Niall, Rebeckah Alyssa

[guess]

WELCOME TO ISLA DE LOS LOBOS,

REBECKAH ALYSSA NIALL !
| RUTHLESS | PLAYFUL | ETHEREAL |

[BASICS]
... easy to say
Name: Duchess Rebeckah Alyssa Niall
Nicknames: Beckah usually. Duchess -- she's oh-so-fond of Alice in Wonderland, after all.
Age: 427
Birthdate: August 26
Gender: Female.
Species: Born Lycan.
Member Group: Royalty.
Canon or Original: Canon.

[THE LOOKS]
... don't let them get to you
Height: 5'6
Weight: 118 lbs.
Build: Slender, petite shoulders; she has a dancer's body, lithe and graceful.
Hair Color: Her natural hair color is blond, but sometimes she darkens it to brown, or black. Upon her return, Beckah's hair is so pale, it's almost the shade of bone.
Eye Color: Grey; when emotional, they darken to shades of blue; when excited, her pupils shrink to a pinpoint, and her eyes lighten to shades akin to white.
Wolf & Werewolf form:

Wolf: Ah, this wolf is nothing so scary -- there is something diminutive about her, in size, in proportions: she is delicate, a work of art that you want to run your fingers through. Standing at 42 inches at the shoulder, and twice that in length from the tip of her nose, to the tip of her tail, she is larger than the natural wolves wandering through the world. But if the size isn't enough to put her higher up on the hierarchy of normalcy, then it must be the softness of her pelt, the wicked incisors that jut out of her pale pink gums. She is a feral creature of your dreams: with a tilting arch of her neck, and weighing in only at 118 pounds, she is at once slender and thin with a fierce temerity of strength in her wiry form.

Is she beautiful? As beautiful as any deadly weapon thrown in the garbage: glittering with death, though filthy, though scorned. She exists in a sphere of that deadliness: her hackles ruffle around her shoulders, as natural blond as her hair, darkening along the shifting shadows of her bones. Her ears are tilted to the side, curving in a way that isn't quite so normal -- a flaw, in a world of perfection. But it isn't the creamy cast of her breast and glowing white of her undersides that make her seem a dream: it isn't in her shades that darken and lighten, that glisten and die in the brilliant light. No, it's her eyes -- as visceral in this wolf form as they are in human form. There is no different here, this bit of humanity amidst everything that is animal.

Stony, glacial -- there is nothing humane or compassionate in that unwavering gaze. Shades of blue and grey intertwine in the smoldering embers of feral abandonment. Beckah is human. Beckah is wolf. In this form, there is no mercy --

Werewolf:
Her anthro form is even stranger when thrown against the backdrop of this very normal world: a blend of humanity and wolf, more poignant for all that she is now amongst her own kind again. It's a lonely world, for sure -- but even here, when there are others of glistening, soft pelts, of hard fangs, and sharper claws, she is still an oddity: more art, than reality. More dream, than anything you could come up with on your tongue. The center, never: but there is a flickering light of her pelt that never changes -- that brilliance of blond, that is neither bone nor brown, neither earthly, or heavenly. Her belly trails with fur that looks as pale as virgin snow, but touch it and it burns, heat so fierce it shocks up the line of your arm. Her breath is as hot, from within that muzzle -- no humanity here, but a head of wolf nature, with muzzle, with ears in that crooked, flamboyant fashion. Those fangs, as fierce here as they were in wolf form, but longer, thicker, itching for a weak moment to tear it all apart.

Her shoulders are tiny, her body as tight as a dancers, lithe like a reed bound with muscles. Her wrists are dainty, but beyond is caught in between human hand and paw: pads line her palms, but her digits are free, and her claws are sharp, itching for motion, for the chaos that could be unleashed. She seems to pulse without moving, an ever aching need to move and to dance, to be the center -- even here, when there is only death that echos from that slender curve of her back, that lush tail that flickers in such a playful way, there is only violence to be had here. Her muzzle may curl in a wolfish smile, but she is only baring her fangs; beware, beware, that smile is as horrible as a snarl, and her eyes as if lost in time remain the same -- as fiercely independent of form as anything else about her. Human eyes. Wolf eyes. They glimmer in icy satisfaction, a grey so sharp it's as if she's devouring you from afar and it's all very painful.
Play- By: Natalie Dormer.

