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I DIE WITHOUT THE TASTE OF IT

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[attr="class","freiwantmid"]CHARACTER FACTION team rocket

[attr="class","freiwantmid"]CHARACTER RANK grunt

[attr="class","freiwantmid"]FACE CLAIM Jeanne d'Arc (Alter) from Fate Series

[attr="class","freiwanttop"]ABOUT THE CHARACTER

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"And that's just the problem. The silence before the storm. Can't you feel the earthquake comin' on?

"Good, lift your head....face me... and stand.... great..."
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Flash of the lens reflected in her eyes.
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Click. Click. Click.
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A cacophany of sounds echoed in the expansive studio space. A chill air caressing sweet pale skin. Gazes fixed upon every inch of her. Studying her curves, muscle, bone structure, --breathing. A reality that she had become familiar with.
[break][break]The weight of the extensions in her hair. Lashes curled and thick. Face sticky. 'Enhancements' to her features that would be plastered on magazines everywhere in the world. She used to be interested in the statistics of her modeling career. The amount of exposure gained, money earned, etc. But now, --it was nothing more than a status quo.
[break][break] What was it this week?
[break][break] Leather pinching her thighs, belts squeezing her waist, and something that could barely classify as a shirt. Nothing practical, but since when was fashion realistic?
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"That's breaktime folks.
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What was once a silent room then filled with a myriad of voices expressing fatigue, exhaustion, eagerness. Ushered into the back, she was allowed entry into her designated changing room. Another model was getting ready for her own debut in the next room over. How much longer until she was replaced? She was getting older after all. Her pristine features were already beginning to diminish, and her style was growing into nothing more than a memory. A fab. [break][break]
Shedding the outfit like a layer of skin, it was replaced with a satin and sheer robe, the woman sitting before the mirror and unclipping the lengths of extensions at the back of her head. A rap at the door was followed by a soft, "Come in." Her voice brash, unique in tone and pitch.
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The sound of the door opening was replaced by swift footsteps. Clean. Hard. Piercing. As if each step was precise and to the point. Looking up into the mirror, Val lifted a brow at the image of the man behind her. Not a reporter. Not an agent. Something else. An opprtunity.

hey lucid dreamer make up your mind