Description

Mask

To the unknowing eye, Alyss is striking in a way that feels deliberately timeless, like someone pulled from a forgotten fairytale and dropped into the present. She looks like a woman with stories written into her bones—and secrets she’s not yet done telling.

Alyss walks through the world like a riddle wrapped in satin and steel. In her Mask, she looks like the type of woman you’d see in a magazine and swear she was famous—even if you couldn’t quite place what for. Maybe a musician. Maybe a model. Maybe something stranger.

She’s got sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, the kind that scan a room like they’re reading it for secrets. Her hair shifts between messy updos and long, inky waves with streaks of color—sometimes copper like oxidized pennies, sometimes midnight blue. There’s always a piece of her that looks deliberately unfinished: a tear in a lace cuff, a safety pin where a brooch might belong, a lipstick smudge that looks like a kiss or a curse.

Her clothing blends Victorian silhouettes with punk aggression and dark fairytale whimsy. She wears corsets over band tees, fishnets beneath silk, and long coats that sweep the floor like something out of a gothic romance novel. Her accessories tell stories: antique rings worn on the wrong fingers, lockets that don’t open, ribbons printed with text in foreign or forgotten languages. One day it’s platform boots; the next, vintage heels that look like they walked out of a haunted ballroom.

The scent of old books and clove smoke clings to her like memory. People glance twice—sometimes entranced, sometimes unnerved. They call her dramatic. Intense. Unforgettable. They’re not wrong.

She speaks in a low, smooth voice that can soothe or slice depending on what you need. And when she laughs, it’s like hearing the punchline of a secret only she knows. She’s always composed, but never quite tame.

To mortals, she’s just different—eccentric, perhaps, or an artist playing a character. But the Lost? They see the shimmer in her shadow. The strange glint in her eyes when she tells you a story. The way mirrors sometimes catch her twice.

Mein

Alyss is a stitched fairytale come unraveled and rewoven, an elegant nightmare shaped by needles and narrative. Her hair flows ink-dark and glossy, like the final line of a bedtime story not yet read aloud, with a single streak of white at her temple like a sliver of moonlight caught in shadow. Her eyes are twin green flames, too bright and cunning for innocence, always watching—always reading.

Her skin has the sheen of pressed parchment, smooth and cool, laced with faint stitching at the joints, as though her body was pieced together from the pages of forgotten tales. When she speaks, the air ripples slightly, as if the world holds its breath to hear what story she might spin next.

She wears a high-collared dress in raven black, tight at the waist with corset-like stitching and intricate buckles that seem more arcane ward than fashion. The fabric shifts subtly in the light, revealing layers of embroidery in thread-of-autumn-gold and blood-ruby red: broken crowns, tiny thorns, crescent moons, and motifs that flicker between alchemical signs and the suits of a playing card deck. The apron at her skirt’s front bears the faded marks of other Realms—sigils from Wonderland, Neverland, and stranger places still.

Her fingers are long and gloved, ink-stained at the tips, and each knuckle gleams with a fine silvery pin, like the heads of sewing needles or the pricks of fates yet to be sewn. She smells faintly of dry leaves, worn leather, and candle smoke.

When she moves, it’s like watching a marionette who cut her own strings—deliberate, graceful, a little uncanny. Her shadow sometimes doesn’t follow her exactly, lagging half a heartbeat behind, and it flickers with shapes from old stories: a cat’s grin, a pirate’s hook, a spinning wheel, a castle on fire.

And when she smiles? It’s the kind of smile that could start or end a story. Or both.

Role-Playing Hooks

She is the sort of woman who knows the weight of silence—and how to break it with the perfect, cutting word.

✂️ The Seamstress of Stories

Alyss is a storyteller, yes, but more importantly: she is a re-writer. She understands that narratives have teeth—and she knows how to pull or sharpen them as needed. Her wit is like embroidery: precise, lovely, and easy to miss until it’s too late. She’s the one who will thread the needle in dim candlelight and leave the whole room hanging on her next word.

She is empathetic, but not naïve. She’s been cast as the mother, the helper, the side character in someone else’s tale too many times to accept that fate again. There is steel beneath her softness, but it’s been tempered by kindness, not cruelty.

🌒 Autumn Court Influence

Autumn made her into a quiet scholar of fear. She is fascinated by the stories people tell to keep the dark at bay—and the ones they whisper when they think no one’s listening. She collects secrets like dried flowers: pressed between the pages of her memory, kept for when they’re needed.

Alyss’s curiosity is endless, but never aimless. She’s a seeker of truths hidden in old books, behind people's smiles, and inside her own scars. But that makes her cautious, too—she doesn’t invite others in easily, and those who do earn her trust find it guarded fiercely.

🕸️ Interpersonal Style

With others, she can come off as composed, a little mysterious, maybe even distant at first. But when she opens up, she’s deeply nurturing—though never in a way that coddles. She encourages growth, transformation, self-authorship. She wants others to find their own stories, even if it means letting go of her own.

She loves deeply and intentionally. Her affection is a choice, not a reflex, and she never gives it without meaning.