Estelle Tonnerre

Estelle Tonnerre is a creature of contradictions. In one breath she will be immaculately turned out. Every strand of hair perfectly placed, the shine of her coat akin to the gleam of moon soaked water. In another breath she will look as rugged as a shieldmaiden returning from battle. Yet these contradictions are not reserved just for her appearance. Her deportment is impeccable. It is, after all, how she was raised. Yet for all the ways she was sculpted to be perfect, to look beautiful upon the arm of a man, she is imperfect. Estelle delights in her imperfections - in the dirt along the hem of her dress, dirt between her toes. Maybe a part of her soul always belonged in the deep wilds of nature, yet she has always been caged. Her cell gilded, her attire beautiful.

To look upon Estelle might lead one to think she could be as cold as the lightning scar that feathers up from her struck heart and out across her chest and shoulders. The wound is as perfect and sharp and beautiful as it had been the day she was struck. When in possession of her magic, Estelle's wounded skin turned to ice, unaffected by heat. To touch her wound is to know a bone-deep cold, to feel the sharp shock of static - the ghost of lightning.

But Estelle is warmer than her scar and her silver skin. Her body is a myriad of moonlight and moonshadow hues. Her dapples gleam like stars, like the thickening and thinning of ice across a lake. Her blood runs hot with Arabian blood. Her body is slim, elegant, fine. She was made for dancing, for drawing the attention of men. She does, so easily, with her finely sculpted head and eyes as hot and bright as lightning’s purple glow.

Estelle Tonnerre

Estelle, ah, Estelle is a force of nature. In her youth Estelle tried to please. She aspired to become the Tonnerre prodigy that her family hoped her to become. But though in appearance Estelle was a Tonnerre, there was nothing of the family attributes in her soul, her heart, her core.

She is independent. She stifled it for many years as she fought to keep her family, to be a Tonnerre. But she was always too fiery, too rebellious. She did not belong in beautiful dresses or as an ornament upon the arm of a man. No matter how beautiful she looked there.

Estelle spoke out and back to all. Once the matriarch of the family called her a savage. It stuck. The word was whispered at her back and she smiled into it. She still lives into the word now. She is as feral and unpredictable as the weather and maybe that is why it comes at her beck and call. The skies reflect her mood, it surrounds her and whispers in her veins. Though her skin is silver, there is a fire within Estelle that will not be extinguished. She is brave, brave enough to fight for her freedom, brave enough to rise from an attack.

Yet for all that Estelle is wild and brave and bold, there is an elegance to her, a perfection that the Tonnerre family carved so deep unto her bones she cannot remove it. She is as likely to be perfectly turned out, a beautiful creature to behold and yet to also rip her dress without a care. Estelle has become a rogue, a rebel, she smiles sassy and carefree. Her family has been stripped from her and as every day passes, she grows a little more free, a little more into who she was always supposed to be.

Estelle was born into a gilded cradle. The youngest daughter of Ames and Etienne Tonnerre had the potential to be their greatest achievement. Born with skin the silver of a perfect winter’s night, the only thing that stopped her being truly perfect Tonnerre was the child’s electric purple eyes. Etienne, Estelle’s mother, had been married into the Tonnerres. Coming from a distinguished family herself, she met Ames at her debutant ball. They fell in love and, it was just as well, since Ames and Etienne had been betrothed since their births. Estelle’s mother had sleek silver skin and soft gold eyes. It was a perfect match and the Tonnerre family were keen to welcome a girl into the family who had all the breeding to produce regal children. And it was just as well Etienne and Ames were married and their three children beautiful and silver, because Ames’ brother did not follow the family tradition. He married a girl from outside their society. It was no surprise to any when their child was born a little crimson pegasus with only a streak of silver across her shoulder. The smallest of nods toward the Tonnerre heritage. The family was appalled, their hopes that the child might possibly be born silver, despite the most disagreeable marriage, were dashed. So, Estelle, born only a few months ahead of her cousin, was a pride and a joy to the family.

As Estelle grew, so did the pressures upon her small shoulders to be the perfect Tonnerre. Yet the silver child may have ben born with a Tonnerre’s body, but she did not possess the family’s soul. Sometimes she wondered if her soul and her cousin, Moira’s, might have been switched at birth. Estelle wished for wings with which to fly away and escape the pressures of the family. Her recognition, that she was not as Tonnerre as she should be, began to be recognised by her family too. Estelle did not wish to be sat at a table and forced to learn social etiquette nor did she achieve the highest grades in her studies. She would rather have been reading a book of her choice within the library, or beneath the blankets of her bed by torchlight when she should have been sleeping. Often Estelle dragged her cousin out into the fields to play, luring her into activities frowned upon by the family.

Estelle found kinship in her cousin; one girl rejected by their family and the other who did not seem to fit, no matter how perfect she may look. The girls grew close, Estelle protecting her cousin from the Matriarch’s punishment, the other childrens’ teasing. And Moira, excelling in her studies, would teach Estelle in secret, working hard to keep the attention of a girl whose mind was only upon escaping the family.

Yet, whilst Estelle dreamed of leaving her family, the truth was that she had nowhere else to go should she leave. The Tonnerre family were excellent at keeping their family within, ensuring each flourished in a manner that would continue to better the family legacy. A daughter whose eyes tended to stray outside the family was not welcomed. And so, with no other options, with the family trials approaching, Estelle resigned herself to trying to please her family.

A childhood of getting into trouble, of leading her family astray had lead to many rebukes. What is more, her cousin, her dearest friend, was growing into being a Tonnerre. Estelle had watched as Moira excelled in all the ways the matriarch desired. Where Moira excelled, Estelle failed. Yet the girls held themselves together, strengthening and protecting each other’s weaknesses.

