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Species: Vampire
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Player: Gist
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Joined: 28-June 17
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Last Seen: Aug 24 2017, 10:41 PM
Local Time: Feb 21 2018, 02:26 PM
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Miette Knox

Vampire

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Jun 28 2017, 11:13 PM
The Player



Name: gist
Contact: PM or subliminal messages in beer commercials

The Character



Name: Mỹ Tiên “Miette” Knox
Gender: Female
Age: 80-odd, looks 20-odd
Species: Vampire
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Dark brown
Height: 5’3”
Weight: 105 lbs
Celebrity Playby: Jiaye Wu

Description:

Years ago, Diệp Thị Mỹ Tiên was a dancer. You can still see it in her, if you pay attention to how she orchestrates the rhythms of her movements, how she composes the angles of her limbs when she's still -- but it’s easy to miss, too, if you're distracted by the hollowness of her gaze, which remains even when downturned lips part in a smile that suggests sharp teeth.

Distinguishing Features:

A thick French accent floating atop a rural Vietnamese accent, both emphasized by a general reluctance to surrender to the English language except when necessary -- after all, it’s basically the same as French, and that took her long enough to learn.

Important Inventory:

Set of Canon Super 8 cameras and a couple of lenses for variety
One slightly worn corner video store

History:

The Poincarés disembarked at Cochinchina in 1912, an event with which coincided the swallowing by the Poincaré Plantation of Diệp Thị Mỹ Tiên’s remote village and the small but fecund spate of ground where generations of her people had cultivated tea.

The disenfranchised were presented with a choice: stay and work the land in foreign thrall, or leave and start from nothing elsewhere. A few of the more intrepid chose the route of exile. Diệp Thị Mỹ Tiên was nearly one of their number: she might have forged a way in the world, daunting a prospect though it seemed at the time to a girl who had never been farther than the river. She was young; pretty; and not a farmer, but the niece and recent successor to the village’s late reverend Four Palaces medium, which was why the less intrepid majority begged her to stay on with them: they could not bear the thought of losing their patron goddesses along with everything else. And she did stay, with some relief and the mutual understanding that she was due certain considerations for her sacrifice.

In 1914, not a soul working the plantation could profess in earnest to having laid eyes on the Mistress Clotilde Poincaré. Stories of the nightlong parties she threw in the villa for friends, visitors, diplomats, and the dynasty had become the stuff of legend and innuendo for miles soon after they began -- but accounts varied in every detail, including those that concerned the lady herself. Competing rumors wended from lips to ears that she was disfigured and hideous, that she was delicate and could not stand the sight of the natives, that she was simply Émile Poincaré in a gown.

This Monsieur Poincaré, object of an ongoing game among the plantation women to invent more and more elaborate stories of how they planned to seduce him away from Clotilde, was famous for his chiseled chin, chestnut curls, and casual cruelty. He was known to install himself on one of the upper balconies and shoot laborers who ventured too close to the house, which certainly deterred anyone from trying very hard to catch a glimpse of his wife. So when he, wandering the grounds one night, caught Mỹ Tiên in flagrante during one of the lên đồng sessions she had been performing once a month for the past two years, she expected the worst.

What she got, after kicking and crying as he dragged her past the workers’ cabins, through the jasmine-scented garden, and into the conservatory, was not a prompt dispatch for propagating pagan traditions (the threat of which had caused her to keep the rituals secret), but a conversation she could not follow between Émile Poincaré and a well-dressed white woman, followed by an invitation from that woman to come back in five nights and perform the lên đồng in the presence of herself and her guests. At least, the translator, a Viet man with a bad eye whom she would later know as Anh Dung and Antoine, presented it as an invitation; What Mỹ Tiên understood was an edict, and she followed it as such. Five nights after, assisted by a quartet of nervous attendants and surrounded by a handful of foreigners who likely had no idea what she was doing, she channeled mẫu Thoải. When it was done, the translator thanked her, paid her for her trouble, and sent her on her way. After, nothing seemed to change, except that from time to time she was summoned to the main house to perform again.

On the sixth occasion, she arrived to find an audience of one waiting for her on the patio: Clotilde Poincaré, dressed in white lace, her hair let down, and an intense look on her face that rattled Mỹ Tiên’s nerves. Still, she proceeded as usual: sang the invocation songs and entered the trance.

At some point came the bite.

An explanation, provided long after she woke up the next morning (or many mornings after, she no longer knew; the normal flow of time stopped the second those teeth pierced her neck) drained and bleary in an upstairs room, Clotilde Poincaré’s newest prisoner, pet, and pabulum: Je voulais goûter le sang d'une déesse. Simple enough.

That was so much of what she did: simple in motivation, complex in execution. She had inhabited the Earth for two centuries -- more, maybe -- and had learned, after years of ennui and a fruitless search for meaning in philosophy and religion, science, alchemy, art, that the trick to being a monster was to eschew meaning and do entirely as one pleased, even when what one pleased grew in perversity as time crept on. And if one exhausted the mundane pleasures, then there was no reason not to venture into the lawless colonies to explore more exotic undertakings. To Mỹ Tiên, Émile, Antoine, the others who appeared and disappeared, Clotilde’s ideology meant living constantly uncertain if they would be killed or coddled, fucked or fed on. A strange sort of madness ruled the house, of which the visitors who came at night only ever felt the fringes.

In the end, it was sickness, and not the whims of Clotilde Poincaré, that felled Mỹ Tiên (by then Miette even to herself). It swept in on the edge of the rainy season and struck down the workers. Then, unsatisfied, it came for the ones in the house. Émile first, of whom Clotilde had tired anyway. He died coughing. Miette barely noticed when she slipped into the fever dream: her life was already interminable hot days and strange nights, liquor and smoke and the vertigo of being forever bled to sate a mistress she both dreaded and revered. She did notice when it stopped, pulled away by the sensation of Clotilde’s blood in her throat and the wide, black gaze of eternity which she faced down with all the wisdom of how to be a monster that she had absorbed over the years.

The remaining Poincaré departed Cochinchina in 1922. She left in her wake a failed tea plantation, a translator she would have no use for in France, and an ardent fledgling vampire armed with a lockbox of piastres and a mandate to stay put until her sire returned from taking care of certain matters back home.

By the time the Americans came, the jungle had erased what was once a village and was on its way to doing the same to the villa. But Mỹ Tiên remained, eking out an existence entertaining whatever army happened to be occupying the area at a given time with a few ghouls, unable or unwilling to shake whatever deep-set loyalty kept her waiting for Clotilde’s return. When the Americans left, there were no longer any villa or any ghouls. Still she would have stayed, if not for Knox.

Florida’s not so bad. If nothing else, it’s opened up a world of new outlets for the bad habits that she is determined to indulge.
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Jun 30 2017, 11:17 PM




Jun 28 2017, 08:55 PM



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