08-02-2013, 03:00 AM
Oriena Rusayev
Her parents split when she was eight years old.
Oriena was brought up by her mother on the poor outskirts of the city, shadowed beneath the thumb of the CCD and struggling to make ends meet. There was little to no state care for someone with mental health needs, which aside from marring her divorce papers with “irreconcilable differences” also left her mother unable to hold down a steady job. They lived hand-to-mouth on what little they could earn, steal, beg or borrow, alongside the small package of money her father wired for “maintenance” of the child he had abandoned.
Ori learned to take care of herself young; oft times caring for her mother, too. She was a sarcastic and wilful child, often ostracised by the other children for her chaotic nature and disinclination to play nice - though she was utterly devoted to her mother. Those who ridiculed the illness that drove her to manic highs and oppressive lows learned not to do so within Ori’s hearing – and that’s as true now as it was then.
When things were good she attended state school – at least when she wasn’t on expulsion for her smart-ass attitude and stubborn aversion to following the rules. Her neighbourhood wasn’t the safest for a kid her age to hang around alone; amongst the tenanted apartment blocks, derelict buildings competed with half collapsed, abandoned demolitions, and there were as many squatters as rent-paying citizens. Squint your eyes and ignore the high city rises in the distance, and it almost looked like it had been ravaged by war. Still, it was home, and Ori was full of brash, childish confidence. She was never afraid of the shadows that scuttled in empty buildings; was even curious in a morbid way, to peer at those misfortunates worse off than herself. When they came too close she knew to keep away. Better, she knew how to keep them away.
The first time she got Sick her mother was on the tail end of a low, and Ori’s fever plunged her right back into it; convinced her that death had come to claim her only child because she was a terrible mother. Her tears were hot on sweat-soaked skin, but they didn’t burn as much as the anger in Ori’s gut. This was the CCDs fault. Medication would have aided her mother’s moods. Psychological treatment would have taught her to cope in a way a fourteen year old couldn’t teach her. With those two things, they could have earned enough to make a decent living. Oriena pulled herself up from bed out of sheer bloody obstinacy to wrap her arms around her mother’s heaving shoulders. The first time she got Sick was the last time she got Sick.
Life continued in a volatile stream of ups and downs that passed for normal.
When things were especially rough, they survived almost exclusively on her father’s monthly pay-outs, until the day Ori became a legal adult; then the burden of finance fell on her shoulders. She bounced between jobs, mostly bar-work in the city centre, and kipped on the floors of various acquaintances when it was too late to take the metro home. Her life had little structure, which she more or less thrived on, though she hated leaving her mother unattended at home. In her spare time she studied business through use of old textbooks and the internet, too poor to afford the tuition. It wasn’t ambition so much as general restlessness, particularly with the order of the world. The realm of business was so deeply systematic and regulated; she hated it. So she wanted to understand it.
It was while working in the prestigious Manifesto bar that she met [name omitted], a prominent CCD official with an errant grin and sly sense of humour. What started as a battle of charm and wit propelled headfirst into something else, and it was with foolhardy recklessness that she threw herself into an affair with a married man. Secrecy and lies weren’t difficult things for her; she slipped into the deception like old skin, and felt no guilt. The guy even had kids. And like most who rode the apex of the civilized world alongside Nikolai Brandon, he also had an obscene amount of wealth. His attempts to lavish gifts always ended poorly, though he persisted despite her quite blatant disinterest. For him, at least, it was the epithet of his affection. So she tolerated it. For that. Money, after all, is the key to so much in Moscow.
Nearly two years passed before things unravelled.
She made the mistake of falling in love.
Ironically enough, when the shit hit the fan, it was not discovery of the affair that ended it all, but Oriena’s discovery that she was not the only mistress. She was mortified by her own naivety; it had been foolishness of the highest calibre, and she was disgusted with herself. Not that she wasted time wallowing in self-pity; there’s little more fearsome than the wrath of a woman scorned, and Ori has never been the type to let an insult pass. Corruption among the upper echelons of the CCD was and is no real secret, but it has its limits. Discretion is paramount if a man wants to keep his reputation, and it’s surprising what a man will divulge in pillow-talk. She threatened to expose their sordid secret, and he did what most men in his position chose to do; he bought her silence. It cost him. It cost him a lot. Not the price of a broken heart, though it was broken, but the vicious extraction of retribution. Enough to set herself up, and to soothe the sting of her own stupidity. Enough to twist the knife in his stupidity.
The first thing she did was buy a motorbike. The second was to flip [name omitted] the finger in the most caustic way she could think of.
She used the money to set up a business. Specifically, she used it to set up a Burlesque House.
