Modeste

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* - Hair: Brown
* - Eyes: Brown
* - Height: 5'6"
* - Physical Merits:
* - Physical Flaws: Hard skin, feels unnaturally tight.
* - Identifying Marks: Nothing
Modeste's only remarkable to mortal eyes because of how unremarkable it really is. It's not terribly short. It's not too skinny, or too large. It's not too pale, or too dark. Not plain, but neither attractive. The things that make it remarkable is that it's hard to place a gender upon it. High cheekbones are accompanied by a thich, solid jawline. A solid, low brow is accompanied by perfectly arched eyebrows. And in it's eyes there always seems to be a hint of mischief, something dark that it is planning or thinking.
* - Hair: Black
* - Eyes: Clear
* - Height: 5'6"
* - Physical Merits:
* - Physical Flaws: Made of glass
* - Identifying Marks: Made of glass, able to nearly be seen through.
Modeste is made nearly entirely of glass, except for the hair that looks almost like doll hair. The glass is so thick that it easily obstructs the view of anything beyond it, and the light reflecting on it make it easy to see the thing.
Modeste was born to a creole family, one rather well off and rather infamous in their area for being a "crime family." Modeste was never involved in any of that, though, sheltered by parents that wanted nothing but the best for their child. Este showed at a young age a talent for theater, and that lead to the parents putting them in a theater nearby.
The theater had a room. An old room, where someone supposedly died. You weren't supposed to go there on certain nights. But Este was curious, and after a show, when everyone else had gone, went up into that room. No one was around to see Este go in. No one was around to hear Este scream.
Este's imprisonment wasn't a good one. People go insane in isolation, they say. They say they lose touch with who they are, with what the world is. Este was in the dark. The mad, hungry dark of Arcadia. Alone. The dark seemed to sense Este, and it would claw, hungrily, at any flesh it could get on. Not physically, no, but Este could feel it seeping into them, feel the darkness slowly eatting it away, taking off it's memories and it's emotions. Until it was empty. In the dark, it could be empty. But She would not allow it. She would come, and she would say, Go. Get this for me. Or She would say, This is who you are. This is who you were. Be this person for me. And Este would, only so they could go back again. Back to the dark, where it could feel empty, but for the memories that would sometimes surface, belonging to it or to someone else, it did not know.
It escaped. It clawed it's way through the thorns, feeling the thorns chip and crack it's glass. And when it was through, when it clawed itself out into the basement of a place, not remembering why it remembered it, it remembered. Only a bit. It was free. This was free. And someone came behind it.
It remembered. It was Este. And before it was a bird, a beautiful bird-woman. They were free. They didn't know one another, but they were there, together, and they were free.
Este has since found . . . ways to survive. It doesn't remember, but it can live, and it can survive, and it can thrive. Jacqueline found a place for them to stay. Call home, even, and despite Este's paranoia, it stays there. For Jac.
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