Luciana García's page

As I remain incapable of mustering the drive needed to catch up on this game, let alone make any posts, I think it's past time for me to formally withdraw.

Thanks for having me, and my apologies for being little more than dead weight.

For what it's worth, I am trying to catch up on the game and the ten unread posts staring me in the face. It looks like I may really need to lean into Luciana's lack of political sophistication to compensate for my being personally daunted by all these new developments, alas!

Apologies for my inactivity of late – I have been juggling, and generally failing to keep up with, a variety of things, compounded further by the aforementioned mental/creative slump. I’m really hoping to get caught up on everything ere long, but I also know better at this point than to make any promises.

I hit a bit of a mental slump recently, so I'm afraid I have not seen much of anything. I will do what I can to remedy this, though. :)

12 Gennaio

Luciana, for her part, moves quite comfortably amongst the working-class rowdiness of Cesare Bastien’s dockside tavern; pleasantly coarse and unpretentious, these folk are much closer to being “her people” than the nobles with whom she has come to rub shoulders of late. This is one reason she is not dressed much fancier than she was for her Twist outing a few days before – not that she is ever one for preening if she does not absolutely have to. When it comes to Luciana, what one sees tends to be what one gets, which she actually considers a sadly underappreciated gesture of forthrightness and integrity on her part.

In the man’s office, after making a playful but earnest enough curtsey by way of a greeting, she leaves the taking of seats to the coterie’s genteel, word-bandying members. Luciana lingers in silence behind Violetta’s chair instead, leaning lightly on its backrest and smiling politely as she waits to find out what sort of problem House Bastien must contend with.

While the Motley’s tide swells and surges outside, Luciana simply stares ahead, eyes unfocussed, only occasionally glancing towards the youth huddling next to her. She is listening intently, or else attuning herself to that other sense not everybody would agree even exists. Intuition or instinct are its more mundane monikers; the “sixth sense”, a more fanciful one. Ilrien’s Knacks, those dabblers in the arcane, no doubt possess still more esoteric appellations for it. For her part she simply calls it gut-feel, and it has always served her well.

Eventually, silence settles on the street once more. She cocks her head for a few more moments, purses her lips, then lets out a breezy phew. “Yeah, yeah,” Luciana waves off the lad’s thanks as she nimbly leaps upright. “Show your gratitude by not giving me a reason to regret doing this.”

After brushing herself off, she stands looking thoughtfully down at the would-be robber, her arms akimbo. “Well,” she finally says, “the Graces’ll sort you out. Probably. You’ve not gotten in their bad books yet, have you? ’Cause if you have, you’re on your own.” Assuming that the boy is, at the very least, not stupid enough to admit as much until she has actually managed to take him to the closest charity-house, Luciana then gets him back up on his feet and goes on to do what some would consider the right thing.

Opinions on what she’s doing, if elicited, would differ wildly on whether it’s a good idea, needless to say. Morally sound, perhaps, but that doesn’t count for too much in Ilrien generally and in the Twist specifically. And if a third party were to try to get the jump on the two of them while she’s lugging the lad along, saving her own skin would indeed be her priority. Mostly she is doing this because she has an idea of what it’s like to be in the kid’s shoes, of the things that surviving in this part of the city drives some folks to do. She doesn’t necessarily approve, but she gets it. And on a more practical level – most importantly, some might say – the boy’ll owe her one, if not two. While there’s no telling if he is the sort to honour a debt like that, there is also no telling how doing somebody a good turn like that might end up percolating through the community, after all.

Luciana makes no effort to stop or look for the youth’s knife in the street outside, though. A bit of cutlery isn’t too difficult to come by even in the Twist, and all things considered, it’s a small price to pay for the lesson he hopefully learnt today.

I hope I am not taking too many narrative liberties here. You did say we're not yet in full roll-to-find-out mode. :)

Having driven off the prospective robbers with nothing more than some choice utterances and the accent to go with them, Luciana is afforded a few moments to feel… not smug, perhaps, but self-satisfied. Evidently she is still able to pass for a local, has not lost her touch, and this heartens her much more than flawlessly dancing an Ilrienne waltz at the ball would have.

Then that laughter starts to boil up somewhere behind her, distant but not nearly far enough. That damn laughter. The frenzied cackling of souls that have gone over, forever and irretrievably, to what she used to call the Funny Place as a child. She has since become certain that it is, in fact, nothing of the sort, but for some reason the infantile expression has stuck with her. As has the primal dread induced by its deranged denizens. It made a chill run down her spine back then, and it still creeps her out today.

