Sana Sunada
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Sana Sunada never had a chance to bloom. A budding speck of sunlight buried beneath rock and soil, she waited, dreaming of soft-shining stars and blue butterfly wings. She waited. Waiting, wanting, and wishing; she fizzled, sparked, and died; she burst and bloomed, then withered and rotted, then toiled tirelessly to save a tiny bit of what she knew as herself; over and over, and over and over again until the riverbank she grew upon, weathered by nineteen years of violent destruction and reformation, dissolved into a mulchy fuzz spread over clear-running water. She was set adrift. —And she sunk. At the bottom of the river, she laid, waiting to die—and it was there where mercy scooped her from her bed of dark stones. Ser Antone de Renaud, the philanthropic son of Lord Ivarde de Renaud, took the feeble remains of what was Sana and remade her into something new. By his hands, she became art—something beautiful; something stronger, something that would last, this time—something, most of all, unbelievably marketable. He named his rising starlet Annette; gave her his name, and claimed her as his own. For half a summer and an autumn, he employed countless instructors and musicians, poets, journalists, and dancers, to bring her into the conversations of the Ishgardian people. To make her a household name, a headliner, the subject of debate, dreams, and desire. Oh, and how he succeeded. Midwinter, the shows began—Reine Relaine, the reborn dragon queen—and all too quickly, Annette became the sole object of public adoration, despise, and ridicule.
She is easily overlooked, especially in a crowd of her own people. Everything about her is prim and pretty, but natural and understated—a beauty not unlike that of a wildflower.
She is, however, remarkably dainty. Thin and frail from head to tail to toe, the sharp contours and curves of her bones are more far apparent than those of supple sinew. Her wrists and ankles look dangerously thin, as though she’s like to topple over or break in half at any time. With virtually no curves to speak of, her bust all but disappears underneath her clothing. Her tail, too, is skinnier than average. It whips and flicks like lemongrass turning on the breeze. If it weren’t for the singsong cadence of her voice, it’d be easy to mistake her for a young male.
Typically, she wears her hair parted down the middle and pulled into two low pigtails. The hairstyle compliments her facial structure—framed by her long bangs, her gentle features are made gentler, bright eyes promising forgiveness and warmth, lips promising petal-soft kisses. 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 her sleepy, half-lidded eyes, that, in the right lighting, appear dark and sultry. Her irises are the color of pale tundra flowers under an evening sky.
Most things about her are flowerlike—from her eyes to her wisteria-whispering voice to the perfume of sunlight and soil that scents her vicinity, she’s a garden of a girl, a bed of sunflowers and daisies and ruby-red petunias that nod and dance on the wind. When she talks, she’s quite animated—but the way she covers her smile with her hand and twists her hands together suggests that she’s trying to subdue herself.
Distinguishing marks:
Common accessories:
First and foremost, she’s a people-pleaser, ever at the mercy of her loved ones when it comes to her emotional stability. But she’s ever so 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. She likes to bring people pressed wildflowers and butterfly wings as little favors of her love, but can never bring herself to put together bouquets of flowers from her garden.
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’d like to think that she has a spotless mind, but it’s quite far from being so. She’s only very, very talented at keeping herself distracted and keeping her hands busy.
She blushes a lot and covers her mouth with her hand when she smiles; she’s known to stutter and fumble over her words when flustered—which isn't too uncommon. For this reason, she often finds herself at the end of harmless (or, actually, not so harmless) jokes that deter her from ever trying to make casual conversation again. She always bounces back, though, usually with the help of someone looking to be in mild distress. She is always one to help a stranger in peril, and that, too, lands her in a lot of trouble.
Aspects that stand out:
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