Character(s) 𓆩 A Mosaic of Dreams and Dust 𓆪

[dramatis personae]

✦ Character Compendium ✦
An archive of tortured souls across worlds and time

dramatis personae
/ˌdramətɪs pəːˈsəʊnʌɪ,ˌdramətɪs pəːˈsəʊniː/

Dramatis personae (Latin: 'persons of the drama') are the main characters in a dramatic work written in a list. Such lists are commonly employed in various forms of theatre, and also on screen. Typically, off-stage characters are not considered part of the dramatis personae. It is said to have been recorded in English since 1730, and is also evident in international use.

☙

In this thread, it is both my name and my purpose: a living archive of the characters I've imagined, written, and loved — across genres, worlds, and timelines.

I write women who breathe between the lines.
They are flawed, fragile, fierce—never just one thing. They change with each story, each scar, each fleeting hope. Some are searching for something they can't name. Others are hiding pieces of themselves in plain sight.
They dream quietly, and I write to hear them.

☽

I invite you to read with care.

These characters are fragments of stories — some nearly complete, some still waiting to be told. If something stirs your imagination, I welcome you to send me a private message.

Before reaching out, please take a moment to read my request thread, where I've shared my preferences and ideas. I value thoughtful connections and creative synergy, and I look forward to discovering what we might build together.

Jump to: ​

Forgotten Realms | A Song of Ice and Fire | The Witcher | Sci-Fi & Cyberpunk | Modern & Supernatural

Forgotten Realms​

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Hannya
Caelyndra
Nith'meya
Ailbhe of the Dale
Mal'thrae Meltral
Sa'adah Dahmani
Bathsheba Dhaksim
Min'dalar
Rhea Lharaendo
Lafneh Narsesh
Zahra Aaliyah
Ulumpha Ghorak

A Song of Ice and Fire​

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Lysa Manderly
Myranda Royce
Myrrah Martell
Naerys Targaryen
Elenya Baratheon
Ide Stone
Daena of Lys
Shaena

The Witcher​

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Elodie of Temeria
Vicanda of Cintra
Zinnaliah of Cidaris

Sci-Fi & Cyberpunk​

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Valaila Zelona(Star Wars)
Hanae Lee (Cyberpunk)
Jewel Wright (Cyberpunk)
Agnes Montgomery (Cyberpunk)

Modern & Supernatural​

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Aude McLoughlin (Harry Potter)
Sarah Carter (Midnight Mass)
Madame Morose
Maliyah Cardoza
Hanae Lee

 

[dramatis personae]

Sarah Carter

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MODERN - SUPERNATURAL
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The Carters The Carters had been living on Crockett Island ever since Mr. Carter got in an accident and quit his job as a construction worker in New York City. With rest and relaxation as the primary solution prescribed to him by the good doctors of the buzzing city, he and his wife had decided to invest their life savings into a house and a tiny farm on the small island just after both their children had finished high school. Sarah, their first, had already been in college for three years by that time, but she'd joined her parents and her younger brother Jonathan to help with the move regardless. Jonathan soon applied to college himself, leaving the Carters to enjoy a few more years as empty-nesters. But they didn't stay lonely for long. Before the storm Sarah had always been a nice gal. She wasn't the brightest mind in the room, but neither was she the slowest one, and she always applied herself. Nothing good came to her life without effort — not her grades, not her friends, not even her first boyfriend. Although she'd bloomed into a woman early enough, her curves had sooner attracted ridicule than appreciation, at least until she got in college. There, she was finally able to turn a page and catch a break — or so she thought. She met Brad on her way to a Bachelor's in early childhood education, a handsome, athletic young man who showed both emotion, intellect and ambition. Inexperienced as she was with men, Sarah was grateful for his attention and unavoidably shifted hers to shed the spotlight on him and their relationship for almost a full year. Her grades dropped but she eventually managed to get them back up to something decent — she had, thankfully, also managed to maintain her romantic relationship until she graduated, and stayed in New York until Brad, too, was done with his studies. She never intended to stay in Crockett Island for more than a few weeks, but after Bradley surprised her with his marriage proposal there was little she could say to change her parents' mind about it. They'd used their growing network on the small island to secure her a job teaching the few children still living on it — something that would both offer her income and keep her living comfortably in a house they'd been building for her to her ignorance through those years of absence. Brad agreed, so they moved into it a few weeks after they'd gotten married in NYC. Married life The first year went by fast, too fast, and Sarah couldn't blame Bradley for the awkward distance that developed between them. With a new job and her parents thrown into the mix, the newly weds faced a rough start — no less because Bradley kept his job across the waterline and when he was home from work, his in-laws were always there. Mr. Carter's health took a dive, forcing Sarah's attention on him and off her marriage. Still, she tried to persuade Bradley to have a baby; it was futile. Although they'd escaped the highly demanding real estate market of NYC and had a place to call their own, he hadn't actually committed to the islander's life. He kept bringing up work opportunities in the mainland for her, or claimed the island was only for retirees — not young people like themselves — but Sarah wasn't going to leave the care of her father to her mother alone. So they stayed and, eventually, Bradley settled down. They tried to have a baby for a couple of years before Mr. Carter passed, which put a pause to everything. Sarah went through two years of dipping her toes in and out of the depression pool, which didn't help things. Bradley, however, stayed by her side and told her they could take their time with the baby; they weren't in their 40s just yet. More years passed. The couple had fallen into a comfortable routine: they left the house for work in the morning with a kiss goodbye and reunited in the early evening, when Brad was back from the mainland, tired but horny as a dog. He climbed on top of her, or took her right against the kitchen counter and Sarah waited patiently to miss her next period but disappointingly, it still came — unlike her. ════