It had a pleasing sort of irony, since [name omitted] had relegated her to little more than a whore, and she’d been the idiot who let him. Taxation was too high to take the “fuck you” to the highest extreme of a more clandestine enterprise, and she’d be damned if she was going to funnel more cash than necessary into the heart of the “liberal” CCD. Viciousness sharpened her mind to the task; now a young woman, Oriena knew exactly how to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was for [name omitted] to never, ever be able to forget his mistake.
Kallisti House of Burlesque is a high-end establishment in downtown Moscow, and its grandiose begins right on the doorstep; it occupies an imposing stalinesque building that naturally draws the eye from its neighbours on the street, and keeps it there. During the day it is a building without marker; at night, lights flood its front so even shadows may not thieve its grandeur. It cannot be ignored. The interior within is lavish with nods to the wickedly decadent, its complementary mix of soft and severe differentiating it from the seediness of a strip joint. The main area comprises of a bar and small stage, with a separate room for the restricted performances (this is set up more like a theatre), and its motif is the seductive portrait of a burlesque dancer biting into a golden apple.
As a business model it shouldn’t really work. It operates a strict no-touch rule, but bends the tease to scandalous levels; it delights, titillates and seduces, then smiles and says no. Kallisti’s performers are untouchable, beyond the reach of the nouveau riche and CCD giants alike - despite every last dollar to their name. Strangely, this has made it more popular; it plays right into the current elitist conscious.
Since its opening three years ago, Kallisti has grown a solid reputation for offering the highest calibre entertainment in the most exclusive setting and is renowned for pushing the boundaries of risqué (and for its rather beautiful performers), but never tips into the territory of a strip-club. Among the city’s young billionaires it is a popular haunt; particularly to kick a night off. Given its prime reputation and offer of privacy, it’s not unheard of for important members of the CCD to visit either.
It cannot be ignored.
Thus it kind of served its purpose. Despite forming the entirety of her present income, Ori is not precious about her business. She pays someone to take care of the day-to-day running, and glances from time to time at the paperwork and accounts that come her way. Most would not even know she was the proprietor, unless they were privy to the name on the lease. Occasionally she works the bar and toys with the patrons. One thing she’s learned from years of bar-work is how easily people will talk when in their cups, particularly when soothed by the comfort of the non-disclosure contract Kallisti asks of its staff. As such, she has more than a few of them vised by the balls. Just in case.
Ori's of average height and slender build, with dark hair and blue eyes. There’s usually something quite sardonic to her expression, though she is capable of sincerity. Casual confidence marks her demeanour, pushing towards the boundaries of haughty arrogance at times. Despite the nature of business she’s in, her tastes in fashion and make-up usually err towards the understated classic.
Uncompromising, stubborn, and wedded to a front of apathy. Though still young, Ori’s a world-weary soul. She generally finds the company of other people lacking in both intelligence and interest, and views most of her relationships as a means to an end. As such, she’s free with money, though this should not be mistaken for generosity; she’s largely indifferent to its elitist value, and has an inherent understanding of using it to get what she wants; in the CCD, money means respect.
She’s charming when she wants to be, though her idea of banter occasionally cuts close to the quick, and particularly when bored or disinterested by her company she pushes to get a reaction. She’s the type to take risks just to see what will happen. Natural charisma gets her out of most scrapes, though when it doesn’t she’s hard pressed to step down from a challenge.
Difficult to read at the best of times, her sense of humour errs towards the satirical, and her temper is generally even. She has the façade of someone pretty difficult to ruffle, though in reality it’s just a slow burn; once sparked, her temper comes without warning, often disproportionate to the insult. Her trust, once earned, is usually pretty firm; there are plenty who think they have it, though, and don’t – they shouldn’t be surprised by her betrayal, but they generally are; she marks that down to being a good actress. Those who cross either her or someone she has a reason to look out for can expect retribution; forgiveness comes rarely, if at all.
She has little respect for authority, and despite being Russian-born dislikes the totalitarianism of the CCD. Her record is littered with minor infractions, usually of the disorderly kind, but she has little interest in actual crime; she just bends the rules to either suit her purposes or in knee-jerk reaction to the idea of being ordered about. Her opinion of the nouveau riche, despite forming a proportionate number of her clientele, is very low; most of them are the sort of imbeciles who’ve never done an honest day’s hard work in their lives. And yes, she revels in the hypocrisy of that judgement, since she didn’t exactly do much to earn the basis of her own wealth. Likewise, her view of CCD officials is poor, though since these people have generally earned their positions via merit, she treats this on a case by case basis.
She does love her cat, though.
RP Threads
Her parents split when she was eight years old.
Oriena was brought up by her mother on the poor outskirts of the city, shadowed beneath the thumb of the CCD and struggling to make ends meet. There was little to no state care for someone with mental health needs, which aside from marring her divorce papers with “irreconcilable differences” also left her mother unable to hold down a steady job. They lived hand-to-mouth on what little they could earn, steal, beg or borrow, alongside the small package of money her father wired for “maintenance” of the child he had abandoned.