And it’s coming for her fast, a tide of madness that will swallow her up as easily as a breaking wave would drown her in the ocean. Feeling the back of her neck prickle, she casts about for the quickest means of gaining the rooftops. In her youth these always were her favourite hiding places, as well as a convenient way of getting around the Twist while avoiding the manifold perils of its streets. Getting up there in the first place always was the trickiest part, but she has always had a knack for finding the right spot to make the climb.

In a moment it becomes a superfluous consideration as the lad who threatened her mere moments before has the nerve to beseech her of all people for help after clumsily ruining his ankle. (His friends, she cannot help but note, have made their exit quickly and cleanly. Clever boys.) Luciana stares at him for a second, her entirely rational sense of self-preservation warring with that frankly inconvenient ember of human decency deep down that even the Twist never managed to extinguish.

“Oh, by the Lord’s hairy balls!” she blasphemes in a low hiss, tiny geysers of rainwater fountaining off the cobbles in her wake as she leaps forward. The Iberican is a fair bit more athletic than her slight frame suggests – nothing like those barbarian brutes from Calrais, by any means, but in times of need her sheer scrappiness enables her to perform some surprising physical feats. It does so now as she pulls the youth to his feet with a grunt and another muttered oath, supporting him as best she can while she casts about for somewhere to go to ground while the laughter of the perennially insane draws ever nearer.

The rooftops are out of the question, the alleyways too risky, but… her eyes light upon a shabby ground-floor dwelling nearby. It’s empty, abandoned, though Luciana couldn’t begin to explain how she arrived at this conclusion; the absence of light behind its ragged curtains hardly constitutes evidence for such a claim, not at this time of day and not in this part of town. She just knows somehow, guided by gut-feel, her hard-won instincts not letting her down. The Motley has yet to get hold of her, and it shan’t be doing so tonight either.

A few moments later she half drags the injured youth into the derelict dwelling, wedges its door shut again, squints into the darkness in search of a spot to hide. That rickety table back there, she decides, seems like it’d do for huddling behind once overturned. It’s not as though the Motley, all sound and fury, is famed for its thoroughness; its constituent crazies content themselves with sweeping the streets clean but they do not scour individual tenements, only pour past them like a flash flood of howling, bleating lunacy.

Or at least, they used to. Luciana hopes that is another way in which the Twist hasn’t changed.

I am not crazy about Discord, but if the majority opinion tended towards using it I suppose I'd suck it up. :)

Though Luciana García is not big on vows as a rule, she made a promise to herself upon her admittance to House Bastien. She vowed that she would never forget where she came from; that she would never allow herself to become soft and fall in among the ranks of Ilrien’s spoilt nobility, who take even the most basic perquisites of their sheltered lives for granted.

… or who become insufferably cross when confronted with an experience beyond their rigidly circumscribed ken, such as having their notion of what constitutes a proper dance challenged. Really, couldn’t anyone get an Ilrienne waltz and an Altori cloud-step mixed up? Never mind the distinction between traditional open position and Crucesan open position! But when it happens to silly uncouth Luciana, of course, it is a minor scandal. In particular, Violetta channelled her disapproval of the Iberican’s blunder into a veritable death-glare that gave way to an outright dressing-down following the conclusion of the ball. That was a losing battle for Luciana, and she knew it; ultimately, all she could do to appease Violetta was to agree to take regular dancing lessons – another promise she won’t get out of honouring. Precisely who is going to be the (un)lucky soul to instruct her in that important courtly ritual remains undecided for now, but she does not doubt that she isn’t going to end up having much of a good time.

A diversion from all of that is the chief reason Luciana is out here tonight, strolling through the storm in the nastiest part of town, soaked through despite her cloak – and enjoying every minute. She needed the reminder that Ilrien is more than its august ballrooms, than its noble courts, than the ostentation of the impeccably wrought and furnished Gilt. Its underbelly is outright ugly by comparison, an insalubrious sprawl of grime, poverty, and even violence; those who cannot endure its uncaring ways are swiftly devoured, never to be seen again. But those who can are left the stronger for it, their scars and calluses physical expressions of the hardening their very soul undergoes. And she passed through that crucible at a young age, when she had little more to her name than the ragged clothes on her back.

It is reassuring to discover that she has not become a stranger in this place. The shadows gathered in the alcoves and doorways of the shabby streets do not elicit paranoia or dread, only a healthy state of heightened alertness. The soft little song it sings at times like these, like a lullaby for the waking hours, evokes memories that she could not excise from her mind without obliterating the person she is today. Even the cold, rain-slick cobbles under her habitually bare feet merely sharpen her focus; a throwback to the years of genuine poverty she weathered, reminding her that if she survived in this place, she can survive anywhere.

