This is the beginning of the goodwill log of Alta.

Standing at five feet and five inches, she has a certain good will about her.

Current Goodwill

0

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Alta Carmesí

The Imago

That nauseating mural. It took the end of her world to escape that cycle–She must focus on what is to come, now, for there is nothing to be gained when one retreats into the past.

Her Surface

Alta stood atop the gently swaying dinghy, its ship long since dragged to the depths. Her eyes were on the calm waters–Reflective and nearly true, the obscured image of a woman looking back up to her. That woman in the water may have been broken up by the ripples over time, but her form was still clear enough to recognize: A body of drooping posture led up to serene eyes on a face framed by orderly braids, asymmetrical bangs, grey hairs visible at the roots–A little too early to be expected of her apparent age.

Somberly, the reflection smiled.

<More to come...>

Description Quick Reference

Her Heart

It was that perfect sort of silence usually only felt in the stillness of the morning. She listened closer–Not for the tension between her and her foe, but for that steady rhythm, always there, ever quiet but felt in her heart. And there it was, that beautiful tune coming from the floor, her breathing… Her heart. All came together to produce that Song, so complex as to sound like a cacophony to any other. But it repeated, it always repeated. Alta smiled–The movement of her lips another part of the Song–And opened her eyes, meeting the hostile stranger’s face as he approached, caution in his demeanor.

Alta began towards him in turn, the rhythm of her movement given over to the Song–No, the rhythm of her movement now part of the Song. It didn’t seem it, but it was a dance, a dance as easy as sailing the way of the winds.

The stranger may not have known it, but he would join in the tune, soon enough.

<More to come...>

Personality Quick Reference

Her Past

The boy ran, as fast as he could through those woods, the snow biting at his feet. He was going nowhere, the cabin still visible, that red-haired girl staring hatefully his way. Yet he couldn’t scream–All that came out was a dull, monotone groan. He collapsed–Into a field of little orange flowers. The poppies, those horrible little flowers that had tormented him, overgrown his canvas. The forest was gone, just the field left under that turquoise sky, the nauseating feeling building within him.

“Wonderful work… Yet I can’t help but notice your woeful composition. All jute and timber–You don’t even know what you’re a mimicry of, do you? Truly, you live in a stage play.” The man in his periphery spoke so assuredly, he thought it must be true. It didn’t matter—There was no hesitation to reply.

“Ah, but you see, I am made whole by the performance itself! I create myself through my conceptualization—” He looked at his face.

…And awoke, cold sweat clinging to his skin underneath his sleepwear. The waking present was a warm welcome of sorts, at least. Sighing uneasily, yet quietly, as not to wake the man sleeping by his side, his eyes met the ceiling. He wondered, sometimes, how easy it really was to see. He glanced back to the other, lingering no longer than a moment.

It was a cold night in Storm’s Landing–He never got along with the chill, really, but some fresh air would do him well regardless.

Quietly, the man slinked out.

<More to come...>

Background Quick Reference