ARTEMISIA ANTONIA BRADY

“I don't wanna grow old. Bring me all the toys you can find.
You don't wanna grow up, you can be my partner in crime”



S H I F T E R . WORNSWORDS

My name is Artemisia but you can call me Art, or Arte’ if that's got too many syllables for you to handle. I might look like I'm pretty young but I'm actually twenty-five ; hard to believe, right? Roughly, I'm 5’3 tall, last I checked, and I'd be the first to admit I'm a little on the petite side, but don't hold that against me. Loads have people have told me how much I resemble Zooey Deschanel but personally, I don't see it.

F I R S T . I M P R E S S I O N S

As comforting as it is, Artemisia often grows tired of the constants in her life. She is young, she is reckless, and she embraces change and anomalies. Shifters have a tendency to keep to themselves and shy away from the full spectrum of mortal lifestyles. They are, generally speaking, more beast than man. To the normal onlooker, she may behave a bit more strangely than the average mortal girl, thus making her stick out like a bull in a china shop, but it is, to say in the least, an endearing trait.

She possesses this air of wide-eyed, ecstatic excitement that is incredibly contagious. Those that spend a brief bit of time in her company often find themselves acting just a little more reckless, a little braver, and a lot more fun. Activities that once seemed dull and boring now have a new and exciting edge to them. She has a way of reinventing the world that surrounds people, ensuring that there will never, ever be a dull moment, as long as she is there.

Doesn’t hurt that that petite frame doesn’t look none-too-shabby as they amble down the street with her, bouncing along at their side.

F A S H I O N . P A S S I O N

Clothing is a delight, a detail to distract herself with. Hardly a slave to fashion, her style generally reflects her current mood. If she’s feeling somber and reserved, it’s a modest sweater and some slacks. If she’s feeling happy and alive, it’s the bright, neon colors or floral sundresses. If she’s feeling alluring and sensual, it’s a dress that looks like naught more than a tea towel and pumps that add a few significant inches to that short frame. Some people have a tendency to wear their emotions on their sleeve. As usual, Artemisia Brady defies the norm, and prefers to turn her psyche into an outfit.

And don’t think that fleetingness is chained to clothing, alone. She’s always had a head of sleek, attractively dark hair. She’d forever be getting compliments on it. About a year ago, for no particular reason, she chopped it all off, and went platinum. She looked like an entirely different person. Kimbrough took to calling her Artemisia, Version Two. Bully him.

But it’s all in good fun. The clothes, the hair colors, the makeup (or lack thereof) are just outlets for expression and whimsical ideas. She’s comfortable enough with the concept of who she is, to have a complete lack of fear about what she puts on or does to her body.

D I M P L E S . A N D . T H I N G S

Oh, Miss Artemisia Brady is covered in an assortment of tiny, insignificant scars from her early years running alongside Hunter. Falling from trees, falling down hills, falling down flights stairs, falling up flights stairs—for a fox, you’d think she’d have been a bit more graceful in her youth. She was a bit awkward though—showing that sometimes the grace of our bloodlines is something that must be grown into.

Surprisingly, She’s sports some fairly unblemished skin. Nary a freckle to spot and she doesn’t tan particularly well. The only birthmark she’s got is a small, convex oval on the plot of skin betwixt her thumb and pointer finger on her left hand. It looks a bit like a freckle, but it’s far too dark, and has been there since the moment she sprang from the womb—so it’s not a freckle, okay?

She’s got several piercings—though they’re all on her ears. Bars, beads, hoops—she’s got five in her right ear, and four in her left. Her right ear sports an industrial bar, which is the most obvious of them all. The bar’s big enough to imagine there was a great deal of pain involved, but Art still describes it as a “fat bit of pressure, and a little tickle.”

W H Y . D I D . Y O U . D O . I T

When you’re a shifter, tattoos are anything but permanent. They’re also a big drain on her little funds. Only one she’s got is the typical Clan brand—“pagan hearts beat strongest” encircle her right ankle if font so scripted and floral, that it resembles more of a tribal tattoo than it does script. Which is exactly what she wanted. Script is overrated, lacks creativity.

But just because she chooses not to dabble in the world of not-so-permanent inkage doesn’t mean she doesn’t enjoy using her body as a canvas. Quite the fan of the art of Henna, there’s often so earthy, intricate self-crafted designs all over her body, for weeks at a time.

