SOURCE

22. What simple activity that most people do / can do scares your character?

Going without or with minimal sleep (under four hours). Soreana needs her eight hours. She's at peace with it now but used to go against her nature to fit more work in a day. She is both envious of and slightly intimidated by people who can consistently go sleepless or near sleepless for multiple days at a time without suffering significant cognitive impairment. Perhaps ironically, those family members who've undergone intensive training likely possess this ability—all the more reason to feel left out.

40. How do they respond to a loose handshake? What goes through their head?

With firm eye contact. She's trying to figure out if the lack of effort is due to disinterest or nerves. If they're someone she has an interest in, she adjusts her response accordingly; encourages if they're nervous or turns inquisitive if they are disinterested.

53. Who would / do they believe without question?

No one.

Not her children, not her husband nor anyone else. She can't even trust her own damn self, not for the conditioning she underwent as part of her mentorship.

It was supposed to be perfect.

Until just one night ago, Soreana's, and by extension the Black Rose's plan, seemed irreproachable. The tyrant would be removed by none other than his former ally, the Du Couteau patriarch, her husband. At this time yesterday, Soreana was already making plans for the future. She dreamt of elevating the Du Couteaus to their rightful place in the empire—at the stone table where its fate was decided quarterly. At last, they would have influence. At last, she could hope to stand up to the Pale Lady and perhaps even usurp her, in time.

Katarina had not been a part of the plan. Soreana tried to chisel her into shape for years but she was made of sturdier stuff than her tools could handle. Therefore, her education became Marcus' responsibility. His chisel was sharper, his methods crueler, and he left many scars. Soreana was disappointed but not surprised to learn Katarina had stopped following orders.

Therein lay Soreana's greatest mistake: she cast Katarina aside. 

There was no time for course correction. The die had been cast.

Soreana was attending a local art exhibition, with orders not to leave unless so told. She was a patron, so her presence was expected. More importantly, the gallery sat atop a less-known entrance into the catacombs that webbed the capital's underside.

She was inspecting the paintings for perhaps the millionth time when her stomach dropped. The simple natural act of breathing became a struggle, so she slid onto an easy chair with help from her retainer. She knew well the chills that forewarned her melancholies, but this was different. As the tightness subsided and her breathing evened out, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around, somewhat dazed, and eyed the masked figure anxiously.

—

Soreana received orders to access a smoke shop just off the edge of the Mortoraa. It was a popular hangout spot for the city's elite and a discreet enough safehouse for the Rose. Its chief usefulness came from the herbal mixtures that the patrons regularly smoked. They could mask even the foulest of smells.

Fearing another fainting spell, Soreana ordered her retainer, Nunzio, to follow. His appearance was forgettable; it was for this reason that Soreana hired him in the first place. He was slightly shorter than her, fat, and wore plain black manservant's clothes and a worn trilby in the same color. He held up a torch as they navigated the catacombs, scrutinizing their tenebrous expanse with beady downward-sloping eyes set into a round face, his twitching lips canopied by a bushy mustache. He was visibly relieved when they arrived at the exit to the smoke shop.

Once inside the establishment, Soreana took all of two seconds to accommodate to their new surroundings before stomping off like a woman possessed. She was pointed in a direction without as much as a single word. She was already expecting the worst, or rather, the worst she could think of. None of the scenarios she made up in her mind could measure up to the horror that she was about to witness.

The stench lingering about the area was an assault on the senses. She swung open the double doors, her eyes falling upon the figures at the center of the room. She recognized only one, and so took a few steps closer, inquiring about the other's identity. No sooner had the words left her lips that she recognized the man, disfigured though he was.

Distantly, Soreana heard a sharp cry, like a wounded animal. It might've even been her own mouth that produced it. 

Someone eased her into the chair beside; it might've been Nunzio, or the woman, or someone else entirely. She couldn't have known, not for the way her consciousness had lifted itself out of her body momentarily. 

She stared at her husband's corpse for what felt like ages. It was grace to the emeralds, bright still though dead he indeed was, that she even identified him. His face was barely recognizable; it must have borne the brunt of the impact. In the back of her mind crept the suggestion that perhaps she shouldn't stare too long lest this battered and bloodied face become the centerpiece of her nightmares.

Soreana stood up from the chair, swallowing down the bile that had risen in her throat.

"Marcus, are you in there? Can you hear me?" she whispered, as though he would crumble if she raised her voice. This time to the noblewoman next to him; "Is he in there?"

Soreana's hands came up to hang in the air between them, frozen in uncertainty. Her eyes, wild and red-lined, never left his face.

Legal Name: Soreana Du Couteau (married name), Sorina Cziffra (birth name, legally changed to Soreana Linzmaier at age five to reflect noble status);

Most Known As: Lady Du Couteau;

Nickname(s): Sorè;

Date of Birth: July 10;

Gender: Cis-female;

Place of Birth: Vindor, Southern Noxian Empire;

Currently Living: Bel'zhun and Noxus Prime;

Spoken Languages: Va-Nox, Ur-Nox, Modern Shuriman (fluent), Piltovan & Demacian (conversational);

Education: Roughly college level with a focus on political philosophy;

Hair Color: Dark brown (greying but dyes it her natural color);

Eye Color: Hazel;

Height: 1.68 m or 5' 6".

FAMILY INFORMATION

Siblings: Eleonora 'Lena' Linzmaier † (half-sister);

Parents: Sigismondo 'Ziggo' Linzmaier and Natalia Cziffra † (biological parents), Lady Linzmaier † (adoptive mother);

Children: Katarina and Cassiopeia Du Couteau;

Pets: Talon, Cartouche (selectively-bred magical feline).

N.B.: Soreana is the result of an extramarital affair. She was raised together with her half-sister, Lena, who tragically died young. Because the family had promised the BR an agent, Soreana was formally adopted and later recruited in Lena's stead. One day, I will expand on the effect her adoption had on her interpretation of family values and her relationship with Talon.

RELATIONSHIP INFORMATION

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual;

Relationship Status: Widowed… but practically separated;

Since when?: One year following Marcus' disappearance when he was declared legally dead.

Unprompted from @noxianwilled. Always accepting! That's assuming this little lady could ever sit still for a minute. 🙄

Beautiful crimson rivulets spilled over her fingers. The color was that much more vibrant in its damp state. Soreana braided the strands together, one over the other, again and again, mindful not to pull her hair too hard. Getting Katarina to stay still was in itself a challenge that would've been made impossible if the young girl began feeling any discomfort. The mother had learned her daughter's tells: the foot-kicking, the humming, the loud sniffles, all to let her know her patience was wearing thin.

"Trust me, it's going to look fabulous in the morning," Soreana assured her, a smile on her face. She capped the braid off with a silk ribbon and got to working on the rest.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed movement, two pink fists waving in the air. Soreana leaned over and toed the swing, which wobbled and resumed rocking from side to side. Cassiopeia cooed, momentarily satisfied.