Ori learned to take care of herself young; oft times caring for her mother, too. She was a sarcastic and wilful child, often ostracised by the other children for her chaotic nature and disinclination to play nice - though she was utterly devoted to her mother. Those who ridiculed the illness that drove her to manic highs and oppressive lows learned not to do so within Ori’s hearing – and that’s as true now as it was then.
When things were good she attended state school – at least when she wasn’t on expulsion for her smart-ass attitude and stubborn aversion to following the rules. Her neighbourhood wasn’t the safest for a kid her age to hang around alone; amongst the tenanted apartment blocks, derelict buildings competed with half collapsed, abandoned demolitions, and there were as many squatters as rent-paying citizens. Squint your eyes and ignore the high city rises in the distance, and it almost looked like it had been ravaged by war. Still, it was home, and Ori was full of brash, childish confidence. She was never afraid of the shadows that scuttled in empty buildings; was even curious in a morbid way, to peer at those misfortunates worse off than herself. When they came too close she knew to keep away. Better, she knew how to keep them away.
The first time she got Sick her mother was on the tail end of a low, and Ori’s fever plunged her right back into it; convinced her that death had come to claim her only child because she was a terrible mother. Her tears were hot on sweat-soaked skin, but they didn’t burn as much as the anger in Ori’s gut. This was the CCDs fault. Medication would have aided her mother’s moods. Psychological treatment would have taught her to cope in a way a fourteen year old couldn’t teach her. With those two things, they could have earned enough to make a decent living. Oriena pulled herself up from bed out of sheer bloody obstinacy to wrap her arms around her mother’s heaving shoulders. The first time she got Sick was the last time she got Sick.
Life continued in a volatile stream of ups and downs that passed for normal.
When things were especially rough, they survived almost exclusively on her father’s monthly pay-outs, until the day Ori became a legal adult; then the burden of finance fell on her shoulders. She bounced between jobs, mostly bar-work in the city centre, and kipped on the floors of various acquaintances when it was too late to take the metro home. Her life had little structure, which she more or less thrived on, though she hated leaving her mother unattended at home. In her spare time she studied business through use of old textbooks and the internet, too poor to afford the tuition. It wasn’t ambition so much as general restlessness, particularly with the order of the world. The realm of business was so deeply systematic and regulated; she hated it. So she wanted to understand it.
It was while working in the prestigious Manifesto bar that she met [name omitted], a prominent CCD official with an errant grin and sly sense of humour. What started as a battle of charm and wit propelled headfirst into something else, and it was with foolhardy recklessness that she threw herself into an affair with a married man. Secrecy and lies weren’t difficult things for her; she slipped into the deception like old skin, and felt no guilt. The guy even had kids. And like most who rode the apex of the civilized world alongside Nikolai Brandon, he also had an obscene amount of wealth. His attempts to lavish gifts always ended poorly, though he persisted despite her quite blatant disinterest. For him, at least, it was the epithet of his affection. So she tolerated it. For that. Money, after all, is the key to so much in Moscow.
Nearly two years passed before things unravelled.
She made the mistake of falling in love.
Ironically enough, when the shit hit the fan, it was not discovery of the affair that ended it all, but Oriena’s discovery that she was not the only mistress. She was mortified by her own naivety; it had been foolishness of the highest calibre, and she was disgusted with herself. Not that she wasted time wallowing in self-pity; there’s little more fearsome than the wrath of a woman scorned, and Ori has never been the type to let an insult pass. Corruption among the upper echelons of the CCD was and is no real secret, but it has its limits. Discretion is paramount if a man wants to keep his reputation, and it’s surprising what a man will divulge in pillow-talk. She threatened to expose their sordid secret, and he did what most men in his position chose to do; he bought her silence. It cost him. It cost him a lot. Not the price of a broken heart, though it was broken, but the vicious extraction of retribution. Enough to set herself up, and to soothe the sting of her own stupidity. Enough to twist the knife in his stupidity.
The first thing she did was buy a motorbike. The second was to flip [name omitted] the finger in the most caustic way she could think of.
She used the money to set up a business. Specifically, she used it to set up a Burlesque House.
It had a pleasing sort of irony, since [name omitted] had relegated her to little more than a whore, and she’d been the idiot who let him. Taxation was too high to take the “fuck you” to the highest extreme of a more clandestine enterprise, and she’d be damned if she was going to funnel more cash than necessary into the heart of the “liberal” CCD. Viciousness sharpened her mind to the task; now a young woman, Oriena knew exactly how to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was for [name omitted] to never, ever be able to forget his mistake.