​

 

[dramatis personae]

to be filled soon

 

[dramatis personae]

to be filled soon

 

[dramatis personae]

to be filled

 

[dramatis personae]

Madame Morose

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Historical / Supernatural
╚══════ ≪≫°✺°≪ ≫ ══════╝

​

Rumors say the woman who now runs one of the few clean brothels in London's center had, once, been nothing more than a whore herself. To get as far as to afford that place and make a business out of it, she must at least have been a shrewd one. The high-collared shirts and layered skirts do not fool anyone, however. The woman, so endearingly nicknamed Madame Morose, will barely climb higher than the base of the dirty ladder that the criminal underworld remains. Smugglers, dealers and killers surround her professional endeavors at every corner while she remains one of the few feminine presences around the table on the rare occasions of a reunion. They end up in blood more often than not, and blood is bad for business. Nobody wants to fuck next to a motionless body painted in red, after all. Well, maybe you do; you'll have to find someone else for that. Meiyun Pú takes care of her girls and the muscle in her establishment will make sure you'll get no more than what you paid for. It's a pleasure house, not a torture one — combining the joy of music and dance with the thrill of the climb quite frequently. That's what makes the rich visit, then return with their friends. It's a happy place, with women in all shapes and sizes who'll greet you with a smile and invite you in with a half-open dress and their arms around your shoulders. Stay, they tell you, and their goods shine all the brighter when you spot the black-clad Chinese woman sipping her wine in the background. You couldn't imagine fucking that.​

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[dramatis personae]

Agnes "Beau" Montgomery

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CYBERPUNK - NOIR
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the world has turned overwhelming, just like the grouping of these busy pictures
maybe you need to relax? Beau can help...



『 tbf 』

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fake text

III. test

Agnes "Beau" Montgomery

She didn't want him to find this out about her but, just like with her fatigue, George wasn't doing her the kind of favor she'd have hoped for. He was here, paying attention, perhaps more than she was used to — or perhaps to the things that truly made the person living inside the shell of pale flesh. "Yeah," she smiled at him, although it was a sheepish one and slightly embarrassed. What he was suggesting made sense and, although she did not have the luxury of time to consider it now, his words were truer than she realized. If this had been a routine night, she would have gone for a fatty meal before enjoying her whiskey, but she had gotten so wrapped up in her anger, and later her confusion, that grabbing even a hotdog had totally slipped her mind. Thus, there she was, her gaze moving from him to the couch as she took a few steps towards the latter. Her other hand rose too, perhaps to help with her balance or in a silent request for more aid. There was nothing wrong with her legs, not yet at least, but she didn't rush to get there in fear of alarming George further.

"I think I'd actually like to... Hear a story," Agnes attempted continuing their conversation, although the darkening room around her gave her pause for a moment in the middle of such an effort. She was almost there, blinking before she turned around to drop a little too quickly on the leather sofa, and soon brought her hands fingers down against the expensive material. Rather than feeling it for the sake of it, what Agnes was doing was pressing her concealed palms on it and using her stretched arms to give herself a straighter spine and better posture; in reality, having fainted before, she knew she was teetering on the edge there.

Things could get more embarrassing yet. But she had a choice: Focus on herself, and she'd soon fade — or she could focus on anything else and weather a hopefully short storm without her pride getting any more bloody.

She chose to look up at George. Spirits and Gods be good, Agnes prayed that he'd not stay standing for much longer, or this attempt of saving face would fail just as much as the previous ones. She glanced from him to the emptiness of the couch beside her, feeling the back of her head growing even more heavy than before at the swiveling, even if slow, motion. Fuck.

