She is totally, completely, and utterly mortal.
Not Kin, not Kinain, not pre-Awakened,
psionic, cybered or anything else --totally,
utterly, and completely ordinarily mortal
to every sense, magickal, technological or
otherwise that one might direct at her. And
every sense would be right.
Oh, she's a Dreamer; her Banality is low,
quite low. But save for that she posseses
no magick at all.
A woman of African heritage, her once-black
hair now a dignified grey, tied back in a
very short ponytail, placing her firmly at
the latter half of a human lifespan. But
her posture is solidly erect, her motions
full of energy, her eyes bright and animated,
and a look of excitement fills her face
--this lady has a lot of living yet to do
before she's done...
Your first glance of her is through the
opened door of the Pub --someone has
apparently held the Pub door open for
her as she arrives with a clatter, pulling
right up to the curb astride a mechanical
four-legged contraption that looks like a
headless steam-punk ivory and chrome horse.
Anyone so familiar would immediately
identify her dress as academic formal
-the robe, hood, black eight-sided tam
in place of a mortar board, which would
have long before flew off her head had
one of her hands not been clamped firmly
on it, her other hand holding the
steed's reins.
The robe is dark crimson, with three
black-velvet bars at each sleeve; two
black velvet panels run vertically
down her front, each embroidered in
golden thread at about breast level
with the coat of arms of her university
-- a cross ermine, lions rampant upper
left and lower right, unicorns lower
left an upper right; a book centered,
a sunburst within it's pages. At her
exposed neck rides a burst of white lace,
and one can make out the navy-blue suit
she wears under the robe.
The academic hood is golden yellow
velvet on one side, crimson and white
satin on the other. Around her neck
she wears a gold medallion, about
palm-sized, on a wide crimson ribbon;
and a long necklace/wreath of small
square gold panels, like the sigils
of office mayors in old European
cities used to wear. Anchored in
a breast pocket, worn like a badge,
is an octogon of featureless black
polished stone the size of a hand,
mounted in gold and secured with a
chain she wears like a sash.
Exquisitely crafted little earings
contrast with the simple gold band
on the third finger of her left hand.
No makeup. A handbag the size of a
lap-top computer case. Boots meant
for walking. About five-nine in
height, ordinary build, ordinary
looks.
he dawn of fantasy and science fiction were the times in which she grew up, a time when men like Asimov, Clarke, and Tolkien were bringing their worlds to life for the first time. Lessa's Ride, the Quest of The Last Gunslinger, the sacrifice of the Dream King, the battle at Dumai's Wells, through the pages of books she was there for them all. Her imagination travelled from the depths of Fae'run to the heights of the Villa Straylight and the vastness of deep space where Manticore and Haven clashed.
lex had no illusions about for what she yearned for; such a thing was not possible in her world. And even if it was, it was almost certainly fraught with extreme danger, for no world of magick could be without mortal peril. But in the twilight of her life, a life fulfilling and largely free of regret, Alex was prepared to risk much, give much for just one chance to touch the magick of her fantasies. Entering now the last pages of her own story, she no longer feared Death as she might once have.
