Sloane | |||||||
Awards
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Appearance
scent: herbs you almost recognize but cannot name; mud and still waters; the slow smokeless fire of decay voice: a pleasant, smooth tenor-alto Personality
Sloane is a vain, judgmental creature with little to no interest in the lives and affairs of others. Self absorbed and melodramatic, she is quite prone to talking almost exclusively about herself and her own interests, as well as putting on ridiculous, petty performances just to get someone's attention on her. She argues; she whines; she complains. Yet even as she delivers her beautifully poetic, dramatic monologues, there is an odd flatness and apathy to it, as if she doesn't care about that, either. As if she is just playing at this pretense of small, mortal emotion, as if the very notion bores her and she is already looking for more. She is fully aware that she's shallow and self-absorbed, but doesn't feel the need to change. Why should she? Others don't interest her, with their tiny squabbles and their dull and sorry heads. They walk this world, so embroiled in their own lives they cannot feel how truly small and unimportant they are, tearing into the meat and leaking bodies of each other until the essence has gone out, over things that will soon be but fire and dust. Sloane knows better. She has felt the deep burning heartdrum of the earth; she can hear the mysterious and magic voices in the night; she can see the darkness is all alive; she knows the truth of all things. She knows how terribly insignificant this world is, how utterly small they are in the face of the great dark sea of the universe. How tiresome are the affairs of mortals! Sloane sees the truth, and she is alone. But the truth brings her alive. She will play with the small things, then. The great starry cogs of the universe move vast and undisturbed, and they need no tending. The lives and loves of mortal things are too large to be pleasing, and too small to care. The small things are where all joy lies. And so, Sloane spends her days living far in the woods, dismissive and withdrawn from other beings. She carves her artist's soul and sensibilities into the experimental medicines she makes, all of which are forty five degrees to everything they should have been. It is the only thing she truly seems to care for. Maintaining her body -- eating, drinking, cleaning, sleeping -- all seem a tiresome chore. She neglects her appearance, her living space, her everything simply because it does not interest her. Only the frivolously eyecatching things -- a beautiful woman, perhaps, or a curious new plant -- are enough to spark some life and bring Sloane back to the present, away from the dark and dreaming world of magic in which she always goes. Others are easily annoyed by her theatrics, as annoyed by them as the falseness of the emotion she puts into them. She keeps her distance. It often seems she does not care. Sloane is difficult to get along with, and the few relationships she has are often contentious. Her seeming shallowness -- how easily she flirts with other women, how selfish and hedonistic she can be, in contrast to how quickly she loses interest when someone truly tries to know her -- is a difficult barrier in any interaction deeper than acquaintanceship. History
Sloane doesn't speak of her past. It is easy to imagine, with her difficult and paradoxically overly familiar and distant personality, that she had some sort of difficult past, a traumatic event that damaged her trust of others and turned her into the person she is today. This is an explanation that would be pleasing to accept. As if aware of this, Sloane tells a different history each time someone asks for her story. It can't be said if any of her words are true. Here is what can be said: Sloane was not her first name, but it is the truth. She has seen and done things that are hard to dream, and done more best left to the dark. She has grit her teeth and waded into the dark caverns of the afterlife, into the endless hunting grounds, the dark forest, and even further into the unknown; immersed herself in their indifferent and unforgiving ways, and come back out the other side with clenched teeth and blood beneath her claws -- utterly different, a shadow of herself, but at the same time, more herself than she ever has been before. She paid the price, and for it, she left something behind. She has wandered the world on her own for a long time, now; most of her life. She was born alone, has been alone, and will always be alone. This is the fundamental truth of her life. Relationships
Long dead and gone, their souls lost to the endless dark of the afterlife of those who believe in nothing. | ||||||
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