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- Jan 2, 2013
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Anastasia Louella
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NAME | FACTION | RANK |
Anastasia Louella | Mandalorians | Clan Fett Leader |
SPECIES | HOMEWORLD | AGE | GENDER | HEIGHT | WEIGHT | HAIR | EYES | SKIN | FORCE SENSITIVE |
Human | Coruscant | 28 | Female | 5'7" | 147lbs | Brown | Brown | Fair | No |
STRENGTH | DEXTERITY | CONSTITUTION | INTELLIGENCE | WISDOM | CHARISMA |
■■■■■■□□□□ | ■■■■■■■□□□ | ■■■■■■□□□□ | ■■■■■■■■□□ | ■■■■■■■□□□ | ■■■■■■■■□□ |
Mandalorian training and upbringing has left Anastasia somewhat stronger than average, but not exceedingly so. | The Mandalorian Firedance has left Anastasia with quick reflexes and and a strong inclination in the acrobatic field. | Extensive practice of the Firedance, and overall combat training, has left Anastasia somewhat physically fortified, despite her small stature. | After a life of poverty and homelessness, Anastasia has developed quick wits, street smarts, and a calculating mind. | The Mandalorian who adopted Anastasia and took her under his wing showed her a lot of insight about his people, and overall human condition. | Quiet, respective, and definitely polite, Anastasia comes across as having a friendly face, and being extraordinarily selfless. |
"Rain. It cascades from the heavens, mournful tears of the lives so cruelly cut short. It weeps for the weak, the disdained, the shunned. It weeps for those who are alone, and with nothing. Yet there are those still who would defy these Fates, usurping control of the destiny of someone other than themselves. Then the sky clears and the sun shines benevolently, a ray of joy—and of hope—that even one soul was spared the injustice of an indifferent world. The sun shines for them and theirs, beckoning them to liberate their kind from the shackles of oppression."
Murky plashets of rainwater cloaked the permacrete ground, an ode to a miserable Coruscanti day. Charcoal skies smothered the sun, casting scant luminous rays upon the megalopolis. Passers-by meandered the streets, some journeying to their favorite locations of the many attractions Coruscant had to offer. Others were simply going home after a rigorous day at work, umbrellas bobbing up and down with the strides of their wielders in precautionary measures to ward off future rain. No heed was paid to a small child, her arms wrapped around her legs, her head cast down at the ground as if she had just been scolded. Her clothes torn and muddied, her hair matted and grimy, she offered little more than occasional sniffles and coughs.
Anastasia, the remnants of a broken home after a devastating family split. After a sordid divorce that ended in violence, the mother and father both had their paternal rights revoked. Removed from her family and placed into the foster care of a detached family, Anastasia continued to find herself in lackluster situations. Tiring of the deteriorating situations, the girl left without saying a word. The family never reported her missing, and Anastasia faded into the ranks of the poorer Coruscanti populace. Reduced to living a life of poverty and solidarity, she was forced to dig through garbage just to find food and survive.
A shadow cast over the girl, arousing no reaction from her. As the shadow lingered she brought up her head, expecting to see a vehicle or another wayward cloud snuffing the sunlight. It was neither, the shadow instead belonging to a tall figure silhouetted against the dim beams of sunlight. As another cloud passed overhead to snuff the sun out once again, his features became clear. His face was rugged and warped with time, his frame well built and muscular. He looked the part of a street savvy thug, but there was more to him than the simplistic mentality of burglary. She knew. His eyes held all the seeming of sights of pain, but those of joy too.
Yet in spite of everything his eyes told Anastasia, she could see no immediate emotions. He was numb; incapable of feeling anything in this moment. His eyes penetrated her soul, evaluating the bedraggled mess of a child in front of him. The two held their eyes in a deadlock with one another, neither speaking a word or making a single motion. Anastasia couldn't pry her gaze away from him; something about the persona of the man in front of her had enthralled her.
"Worthless," he finally uttered, breaking the silence between the two of them. Anastasia was briefly caught off guard by the sudden vocalization, though was not offended by the words spoken. As her cognition slowly regained, she noticed something about him: his eyes. She tilted her head to the side, examining this stranger who had deigned to stop and speak to her. The girl's eyes closed as her lips drew up into a faint, heartfelt smile.
"We have the same eyes."
Suddenly, the look in the man's eyes changed. The numbness was replaced by something different; a sense of nostalgia. It was as if humanity had entered his body and usurped control, suddenly allowing him to feel again. His eyes narrowed in curiosity, and he suddenly knew nothing about this child. His previous thoughts of a weak, worthless life that was an affront to itself was replaced with something else entirely. He recalled his own rigorous lifestyle, his endless months of training with no ease of hardships and difficulty, and he suddenly saw his childhood self slouched before him. His mouth slanted as he exhumed a sigh.
"Would you like a real family, kid?" he inquired. He could feel it in his bones; Anastasia had never had a true family before. She was a stranger to love and affection, to a full life and being treated human. Her smile dropped and her eyes opened, looking up at the man. He was sincere. She knew he was. The mess of a child crawled to her feet, sniffling once again to clear her stuffed nostrils. She brought a dirtied hand to her mouth and wiped away at her lips. Whether her endeavor to clean her mouth was successful or not, it was difficult to discern, both coated in dirt.
"Yes," she replied quietly. She watched the stranger's hand reach out to her, a gesture of trust, of guidance. Her small hand raised up and fell into his large palm, calloused with war, scars, labor. Her grey eyes shifted up at his face, and the two of them shared another prolonged glance before heading off towards the shuttle station. Her new life as a Mandalorian was about to begin. The happy life she had only read and heard about in stories was about to become a reality.
Murky plashets of rainwater cloaked the permacrete ground, an ode to a miserable Coruscanti day. Charcoal skies smothered the sun, casting scant luminous rays upon the megalopolis. Passers-by meandered the streets, some journeying to their favorite locations of the many attractions Coruscant had to offer. Others were simply going home after a rigorous day at work, umbrellas bobbing up and down with the strides of their wielders in precautionary measures to ward off future rain. No heed was paid to a small child, her arms wrapped around her legs, her head cast down at the ground as if she had just been scolded. Her clothes torn and muddied, her hair matted and grimy, she offered little more than occasional sniffles and coughs.
Anastasia, the remnants of a broken home after a devastating family split. After a sordid divorce that ended in violence, the mother and father both had their paternal rights revoked. Removed from her family and placed into the foster care of a detached family, Anastasia continued to find herself in lackluster situations. Tiring of the deteriorating situations, the girl left without saying a word. The family never reported her missing, and Anastasia faded into the ranks of the poorer Coruscanti populace. Reduced to living a life of poverty and solidarity, she was forced to dig through garbage just to find food and survive.
A shadow cast over the girl, arousing no reaction from her. As the shadow lingered she brought up her head, expecting to see a vehicle or another wayward cloud snuffing the sunlight. It was neither, the shadow instead belonging to a tall figure silhouetted against the dim beams of sunlight. As another cloud passed overhead to snuff the sun out once again, his features became clear. His face was rugged and warped with time, his frame well built and muscular. He looked the part of a street savvy thug, but there was more to him than the simplistic mentality of burglary. She knew. His eyes held all the seeming of sights of pain, but those of joy too.
Yet in spite of everything his eyes told Anastasia, she could see no immediate emotions. He was numb; incapable of feeling anything in this moment. His eyes penetrated her soul, evaluating the bedraggled mess of a child in front of him. The two held their eyes in a deadlock with one another, neither speaking a word or making a single motion. Anastasia couldn't pry her gaze away from him; something about the persona of the man in front of her had enthralled her.
"Worthless," he finally uttered, breaking the silence between the two of them. Anastasia was briefly caught off guard by the sudden vocalization, though was not offended by the words spoken. As her cognition slowly regained, she noticed something about him: his eyes. She tilted her head to the side, examining this stranger who had deigned to stop and speak to her. The girl's eyes closed as her lips drew up into a faint, heartfelt smile.
"We have the same eyes."
Suddenly, the look in the man's eyes changed. The numbness was replaced by something different; a sense of nostalgia. It was as if humanity had entered his body and usurped control, suddenly allowing him to feel again. His eyes narrowed in curiosity, and he suddenly knew nothing about this child. His previous thoughts of a weak, worthless life that was an affront to itself was replaced with something else entirely. He recalled his own rigorous lifestyle, his endless months of training with no ease of hardships and difficulty, and he suddenly saw his childhood self slouched before him. His mouth slanted as he exhumed a sigh.
"Would you like a real family, kid?" he inquired. He could feel it in his bones; Anastasia had never had a true family before. She was a stranger to love and affection, to a full life and being treated human. Her smile dropped and her eyes opened, looking up at the man. He was sincere. She knew he was. The mess of a child crawled to her feet, sniffling once again to clear her stuffed nostrils. She brought a dirtied hand to her mouth and wiped away at her lips. Whether her endeavor to clean her mouth was successful or not, it was difficult to discern, both coated in dirt.
"Yes," she replied quietly. She watched the stranger's hand reach out to her, a gesture of trust, of guidance. Her small hand raised up and fell into his large palm, calloused with war, scars, labor. Her grey eyes shifted up at his face, and the two of them shared another prolonged glance before heading off towards the shuttle station. Her new life as a Mandalorian was about to begin. The happy life she had only read and heard about in stories was about to become a reality.
"Wind. It sweeps the earth, holding a plethora of different meanings to everyone. For some the wind takes with it the painful memories of yesterday. For others it represents tidings of change. There are fewer who believe the wind is the disembodied gestures of the dead, those on the other side who long to interact with us. Those precious to us who have unfortunately passed on to the other side, who have left things unfinished, untold, unexpressed in this life. They brush through our hair and across our bodies, letting us know that they are still there."
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