#psyche.

Outside of anyone's control, Meiko was barely two summers when her birth mother Vesa attempted to find the Woodwarder she mated with. She left the safety of her village to do so and was stumbled upon by slavers. Although too young to really understand what was happening, the toddler witnessed Vesa's abuse and subsequent murder.

Meiko is kindly taken in by Mokoko Mochikoko, but the well-meaning buccaneer did not consult his wife Kokopi before bringing her home. She bonds with him enough to feel safe with him, only to be left behind with a woman who is a stranger after a few weeks as he returns to the sea. And Kokopi -- Kokopi has her own issues.

As explained here, Kokopi was originally an information-gatherer for Lolorito who fell in love with the sea and faked her death to get out of working for him. Kokopi isn't even her real name! Everything was fine until one day there was an accident that left her dependent on a cane and covered in burns, and to this day she rarely leaves Wadewick as she felt Lolorito was behind it all. Kokopi is very emotionally reserved and low-key paranoid as a result -- and her husband came back from a voyage to just drop a child in her lap. A child that was nearly her size at two summers!

As a result of the above, Kokopi did the best she could raising a child she wasn't prepared for primarily on her own. And since Meiko was easily twice her size in her youth, Kokopi did not risk the Viera throwing a tantrum and hurting her or herself. So right out of the gate, she was stern when it came to disciplining Meiko for even the tiniest bit of bad behavior. As a result, the child strove to be an obedient daughter and jumped at every opportunity to help her mother for any sense of validation or reward.

Mokoko returned from his voyages every couple of months and would, essentially, love bomb his child and be the 'fun' parent. He never actively underminded Kokopi, but he definitely convinced Meiko to try fun things -- like her first sip of alcohol when she was six. He also never bothered with censoring anything for her, or asking others to be mindful of her age as 'she would learn about it anyway'. She'd go with him to the pub and hear all sorts of things not meant for youthful ears, from the violent to the sexual.

Mokoko also went on and on about how good Meiko was for helping out at home, how proud he was of having such a responsible daughter! This pattern would continue especially so after A'kihiko came into the picture. Then when Mokoko and his crew finally retired from being pirates, he'd oft spend most of his day in the bar -- and Meiko, starting at eight summers, would be expected to carry her drunk father home on piggyback.

While none of the above is particularly abusive or neglectful, Meiko's parents' actions strongly reinforced the idea that her value and worth was based in how she could serve others -- not herself. Meiko barely had any acknowledgment of who she was as a person before A'kihiko was adopted, and then (out of love for him, and likely a connection to him being the other half of her shard of Azem) almost solely devoted herself to his well-being. If Meiko was not caring for her parents or looking after A'kihiko... what was left of her? No one. Nothing. Any personal desires or motivations were ignored in favor of how she could serve others. All of the above strongly contributed to her anxiety and minimal self-esteem.

NOW LET'S TALK ABOUT WADEWICK.

Wadewick is a fishing town full of people with shady morals. Ex-pirates, criminals hiding out from the law, smugglers, drunks, and more. It's like a weenie version of Tortuga, really. No one in this town would be higher than level 15 if we had to put a 'power level' on them. They're not all evil, per se, but they're not law-abiding citizens and generally tend to be more selfish than selfless. Wadewick isn't on official maps because it's not a place merchants or common adventurers should want to visit.

So these neighbors, albeit not particularly nasty to Meiko and her family, didn't really give a shit about preserving the innocence of the handful of kids in the town. Maybe if it was their own child they'd make a better effort, but someone else's? No. Who cares?

They swore, they fought, they drank in excess and spoke of sexual endeavors without filter. Meiko's next door neighbors were a pair of prostitutes who ran their business in their homes, and only remembered to pull their shutters shut about half the time. Most people had the same mindset that Mokoko had -- kids are gonna seat it all eventually, so why not now? Except that none of them decided to talk about what the children of Wadewick may have witnessed to help them process it. It was just Exposure Therapy Unreal up in Wadewick.

There were even a few murders, and even a body or two found floating down by the docks where Meiko and other children would swim. Was it all horrifying? Yes! But if the adults around you don't model that horrified reaction, if they just brush it off, so do the impressionable minds around it, too.

Meiko knew it was something bad, so she did what she could to distract A'kihiko from such things when they were kids. Later in her early teen years, her friend Grymwaen ( @illwinded ) would assist in this sheltering as best they could. But Meiko herself was already far too desensitized to be properly affected.

And then, inevitably, there is the issue of Meiko being a Viera. An exotic young girl who already acted far too mature for her youthful age, and later began a very generous bout of puberty in her early teens. By this time, Mokoko was retired and often spent his leisure time challenging anyone who'd dare to arm wrestling in the pub. It was due to respect for (and sometimes fear of) him that men did not make a pass at his daughter. Those who were too stupid to be diverted by that were fortunately too intimidated by Grymwaen to do more than disrespectfully look at the girl.

