- Joined
- Mar 19, 2017
- Messages
- 12
- Reaction score
- 5
NAME: Phynistra Lux
FACTION: Independent
SPECIES: Human
AGE: Roughly 34 Standard Years
GENDER: Female
FORCE SENSITIVE: Yes. Trained.
APPEARANCE:
Tall. Stately. Auburn to copper-iron hair. Waist length but usually worn in a bun under her hat. Seldom uses makeup though is a dab hand at disguise. Pale hazel eyes. Strong, aquiline features. Few laugh lines (she doesn't seem to laugh much.) Usually wears a hunting cap, thick bantha-leather boots, and an overcoat. And of course a scarf.
Most would not call her a beautiful woman but she is striking and driven with a sort of... is poly-mindedness a word? Her intelligence flows out of her: molten, lubricious. And so she presents the world and it presents itself to her.
ATTRIBUTES & PERSONALITY:
Highly intelligent but sarcastic, isolated, and confident. Perhaps overconfident (Byronic, yeah?)
Has a loathing of bananas (VILE) a curious fear of mimes, and a secret love for socks.
BIOGRAPHY:
Where there is no imagination, there is no horror.
In a cramped airless room, a tall thin woman paced. Her steps were edited, cut by the small black drawer near the radiator, by a stack of books so oft-handled that their bindings were smuged yellow and brown, by a transparisteel case whose guts were stuffed with queer mementos. There an aigrette from an Aruzan Water Dancer. A rare molted Krayt scale, preserved in a cloying-sweet substance. Flowing Rakatan glyphs pressed on a dainty silk kerchief.
Every few seconds, and in so brisk a pace as to measure a circuit of her small office, the woman would stop, and take in a deep breath. During these interludes her feet would stop and curl peeking out from beneath her long faded overcoat, if one were to peek just from behind her. To such a woman, made as she was of logic and nerveless alabaster, they were physical supplicants of a weariness that could only be allayed by...
But that was no good.
For weary she was. Even her intentionally a-shabby sanctorum seemed now to have its arts and spells turned against her. The oppressively thick air, which in days past gave a sinuous solidity in which one could think choked her. Its smallness, a testament to parsimony, to living in the economy of one's most-attained self, seemed pointless --no! worse!-- a type of self-indulgence.
She made another circuit of the room and then with a fatalist flourish opened the unusually thick windows.
Sound poured in. Noise. Supernal cacophony. Wondrous lovely din.
A sigh. And she sat.
She reached for a crystalline jug on the centre of the desk and frowned at its lately-familiar occupant before pouring herself a measure of that peculiar juice --water.
She shut her eyes.
The air wove itself with the noise and the room's natural standing sound seemed to equalize with it until she and Her Burden (christened with the usual rot: hemicrania... pain, thoughts slow... for her, but fast enough for most cattle, a tongue that felt xeric and yet simultaneously spongy) could grapple.
A particular pinion was interrupted by a creak of her door. One eye flew open.
A man in elegant --though not well-pressed clothes-- stood. Corellian waistjacket. Pants cut in thin Coruscanti fashion. Over his shoulders, hunched with some phantom pain was the skin of some poor exotic beast.
Phynistra snorted.
"May I help you?"
"You are... erm..." the man's decorous and slightly-high pitch annoyed her, but then most people did. She thrummed her fingers on her desk, as her visitor finally found a (well, damn) rack for his hat (a horribly boxy thing that he had bought in the lower sectors to presumably blend in.)
"You are Phynistra Lux... the detective?"
"I often don't have the pleasure of having my identity confirmed to me in my own environs," she drawled, "But yes, precise enough."
"I see. I'm here to... well it's a tricky situation really."
"Tricky enough that only my services would suffice?" She rubbed her temples a moment before leaning forward to bring a cup of water to her lips.
Her sipping was loud enough to match with speeder traffic.
The man in the expensively unattended-to clothing was discomfited but hid it well a cool kind of doggedness to his mien.
Admirable. Indubitably correct. Dull.
"Well go on then... is it Lord? Or is Prince-Admiral still in fashion?"
The man blinked, "I'd ask..." he began but finished sotto voce, "Not that it matters. Em. Yes. I am Lord Keldrin."
Her eyes were cloudy with lancing pain, but she focused on him and his words.
"Corellian, if memory serves. You'll forgive me for not being sufficiently overawed by your temporal power, milord." She paused, "And I only have water if you need a drink." (She eyed his glovéd hands twisting nervously and wearing out the silk in his fingerpads with sheer nerve)
He seemed to ignore her half-hearted sneering, though perhaps it was merely good breeding, which at least ably fed her spot of contempt.
Lord Keldrin sat down. Without asking. (Get less comfortable chairs)
"You see it's about--"
"--Your wife."
He blinked and looked --the great fool looked bemused. And pleased. Bemusedly pleased.
Phynistra stifled a groan and forestalled his --"Astonishing, but how did you do that, Ms. Lux?"-- with a languid wave of her hand.
"You'll forgive me Lord Keldrin," she remarked in a tone that certainly did not ask for any forgiveness, "But marital issues are not my bailiwick. If I had colleagues that I regularly shuttled for on these matters, I'd certainly recommend them to you now if you would--" she waved her hand again.