[INSIDE]
who you really are...
Personality:
It's a joke, really -- they all think they know her, the whore, the slut, the power-hungry mongrel chewing up the toys at the foot of the throne, itching to take it back. They think they know her: the way she wants to have him back ,the poor dear, leaving the King of all people. They think she's scum: leaving her children behind without a backward glance -- always moving away, running away. They call her coward. Coffin-bait. So many things, but the truth: they dare not say the truth.

And the truth is so simple to say: they don't know. They don't understand. Why does she smile when she should be angry? Why does she throw herself so passionately out of the King's arms and into that of a dead man? Why does she laugh at him, scorn him for the very thing she followed him for? So many questions, and they go round and round: why is she here? Is she shameless? Or has she pride? Is she a wolf, or a mouse, scurrying at the edges of their vision, lurking, waiting for weakness? is she truly part of a pack, or has the bite of the loner come to itch at her heels? They can't understand what seems to be so random -- and it is, and she loves it.

She is the incarnation of desire and whimsy. Where the capricious nature of music, of dance takes her, she follows, and she follows with passion, throwing everything she has into that miniscule path before her: but she has the power to change it in a heartbeat. One moment completely focused on that one thing, the next gone, gone, her attention slipping away like nothing more than a forgotten memory. What had she been doing? Does it matter anymore?

There are a few screws loose and rattling around in her head: dreamy unfocused eyes belie the intelligence lurking somewhere beneath the murk of all those superfluous dreams of hers. She's meant for the stage: and the world has lost it's reality. This isn't real -- no, no, none of this is. Her blood, that runs down her arms, isn't real. This isn't life. This is all fake, too fake -- so she acts out, a show, for sure. This is the stage, and it's her name they're calling: so she dons the mask, the smile, the dancing for the stage, for those greedy eyes that linger on every curve of her body.

She is without clothes here -- all those eyes on her, watching her, staring at her. The center, the point to which everyone revolves. Beckah flicks her whip, and they jump, acting accordingly. She smiles, and they soften. It's not about manipulation -- no, no, that's too simple a thing to understand. It's deeper, more powerful, and yet, yes, it's simplistic. It's animalistic. It's the adrenaline, the desire that pumps through her veins, the taste of blood and metal on her tongue as she loses herself in the fall of all this power. This intoxication of power: it's what she's become, a junkie, nothing more, and nothing less.

Henry has developed more of his mother's personality than he cares to admit: she is a creature that wants nothing to do with responsibilities. She does not work: her existence is founded by amusement. What will amuse her today? What shall be the plan? A trip back to the Islas to see her long lost son? Oh yes, oh yes, let's do that -- she'll fly, she'll swim, she'll do whatever needs to be done just to leave that lasting impression of her debut. The darling, vile thing, exists for the show, for the stage lights that come to flicker about the brilliance of her hair. It's not just the role, anymore. She's the entertainment, the one pulling the strings just to see the consequences spilling across the stage. She'll set a fire just to see your reaction -- will you run, or will you save the ones you love the most? she is in love with you without even knowing you. She is in love with your existence, with your decision.

Drugged and delusional, vicious and cruel in an off-handed insensitive way, her slanted view of the world is watched through a kaleidoscope that cannot be defined by simple words. Your pain amuses her, but she does not do it for vengeance; but she'll let you think it, for it's so much easier to act when she's been defined by your eyes: so much easier to shock you when your expectations of her have been set. She's jealous of the impression she leaves behind -- if she loves you, she'll leave a fire behind, and come to tend to it every once in a while, to make sure it continues to burn, ever slightly, ever present. Henry a womanizer? Oh little does the poor boy know. Julian, full of rage and jealousy? Little does he know the things he's inherited from this cruel, sleek creature, part dream, part reality.

