Post by Madame Drew on Aug 9, 2009 20:47:46 GMT
Drusilla Decima Amabilis
you know I'm half-crazy for you,
and there's nothing you can do...
character basics
NICKNAMES: Madame or Mrs. Drew; occasionally the Scarlet Lady of the Big Apple. It pays to advertise.
AGE: Indeterminate. She appears between twenty-five and fourty.
BIRTHDAY: February 14
GROUP: Dark Being
SPECIES: Demon.
OCCUPATION Panderer and keeper of her Menagerie.
GENDER: Female.
PLAY-BY: Sonja Kraushoferappearance
Drusilla has a full head of hennaed hair, a scarlet shade that is almost absurdly unnatural, with the occasional glint of a dark root. This is often the most outstanding thing about her, but otherwise, she might be one of her girls. The devil is, as they say, in the details. While she might be going around in the same flimsy showgirl costumes as the pets in her traveling show, her clothes tend to be in a darker hue, and with more restraint, though still a particular opulence to them. She does have particular scruples against wearing white, or certain precious stones on certain days of the week. She's a striking woman, though not as fashionably pretty or bee-stung as the average young thing to flit through the door, and as women go she is abnormally tall.
Her figure is broad through the shoulder and pleasantly plump, decidedly female. Childbearing hips and the whole shebang. However, she's still smaller than she'd like to be. In her personal appearance she pays certain attention to the little things, like the varnish on her toenails or the teardrops of paste glass hanging from each ear. She could likely afford better, but seems to wallow happily in a somewhat tacky appearance. Most outfits in her possession come with a demurely veiled hat, the better to hide the unnatural color of her eyes. (They might appear black, in some lights. Much more preferable.)personality
She is charming and at times somewhat maternal, on her good days, but always disconcerting. Many men would prefer her rose-scented embraces and well-padded falsehoods to a legitimate settled life. But underneath this, she has a keen eye for business, and is not a woman you'd want to cross. It's easy to consider her the most harmless member of the staff-- she always has a sympathetic ear for your troubles and a shoulder to cry on. Two, in fact. And she'd never do anything so crass as to designate a price in coin. That's for each of her darling girls and boys to decide for themselves. It might be the color of your eyes, or half your life, from six in the evening to six in the morning, each night. It might be ten, or a thousand dollars a night, or five blocks of caviare and a feather bed, or a single, perfect kiss. In the importance and superiority of her work she has that famous Luciferean pride, and in behavior she is distinctly too human.
Her demeanor is permanently flirtatious, in a way that makes people slightly uncomfortable. It's like trying to watch your Aunt Gladys tell the one dirty joke she remembers at every family reunion. It makes you feel slightly unclean. When she switches on the charm, she is pure sex, a knee-buckling, brutally physical kind of creature. But peel back this exterior and she is slightly pathetic, as well as frightening. As a personification of Lust, she is not the most vicious, but hers is an insidious kind of sin. Hiding the dirty, squirming, ugly side of what she sells under a velvet slipcover and a pretty name. Even she seems to have been fooled by her own rhetoric-- she gives people what they want. She gives people love, and love's never free.
Her internal motivations seem to fluctuate from day to day. What matters most to her is her own personal comfort, the perpetuation of her business, and (after that, of course) the safety and comfort of her charges. As with all demons, she has the greater interests of Hell in mind, but since she was made one, rather than born, she is not pure cruelty for cruelty's sake. Call her pragmatic.family & history
She had had an angel's name once, and the body to match it, pure as driven snow. Her fall was spurred, not by disgust for these pitiful little creatures wrought out of the mud, but fascination. (For this many of her fellow demons, demons of Pride, mostly, would shun her.) This was before she was properly a 'she', of course, in true Angelic fashion, but she had an improper interest in the parts of the human psyche designed for sexual attraction. More interesting than their capacity for regret, or nostalgia, or joy. Some would say her interest became more than professional. Others with the same fascination for mortal flesh had gone before her; it was rather inevitable. When she did quit heaven, and fall to earth, she had the good fortune to arrive at a particularly libidinous time in mortal history. Well, more openly so.
Drusilla found herself a native of Classical Greece, a particular fallen angel venerated as what the drippier, sillier modern scholars would call a matriarchal fertility cult. Nothing so sweet and pretty as all that sounds. There was, as one would assume, a lot of sex. This gig was highly profitable, and kept rolling in the souls tidily on through the end of Hellenic supremacy and into the height of the Byzantine empire. (She, for example, was the helpful bride show matron who told Empress Irene to stand with her shoulders back and smile with her eyes.) But with the rise of more medieval attitudes towards religion, she knew where her business was. Violent crime is not to her taste, but she's been every flavour of maquerelle, fertility goddess, high class courtesan, and bawd you can name. Speaking of things one names, her name is a composite creature, as she's never had one of her own proper. It is suitably memorable for one of her profession, so she's kept it.
As one of the first angels proper to explore the new world as viable property, Drusilla's first interest had been in the West. It seemed to have a good thing going, and it was as of yet unclaimed territory. But more powerful forces muscled her out of her temporary seat there, and sent her a-roaming-- to New Orleans, Chicago, finally up to New York, which had still been New Amsterdam the last time she paid her call. To Fletcher she owed a particular favor, after the War, and she has set up something of a symbiotic relationship with his club.the roleplayer
NAME: Skazka
GENDER: Female.
AGE: Nigh on 16.
ROLEPLAY EXPERIENCE: 6 years.
OTHER CHARACTERS: None yet.
HOW YOU FOUND US: RPG-D!!~
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:Make yourself unobtrusive. The good thing about breaking and entering was that one so rarely had to engage in it-- most people really did recognize him, even if they didn't remember why. A hat on his head, a slightly darker shade of suit, and here he was, a writer. The handful of others paid no need to him, as long as it wasn't their door he was battering down with submissions, or angry commentary on their body of work.
Cool as a damned cucumber. Or something else known for being chilly and difficult to distress. One could do a lot of distressing things to a cucumber. Or with one. What was the bugger who'd told him that? (Not who.) Croup, Vandemar, one of them, if not both. Distressing sorts of things. Assertively not people.
Was having the building like a Finnish sauna conducive to the creative process? Or was it just miserably bad luck?
Push open the door. Quick, inside, not a sound. Appear. First you're not, and then you're there. Simple as pie. (These papers in his hands, hmm, they certainly weren't fiction. And they certainly weren't his, but they did look nice, didn't they?) Like any good executor of vigilante justice, he was checking up on his charge. Trust him not to be too shaken. A sensitive psyche was a necessity of being an artist, a writer, but a hazard in matters of bodily threat. The apartment was deserted, Lord only knew where Mrs. Not-His-Spouse had gotten off to, or what she had thought upon her noble young swain's return.
"Morning, Allen." Casual as anything. You'll never guess what I just did! Can you believe it? I applied for a job, right next to you! We'll be seeing each other for a long time, Jernigan. Remember my face. We'll be the very best of friends. No, wait, entirely wrong tack. He'd already had his fun with scaring the man into a ladylike swoon.
New glasses for his eyes, delicately smoked to blackness and rimmed with silver. The Corinthian liked little luxuries like that. Quite stylish, in his opinion. Feeling rather bohemian himself. (Though still too well-groomed. These small town boys wouldn't know fin de siecle bohemia if it bit them on the ass and attempted to start a commune there.)