Of course, even if nobody dared to open harass Meiko, it was still pretty obvious when people around her were thinking about stuff. Again, though, Meiko spent a lot of her time in the local pub where sailors would gab on and on about their conquests (often exaggerated). So although she didn't really ENJOY being ogled, she didn't bother telling people off about it as 'it wouldn't stop them anyway' and that this sort of stuff was 'normal' behavior. It didn't really help that Kokopi would agree with 'putting up with shite' was just part of life as a woman, too.

This also plays into her attitude towards working with Troupe Falsiam.

Unfortunately, Meiko wouldn't always be safe. When she was eleven summers, a drunk man latched onto her and wouldn't let go, possibly mistaking her for older than she was due to her height. Possibly. He dragged her into an alley. She managed to grab a broken bottle and, in a frenzy, stabbed him with it wherever she could reach until he did let go. She didn't even see who it was. She fled and never looked back to see if he had bled out or not. But she learned her lesson to be more aware from that point on. She never really talked to anyone about it, either -- although she will if asked.

Despite her height and rough-and-tumble personality, Meiko has always been conditioned to not take up too much space. To be as helpful as possible, to take care of others, and never be an inconvenience -- because she was an inconvenience. Kokopi and Mokoko love their children, but Kokopi's reluctance to be a mother and Mokoko's absence impressed something on Meiko's psyche. It's why she is so quick to show love to children and take care of them -- A'kihiko, Rielle, the twins, Ryne, Meteion -- because she knows what it feels like to be without love as a child, and is triggered by what she may perceive as a child in a similar situation. And yes, of course, she genuinely cares, too. But there is a definite trigger in identifying with those she can see herself in.

And then there is the shame. The shame that she is inconvenient, that she doesn't come from money or that she isn't as educated. Shame for being who she is, shame for who is she not (A'kihiko). Shame in knowing that her perceived purpose isn't based in her own accomplishments, but in being a stepping stone for others. In being ogled as a woman and as a dancer and as a Viera, for being the Warrior of Light's ill-mannered sister, but not being seen or heard.

And in assuming that everyone in the world looks at her this way, she bars the way for others who would see and hear her in the process. Inevitably, no one will care when she's no longer useful. Inevitably, no one will remember her lined up among others. Inevitably, she does not matter, and her entire life will be a struggle to be relevant and remembered. And when Meiko assists in dangerous missions and accomplishes great feats alongside the Scions, she cannot dare hold onto that achievement or pride because how dare she? She isn't special. She is an impostor. A liar. She is only a Scion for selfish reasons (looking after her brother, not protecting the realm). She isn't good enough for Hydaelyn's Blessing to be bestowed upon her at birth, she is merely a convenient backup. She is only ever good enough to be a supporting character in the grand scheme of things. She isn't smart enough, she isn't strong enough, she isn't special!

In following the Dark Knight storyline, Meiko is able to accept that all of the above is unfair and that it makes her angry. That she wants a fate other than this. But her love for her brother and the Scions, as well as her sense of responsibility for what is happening in Eorzea, is what holds her back from embracing what her Esteem desires. It isn't a satisfying solution, but at least she took that step in recognizing who Meiko was apart from someone who just supports others.

It is only when Meiko has no choice but to be the protagonist in Shadowbringers that she finally begins to sort herself out. It takes having everything else stripped away from her by force to get her embrace being the main character in her own story. It takes every Scion being put in what is essentially a death-like state for her to find her voice long enough to communicate how she feels about them. It takes being ready to sacrifice her life for the First for her to truly feel significant as a person, all on her own.

OOC

Nombre / Pseudónimo — Psyche Pronombres — ella/elle Edad — 32 Zona horaria / País — Chile -4 GMT Triggers — Nada que venga a la mente en este momento ¿Estás de acuerdo que tu personaje continúe siendo utilizado por la administración como PNJ en caso de unfollow? — No, pero pueden matarlo si lo desean. IC

Nombre — Ryan Welsh, conocido en el mundo artístico como Morpheus Nightingale

Faceclaim — Tom Sturridge

Pronombres — Él/Elle

Nacionalidad — Británico

Fecha de nacimiento — 7 de enero de 1950

Año en el que se convirtió en vampiro — 1981

Generación asignada — Decimotercera

Clan y secta — Cupo 4, clan toreador, parte de la Camarilla

Detallar el nivel que posee en cada disciplina — auspex +2 celeridad +2 presencia 0

Personalidad—

sensible. pacífico. soñador.

