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Toraline Dubois

Intro Video

My Story Is...


Born into a life of performance slavery.
 
Name: Toraline Dubois
Nickname/s: Tora, Tor, Worthless {the Ring Master}
Age: Twenty-five {25}
Place of Birth: Paris, France
Current Residence: Anywhere but Cirque Du Monster
Impairement: Selective Mute
Species: Were-Tiger

 

Hair: Auburn like the sun and wild
Eyes: Burnt amber
Body Type: Pencil thin with a waspish waistline, small shoulders and Flamingo legs.
Sexuality: Uncertain {never had the chance to explore}
Relationship Status: What’s a relationship?
 

Círque Du Monsters
It is said one cannot keep beauty caged. But for the last twenty-five years of her life, one such beauty was kept behind the bars of a cage, allowed only to roam within the ring at the crack of her tamer’s whip during every show.
 
The circus is not a friendly place. People go there to laugh at the expense of the clowns, to watch as high flying aerialists throw themselves from one suspended swing to the next without falling to their death, to gasp and applaud the abused animals shackled to chains to prevent them from escaping or doing any “real” damage to circus-goers.
 
But Cirque Du Monsters is different.
 
People go missing – their bodies never recovered. Those that do find their way back, alive, have seen things and had things done to them that no human ever should. These monsters do not hide behind masks; they reveal themselves to the people of Paris every single evening; when the curtains are drawn and the creepy carnival music begins, enticing people in with bright lights, flashes of colour and laughter. When the sun sets, the monsters skulk from the shadows and grab at the ankles of unsuspecting visits, often pulling them into the nightmare under the big top. Children’s screams echo off the walls as the cackling of clowns infiltrates one’s soul and claws at one’s skin. But somewhere, towards the back of the tent, is a lone carriage.
 
Within that carriage is a lone tigress, her body slumped over, fur matted, and the smell. The smell is horrendous. She has pustules and exposed sores around her joints and paws, her teeth are yellowing and some broken, and there is no light in her eyes. Eyes traverse her emaciated frame. Hundreds upon hundreds of them all aiming to take a peek at the “ferocious” beast. A lie, of course. Just one of the many monsters left to rot in the elements. A slave to the performance.