Amy Kenyatta
Bastet Simba | Bartender | Aspiring Tattoo Artist
Amy Kenyatta walks like someone who's been hunted before.
Not by cops. Not by men. By memory.
She keeps her voice low, her back to the wall, and her escape routes mapped. It's not paranoia—it's protocol. The kind you pick up when your dreams are more violent than your days, when your blood sings with rage you can't place, and your instincts whisper things your therapist would call delusions.
Amy doesn't remember her early childhood, not clearly. What she knows are fragments: the smell of wet fur, heat that felt like lightning under her skin, a scream that may have been hers—or someone else's. She knows she ended up in Oklahoma, shuffled into a family that tried their best but never really understood what they'd brought into their home. By sixteen, she was living on her own. By eighteen, she was avoiding sleep.
And then it came. Not slowly. Not like the stories. It came sharp and fast, with blood and claws and a roar from somewhere deep inside her that tore her world in half.
Amy didn't become a monster. She uncovered the one the world had buried.
Now, she walks both sides of the veil. Her eyes are still human, but they've seen too much. She's learning what she is, piece by piece, not through prophecy or mentors, but through pain, instinct, and the few things still worth protecting. Her pride is a whisper—more felt than seen—but it watches through her when she stands tall.
Amy Kenyatta is not safe. She's not stable.
But she's here.
And something in the world should be very, very afraid of that.
It doesn't happen gently.
There's no sacred music, no holy light. No echo of ancient lineage calling her name through the veil. There's just heat—pressure—and then the sound of something breaking. Something old. Something buried.
Amy Kenyatta's war-form doesn't emerge like a second skin. It tears its way out of her.
Muscle stretches. Bones rearrange. Her back arches and cracks with the weight of a spine no longer meant for human shape. Her face elongates into a muzzle full of bone-cutting teeth. Her fingers split open and reshape into claws. When she stands, it's not upright—it's upraised, like the world just gave her permission to strike it back.
She doesn't look like a lion. She looks like what lions dream about when they're afraid.
Eight and a half feet tall. Corded muscle over a frame built for speed and rage. Her coat is sunlit bronze streaked with black, as if painted by clawed hands trying to erase her. Her mane is patchy, unfinished, not quite symbolic—but it moves when she breathes, like it remembers wind and freedom she hasn't earned yet.
Her eyes, though...
They stay the same.
Haunted. Human.
But burning with something older than grief. Older than her name.
She doesn't speak when she shifts. She roars. It's not a sound—it's a verdict. A scream of pain, memory, and primal command that makes the air taste like metal and fear. It doesn't say “get back.” It says “you don't belong here.”
There is no Frenzy in Amy's Crinos. Only clarity.
Only rage sharpened into intent.
She doesn't lose herself in this shape.
She finds something.
And whatever it is, it remembers exactly what was taken from her.
Storyteller Perspective
You play Amy like someone always two steps from bolting—or biting. She's not cold, but she's cautious, and everything she says sounds like it had to pass three internal checkpoints before it reached her mouth. She's not trying to be cryptic—she just knows what happens when people dig too deep.
There's weight behind her silences.
When she doesn't answer, it's because the truth would cost her something.
She's not a leader. Not yet. But she has gravity. People notice when she leaves a room, and they damn sure notice when she enters one. She listens more than she talks, but when she does speak, it's short, pointed, and often uncomfortable.
Play her as someone whose trust is earned slowly but whose wrath comes fast. When she shifts, it's not showy—it's surgical. Her Crinos form doesn't roar for drama. It roars to end things.
Don't let her be someone's love interest or plot device. She's a survivor walking a tightrope made of memory and instinct, and she's just now realizing she can choose her own direction—even if she's not ready for what that means.
She doesn't want to be anyone's monster.
But if pushed, she'll become one to protect the people who never had theirs.