susceptible a la crítica. pasivo. desconectado de la realidad

¿Quiénes eran antes de ser vampiros y qué mantienen de su antigua vida? — Nacido en Londres, en de una familia de aristócratas en decadencia, Ryan es menor de tres hermanos y el único que jamás estuvo interesado en mantener el prestigio de su nombre. Su padre era hombre simple, un corredor de propiedades interesado sólo en el dinero y el estatus que el nombre de su mujer podía darle, pero su madre era toda una artista, una cantante de ópera que debido a problemas de salud había visto su carrera terminada tempranamente. Por su parte, Ryan debió ser educado en casa, debido a que padecía hemofilia y cualquier corte o golpe podía terminar en una hemorragia fatal. A pesar de que la enfermedad retrasó el desarrollo de sus habilidades sociales le abrió un mundo de posibilidades que lo llevó a desarrollar gran potencial artístico, así como también un profundo interés por la mente humana y la psicología. Devoraba tanto libros sobre historia del arte como nuevos postulados sobre el inconsciente. Creía fervientemente que existía un vínculo sanador entre las emociones y el quehacer artístico y planeaba estudiar psicología para demostrarlo, pero la fragilidad de su cuerpo le provocó un intenso miedo de salir de su casa, en cual se vio incluso más acrecentado con la temprana muerte de su madre. Recluido de la sociedad e intentando superar el duelo, Ryan volcó su vida a mejorar su arte. Pintó primero a su madre, para no olvidar su rostro, luego a sus hermanos, a las esposas de los mismos, a sus sobrinos. Las pinturas comenzaron a ganar interés dentro de los círculos que su familia frecuentaba. Comenzó a tener pedidos especiales: duques, condes y celebridades se sentaron en su estudio para ser inmortalizados. Su padre lo vio como un negocio rentable y por casi diez años pintó retratos en óleo que buscaban ser copia exaltada de la realidad, la forma en la que la gente quería verse a sí misma. Ganó mucho dinero, pero a medida que pasaban los años, sus pinturas comenzaron a volverse cada vez más simbólicas, buscando capturar el alma de la persona, su esencia. Volvió al inicio, entrando en un estado de trance al pintar, dejó que su mente inconsciente guiara su mano. Pintó a su madre nuevamente, no como la mostraban las fotos sino como él la recordaba, como la había sentido en vida. El resultado fue impresionante. Su padre lloró al verla, sus hermanos y sobrinos conversaban con el cuadro como si fuese una persona real… Las habladurías sobre la pintura llegaron a otros círculos, aquellos que se movían en el Ocultismo, muchos llegaron a pensar que el joven había atrapado el alma de su difunta madre en el cuadro, pero nadie pudo probar nada. Fue allí que el primer ser de la noche tocó a su puerta. Resultó ser una recién nacida de Lasombra que, aún buscando una forma de verse a sí misma tras su conversión, pidió ser retratada como él la veía. El resultado fue nuevamente sorprendente. La joven, hermosa y adorable, no tenía nada que ver con el seductor monstruo en la pintura. La cara era la misma, sin lugar a dudas, pero la mirada fría y la sangre en su ropa la hacían ver como una asesina, sonriente ante la idea de terminar con su próxima víctima. Ryan no sabía qué hacer, había dejado que su inconsciente le mostrara la realidad y eso había hecho. Su clienta no pareció molestarse e incluso agradeció su sinceridad… Pronto, ella se convirtió sólo en la primera de muchos vástagos capturados por su método poco ortodoxo de pintar.

¿Qué sabe sobre quien los convirtió en vampiros? — Su conversión fue una cosa que se salió de control. Quién lo mató fue una de las muchas personas que quisieron ser retratadas por él pero luego que Ryan le mostrara su verdadero rostro, lleno de codicia y odio, el vástago se molestó y terminó mordiéndolo. Agonizó durante días por la herida en su cuello, la cual se cerraba y se abría nuevamente debido a su hemofilia. Tras una semana de tormento, sin embargo, una de sus primeras modelos, una vástago toreador que admiraba su talento le ofreció la oportunidad de convertirse en inmortal, la cual aceptó inmediatamente. En el abrazo, Ryan encontró la libertad que siempre había ansiado, sin miedo a la muerte se convirtió en un viajero incansable que no para en un solo lugar por mucho tiempo.

Curiosidades —

Sela was born to Idara and Milton Musa on September 23th, 1962 in Seattle, Washington. Her parents, wanting to give their precious little girl a good, clean upbringing, left their jobs working for corporate America and moved to a small town in Montana when Sela was just a few months old. Looking for the classic simple life, the newlyweds bought a dozen acres and a decent sized heard of cattle and started their dream ranch. 

While her parents worked the ranch, Sela lived the life every little girl dreamed of; She had two horses, a buckskin quarter horse named Peanut Butter and a bay morgan named Tootsie-Roll, that she rode daily as she explored not just the property she lived on, but the beautiful forests and mountains that surrounded them. Their community was tightknit- and her family was very involved in every town event. Whether it was participating in school bake sales or the Fourth of July bonfire festival, or Sela and her mother winning the annual mother/daughter pony pageant- the Musa’s were always there.  