The day of the trials approached and Estelle chose the path of a courtier. It might have been the only moment the girl ever made her parents and her sisters proud. A member of the family came forward. Estelle recognised them as a courtier beneath whom she would be trained. The woman was impeccably dressed, every strand of hair so perfectly placed. Resignation sank like a stone in Estelle’s stomach. Her shoulder was cut, the blood running hot and stark against her silver skin. Sara, the other woman, cut her shoulder too, their wounds were pressed together. Blood to blood. Estelle was blood bound to her family. It was worse than shackles about her limbs. Disgust rippled through her body, it danced across her face. Her gaze met with Moira’s briefly, before she smiled at her parents’ proud smiles. It was the only time they looked at her that way.

Estelle threw herself into the life of a courtier. She lounged in silk gowns, she engaged in vapid gossip, she let men take her to dances. As her training progressed she rejected the family drive to understand politics, she loathed learning about the society, of pandering to others to further their family name. Estelle slipped in society, delighting when she walked into a ballroom with dirt about the hem of her dress. She was steered with a forcible hand from the court rooms and instead into the role of an escort. There was little to do here except earn the family money for those men who wished for a high class girl upon their arm, to display how well connected they were with the perfect Tonnerres.

Estelle endured a year slipping from grace within the family. And months upon the arms of men, beguiling them with her elegance and beauty. Oh but it all began to slip through her fingers, running away like water.

One day a man tried to take Estelle to his bed, claiming he needed more for all the money he was paying her. He was paying a lot for a girl who was clearly not a well-bred Tonnerre girl. She told him “No.” She even laughed at his audacity and what her life had become. He threatened her but it was not enough. They fought and Estelle was out of control. She bit, she kicked, she drew his blood. And she received in turn.

When at last she escaped, there was nothing left of her name, her status in society. Every cut, bruise, kick and bleeding wound upon her body was a splatter of dirt across her name. Estelle ran for her cousin. It had been a year since they had seen each other. Moira had risen in the family, the girl who was rejected at first. Meanwhile Estelle had fallen from the pedestal they placed her on at birth. All Estelle heard was how Moira was adored and asked why could she not be a Tonnerre when even Moira was managing to be? She had screamed in the Matriarch’s face that day. It was the first time she was called a savage. At least now, stood within Moira’s embrace, bleeding and bruised, her clothes torn and her hair a mess, at least now Estelle looked like a savage.

Resentment bloomed within her gut and she peeled herself from Moira’s embrace. How was any of it fair. They fought that day. Estelle said awful things to her cousin, in her grief, in her hurting. But words were not the worst thing. Savage they had begun to call her and like a savage she had hit her cousin. But Moira did not rally against her, nor leave her side. Instead she called for a healer to come and tend to her cousin’s wounds.

That night she begged Moira not to tell anyone what happened. She apologised for striking her and wept herself to sleep. The healer sent word to the Matriarch of what had happened to Estelle. A trial was held. The man was distinguished, a well respected member of society. Estelle meanwhile was the blot upon the family copy book. Estelle was the savage who hit her cousin and screamed at the matriarch. She had never cared for her studies, she was not Tonnerre. The mark of the Tonnerre family was burned from her shoulder. She screamed from the pain until her throat was raw.

Estelle was stripped of her name and banished from the family. They did not grieve her, but they did for Moira who vowed to walk beside her cousin no matter where their paths lead. It stormed relentlessly for first three days that the cousins travelled away from their family home. Estelle should have felt free, but all she felt was soul-sick. After the storms came relentless days of bleak weather and a fog so thick they could not see the path before them. The weather reflected Estelle’s feelings.

When winter came, blowing in colder and faster than any anticipated, Estelle began to ail. Even with her cousin beside her, her soul was refusing to heal. Though she was not Tonnerre, her family were all that she knew. She clung to Moira as the cold settled deep into her bones. She shivered as her lips turned blue and ice began to bloom across her silver skin. Frost began to creep out from each place her feet touched. As her sorrow grew, so did the ice across her body and deeper the winter became outside. The weather did not reflect her mood, but answered it.

The cold began to seep into her veins, her bones until Estelle could go on no longer. Her soul, her heart was held behind a bramble bush. They ailed, growing cold and weary with the effort of protecting her. Soon death was a frigid fist clutching at her heart. Moira fled, to find herbs, but she left her notebook, the place she kept her heart in Estelle’s grasp. Estelle would not see Moira again. She knew it though she kept the ice from stopping her heart for two days as she waited for Moira to return.

But Estelle lost all her family. As she lay beneath the stars in the small thicket they had found. The girl wept. A winter storm swept in from the south as finally the ice of her grief stopped the girl’s heart. She lay dead beneath the falling snow. Lightning crackled across the sky as her soul, her savage, feral soul screamed out for life. The bolt of lightning fell down like a rod from the sky above and struck Estelle deep into her chest. She cried out her first breath like the thunder. It was a rebirth, a wild rebecoming.

She rose from where she had lain. The ice was scolded from her skin except for where a large feathered scar branched out like lightning from her heart. It spread as ice eternal across her chest and shoulders. Estelle knew as she rose, awakened, reborn, that her skin was not the silver of the Tonnerre family but the silver of rain and ice, the sharp glow of lightning.

The weather gathered about her, summoned by a magic that awoke in her grief. Her magic killed her, her magic awoke her. Estelle did not wait to see if Moira returned. She knew her cousin was gone. It was time now to find her. The girl who left the family and the one thrown from it would be reunited. Estelle wandered the woodland after Moira, until she too came across the strange gateway between worlds and stepped through into Novus.