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Olivia Diogenes
Olivia Aethelind Diogenes
Character Race:
Arli-Medvedara Romani, Demeter clan
Sulukule, Istanbul
Character Portrait:
Character Portrait
Liv. Known as "Lethe" in the cat burglar world.
Liv was a tangle of honey hair, caramel skin and cappuccino-foam sheets. She was a vision of liquid silk, sweet and creamy on the tongue. It must have been hard to leave her that way. She hugged a braided coil of the covers as it wound across her stomach, down between her legs and curled to a cue around a calf. It was more like a declaration than a question mark. Though it had a hint of both.

She murmured to herself as she slowly woke. The kiss of a dream was soft and cloying on her mouth. He must have starred in it because her hand slithered across the bed to find him before she was even awake- instinct. Expectation. She rolled, exposing the warm violin curve of her hip to the air, like she was painting in dream-adagio silhouettes. When she didn't find him, or his warmth, with her hand she finally roused. Her eyes were a clarion call in comparison to the susurrus sepia of the vague, nascent morning. The ice blue of her eyes winked open and a wicked game of excitement and disappointment played upon her features. They warred there for a moment before they shattered in the sunbeam of her smile -- transformed into exuberance.

She inhaled like a gathering storm. Elation was alive and ebullient on her skin --and how it danced. There was nearly a scramble as she sat up. Briefly, she clutched the coil of sheet against her and then realized this was a silly affectation. She reached for the box as she crossed her coltish limbs. She pulled the card from its placement and pulled it to her, reverently stroking a fingertip over the paper before opening it. As she did she brought it to her nose and smelled it. She had always enjoyed the scent of parchment... but she was also scandalously in love with the nature of scent and how it lingered in her cells when it was related to him. She read the note with reverence-- steady, like pouring syrup. She let every syllable lap at and envelop her.

Her smile was almost chaotic, it was so hard to reign in. In the morning sunlight she bit her lip and cooed such a sound of delight it made the apples of her cheeks lackluster in comparison. She inhaled, catching her breath in childish anticipation. She pulled the ribbon slowly, like it was a piece of lingerie and a perfect evening had just started. She even undid the paper with loving ceremony-- every aspect savored. There was a hitch to her breathing as she pushed her fingers inside, and the inhale had a delicate tremulo that remained long past its time and its due.

First she pulled from the box the hair piece. She held it in her palms like an artifact she just lifted from its case, coveted and cherished and long-hunted, before placing it upon the white sheets. The shoes she also stroked, similarly. Picking them up in the sunlight and letting them sparkle and make light of her heart. She laughed quietly, and under her breath she wound his name -- an affectionate assignation with her tongue.

It took both her hands to steady the anticipation for what else was in the box. She smoothed her palms over paper and peeled it away. There was something a little naughty in the simple, youthful greed that glittered in her gaze as she exposed the dress with apportioned flirtation. Perhaps a portent of things to come. This revelation was mirrored then by a long, slow sweep of her hands over the fabric of the dress before she even lifted it out of the box. She caressed the beading, she fondled the sheer fabric with unbridled curiosity and adoration. The deep way she breathed made her chest rise and fall in sonorous tempo, so similar to the morning thunder of her pulse.

She lifted the dress carefully out of its trappings. As it rose it unfolded and painted a picture of her-- a ghostly dance partner. Her smile shivered and she could nearly not contain herself. With a graceful sweep of her arm behind the waist of it, she hugged the silhouette to her naked chest, and flopped back onto the bed with a soft, giddy sound. She was a girl in a dream, lost in the clouds, a halo of sun-spun hair. Alone, but never alone-- not with the way she held him in her mind's eye and ached in her heart-- Writ, it said. Over, and over, and over again.
The sound of the alarm was already faint in the distance. The sirens had stopped, but the team that had entered the museum had not been given insight nor instruction as to the taming of the screaming security system. Something about the night being violated by that cacophony, long after she had escaped the cavernous, looming building, made her smile. It was a rascal's smile. A mischief-maker's archetypal trademark set in the cream of her pale features and framed by a halo of her parchment-honey hair. Loki himself would have toasted that smile.

He also might have been a little daunted by the sharp way her sky-pale eyes snapped a fast, carnivorous attention. Though it reminded one of a whip-crack, a punctuation, it was reverent. It assessed. It paid its dues with efficiency and candor. But when Liv looked at you, really looked at you, it consumed you-- hooked at the mouth and reeling you in. It drank from some fount of sincerity you often forgot you still protected at the core of you and returned it just a little less full. She took a sip of what the devil's drinking. Her gaze was a measured surveillance that made notes as spidery and intricate as the schematics she would scratch out in her black notebook. You were reduced to a pile of intuitive, hypervigilant anecdotes in the margins. It was as reductionist as much as it was non-judgemental. She considered herself a social constructivist, to be honest. A free-wheeling champion of entropy and inertia here to shake it up a little. And when Liv wasn't lying through her pretty, petal-shaped mouth she was completely, and utterly sincere. Devil-may-care. Just like that f**king smile. Immortally, demonically, ...charming. It made you forget the notebook. The planning. The artifice and artistry. One way or another she was getting in, and she was going to get what she wanted. Even if it was just to make you laugh-- helplessly.

She was smiling like that as she closed the door behind her- silent as snowfall on a starless night. She dropped into her overly-comfortable chair, pulling her satchel into her lap and crossing her legs casually as they were thrown over the plush armrest. She was tall, lithe, and had coltish gymnast-limbs that were sculpted by the circus and the stage but she had found a better use for them. Stereotypes could be badges of honour. Or excuses. Or destiny.

She pulled the medieval book out of her bag and ran the tips of her soft, kid-leather gloves over the cover of the book. Patient-- drawing the moment out like exquisite taffy made of precious, soulless time. She opened the manuscript in her lap, turning a page to inspect the first plate. It was beautiful. The vibrant colours and gold-flake danced like a portal to a dream nestled in her black silhouette in the dark. The monk had been a Master. She sighed the sigh of satisfaction-- of completion and hard work paid off. It was post-coital and she fought the urge to grab a cigarette.

"Mm," she purred into her lonely apartment.

She'd call the buyer tomorrow. Tonight, she was going to see what all the fuss was about.

"You know what charm is: a way of getting the answer yes without having asked any clear question." -- Albert Camus

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