At least, that’s what she told herself every night in order to fall asleep in the cold, somehow always itchy bed in the foster homes and halfway houses where she actually grew up.

See, while Sela knows that her mother’s name was Idara Musa, she has no idea who her father is. Or was. All she knew- all she still knows- is that her mother gave birth to her in Seattle on August 24th, 1962. And that on August 25th, 1962, she was left in a basket on the steps of a church with the clothes she was wearing, a worn baby blanket, and a birth certificate. She bounced around between foster homes and group houses ever since. 

Up until 1972, that is. 

She’d only turned ten about a month before- a birthday that had been largely ignored by the staff that ran the group home that she’d been in for the last year and a half. This had been her least favorite ‘home’ yet; It was run by a small organization that cared more about the money the government gave them than the conditions that the children were kept in. Sure, the houses were clean- thanks to the dozen kids that lived there- and always had the bare minimum needed to pass a visit from social services. But the bare minimum often meant mealy food, lukewarm baths, and thin and scratchy blankets. And a lack of proper supervision, which lead to a rampant bullying problem. As was the case one hot, September day. 

Herself and a couple of the other smaller, younger kids were cornered in one of the bedrooms by the current leader of the band of bullies. Sela no longer remembers the boy’s name- not his real name, anyway. But she remembers the fear she’d felt at the prospect of another beating from the boy and group of hooligans. Fear that had been reflected in the kids who’d been rounded up with her. She remembers the way he laughed when he threw a fake punch and they’d all flinched. How smug he’d looked right before the fists started colliding with faces still lined with baby fat. How her own hands had come up to try to stop him.

Then she remembers how that smug look melted into something of pained horror, as his skin turned dark grey and gritty under her own hands. The lackies ran, the other victims screamed and edged away from her. She screamed and tried to round the now stone child- his fists still balled up in the air, mouth twisted in fright for all eternity. 

Shaking, she made it past the statue, only to almost run into the most prude, meanest of the staff. She remembers the older woman yelling out in shock, the other two kids pointing at her. Then the wrinkled woman started yelling at her, accusing her, grabbed her hard by her bare arm-

Then the screaming stopped. And she was stuck in the cold grasp of another statue. This one with perfectly carved stone winkles, and downward turned open mouth. 

The panic started kicking in then. She didn’t know what was happening, what she was doing. And now she was stuck, forced to face whatever the hell she’d done. Her free hand reached for something- anything- that she could use to get her out of the statue’s grasp, and found a baseball bat that a lacky had dropped. Sela grabbed it and brought it up, slamming it as hard as she could into the stone wrist. After a couple of hits, the thumb crumbled away and she managed to slide free. The young girl grabbed her emergency go-bag and ran. She didn’t look back.

For a long while she wandered, learning what she had to do to prevent more accidents. She began wearing gloves and long sleeves and pants all of the time. Avoided the bigger camps of vagrants. As a transient child and teenager, she was treated just as well as she had been at the group home. Some gave her scraps of food, a scratchy blanket. Some tormented her, showed their disgust. Most ignored her. Very few knew that she was really different. Not human. And the ones that found out threatened her enough that she’d had to take measures to make sure she stayed safe. 

Eventually, she made her way to California. And her life changed. 

Sela found her niche amongst the wild and unhinged, party loving rockstars and socialites of California’s upper-class. She started selling her statues, at first under the guise of a middlewoman, a private and exclusive seller for the mysterious master sculptor, Medusa. She’d spread her own legend, create her own supply and demand chains in dimly lit private rooms and rooftop parties, with no handshakes. It satisfied her for a few years, made her enough money for an apartment in LA and all the food she could want. 

And when the President made his announcement, she took her chance. After finding out most of them were mutants themselves, or at least knew their place around them, she exposed herself to her private clients. Told them just enough of the truth to trigger their need of one-of-a-kind collections and bragging rights. A replica, normal sized statue of David whom she’s pretty sure was actually named David before he’d said the wrong thing to her. Or the Aphrodite that she’d presented draped in real silk, some human woman that had called a man and child with moon white eyes freaks.

She started charging more and her clients happily paid. One of her best was the first to make a request for a.. commissioned piece. There was a loan shark that had tried to blackmail the millionaire for a debt his daughter owed. The proposed mark was a slimy, rat-faced, lowlife of a human. The kind of sleaze that you’d only ever go as a last resort, and only because he liked to lurk around the dumpsters behind actual loan sharks. In short- Sela had no qualms with ridding the world of him and his copious amounts of hair gel. For the right price. That first commission got her two-hundred-thousand dollars, and invites to secret clubs and parties that only opened more and more doors for her.