User Profile

Personality: |
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Alma is, by her nature, rather helpless dealing with the people of her time and place. Having been hospitalized from the onset of puberty, she's never had any real memorable interaction with anyone who hasn't felt pity or responsibility towards her-- as such, she's naïve and trusting, almost too much so. This isn't to say she'll believe anything that might harm her-- her particular gifts tend to dictate who she will or will not remain near, and there's little force on earth that can keep her anywhere. She's rather like herding a cat, really. She's much more intelligent than she lets on, and various tests have proven this for her family, who all regard her with something akin to pity; it's just that she's prone to 'fits', and that they think she might be a little 'touched' in the head.

Though really, can you blame them for thinking so? Most don't understand what they see when it's beyond their ken, and Alma is by far beyond the ken of most people, doctors included, of the juvenile ward in which she was placed. Behind those hazel eyes lies a knowledge so vast, so detailed, that her mind has threatened to break multiple times under the strain, and she cannot help but try to relate that knowledge, in the way that a full vessel will try to leak.

It's hardly her fault that that knowledge takes on forms that others can't fathom.

Outside of her inability to communicate with others 45% of the time, when she's lucid, Alma is a shy, though sweet, girl, who may smile rarely but is often willing to extend a helping hand. She's capable of doing a lot even with her problems; perhaps she's not meant for interpersonal interaction, but she's got good hand-eye coordination. Her hobbies evidence this; she's good with needlework and seamstressing, and she's quick on her feet and seems to see the easiest path out of situations as if it's something preternatural.

History: |
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Alma Cassandra Kavanaugh was born to a middle-class family of three in Encinitas, California on March 14, 1989. She was a normal, if serious, child, inquisitive and bright, and she and her elder sister may have argued a few times, but they were close in the way of children born within three years of one another. She did well in school, and though she wasn't genius-level, she was reasonably intelligent. It was a normal existance; she loved Erector sets, played Pokemon with her friends, and was generally a funloving child.

This changed with puberty. One evening, her parents came home after a desperate, terrified call from her elder sister, and found their youngest child on the floor, twisting and writhing, meaningless babble coming from her lips and the first of her menstrual blood staining her legs and the floor. From there, it was a blur of confused neurologists, therapists, and other doctors, all of whom could offer no easy solution or explanation for their daughter's sudden psychosis. They didn't have enough money to take her to any other doctors who might have been able to offer the miracle cure they were searching for, and they simply didn't know what to do with her.

It wasn't long after that they admitted her to a juvenile ward a few hours away, to people who could care for her better than they could. She would sometimes lapse back into lucidity, but far too often, she would look perfectly normal, sitting in front of the doctors, and yet the words from her lips made no sense at all.

But they did, at least to the girl they kept mostly sedated and busy with simplistic crafts. She was simply trying to express what it was she could see, what she knew was coming. Soon after her admission, in the early summer, she began a constant whisper about a blaze in the far east. She wouldn't be quieted, not even by drugs-- the doctors didn't know what to make of it. They could do nothing but let her talk; she wasn't hurting herself or others, had in fact shown no sign of ever doing so.

September of 2001, war began in Iraq. She remained misunderstood and her whisperings quieted.

A few tabloids heard word of the Child Prophetess. For a while, she had visitors, many visitors by the hospital's standards, visitors who should have been unable to get in. But for whatever reason, every visitor that came in left confused. She was a normal little girl, they said, if a bit slow. The rumors must have been groundless.

And every time they left, Alma would smile to herself, hum a little tune, and go back about her needlework. She was waiting, though no one, least of all she, knew for what. But she knew she'd know when it came.

Six years passed, and she finds herself approaching an age that will put her on the streets; juvenile wards won't keep legal adults. There is a change coming, and she knows it is coming soon. She can feel it on the wind, and sometimes she can hear it if it's quiet enough. But she's getting tired of waiting; it's time to search it out, herself.

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