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pyresung · 4 days ago

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BALLAD OF THE SONGBIRD, IN DEDICATION TO FAME AS THE COLDEST THING YOU’VE KNOW: GLIMMERING & EMPTY, BEAUTY AS THE CAGE YOU’VE TRAPPED YOURSELF IN, AND THE PEDESTAL AS A FRAGILE THING⸺ALWAYS TEETERING.

NAMED ISHANI KAPAR. KNOWN AS ANA, MOST AFFECTIONATELY. DOB OCTOBER 27TH, THIRTY2 YRS OLD. ORIGIN SHIMLA, INDIA. RESIDENCE ALTERNATES BETWEEN AN IMPOSSIBLE CHIC VILLA PERCHED ON SOME ROCKED EDGE ALONG THE COAST, GLASS WALLED ON NEARLY FOR THE WOMAN WHO LOVES TO BE WATCHED & A SALCEDO PENTHOUSE. GENDER CIS WOMAN. PRONOUNS SHE/HER. ORIENTATION DEMISEXUAL. OCCUPATION PRIMA DONNA OF CORONADO GRAND OPERA, POLITICAL SPY. FACECLAIM SOBHITA DHULIPALA.

INSPIRED BY MARIA CALLAS ( MARIA ), EVE HARRINGTON ( ALL ABOUT EVE ), LINDA RADLETT ( THE PURSUIT OF LOVE ), THE MONSTROUS FEMININE, DAISEY BUCHANON ( THE GREAT GATSBY ), CATHERINE TRAMELL ( BASIC INSTINCT ).

HEIGHT FIVE FOOT NINE INCHES. HAIR INKY BLACK, LONG ENOUGH TO COURSE DOWN HER BACK, TYPICALLY STYLED. EYES DARK BROWN, DOELIKE. SCENT WARM FLORAL, MUSK FORWARD WITH LAYERING OF IRIS & ALMOND. DISPOSITION SANGUINE. POSITIVE TRAITS INTREPID, ENRAPTURING, DEVOUT. NEGATIVE TRAITS OBSESSIVE, DELUSORY, UNFATHOMABLE.

BACKSTORY.

there is a woman in a glass house, but there wasn’t always.

once, you were just a girl with too much promise, too much potential⸺though no one could say it to your face. they loved you, or so they claimed. they adored you. they placed their hopes in your voice, in your presence. you were an object of worship, a glimmering myth draped in silk, trained to be adored. but when they looked at you, really looked, they didn’t see you. they saw the echo of their own adoration. their need for something beautiful, something perfect, something that could never betray them.

you were raised by a woman, but not your mother. your mother had been swallowed whole by the world long before you were old enough to understand what that meant. the woman who raised you wasn’t particularly kind, but she was disciplined. she taught you the importance of beauty, of restraint, of suffering. she told you that a voice like yours was a gift from the gods, but only if you wielded it correctly. only if you knew what to do with it.

so you learned. you learned how to stand still and be looked at, how to widen your eyes just enough to seem doe-like, how to tilt your head as though you were listening, engaged, docile. you learned how to smile even when your ribs ached from corsetry and hunger, even when your shoes had carved blisters into your heels. you learned how to hold a room without lifting a finger.

and it worked. you became her, the woman they all wanted. the one they wrote about in newspapers, in feverish gossip columns, in memoirs penned by men who spent a single night with you and convinced themselves they knew something about your soul. they watched you, adored you, devoured you. and in return, you let them. you let them take and take and take, because you had already learned there was nothing of you left to keep.

it made the other part easier.

no one questions a woman who exists to be adorned, to be celebrated, to be possessed. you slipped through the rooms of the world’s most powerful men, hands grazing the hems of your dresses, lips murmuring soft, perfumed words into your ear. you let them think you were a fool, an ornament, a delicate thing. but you were listening. you were always listening.

you passed secrets in the space between breaths, in the curve of a smile, in the hollow pause before applause. you let them think they owned you, and in return, you took what you needed. their whispers, their ambitions, their lies. you traded information like a currency, pocketed the power they never thought you capable of holding.

and yet, for all of it⸺the fame, the worship, the danger⸺you remain untouched. unloved. they will tell stories about you, paint you in pastels and tragedy, lament your loneliness as though it wasn’t of their own making. they will call you mysterious, unknowable, divine. but they will never know you.

you will never let them. because the moment they do, the illusion shatters. and then? the glass house falls.

HEADCANONS.

boasts the sort of celebrity where you either fall by the sway of public opinion or it is simply rendered a nonfactor. ishina is admittedly influenced by the former. she needs to be loved & seen & touched. is it too much to ask for a woman to want the world and then some?

perpetually hollowed out. which is to say that the poor thing is completely insatiable and will gorge on all aspects of life to fulfill herself. still, the hunger rumbles in her belly.

a bit caged, even as a woman. partly of her choosing because she's never quite known how to cross a threshold without asking for permission first.

seldom seen publically unless it is to do something profanely mundane like feel about the mango display at the local corner grocer. home body to the tenth power, her greatest splendor is from the comfort of her home; has been papped several times waving to those passing along the shore from one of the many windows of the Glass House™.

doesn't like to be talked about but loves to know whats being said about her. will habitually keep tabs on the columns she is so frequently named in.

spends too much time in the theatre. she's been performing her entire life, and has no idea how to stop. is unsure what she would do with herself if she had to. find her on the mezzanine in the dark or in her dressing room watching the brocade of flowers wilt themselves into an early death while she touches up her parfum.

#﹠. ⠀ ⠀𝙸𝚂𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙸. ⠀ ⠀ ⠀dossier.#coronadointro

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