anastasia

Gracefully, she extended an arm to the ceiling, keeping her expression serene although she breathed heavily under her ballet corset and routine. There was a quick moment when she drew her arm back to her chest and then she was stepping forward to do a pirouette, watching her hand extend towards the audience, her arms like the needles of a compass as they guided her northbound. A quick moment and the world turned, keeping her balance as she came to a stop. She raised an arm. It was gloved and poised in the air as she had practiced many times, her hands delicately grasping imaginary feathers in the stage light. Then, crossing her arm across her chest, she gave a bow, her head tilted to the ground as if she wanted nothing but her dancing to be remembered.

cadyn

If he didn't have anything but his identical nature, he wasn't sure what he had. There was nothing he was particularly proud of, nor was there something he particularly feared except for the fact that if he somehow disappeared off the planet, there'd still be a more agreeable version of him left. He grasped onto his appearance like his life depended on it, careful to mimic his brother the way his brother mimicked him as well. It almost seemed as if everyone else had something that made them incredibly interesting and unique but he kept himself in a limbo between wanted to be his brother and wanting to be himself. Perhaps, he sometimes told himself with a shrug, he could have both.

dustin

The more he looked at his wings, the more he grew to despise them. They were liars and made him out to be worthy of being called an 'angel' but people didn't understand that he was far too clumsy, imperfect, and wrong to be anything comparable to the creatures of the Heavens. Like marble statues, the wings glistened in the light, the sun spilling from them as the rays hit the feathers and yet, he remained unsatisfied. Often, he wished for wings that were simple and modest. He wished that people would stop touching them and calling them angel wings and Heaven's wings because they weren't; they were just his wings and burdens. It was a sin, he decided, to be forced to imitate something he was not.

elena

Magic, Elena found, was good. People were the ones that made it evil. They twisted it. Manipulated it. But her magic was clean and pure and wonderful in all sorts of ways where she'd have the chance to say that she saved people. Even if it left her tired and aching and in pain, it was the realization that the energy that gathered beneath her fingertips was a means in helping people grasp onto this crazy golden chain called life for a little bit longer. It was this spark that had once entranced her and helped her through helping others and it was hers but she wanted to share it. Even if she had to hide behind a mundane facade and blame her wisdom on luck, if there was a chance that she could save someone with her own pain, she'd already have the blade poised at her heart.

aspen

Mouths fascinated Aspen. They could bite and kiss and speak and he'd watch in the mirror as he spoke to himself. He ran his tongue across his teeth and across the rouged curve of the inside of his lip, raising a finger to feel the curve of his cupids bow. And sometimes, it would betray him and a cry would be drawn from the back of his throat and he'd bite down on his hand. Mouths could taste as well, like the saltiness of blood and the sweetness of a faerie plum. They sheltered teeth where sharpened canines poked at the inside of his cheek but sometimes the words that were elicited from his lips were the sharpest. He liked to hiss and smile and say sweet, sweet things that seemed sweeter and faker than the mundane desserts he had tried now and again. But despite everything, he found that desire always tasted the sweetest.

cole

Although he had all the money he needed, he couldn't buy what he wanted. There was something that had changed, like everything just seemed wrong and even paying off his debts by the thousands didn't fix what had fractured. Money could not mend the bitter taste in his mouth and the stupidity that he had fallen to. A year or two prior, he would have called his rebellious and dangerous nature 'a diss to the Clave' but now it was more like some grand mistake. If he could just erase everything-...but money could only go so far because even if he moved away and changed his name and wiped his records, he'd still have to live in his thoughts where things rotted for good. Memories, he realized, were priceless and out of demand.

layla

There was this sort of half-smirk, half-smile she'd do to calm her anger when she realized that the person she was arguing with was immensely denser than she was. She enjoyed having a great deal of wits and promised herself that she would refuse to argue with someone who came unarmed. It was the knowledge of the streets that fueled the sharp remarks that so seamlessly threaded from her mind. Once or twice, she had lost her temper but it only served as a reminder for her that she could stare her opponent down, raise her chin, and tell them and their opinion to screw-off ever so nicely until it was far away from her. With a click of her tongue, she'd give a bit of a crooked grin, glad that her wits, rather than her claws, had saved her again.

rose

Her hair was only gold to match her radiant personality. Immaculate, it was difficult to find a curl out of place. Naturally, she liked it that way, obsessed with the idea that perfection was attainable. She never knew when people were staring, inspecting, scrutinizing the way she looked and the way her makeup accentuated the shape of her faerie-features and the way her hair fell over her shoulders. She never knew what they would think if something about her appearance displeased her and she took to hours and hours of self-pampering to make sure such an idea would never happen. To be seen with her hair uncurled and disheveled was something that she drew away from quickly as if it would burn her to think about. Funnily enough, she had burned herself quite a few times on the curling iron but it never scared her away.

finn

He had always loved his eyes. They were unnatural and that reflected everything about him. He was stranger than everyone he knew and it was only a physical reminder that he was different. One of them was a dark blue, like the ocean, and it reflected the sky back at him and drowned out the border that separated his pupil from his iris. His other eye ranged from a lilac to a deep violet, the hue ever-changing in the different rays of light. It was like him, always shifting and interested in new things, like a child who couldn't stop pressing its hands against a delicate display case. He thought it was stupid when faeries obsessed about purity. They would never understand what it would be like to have two identities, two worlds, and they were all his to explore.

nyx

Control was awfully satisfying. There were games he played, ones that he'd teach others to play, and he'd pretend to be all bark and no bite so people would learn to brush him off. At first glance, they didn't understand the marionettes he held, but over time, he made them tie their own strings and nooses. He loved games as long as he made the rules because he had to have the say in what was right and what couldn't be left unpunished. Once in a while, it was okay if they fought back and bit and dragged their nails across his cheek because he had sharpened his blades, his teeth, the hooks on barbed wire just for that. And when they were really powerless, with their hands bound and bleeding and a knife at their throat, he could finally laugh because he had the control once again.