* "i'm never really sure if i am making things worse of better by teasing her. But i am dying to find out! A wonderfully fun friend!" -- sabina |
--Randall Jarrell, 90 North
--Leonard Cohen, Anthem
Sumire is a nine-tail. Sumire is Free, of everything. Except Freedom. Sumire is all things to some people. Sumire is nothing to some people. Sumire is a kitsune dreaming of being a butterfly dreaming of being a kitsune dreaming of being a butterfly dreaming of being a kitsune. Sumire is the color purple. Sumire is the sound of the wind catching a hanging piece of fabric. Sumire is the moment in time you spent reading "Sumire," which is now gone. Sumire is apropos of nothing. Sumire may be an individual; she has yet to reach consensus. Sumire is a liar (unless she's lying about that). Sumire disavows any connection to any of this.
She glows. Not metaphorically, but literally, a faint luminescent aura that hugs her skin, her clothing (when she wears any), her fur (when she has any). The nimbus obscures nothing of her form; it is all but invisible. Even in the darkness, at times it may be nothing more than a nagging sense lingering right at the edge of perception. It is not constant; its colors shift, either with her moods or of their own volition. But she glows. It is the one means by which she might be reliably identified.
She is not amorphous; she has form. Now, for instance:
A very human body. Almost. A second pair of ears, triangular, graces the top of her head, plainly visible among a mass of wavy red hair; a bushy tail, red-furred with a black tip, extends behind her. Her teeth are slightly pointed, adding to her vulpine aspect. Rather average in height; slender, athletic, of build.
Her mode of dress is somewhat archaic: A qi-sao, blue as if a deep, placid lake had been woven into fabric, ornamented with cream piping and a scattering of golden butterflies from her right shoulder to her left hip. The garment leaves bare her face and the pale, unblemished skin of her arms, but otherwise covers her to the ankle. Yet few would consider it prudish: the top portion tends to cling to her curves like a second skin, while the long skirt is slit up the left side nearly to her waist. She wears delicate-looking slippers of the same silken material. The clothing simultaneously complements and contrasts with her eyes, whose irises are mismatched: one bright amethyst, one flecked with gold. She wears no jewelry, and has no apparent piercings, tattoos, or other body modifications.
Of course, this is simply now. Tomorrow she might be tall, busty, dark of skin and hair. Or a short anthropomorphic fox, covered with soft fur. Or male, clad in dark leather ornamented with circuitboards and bits of chrome. Or a small stone basking in the sun. She has form, always, but that form at any given moment is defined solely by her whim.
False? Oh, no. Sumire always tells the truth?. Trust her; she's a fox!
Sumire has a [LiveJournal], when she remembers it.
It's never that simple. Express yourself.