BBcode credit: chap​

Spoiler: Blurb

Once she walked down the stairs of her apartment complex and stepped out the entrance, Yerba Buena greeted her with quiet and a breath of cold air. At 3pm, every corporate worker was still on the mainland, while the freelancers stayed hidden behind thick curtains and locked doors. Agnes had been awake for a few hours at that point, however. With more than a couple of hours to burn, she followed the invisible path of habit to the subway station, took one more flight of stairs and waited for the metro to arrive.

After getting in, baby blues swept over the faces of strangers with dulled curiosity. Her glance wasn't intrusive, but certainly reading. The excited couple occupying two of the seats pushed her lips into a momentary purse just to conceal the amused smile they brought on. It wasn't something she understood, nor something she could ever remember herself as, thus it fascinated her easily. The tired passengers made no impression, and soon she was looking out through the windows, grasping one of the many metallic bars to make sure she wouldn't fall on her face during the short journey to the city center.

Not that she was headed to the heart of traffic and buzz; oh, no. She was off at the last stop to get back on the ground level, meeting the sun with eyes hidden behind her pink, round shades. They made the cityscape look just a bit warmer, which wasn't an unwelcome sight even in the beginning of winter. The yellow star was playing hide and seek behind a considerable amount of clouds, but still felt blinding from the wrong angle. Agnes ignored it as she started walking down Fell street, pale hands hidden in the pockets of her leather jacket.

The air downtown smelled different to her now. Ever since she'd moved to the island, her perspective on the mainland changed. The same streets she had spent years of her life walking on brought a sense of nostalgia to her now. Or was it the people she was missing? Victoria was gone, and Gabby- Well, if only she knew where Gabby was.

Step after step, she arrived at her destination. There was not a hint of Italian in her bloodstream if her mother was to be believed, yet here she was, taking her left hand out of her pocket to press the glass door of Giorgio's open and announcing her arrival with a soft bell hanging overhead. Dressed in black jeans and flat, black boots, the woman with hair that was looking more blonde than pink at this point offered no reasons for staring. Unassuming in both height and build, Agnes took her time letting the somewhat fragile door come back to its closed position, before leisurely approaching the counter. While the day's sun still warmed her back, one might catch a glimpse of the long string of tiny earrings decorating her left ear; the right one only bore a single stud in the most usual, central spot on the contrary. Two silver bands barely weighed the fingers of her right hand as she pressed it on the counter, hardly making any noise — until the staff noticed her, at least.

Thick, slightly dehydrated lips cracked a tender smile at being noticed and an understated breath of a chuckle left her when the server asked her if it was actually getting that cold outside, judging by the somewhat blushed tip of her nose and apples of her cheeks. "Kind of cold, yeah," she uttered, her voice grounded, feminine yet not girlish. She shrugged the jacket off, revealing an equally unimpressive cotton sweater in black with faint, horizontal white stripes and a black shirt's collar merely peeking over the neckline. She took a look at her digital watch, then put her jacket on the empty stool to her side, folding it to prevent it from sliding off. The shades didn't come off just yet. She turned her head to the glass front of the pizzeria and looked outside for a good few moments before raising her left hand to remove them and set them on the countertop. Now that she'd settled down a bit of her perfume would make its way to the noses of the patrons seated near the door — a subtle mix of white florals with a note of vanilla and sandalwood, too.​

 

[dramatis personae]

Valaila Zelona

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STAR WARS
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After the Clone Wars
She had no choice but to leave. Once a warrior, someone her sisters looked up to,
Valaila's life turned upside down in just three hours. She no longer had a home, a family, or anyone
she could call hers. Life would not be the same ever again, yet… She would make it, that much she knew.

With clothes too big for her lithe, tall form, Valaila sticks out like a sore thumb in any civilized, organized society.
She can fight with her hands, staves or blades, but she never learned how to avoid a bullet.
A beggar, a thief, a charity work for some and ground ripe for exploitation for others,
the cautious but raw, direct woman tries to make it through a world her sisters
never prepared her for. Where are they now? If only she could turn back time…
════

Curious, bold, agile, strong, resilient, guilty, primitive, raw, aggressive,
amiable, loud, playful, cautious, practical, rebellious, stubborn, impatient

Plot nuggets
[ force user male x force avoidant female ]
[ civilized man x primitive woman ]
[ traveling, hunting, training together ]​

 

[dramatis personae]

to be filled

 

[dramatis personae]

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HANNYA ONNA​ BLURB Torn away from her human life and turned into a bloodthirsty thing, she barely has any humanity left. Claws and fangs have replaced her fingers and teeth, her once healthy body now bruised and dirty, she's more a beast than a person after it all. Is she a woman or is she a creature? Cursed and cast out, she doesn't even remember her own name except during rare, lucid moments that get lost in the haze of instinct, hunger and need that otherwise dominate her foggy mind.​