And still, Luciana is somehow caught unawares by the three shady-looking youngsters. Perhaps a shade of complacency has ever so slightly dulled her edge after all. It occurs to her belatedly, too, that she must seem a worthwhile victim to them. By the standards even of House Bastien, her garb tonight – the woollen cloak, the plain linen shirt, the unadorned breeches – is not much finer than a common servant’s livery; in the Groan, though, this modest outfit still suggests a certain measure of wealth… or simply a person in the wrong place. In either case, it’s inviting trouble.

Luciana considers the would-be robbers. Just desperate youths, masking their apprehension with forced swagger and bravado? Or, sadly, seasoned criminals already, entirely willing and able to gut her to get at the contents of her purse? It can be difficult to tell. Even she never perfected that art. The Groan breeds a wide variety of souls, and some of them simply don’t conform to any patterns or modes of behaviour one might reckon with ahead of time. They are freaks, wildcards, anomalies – some kind or at least harmless, others dangerous or downright malevolent. Some are cunning social chameleons; others are just insane. You won’t know which it is until you find out. Dumb luck, or the Lady’s favour as some like to think of it, can make as much of a difference in this as long-honed shrewdness.

Still, for the time being, she decides to give them the benefit of the doubt. “Evening, lads,” she cheerily greets the trio. With her right hand, Luciana makes a show of brushing a strand of wet hair from her face while her left hand surreptitiously drops low, ready to grab the edge of her cloak and turn the garment into a swirling, confounding shield if need be. “Lost? Oh, in thought, maybe. You know how it is. Anyway, the sights, you say? Hmm. Might have to take you up on that. Plenty to see ‘round the Groan, eh?”

She lets that gruff, sloppily enunciating Twist accent, which she has done a middling job of learning to suppress now that Luciana García is supposed to be above such things, creep back a little more into her voice with every word, rejoicing to find that it still fits her like an old, well-worn glove. “Say, how’s about old Peccote? There still more water than ale in that piss he calls drink? Charge three fiore a mug, he used to!” She grins, honestly grins, at the memory of the first flagon she ever partook of in the Beggar’s Walk. It was pretty much her last flagon, too. In hindsight, getting more or less turned off alcohol for life hardly was the worst thing ever to happen to her.

Luciana tilts her head, studying the youths. “Whose crew’re you lads running with, anyway? Not Lyra’s, surely? Unless things’ve changed, she only recruits girls. Something ‘bout business benefiting from a feminine touch rather’n just having some berks wave their knives around.” Her brow furrows. “Say, this isn’t just the three of you doing your own thing, is it?” She makes a bit of a face, her expression a blend of pity and faint, contemptuous revulsion. “ ‘Cause that hardly ever turns out well, see? When you’re not getting done in for trespassing on somebody else’s turf, you’re getting done in because… well, why not? Best to nip things in the bud afore you can stir up any trouble. Without a crew who’ve got your back, you’d be nothing more’n three bodies to dump and forget about, just like that,” she says, snapping her fingers for emphasis. “Not safe to think you can ignore the rules of the Groan like that, believe me. Not safe at all.”

The smile she gives them is friendly, yet founded on the steely calm of somebody acutely aware of the game being played here. It seems to say, We could do this, but I’d rather not. You shouldn’t, either. What you should do it is count your blessings and call it a night. Privately, of course, she hopes that this evening is not going to end with her bleeding like a stuck pig in a gutter somewhere, because aside from a passing comment to Elisabetta about going to visit some of her “old haunts”, Luciana didn’t bother informing any of her compatriots as to her whereabouts. After all – and especially in the wake of last week’s ball – the knowledge that she is going on this kind of jaunt would be quite unlikely to improve their opinion of her in any way.

I, on the other hand (pun not intended), apologise for nothing! Nothing!

I suppose Middle Finger might be an appropriate choice for Luciana due to its obvious connotations. Then again, with the Little/Pinky Finger arguably being the lowliest and least loved of digits hand-wise, I could see that working as well…

Semi-pertinent thought: if our coterie is collectively known as the Gloved Hand, does that mean its individual members should be referred to as the Fingers? :]

Apropos of nothing: timestamps on these boards are a complete mess on my end, and outside of post order it is next to impossible to keep track of when precisely something was posted. A brief search suggests this was a known issue years ago, possibly related to time zones, but apparently remains unfixed to this day. So that's lovely.

But enough kvetching! For our coterie name I have no issue with The Gloved Hand; I do perhaps prefer the adjective-less a tiny bit (association with a certain Marvel comics ninja organisation notwithstanding).