Kallisti House of Burlesque is a high-end establishment in downtown Moscow, and its grandiose begins right on the doorstep; it occupies an imposing stalinesque building that naturally draws the eye from its neighbours on the street, and keeps it there. During the day it is a building without marker; at night, lights flood its front so even shadows may not thieve its grandeur. It cannot be ignored. The interior within is lavish with nods to the wickedly decadent, its complementary mix of soft and severe differentiating it from the seediness of a strip joint. The main area comprises of a bar and small stage, with a separate room for the restricted performances (this is set up more like a theatre), and its motif is the seductive portrait of a burlesque dancer biting into a golden apple.
As a business model it shouldn’t really work. It operates a strict no-touch rule, but bends the tease to scandalous levels; it delights, titillates and seduces, then smiles and says no. Kallisti’s performers are untouchable, beyond the reach of the nouveau riche and CCD giants alike - despite every last dollar to their name. Strangely, this has made it more popular; it plays right into the current elitist conscious.
Since its opening three years ago, Kallisti has grown a solid reputation for offering the highest calibre entertainment in the most exclusive setting and is renowned for pushing the boundaries of risqué (and for its rather beautiful performers), but never tips into the territory of a strip-club. Among the city’s young billionaires it is a popular haunt; particularly to kick a night off. Given its prime reputation and offer of privacy, it’s not unheard of for important members of the CCD to visit either.
It cannot be ignored.
Thus it kind of served its purpose. Despite forming the entirety of her present income, Ori is not precious about her business. She pays someone to take care of the day-to-day running, and glances from time to time at the paperwork and accounts that come her way. Most would not even know she was the proprietor, unless they were privy to the name on the lease. Occasionally she works the bar and toys with the patrons. One thing she’s learned from years of bar-work is how easily people will talk when in their cups, particularly when soothed by the comfort of the non-disclosure contract Kallisti asks of its staff. As such, she has more than a few of them vised by the balls. Just in case.
Ori's of average height and slender build, with dark hair and blue eyes. There’s usually something quite sardonic to her expression, though she is capable of sincerity. Casual confidence marks her demeanour, pushing towards the boundaries of haughty arrogance at times. Despite the nature of business she’s in, her tastes in fashion and make-up usually err towards the understated classic.
Uncompromising, stubborn, and wedded to a front of apathy. Though still young, Ori’s a world-weary soul. She generally finds the company of other people lacking in both intelligence and interest, and views most of her relationships as a means to an end. As such, she’s free with money, though this should not be mistaken for generosity; she’s largely indifferent to its elitist value, and has an inherent understanding of using it to get what she wants; in the CCD, money means respect.
She’s charming when she wants to be, though her idea of banter occasionally cuts close to the quick, and particularly when bored or disinterested by her company she pushes to get a reaction. She’s the type to take risks just to see what will happen. Natural charisma gets her out of most scrapes, though when it doesn’t she’s hard pressed to step down from a challenge.
Difficult to read at the best of times, her sense of humour errs towards the satirical, and her temper is generally even. She has the façade of someone pretty difficult to ruffle, though in reality it’s just a slow burn; once sparked, her temper comes without warning, often disproportionate to the insult. Her trust, once earned, is usually pretty firm; there are plenty who think they have it, though, and don’t – they shouldn’t be surprised by her betrayal, but they generally are; she marks that down to being a good actress. Those who cross either her or someone she has a reason to look out for can expect retribution; forgiveness comes rarely, if at all.
She has little respect for authority, and despite being Russian-born dislikes the totalitarianism of the CCD. Her record is littered with minor infractions, usually of the disorderly kind, but she has little interest in actual crime; she just bends the rules to either suit her purposes or in knee-jerk reaction to the idea of being ordered about. Her opinion of the nouveau riche, despite forming a proportionate number of her clientele, is very low; most of them are the sort of imbeciles who’ve never done an honest day’s hard work in their lives. And yes, she revels in the hypocrisy of that judgement, since she didn’t exactly do much to earn the basis of her own wealth. Likewise, her view of CCD officials is poor, though since these people have generally earned their positions via merit, she treats this on a case by case basis.
She does love her cat, though.
RP Threads
-
<li style="display:none">
- Kings of the Castle (Jaxen, Jon Little Bird)
- A Blind Eye (Jaxen, Hood, Spectra, Silas, Yuri, Drayson, Ascendancy)
- Amends (Alone/Luka NPC)
- Promises (Alone)
- Calling in Favours (Claire, Takeo, various NPCS)
- Choices (Giovanni, Nox)
- Blood Sport (Giovanni, Marcus, Hood)
- The Spoils (Alone/Kasun NPC)
- A Wicked Game (Alone)
- Pawns in the Game (Jaxen, Manix)
- Triumphant Return (Jaxen)
- Glass Houses (Claire, Raffe, Ilesha)
Edited by Oriena, Jan 20 2018, 03:52 PM.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)