Sana Sunada
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Just as childhood was a tangle of mysteries and puzzlement, so too is Sana's adulthood.
With a birthplace well-remembered but unmarked on any map, an incurable homesickness but no homeland, and a wealth of untold stories crumbling into forgotten words, she finds herself clinging memories and hopes. Her surname she invented at a desk to sign paperwork, and her name was decided by the stranger who first thought of something suitable. Her heritage is comprised of theories. She is a woman without history, and attributes the hollowness within her to it.
Her horns are seashell-shaped oddities framing a pretty, pale face. Like conch shells, they unwind upon themselves, tapering into thin, taffy-twisted spirals. They are smooth and almost silky to the touch, shining with a peachy glow in the sunlight.
Oddities, too, are her scales. As if shaped by the hand of a dollmaker, they are molded in a lace-like pattern that seems more decorative than functional. Any dips, folds, or ridges are staggeringly shallow, terraced so uniformly that they look fake; in the places they grow thickest—which isn't thick at all—they are even pockmarked with little, symmetrical shapes of no function.
She is, put politely, dainty. Frail from head to tail to toe, the contours and ridges of her bones create for her a figure more than any curves do. Her ribcage juts from under her clothing more than her breasts swell; her legs, with her feet put together, only touch at the knees. With the move of a finger comes the twitch of a tendon on the back of her hand; her wrists look as though easily snapped—one looks like it has been snapped.
And she is beautiful. It isn't so much enchanting or psalm-inspiring so much as it simply is. It is a fact. Framed by her long bangs, her gentle features are made gentler. The soft swell of her cheekbones and the dip of her brow into the shallow slope of her nose draw the observer’s gaze to sleepy, half-lidded eyes, that, in the right lighting, turn dark and sultry.
Distinguishing marks:
Common accessories:
She’s a people-pleaser, ever at the mercy of her loved ones when it comes to emotional stability. But she’s too quiet—she just can’t overtly ask for the love that she needs; instead, she’s forever trying to subtly gain it through small, silent gestures: making rosemary tea, mending clothes, listening to woes for hours on end, or tidying up living spaces.
If there’s one thing Sana is good at, it’s cleaning—she’s a only clear-minded person because she makes a habit of straightening things in houses. She’s very talented at keeping herself distracted and her hands busy.
She covers her mouth with her hand when she smiles.
Aspects that stand out:
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