Luciana: The Groan forges people in its dark, twisting alleys and hovels furnished with nothing but desperation and the need to survive to see another sunrise. For a child, the heat of the furnace is hotter and the pounding hammer of the smith even stronger. Just like the artisans of the finest blades are recognized in each lethal length of steel, the Groan leaves it own telltale marks of its craft. On those rare occasions when someone truly escapes the depths of the Groan they usually do everything they can to put that past behind them. But like recognizes like. So it is that despite all the various personas or layers Sasha wears despite the fact her job is to hide her true self, you can see her anyway. Of course, this is a two way street and thus Sasha often sees you not as you are, but as you want to be. It means the world to you.

This works for me! Though I am honestly not sure how much of a meaningful difference there is between Luciana-as-she-is and Luciana-as-she'd-like-to-be. (The closest thing to a definite ambition for her that has occurred to me thus far, if it even applies in this context, is avenging herself on the people who brought about the ruin of her family-troupe way back in the day. It is not as though she perennially lusts for the kind of power/influence required to make this happen, though.)

Kyra suggested that maybe she helped you enter House Bastien, so maybe This isn’t my world. I look to Kyra when I need advice.

Unfortunately Violetta got to Luciana first as a sponsor. This suggested bond still could make sense, though, if only because their shared Iberican heritage might make Luciana a little more likely to trust Kyra's take on House business and all that extremely fun and not at all opaque or tedious stuff.

Elisabetta has a past as a youthful delinquent, maybe your paths crossed back then? Thus, Elisabetta and I used to run together back in the good old days. Look at us now!

I am not actively opposed to the idea, though it hinges on Elisabetta's idea of slumming it involving particularly insalubrious locales like the Twist. If it does then that's OK by me, of course!

If I am not mistaken, we still need to select our coterie's Reputation as well (p. 99)? I feel like good arguments could be made for Ambitious or Daring, given the overall nature of our House. A custom reputation seems to be an option as well, though I cannot immediately think of something sufficiently poignant off the top of my head.

For our Special Ability I must admit to being partial to A Matter of Charity, while also conceding that its flavourfulness possibly outweighs its actual usefulness. The same goes more or less for The Waters in Which We Swim (though the additional coterie XP trigger might be nice!).

Concerning our second Strength, Intelligence or Magic do seem the most logical. Supply might also make some sense as it could be interpreted along the lines of knowing the right people, as opposed to Wealth being all about oodles of raw mammon.

And on the subject of House Upgrades, Open Hearts to Open Eyes would be nicely in keeping with our overall MO. The Lady’s Blessing seems like a very straightforward, fire-and-forget sort of choice. (GM question: when does the additional die roll have to be declared?) For the second upgrade, I do like the sound of Hidden Exit. Also worth considering, perhaps, is a Blade retinue for when we need some unabashedly dirty work done by a Loyal crew that won't turn against us.

Luciana's bonds still need figuring out as well – I ought to get around to that soon. If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know!

I have been kind of running on fumes these past days, creatively speaking, but I hope to be addressing this thread more fully in the near future. For the time being:

@Luciana - it looks to me like you need a sponsor into the House? I can do that for you... the price will be very reasonable... :P

I suppose this is agreeable! In turn, however, Luciana might well be found to opine cheekily, though not maliciously, that the Twist is hard. Violetta wouldn’t last five minutes down there. ;p

("Bastilla"? Twice? Bloody hell.)

Hello everyone. Happy to be here!

House Bastien is Luciana's House of choice because it is fundamentally unpretentious, bold almost to the point of foolhardiness at times, and because it is far more receptive to irreverent souls like herself than any of the other Houses. She could not wholly suppress her free-wheeling nature even if she wanted to, and Bastien probably is the one House in which that aspect of hers is accepted, maybe even permitted to flourish.

For House Bastilla, I suppose she respects its members' valour, and the fact that they stick to their proverbial guns unyieldingly. These are not necessarily qualities she wishes she could embody herself, but in a certain sense she appreciates that in a city that fairly thrives on politicking and intrigue, Bastilla rarely chooses to take the easy way out by mastering that particular game.

I've rewritten a few bits of Luciana's fluff to bring it a little more in line with what the Couth playbook is all about. (In hindsight the Eye might have been a better choice for her, but oh well!) The remaining crunch-related decisions that needed to be made at this point should also all be in place now, so unless I missed something this submission is well and truly done.

This is TheWorstFighter checking in with his Couth character! I haven't tackled any of the playbook mechanics yet, but fluff-wise pretty much everything should be in place.

As for House votes, Bastien/Lovell (in that order of preference) both sound agreeable to me as well. Elanda ranks a distant #3.