Likes:
xx Power
xx Legacies
xx Dancing
xx An audience
xx Love
xx Music
xx Snow
xx Luxury

Dislikes:
oo Boredom and monotony
oo Intelligent people
oo Sneakers
oo The smell of rot
oo Hats
oo Heat
oo Interference


Strengths:
++ Agility; with quick reflexes, Beckah isn't the strongest person in the world, but she proves that it isn't always strength that brings victory.
++ Whimsy; She isn't one to get caught up in obsession - she can easily let things go with a flick of her eyelashes, if she chose.
++ Shameless; if it comes down to winning, Beckah isn't one to let her pride get in the way. If she can get something done by doing something "beneath her" she wouldn't hesitate.

Weaknesses:
--Honesty; honesty comes hard to Beckah, so even if she's being sincere, it's rare that anyone would take it seriously. After so long of manipulation and lies, it's hard to see anything else.
--Size; she isn't strong. In the gene pool of lycans, she definitely didn't get her share -- even for one her size, she's pretty low on the food chain of brute strength. If you can stop her from moving, she's already caught.
--Henry; almost a century and a half of not seeing him, he's no longer the little pup that used to follow her around blindly. She wants to return to that time of being his mother, but she can't, and she knows it.

Family Members:
Mother:
Edad || Common lycan.

Father:
Achaz || Nobility, lycan.

Twin Brother:
Amias || Nobility, lycan.

Former Mates:
Vaan Julian Niall || King of the Lycans.
Tristan Holt || Master Vampire of NYC.

Elder Son:
Henry David Niall || First Prince
fathered by Vaan.

Younger Son:
Julian Holt || Hybrid
fathered by Tristan.

History:
Ah, this is a story they all know -- but that doesn't make it any less entertaining to say right now: no less amusing to admit the truth behind it all. When did it start? When did the madness begin to eat away at all of that gentility? She loved him, once. Though she ignored the way he hungrily watched her naked flesh -- despite the way he groveled before her, adored her, lurked in the shadows with paltry gifts. They all knew the Vaan that sat upon the throne with a fierce scowl, and even fiercer disposition. She knew the Vaan from when he was uncertain, but needy, when he wanted nothing more but to find happiness -- and they found happiness, if briefly, together. They found it far from that wretched throne, far from court politics, where her wildness had it's free reign and she could run and run and run for miles with him by her side.

Their pack formed so naturally, beside them, around them, circling around strength as if they were drawn -- as if they knew the truth before she could ever truly understand it. Even then, she loved to dance, but she was too naive to think of anything other than Vaan. Anything other than freedom: until she was shackled to the throne, part of him, no longer herself. She wasn't Rebeckah, wasn't Beckah anymore. She was something else, something other -- and she was stifled, and died by slow increments. It wasn't long before she bred like all femme Alphas, like a cow on the mating mats, needing to produce an heir to satisfy the hungry wolves milling about their feet. She hated the creature inside of her, gnawing away at the rest of her sanity, feeding the noxious poison of her own delusions: she wanted to break free. But the child tied her down. Maddened by the slow progress of her pregnancy, she tried to destroy the child more than once, only to be stopped -- gently with terrible softness. Her ladies in waiting were so kind to her, looking at her with pitiful eyes: and she began to hate them.

She began to look outside of herself, outside of these stale walls, the stale air that came to strangle her at night. Beckah started to distance herself from her life time mate: showing that even wolves didn't mate for life. When Henry was born, it was with revulsion that she pushed him from within her, expunging him like some sort of virus. Cute pup or not, she couldn't stand the very thought of that gnarled creature that had eaten her strength, and leeched off of her. But the moment those eyes opened, she was tied in more way than one: her heart ached to see those gentle, trusting eyes on her: yet it cannot be said she was meant for motherhood. Beckah was more wolf than human, giving independence where independence was detrimental to the child. She ignored him, hated him, and loved him in equal measures -- he kept coming back, you see? Where her dear mate gave up the hunt after she'd been bred, the child kept clinging to her skirts. He brought her laughter in this world of tears and cruelty.

He brought warmth -- but it wasn't enough.