It did not seem to have the same power to evaporate the man as it had his speech. If anything, his placid demeanor became supplicant.
Oh bloody hell.
"I... you don't understand Ms. Lux!"
"She's been ill-at-ease lately?"
"Well yes."
"Less often at home?"
"Decidedly."
"Distant in her affections?"
"I begin to understand your line of questioning Detective."
"Perspicacious. Tedious. I do not take tedious cases, Lord Keldrin."
Silence. More sipping.
"Surely you can understand, with my family's holdings and status that em--"
"Are you accusing your wife of anything sordid?"
"No! At least I very much hope I am not. But you can see the possibilities that others might be..."
(He trailed off visibly distressed. Phynistra did not offer him water.)
"Certainly. Tawdry possibilities. Salacious ones. Some even involving a great deal of agiotage. But scale, Lord Keldrin, means not a whit to me. A case or --let us take to a flight of fancy-- a person can be very large and very decidedly dull."
Silence.
"I am of course sorry to be unable to render my services," Phynistra stood and her usual silkiness deserted her as her brain began its boiling stage (Ah there it goes) Hot freshets of pain scalded her head from the inside.
With a frowning moue of decision, her noble guest slapped down a folded slip of paper on her desk.
Doubtless a sum great enough to buy many services. Now we truly become tawdry.
Still, she had a responsibility not just to herself and her quest for Reason and Truth and all that rot and so she flipped it open. Her head cleared, not with the heady haleness of good health, but with a sense of great foreboding as she stared at the mark.
For once, the silence in the room was drawn and fed by her.
Her voice found purchase at last.
"I... see. And you know what this mark is?"
"Not... it seems to me... Not so well as you Ms. Lux."
She poured each of them a glass of water.
"And well that you do not," she said heavily, downing her own glass with a sloppy glug before staring right at her guest.
"Very well Lord Keldrin. Tell me about your wife."
SKILLS:
- Criminology
- Anatomy
- Chemistry
- Forensics
- Psychology
- Can speak Shyrriwook!
- High tolerance for alcohol
- Good markswoman
- The violin (naturally)
- The Art and Science of Deduction (she has a holosite!)
- Some training in the Force, though she's no Jedi Knight
- Does it count as a skill if she's pants at driving? Because she is. Ah well. Mark it as an anti-skill.
GEAR:
Stun baton. Standard-issue blaster. A lighter with a small holo-projector on the sparkwheel. Her scarf is extensible and can become electro-rigid to form a parachute.
ROLE-PLAYS:
None yet!
FACTION: Independent
SPECIES: Human
AGE: Roughly 34 Standard Years
GENDER: Female
FORCE SENSITIVE: Yes. Trained.
APPEARANCE:
Tall. Stately. Auburn to copper-iron hair. Waist length but usually worn in a bun under her hat. Seldom uses makeup though is a dab hand at disguise. Pale hazel eyes. Strong, aquiline features. Few laugh lines (she doesn't seem to laugh much.) Usually wears a hunting cap, thick bantha-leather boots, and an overcoat. And of course a scarf.
Most would not call her a beautiful woman but she is striking and driven with a sort of... is poly-mindedness a word? Her intelligence flows out of her: molten, lubricious. And so she presents the world and it presents itself to her.
ATTRIBUTES & PERSONALITY:
Highly intelligent but sarcastic, isolated, and confident. Perhaps overconfident (Byronic, yeah?)
Has a loathing of bananas (VILE) a curious fear of mimes, and a secret love for socks.
BIOGRAPHY:
Where there is no imagination, there is no horror.
In a cramped airless room, a tall thin woman paced. Her steps were edited, cut by the small black drawer near the radiator, by a stack of books so oft-handled that their bindings were smuged yellow and brown, by a transparisteel case whose guts were stuffed with queer mementos. There an aigrette from an Aruzan Water Dancer. A rare molted Krayt scale, preserved in a cloying-sweet substance. Flowing Rakatan glyphs pressed on a dainty silk kerchief.
Every few seconds, and in so brisk a pace as to measure a circuit of her small office, the woman would stop, and take in a deep breath. During these interludes her feet would stop and curl peeking out from beneath her long faded overcoat, if one were to peek just from behind her. To such a woman, made as she was of logic and nerveless alabaster, they were physical supplicants of a weariness that could only be allayed by...
But that was no good.
For weary she was. Even her intentionally a-shabby sanctorum seemed now to have its arts and spells turned against her. The oppressively thick air, which in days past gave a sinuous solidity in which one could think choked her. Its smallness, a testament to parsimony, to living in the economy of one's most-attained self, seemed pointless --no! worse!-- a type of self-indulgence.
She made another circuit of the room and then with a fatalist flourish opened the unusually thick windows.
Sound poured in. Noise. Supernal cacophony. Wondrous lovely din.
A sigh. And she sat.
She reached for a crystalline jug on the centre of the desk and frowned at its lately-familiar occupant before pouring herself a measure of that peculiar juice --water.
She shut her eyes.
