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‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ APPEARANCE ──
Psalms 50:2 - Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty, God shines forth.
The recreation of something holy, divinity in each sense of the word.
The ruling tone of who Sekhmet is.

Dark skinned, though tinted a greyer color with absence of consistent humanity, Sekhmet is everything someone would look for in a Goddess. Standing roughly at a height of 4'9", or 145cm, she has no set lean on either leg and keeps her posture as correct and straight as possible, the view of perfection. Her face is sharp: a sleek nose, prominent edges of her cupid's bow, the careful jut of her jawline and the edges of her eyes. Against everything controlled to a tee, her eyes are the most expressive; A dark red, easily mistaken for something akin to maybe a brown in certain lightings, though most certainly displayed as what it is. More often than not, her eyes are displayed in something of an angry glare, sharp and jagged like every other feature of her face.

Against everything, though, Sekhmet takes most pride in her hair. Reaching around midback when not tied up for convenience sake, her hair is a series of long black passion twists, gold cuffs with intricate and personally created designs spotted around. Though, they should not be mistaken for manual labor nor reckless placement, as Sekhmet did not actually personally create them, having a professional do that, nor did she poorly scatter them about like useless items. Each cuff is one piece of the larger puzzle that is her hair, just like every detail of her is a piece of the larger puzzle that is her perfection.

Burdened by both her hatred of revealing clothing and the knowledge that anything less than artful would be as bad as a sin in her eyes, there's a very precise act that goes into her outfits.
Most commonly, Sekhmet wears more draping outfits — things akin to a toga, blinding white. Anything not covered right away, like her arms or neck, is then covered by something of a bolero, buttoned to the neck and hiding away anything exposed. For greater designs, she'll perhaps throw in pops of color in the use of long red mesh fabrics adorning the white beneath.
Accessories, while not as demanding for appearances as the whole outfit, are still important to her. Necklaces prove useless in many cases, though Sekhmet still makes room to carry atleast her cross necklace at all times. Instead, she takes to rings and earrings, gold colors and personal designs. With her most prominent accessory, aside from the hidden cross, Sekhmet wears a face veil. A thorn-designed lace with a opaque white mask beneath, only covering to her nose.

How extra.

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‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ BACKGROUND ──
Genesis 1:1 - In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
Always the artist, never the muse. Isn't that how she's always intended to be? The fool, rather than the king?

El-Seifi's, the performers. A densely regulated family with the sole focus of arts. Though having origins in Egypt, the most recent generations chose to settle within the dense woodlands nearby Sydney, Australia, hidden away from the constant traffic of muggle life and yet just close enough to observe them and their actions from afar. In the perfected art of all performers, there is observation, and that is all Sekhmet's life has ever been. A constant flurry of observation, the differences between her parents and the latest muggle tourist who happened to stumble just close enough to the manor. She spent majority of her early life staring at the streams of light through stained glass, the colors reflected onto the wood floor in her study. It was in that moments silence, hearing the smooth melancholic tone from the piano a few rooms over or listening to the cries of her younger siblings, that Sekhmet truly began to appreciate what mundane life had in store.

As days continued, meaningless to the young depiction of her mind, the mundane slipped away. She was tossed into other things to occupy herself — Painting, the very beginnings of sculpting, music. Sekhmet once again spent her time observing, allowed carefully trained hands to cover hers and poke at keys on a piano, or allow a brushstroke to ruin the gentle perfection of a blank canvas. There was meaning there, creation and destruction meshing to begin again. Ouroboros, a never-ending cycle that Sekhmet would be forced to repeat over and over again. Form, despise, destroy. Perfectionists were no stranger to the family name, and that urge to be perfect was no stranger to Sekhmet.

Once Sekhmet was capable of genuine thought, one without the assistance of her parents, this entertainment by the mundane slipped away. While she still held art dearly to her heart, adored the feeling of clay beneath fingertips and the joy of making something her own and making it perfect, the knowledge that nothing in her world really was mundane frustrated her. Everything seemed that way, the lackluster appearance of her family name and their constant use of muggle creations. What was her family if not mundane? If not useless to the pureblood world? What were they if not lousy excuses for greatness? No amount of parties, of social events and being the talk of their circles for the next week excused the rising bile in Sekhmet's throat just knowing she would be the next to uphold this terrible tradition. A weak means of living, of barely being respected. Sekhmet El-Seifi, the next clown in the circus that is her family.

She grew to resent the title of her family, still holding the name with pride and yet dodging the knowledge of their occupations. Musician, composer, artist, cheap and frail excuses for what should be confidence in their status. Who were they if not entertaining the latest pureblood frauds? If not kissing the ground beneath every stuckup snob's feet?

And as she aged, eight to nine, her mother apparently took note of this as well.

After a particularly sour event, the casual calm composure of her mother faltering into a near violent mess, she became more reclusive. No longer did she stray outside, parasol covering her from the sunlight in which Sekhmet assumed was to stray from burns, instead choosing to hide within her study. Weeks on end, Naunet would only leave her study for the basic necessities, much to the concern of her husband. Mundane no longer was how it seemed, and Sekhmet recognized that there was something wrong with her mother, and in turn wrong with her. With near constant hounding, argument after argument about what really happened, Naunet faltered.

Creatures of the night, every fairytale version of the story mocked to bits and pieces. Sekhmet was no longer a creation of art, perfected and sculpted by the hands of those who raised her. Instead, she was a creature that belonged to everything cursed, hunted down in many stories and called to be the symbols of dreadful things. Despite her prodding, despite every chance she had to back away, she felt disgusted. She had wanted an answer, and with that answer she no longer did find pleasure in such prodding. Something tainted was she, a disgusting monster — hardly a monster at all, between the groups of monster and man, the horrible inbetween of something she hated.

Sekhmet turned to alternative means as she grew older, past this experience. She took on more arts, took on as much as she could to calm her mind. Muggle religion, Catholicism, anything to believe herself pure. Talk of redeeming sins, reducing the monstrous frame to nothing more than a fragment of her imagination. Sekhmet grew obsessed with this mindset, the belief that she could be saved, redeemed, lingering so deeply in her mind until it was all she could imagine. With her damned form and the intensity of who she was becoming, this obsession grew into a more realistic appearance, taking the look of shrouded figures of white, blinding frames steering Sekhmet's eyes away.

With Naunet's reclusive attitude, and the corruption of Sekhmet's own, parties and social events dwindled down slowly. Astennu still travelled to perform at events unlike his own, but those hosted in the large ballroom of their manor paused, left in the creaking silence that Sekhmet had never known. Melancholy returned in the form of brooding, rather than the pieces her father would play.

Not long after, from the eligible age, a dukun made the latest appearance in her life. The request to join Tenūsa, and the breaking of such an aggressive silence. Sekhmet had initially wanted to reject it, wanted to stay at her home and mope about such a damning change to her life, but the insistence of her parents forced her hand. The desperation of their tones, emotions aflurry; Sekhmet had never been one to stay stoic when toyed with.
And thus, her pitiful educational journey began. So much for moping.

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