Soon even that was stifling. And when Tristan came into her life, she couldn't say no. Hypnotized by the freedom laced like poison in his words she fell hard in love: not with him, for he was just another man, but with the power he offered her. She was a queen of Wolves -- she could be free, at last. Yet luxury could be attained -- and she ran from the Isla, ran from that horrible world without a backward glance at her child, at her husband, without regret, without worry, with madness having festered deep and fostered by his sweet, dulcet words. Tristan wasn't a man to be trusted, but then, she wasn't a woman to be trusted. Once cheated, wasn't a person more likely to follow in those self-same footsteps?

Beckah danced in New York City. She lost herself to drugs, to sex, and the euphoria of all that gluttonous freedom, gorging herself on whimsy and desire. She wanted to dance? She danced until her legs were numb. She wanted to float on euphoric fumes? She inhaled opium like it was going out of style and spread her legs to whomever came to her claws first. She didn't discriminate, and she filled herself full of filth and hatred, overstimulated. It was during this time that she disconnected from life -- when monotony first touched her heart and she grew disinterested in things that she had once loved so fiercely. She began to remember the past, remember those tender eyes, those small hands reaching out for her: she began to remember a past that she could never reach no matter how deep into drug-infested waters she tread. It didn't matter.

She lost touch with reality, and never resurfaced. Tristan's patience waned, and his interest grew sparse, and she didn't care -- he didn't matter anymore. Yet she bred, like a good girl, though his blood was filth inside of her. Though his eyes were cruel, and no longer told her a story of freedom -- though when she bred, she hated the creature inside of her as fiercely as she hated the other one: but it was all blurry now. Like amnesia, she was erased from the Master of the City's Kiss. Pregnant, perhaps, but not important enough to pursue, she disappeared into the mist of the mid-west and over to the western sea.

More importantly, filled to the brim with drugs, and food, and whimsy, Beckah couldn't fathom a time when she hated Henry. She couldn't remember a time when she was miserable over there: only that there were those over the crest of the waters that still remembered her, and she was jealous over it. She named her child Julian thinking of those long nights in satin sheets. She named him Julian, but hated what he was: an abomination, as filthy as the father, but twice as useful. Perhaps she murmured this to him as he slept, and she caress his hair; Beckah remembers little after the birth, but the child was as clingy as the last, touching her, needing her all the time. Eventually, she grew bored of it all -- and returned the child to his Kiss, to his father with a flicker of her eye lashes, as flamboyant an entrance as her exit. She stayed among the vampires for a while before suddenly disappearing. What did she do over the next sixty, seventy... ninety years of her absence? Beckah traveled the world, from one smoke-infested hookah bar to the next, inhaling all of that sensual smoke as easily as if it were breath and she were going to follow it on the exhale. She dreamed deeply, danced emotionally, and toured for years before she found herself on Tristan's doorstep and her son a man. How long did she stay this time? Long enough to grow bored of the stench of death and filth. Vampires were hollow creatures, and she had developed delicate sensibilities.

Imbibed with that smokey insanity, she purred in her son's ear, "Come with me?" her fingers curling around his arm. She took her first steps onto the Isla with her son in tow to meet the man she left, with the son of the man she left him for. How delightful: how completely delicious this would taste as she rolled it around in her mouth. The smell of wolves, and home was sweet to her; she smiled because she knew she would be the shadow that darkened all of that happiness, and burned it all up into dust. Hate her, if they must -- but remember, always.

[THE PUPPETEER]
... behind the curtain
Alias: Circe is best, but Rinn, or Alicia (ah-lee-see-ah) works too.
Experience: I dunno. Years.
How you found us: PBS. I've been passively looking for a worthwhile rp site for months. Just started ... yesterday actively?
Other characters: N/A
How we should contact you: Any which way you can. PM, Chatango, email (less likely to be read), aim, msn (less likely to be read) etc etc.

THIS APPLICATION WAS MADE BY FROSTFERN OF CAUTIPN 2.0. DO NOT REMOVE THESE CREDITS OR I WILL FIND OUT. APPLICATION EDITED BY: (ADMINWHOACCEPTEDTHEAPPUSERNAMEHERE)

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[Vaan Niall]

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