The air wove itself with the noise and the room's natural standing sound seemed to equalize with it until she and Her Burden (christened with the usual rot: hemicrania... pain, thoughts slow... for her, but fast enough for most cattle, a tongue that felt xeric and yet simultaneously spongy) could grapple.
A particular pinion was interrupted by a creak of her door. One eye flew open.
A man in elegant --though not well-pressed clothes-- stood. Corellian waistjacket. Pants cut in thin Coruscanti fashion. Over his shoulders, hunched with some phantom pain was the skin of some poor exotic beast.
Phynistra snorted.
"May I help you?"
"You are... erm..." the man's decorous and slightly-high pitch annoyed her, but then most people did. She thrummed her fingers on her desk, as her visitor finally found a (well, damn) rack for his hat (a horribly boxy thing that he had bought in the lower sectors to presumably blend in.)
"You are Phynistra Lux... the detective?"
"I often don't have the pleasure of having my identity confirmed to me in my own environs," she drawled, "But yes, precise enough."
"I see. I'm here to... well it's a tricky situation really."
"Tricky enough that only my services would suffice?" She rubbed her temples a moment before leaning forward to bring a cup of water to her lips.
Her sipping was loud enough to match with speeder traffic.
The man in the expensively unattended-to clothing was discomfited but hid it well a cool kind of doggedness to his mien.
Admirable. Indubitably correct. Dull.
"Well go on then... is it Lord? Or is Prince-Admiral still in fashion?"
The man blinked, "I'd ask..." he began but finished sotto voce, "Not that it matters. Em. Yes. I am Lord Keldrin."
Her eyes were cloudy with lancing pain, but she focused on him and his words.
"Corellian, if memory serves. You'll forgive me for not being sufficiently overawed by your temporal power, milord." She paused, "And I only have water if you need a drink." (She eyed his glovéd hands twisting nervously and wearing out the silk in his fingerpads with sheer nerve)
He seemed to ignore her half-hearted sneering, though perhaps it was merely good breeding, which at least ably fed her spot of contempt.
Lord Keldrin sat down. Without asking. (Get less comfortable chairs)
"You see it's about--"
"--Your wife."
He blinked and looked --the great fool looked bemused. And pleased. Bemusedly pleased.
Phynistra stifled a groan and forestalled his --"Astonishing, but how did you do that, Ms. Lux?"-- with a languid wave of her hand.
"You'll forgive me Lord Keldrin," she remarked in a tone that certainly did not ask for any forgiveness, "But marital issues are not my bailiwick. If I had colleagues that I regularly shuttled for on these matters, I'd certainly recommend them to you now if you would--" she waved her hand again.
It did not seem to have the same power to evaporate the man as it had his speech. If anything, his placid demeanor became supplicant.
Oh bloody hell.
"I... you don't understand Ms. Lux!"
"She's been ill-at-ease lately?"
"Well yes."
"Less often at home?"
"Decidedly."
"Distant in her affections?"
"I begin to understand your line of questioning Detective."
"Perspicacious. Tedious. I do not take tedious cases, Lord Keldrin."
Silence. More sipping.
"Surely you can understand, with my family's holdings and status that em--"
"Are you accusing your wife of anything sordid?"
"No! At least I very much hope I am not. But you can see the possibilities that others might be..."
(He trailed off visibly distressed. Phynistra did not offer him water.)
"Certainly. Tawdry possibilities. Salacious ones. Some even involving a great deal of agiotage. But scale, Lord Keldrin, means not a whit to me. A case or --let us take to a flight of fancy-- a person can be very large and very decidedly dull."
Silence.
"I am of course sorry to be unable to render my services," Phynistra stood and her usual silkiness deserted her as her brain began its boiling stage (Ah there it goes) Hot freshets of pain scalded her head from the inside.
With a frowning moue of decision, her noble guest slapped down a folded slip of paper on her desk.
Doubtless a sum great enough to buy many services. Now we truly become tawdry.
Still, she had a responsibility not just to herself and her quest for Reason and Truth and all that rot and so she flipped it open. Her head cleared, not with the heady haleness of good health, but with a sense of great foreboding as she stared at the mark.
For once, the silence in the room was drawn and fed by her.
Her voice found purchase at last.
"I... see. And you know what this mark is?"
"Not... it seems to me... Not so well as you Ms. Lux."
She poured each of them a glass of water.
"And well that you do not," she said heavily, downing her own glass with a sloppy glug before staring right at her guest.
"Very well Lord Keldrin. Tell me about your wife."
SKILLS:
- Criminology
- Anatomy
- Chemistry
- Forensics
- Psychology
- Can speak Shyrriwook!
- High tolerance for alcohol
- Good markswoman
- The violin (naturally)
- The Art and Science of Deduction (she has a holosite!)
- Some training in the Force, though she's no Jedi Knight
- Does it count as a skill if she's pants at driving? Because she is. Ah well. Mark it as an anti-skill.
GEAR:
Stun baton. Standard-issue blaster. A lighter with a small holo-projector on the sparkwheel. Her scarf is extensible and can become electro-rigid to form a parachute.
ROLE-PLAYS:
None yet!
Last edited:
