Kim Ashdown

Mien and Mask

Mien: Kim's form is mostly "normal", resembling a patite woman, looking a bit to thin for her height and her fingers are long, quite typical for Wizened, and tappers down into narrow points rather than fingertips. A long toneless blindfold coveres her eyes, their ends perpetualy fluttering in a unfeelt queer wind, and seems to merge seamlessly with her unruly hair. Dried tears, or blood, as black as lifeless as her hair stains her cheeks.

Mask: Kim's Mask resembles a relatively pale and petite woman in her early 20's, wearing thin black-rimmed glasses and with wild and unruly hair, partialy covering her eyes.

Background

Kim Ashdown, originally born Kim Sterling, is not an original American though rather born in the United Kingdom before her parents moved to the States to pursue a new career opportunity. It did not work out as planed and left her growing up in a split household, her father turning towards heavy drinking and her mother pursuing a long line of men leaving neither with much time over for Kim. Her cockney accent and difficulties at home did not particularly benefit her within the school environment either. Despite such she managed relatively well for a child in her position through swiftly learnt art of remaining unnoticed and unassuming, though latching on to the “why” of her parents’ separation and her classmates bullying.

The ever-present “why” in her mind lead her down the road of studying psychology, wishing to understand the mind and its ways to lay her questions to rest. While she hold an degree in her name she herself never earned it as to many “why” attracts attention, making you take a tumble down the rabbit hole and leaving things of twig, cloth and string behind. In all her memories of Arcadia her Keeper always referred himself as Uncle Many-Eyes, merited partially by the multitude of eyes inset in his vast waxlike face as well as covering his manse. In all her memories he was always there, doling out tasks menial, bizarre and dangerous; light the lanterns all but the third and seventh, mop the floors and spill all the water, hunt the rats till you can no more. Always there to rewarding a job done with a flesh-rending pat on the back, words bringing sick pleasure to the mind and a piece of food or other oddment, subtly sculpting and twisting the flesh. Always there to punish an escape foiled by a slip on the floor, lusts or glimpse of possible revenge, always punishing and disappointed. There to take the wyrd-warped eyes, laughing as he plunged one into the darkness. A darkness awakening newer, keener senses, finally providing a hint as to the “why” of everything; the subtle strands of Fate and all the little tweaks Uncle Eyes did, a spilt bucked spelling failure for a fellow victim, a few hours granted for lunging skyclad in the gardens turning the gaze of an escapee. Fate was both the prison and warden. Seeing clearly “why” she made good her escape, feeling the eyes of Uncle Many-Eyes, hers included, at her back as she fled to the Hedge and beyond, a word of praise on the wind.

Stepping out of the Hedge she found herself on the streets of Sacramento almost a year ago and was swept away by the Silent Arrow and having found both security and some measure of comradeship since then despite her seclusion.