M A N . W I T H O U T . S K I N

Artemisia Brady is a charmer, a natural-born people person. Even those who cannot stand her find it hard to quite exactly remember why they dislike her when she is in their presence. Those large, innocuous blue eyes just appear so earnest, so full of life, and she exudes an excitement and a thirst for life that is simply infectious. Though she is not quite the baby of the pack any longer, those Elders who remember a time when it was the inseparable duo of Hunter and Brady, feel a bit of obligatory maternal instinct. Though completely handy-capable, she still emanates this feeling of innocence that makes those around her wish to protect her, to coddle her.

And yet, to those who can see her for what she truly is, know that she is hardly a young woman that needs sheltering. Clever to a fault, she excels at reading people and cracking the codes of the complexities of their minds. It’s quite fortunate that she isn’t a naturally spiteful and manipulative creature, because knowing how the world works, really is knowing how to work the world. Now, given she has been known to put on the pouty lips and wheeled in just the right ways, but Artemisia hardly has her own prerogative. She’s in it for the betterment of the Clan, she loves and respects all over them. She’s not about to play them like a fiddle….Very often.

However, that curiosity, coupled with that basic cunning and a desire for social interaction has been known to get her into a bit of trouble, now and then. She’s consorted with rogues, she’s chitchatted with Seers, and she’s gotten herself a human boyfriend. That complete disregard for the rules often leaves the Elders fuming and exasperated. If she wasn’t Elise’s daughter, and if she wasn’t…Arti, she’d probably have been excommunicated long ago.

She’s also quite a naturalist. Her diet centers around home-grown vegetables, fruits, and meat that isn’t product of a slaughterhouse stay. She has a deep-seeded mistrust of preservatives and hormone-injected food. A shifter’s palate is more—acute, even if some aren’t necessarily defined. When she says she can taste the high-fructose corn syrup, and nothing else, she means it. Because of this, she is constantly preaching a healthier diet to any who will listen. She’s been known to force those Elders, and even youngsters like Hunter, into eating better when in her presence. Opt for fast-food, and she’ll gab your ear off.

S H O W . O F F

Hunter wasn’t the only one being cultivated for higher positions. When he left, she was passed on to many of the Elders for tutelage.

TRACKING
Years of studying trails, and following scents has sharpened and honed those basic Shifter skills of perception. She was in line to become one of the Lead Scouts—until Hunter opted for a bit of a higher position.

RULES AND LORE
Both Kimbrough and her Mother are members of the Elite—the law makers, the movers and shakers. Thanks to them, she can recite any and all things found in the rules books, as well as the consequences for disobeying them. Hardly means she follows them, though. And ask her about anything pertaining to the Wornsword Clan’s history—go on, just ask her.

CARRYIN’ A TUNE
Art can sing. Though she’s got the vocals for it, a career in the music world isn’t really for her. After all, when your face doesn’t exactly age the same as your band mates, fans tend to notice as time goes on. She’s done a little bit of stand-up nights at the Café with a few fellow baristas. It’s a fun way to pass the time.

COOKIN’ UP A STORM
There’s a reason that she gets kitchen duty more often than naught, back at Christchurch. But she doesn’t mind—she regards cooking as a bit of a game, always throwin’ in her own little touches from whatever comes from the community gardens. You can bet it’s generally healthy—but the way in which she can whip something up delivers all the decadent taste without the expanding waist.

E P I C . F A I L

ROMANCING THE STONE
Sure, Art has had her fair share of trysts and lovers—but it’s not what she centers her world around. So much as even talk to her about lifemates or marriage, and she’ll turn green at the gills. Keaton’s probably the only bloke she’s ever taken seriously—and sometimes she has a hard time even doing that.

OVERLOOKING THE OBVIOUS
For all those shrewd skills she possesses, Artemisia still has her head pretty far up in the clouds. She’s forever locking herself out of car and home, forgetting to turn the stove off, or call before she pays someone a visit. They are exasperating, little mistakes that have many around her questioning where exactly her head’s at, or if she’s responsible enough for the title that Hunter has assigned her.

