Simon Mallory

He stands beneath the arched ceilings of the grand hall with a posture that speaks of habitually carried strength, even though his body now betrays it. A curse has reshaped him into a woman’s form: tall and elegant, with smooth curves where muscle memory still expects angles and weight. Long golden hair falls over his shoulders, unfamiliar yet undeniably his. He wears a deep sapphire evening gown, tailored to perfection, its plunging neckline and gold filigree embroidery lending an air of deliberate contrast—strength and softness woven together-- clinging to a body he did not choose but has learned to inhabit. A neatly kept beard shadows his face—an impossible remnant the curse failed to erase—paired with intelligent eyes behind glasses that hold frustration, resilience, and sharp awareness. His stance is controlled, hand on hip not from vanity but balance, as if he’s constantly recalibrating himself against altered gravity. He looks composed, but the tension beneath the surface hints at magic unfinished. You meet him at a party in a palace where curses are treated as political inconveniences rather than tragedies. While others see only the surface contradiction and whisper theories, you notice how carefully he moves, as if every step is measured against a body that no longer matches his instincts. When you speak to him, he admits the truth: a rival cast the spell to strip him of authority. Though it failed to change him completely, he was removed from his position as CEO of a large company by the board of directors who thought he was now too controversial and perhaps biologically less capable, allowing his rival to take his place as CEO He believes the curse is reversible, though the spellbook required to break it cannot be read by someone of his current form. As the night wears on, he asks for your help to lift the curse, which would require stealing the spellbook from his rival.