. Her mother calling Tsune her little Macaron--just like her father used to call her, she would say. But the sickness took her mother. Rainfall. Black and white fabrics. Coldness.
Tsune's position was precarious. Her mother's wishes protected her, at the very least. But she was not loved. The child was taught the bare minimum. She had always thought that maybe if she showed more effort and been a good girl, she would even feel a semblance of love from her family. But no matter how hard she tried or how good she was, she was never given even a glance by Hayao or anyone else. To Hayao, she was nothing more than the beast who killed his granddaughter. To her aunts, uncles, and cousins, she was the child of their oh-so-hated doted-upon sib. To those not of Hayao's blood, she was simply persona non grata lest they incur the wrath of the head.
But this precarious position no longer matters. It hasn't mattered for eight years. The Kataoka family was once a great family. Past tense. It happened in a single night. The horrors. The blood. There were only a handful of survivors. A handful of Kataokas who were hiding in personal safe houses. A few peons who were to unimportant to slaughter as they patrolled the red light district. It was only thanks to the hiding spots devised from an unwanted child that she survived. She watched as it happened. The horror. The beast. The behemoth. It punctured the only thing she could call family with its teeth--sliced them to bits.
The police said it was simply gang warfare. A coalition of upstarts sought to bring them down. An easy explanation. It was simple and believable. The power vacuum left by the sudden passing of so many Kataokas and their affiliates was good enough cover. Likewise, the only witnesses were the police and detectives that corroborated the story.
Meanwhile, Tsune no longer had a home--if you could even call it that. She was placed under the ward of one of the few of her family that survived--not that they cared to look after her--and received what little unseized familial assets she was entitled. It was enough to live. Or at least, support her until she reached adulthood.
But what was left of Tsune? Not much. The good little girl who tried her hardest to win the love of her family died that day. What was left was a girl who had seen too much. Someone who could no longer regulate their emotions. Someone who still craved love and kinship, yet no longer had an adequate understanding of them. A broken, fractured person who never had a chance to properly grow up. A girl who no longer kept the name carelessly bestowed by her grandfather and instead kept the name that gave her love.
A girl who delved into the labyrinth alone with only the memories of what she was taught.
A woman who survived 8 years alone in the city.
A woman named Macaron.
Macaron's craft matches her personality: unstable. Fundamentally, it is based upon the roots of the Kataoka's familial craft: to reflect one's inner self in reality. To sculpt one's form as one sees fit. A blade to cut all before them. An unbending will that can block bullets. However, Macaron's understanding of this craft is fundamentally flawed. Or perhaps, she understands it greater than even Hayao.
Her craft is driven by pure emotion. The restaint of neutrality forming sinew wires to restrain and garrote. The melancholy of sorrow being impenetrable as she is forced into turgor. The unrestricted rage and anger warping her with jaw and claw. Excitement being met with alacrity.
Her transformations are predictable yet unrestrained. Her will a slave to emotion that will easily flicker, waver, and shift.
Beyond that, she can utilize a basic spattering of novice crafts. A quick flame, a shard of light, or other such cantrips. However, her application of these crafts are unstable and warped.
Her craft is driven by pure emotion. The restaint of neutrality forming sinew wires to restrain and garrote. The melancholy of sorrow being impenetrable as she is forced into turgor. The unrestricted rage and anger warping her with jaw and claw. Excitement being met with alacrity.
Her transformations are predictable yet unrestrained. Her will a slave to emotion that will easily flicker, waver, and shift.
Beyond that, she can utilize a basic spattering of novice crafts. A quick flame, a shard of light, or other such cantrips. However, her application of these crafts are unstable and warped.