BEAT ON THE BRAT
Art may know all about the rules and regulations, but for some reason, she doesn’t seem to believe they apply to her—or she doesn’t seem to care. This is a sign of immaturity and of selfishness. Her mother made allowances when she was younger and cuter, saying that she would grow into her Shifter responsibilities. But now, she’s getting on in years and there are some still in the litter who behave better than her.

T R I C K S . F O R . T R E A T S

While possessing all of the little quirks and benefits that come with being a Shifter, there are a few that are a bit more…pronounced than others. They are:

LEYLINE LOVER
While her father may not have been from England, it’s where she was born and bred. Being the place of her birth, and all, she inertly draws up power from the earth which surrounds her. This is quite beneficial. She’s a fox shifter. While slightly bigger than you’re average fox, she’s still small by shifter standards. She needs all the little, extra power-boosts she can get.

EYES LIKE A FOX, NOSE LIKE A BLOODHOUND
She’s got some keen senses---even more so than some of the older, more experienced that surrounds her. It isn’t just earthly smells she can find—but she can catch a big whiff of fear or anger, and she can smell the blood pumping in a person’s veins. Emotions often come with physical effects, and that nose, well it can smell the chemical changes quite easily. Needless to say, it’s helped her read people many a time. And those eyes—well, the fox in her doesn’t miss much. There was a reason she was on the road to becoming quite the valuable scout before the death of the first Alpha.

L I K E S

Herbal Tea. Incense. Thai Food. Walking barefoot. Natural drugs and hallucinogens. Philosophy—think Foucault. Singing. Cooking. Exploring. Meeting new people. Shamelessly flirting. Balloons. The Circus. Frozen Yogurt. Amusement parks. Middle Eastern Culture and furniture. Her piece of shit car. Trying new things. Her job, believe it or not. Panda Bears. Hip hop (strange, no?). Hemp jewelry and clothing.?

D I S L I K E S

Sirens (so she’s racist. Whoopdefuckin’ doo). Junk food. Sugary drinks. Woodchippers. Being too close to home. Being too far away from home. Responsibility. Accountability. Commitment. Animatronic dolls. Wet cement. Road construction. Organized religion. Those giant chimichanga burritos that you buy at gas stations. Unkempt facial hair (whatchu want Grizzly Addams?)

D O W N L O W

SING IT, SISTER
So she’s often singing little snatches of whatever to herself—everyone does that from time to time, right? But sometimes she goes above and beyond that. Singing back responses in the middle of conversations---usually of the civil and serious variety. Or belting out into song at inappropriate times—like when her mother made her go to church.

SARCASM
She’s got an earnest face, so those sarcastic remarks are often taken quite seriously. Hunter was the only one who seemed to catch that brand of dry humor—probably because it was something she picked up from countless years at his side. She’s trying to work on eliminating it from her personality, but it’s a slow process.

I’LL GET AROUND TO IT
Art’s a horrible procrastinator. Unless you practically drag her by the hair, or she really wants to do it, she’ll never get on top of business. She’ll tell you she’ll do something, and forget about it the moment you walk out the door.

I M M E D I A T E

ELISE BRADY – ELITE – FOX SHIFTER – 67
She’s her mother. Although they sometimes don’t see eye-to-eye, she still loves the bejeezus out of that woman.

ANDREW AYERS– ROUGE – BADGER SHIFTER – DECEASED
He contributed a couple chromosomes, and gave her that god-awful name. Apparently there was some sort of scandal with he and mommy-dearest. She’s never heard the full story—Elise doesn’t talk about it. At all.?

S I G N I F I C A N T

THANE HUNTER – FIRST KISS – SHIFTER – 27
Now I know what you’re thinkin’ --- but it wasn’t like that okay? They were young, and curious, and there was a whole lotta’ hupla about this whole thing. It wasn’t more than a couple innocent rounds. And particularly sloppy on Hunter’s part. She still teases him about it from time to time.

THOM MATHERS – FIRST LAY –ROUGE SHIFTER – 48
She had smelled him out, slinkin’ around town. Was going report him to Kimbrough or Knight—for they usually deal with trespassers. He caught whiff of her first. He was funny-made her laugh. Drove a motorbike and wore a leather jacket. Tres-badboy? He had no intention of joining the Clan—and he wasn’t quite in control of those Shifting abilities, for one so cocksure. Kimbrough ran him off soon as he smelled him. He rode off with her virtue. Whoops.

CHRISTOPHER KEATON – FIRST MORTAL BOYFRIEND – HUMAN – 24
He’s bit younger than her—even if he doesn’t look it. Don’t ask her how he did it—cause it was completely without those shifter pheromones. But he captured her ever-fleeting attention, and has managed to keep her for over a year and a half. They’re both well-aware of what she is—and she’s even grown fond enough that she wants to selfishly change him. There are some big perquisites on that move though. Kimbrough and Callow are being assholes. And Thane…For some reason, the thought of putting them in the same room together makes her nervous as hell.

T H I N G S . I V E . S E E N

Generally speaking, bastard children are regarded as outcasts amongst Clans. They’ll accept outsiders if it means they become someone’s life mate, but illegitimate children are a tongue-in-cheek issue. They’re scrupulous with their morals. However, when you’re Elise Brady’s daughter, special treatment is generally in order. After all—the woman has a face to make most men—mortal or not—go weak in the knees, and the steely determination to rise in rank. And then she met Hunter, the alpha’s son, and everything was cemented. No one dared to give the Brady family a hard time. What was done was done.

And so the years progressed, and she had her best friend to suffer through all the catastrophes of Shifter puberty (it’s quite the time. There’s fur and hormones everywhere. Very messy business). Mishaps, adventures, and the inevitable punishments—they experienced them all together. She could never understand why her mother was always unhappy with her choice of a best friend. It probably had something to do with phalluses. She never raised a public fuss though—her daughter’s friendship helped her gain social standing, moving her closer to the Hunters.

Eventually he left—for some bloody alpha quest, whatever it was. She was upset for quite some time—went through the five stages of loss and everything. When one goes from spending all one’s time with one person, and have it suddenly drop to none, there’s not much one finds one can do. After about a year of moping, she sort of…moved on.

Soon she had her own lessons to occupy her time. Between school and classes with the den mother and Kimbrough, she was a very, very busy girl. That old, familiar Art Spark that had seemed to extinguish with Thane’s departure gradually began to grow brighter and stronger, until much of that appealing radiance and zest for life returned.

The years passed in a stream of images, each event interesting, but fluid, as if they seemed marching towards something bigger, and greater than the present. It only seemed to slow when she met Topher.

Initially, he was just the corporate kid that worked across the street from the little café in which she worked. He was forever making errands, getting complex orders for the big Whigs above him. She’d tease him, asking him how it was to be the corporate lackey—he’d ask her how it was, being an idealistic bohemian, and poor. He was funny—clever. He reminded her of Hunter—or at least, a fifteen year-old Hunter. It was that laid-back easy-going humor that he tried to exude. In reality, she could all but taste the awkward, self-conscious undercurrents. It was adorable.

Four hundred dollars worth of hot beverages later, he finally asked her on a day. She told him it had taken him long enough. Honestly, she had just expected something short and sweet. That sort of thing was fun for a while—but eventually it bored her. A year and a half later and there was still only Topher. Sometimes, when she finds herself sitting, with nothing to do, she marvels on the circumstance.

H E R E . A N D . N O W

T And then Knight died, and all hell broke loose in Christchurch. There was squabbling, even a few fights over who would temporarily lead. It wasn’t that everyone was power hungry—the need for a leader—even a temporary one, was crucial to the survival of the pack. A headless clan was open to attack from other clans, from sirens, and most importantly, hunters. Of course, it was Kimbrough who rose to the challenge. Being elite, and probably one of the eldest in the clan, he had the experience and the respect of the clan majority—even over Callow, who at the time, had just been promoted to Beta. Art knew she had to call Thane, to bring him home, even if it was early. The group would follow a temporary Alpha, but the pack would never really be whole until a hunter led it. It was Hunter blood that bound them all together, and the lack that would drive them apart.

And so she made the call. She brought Thane hunter home.

You can call me mae and I'm in the central standard time zone. You guys suckered me in with the sex appeal and I guess I'll be sticking around to post some per week. Tell you something though, I want to spend a day in lexxi’s brain. 0.0

whisky. tango. foxtrot.

R P . SA M P L E

. C O N G R A T U L A T I O N S .
guess that means they like you

You've made the ranks as a Shifter, love, very well done indeed.
So what're you waiting for? Get to the good stuff already and go rip
some throats out!

.. or post your plot page if you're into that kind of thing.