KINK LIST

Favorite

Affection
Aftercare
Consensual
Cuddling
Dub-Consensual
Foreplay
Kissing
Licking
Magic Users
Masculinity
Romance
Vulnerability

Yes

Chastity / Virginity
Coercion / Blackmail
Corruption
Discipline / Reinforcement
Drug / Alcohol Use
Fear
Foot Play
Hand Play
Healing/Comfort Sex
Horror
Hypnotism / Mind Control
Lima Syndrome
Mental Torture
Messy
Nonconsensual
Possessiveness / Jealousy
Roughness
Scratching / Biting
Sexual Exhaustion
Sexual Frustration
Somnophilia
Stockholm Syndrome
Tantric Sex
Teasing
Vanilla Sex
Very Experienced Partners
Violence
Weapon Play

Maybe

Abuse / Verbal Abuse
Bad Ends
Degradation
Orgasm Control / Denial
Sadism / Masochism

No

Ass to Mouth

 

[dramatis personae]

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Sa'adah Dahmani

The fire witch

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Race⠀Human
Nationality Rashemi
Class⠀Sorcerer
Age 36

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"You can call it crime. I call it combustion—strategically applied."

— Sa'adah of Rashemen

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Wordbank

adventure and quest, politics & intrigue, magic with consequences, strong woman x stronger man, exes falling right back into it, criminal x runaway

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Settings

Medieval Fantasy (original or fandom)

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Description

With a presence that dances between firelight and gold, she stands at 5'5"—a vision of quiet allure and undeniable strength. Thick, curly black hair frames her amber eyes like smoke curling around embers, warm and watchful. Her figure is curvy and confident, draped in rich fabrics that shimmer with promise and memory. Gold jewelry glints at her throat and ears, whispering tales of lineage or conquest, while glimpses of tattoos and piercings hint at a rebellion worn proudly beneath the surface. Though she presents herself with reserved poise, something in her gaze—introspective and almost amused—betrays a current of complexity, never easily defined. She wears her power like her adornments—not loud, but impossible to ignore.

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Background

Born into exile, Sa'adah was the child of Rashemi parents who fled their homeland under threat of bloodshed and betrayal. The foreign land they stumbled into might have offered safety from their pursuers, but it brought a different kind of torment. Here, in the polished courts and cobbled streets, their heritage was poison. Their witchcraft, feared and reviled, was met with scorn and whispered threats of burning stakes. The family learned quickly: to survive meant to smother the embers of their traditions, to hide their power beneath a mask of submission.

But fire cannot be tamed forever. Sa'adah's mother, desperate to pass on their lineage, taught her daughter the art of fire manipulation in secret. By candlelight in the dead of night, Sa'adah's lessons began—not with gentle guidance, but with the raw, brutal reality of what it meant to wield power in a world that wanted her kind extinguished. Her hands blistered, her body bore scars from flames that she could not yet control, but the pain became her crucible. From it, she emerged stronger, fiercer. Her father, ever the cautious one, tried to hammer rules into her: Hide your strength. Bow your head. Be invisible. But Sa'adah's flames had already tasted freedom, and she could not bear the thought of living and dying in chains of silence. Her defiance grew sharper, her frustrations more explosive, until one night, with her family's final warning still ringing in her ears, she walked out into the dark and never looked back.

One fateful night, with embers of defiance glowing in her soul, she left her family behind. Armed with her growing mastery of fire magic, Sa'adah ventured into the world, determined to carve her own destiny. Her journey was far from easy. Civilization's disdain for magic followed her like a shadow, yet she found ways to thrive. Selling her fiery talents as a service to those who needed them, she earned her keep. Sometimes she lit hearths for desperate villagers; other times she burned obstacles for those with less noble intentions. And when opportunity knocked on the door of mischief and small-scale crime, Sa'adah answered—an act of survival, not malice.

Her reputation grew, fueled by both whispers of admiration and rumors of her dangerous edge. Sa'adah became a figure of intrigue—a woman untethered, fiery in spirit and craft, forging her fortune one spark at a time. Though the road ahead remained uncertain, one thing was clear: Sa'adah would not let her fire be extinguished.

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Rumors

tbf

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* * *

/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */

---- 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 ----

 

[dramatis personae]

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Nith'meya

The mutt

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Race⠀50% Tiefling, 25% Human & 25% Drow
Nationality⠀Bastard
Apparent Age⠀36
Real Age⠀29

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"Call me a killer. Call me a bitch. Just don't forget to call me when the job gets messy."

— Nith

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Wordbank

adventure / journeying, seduction, violent emotions, hard people butting heads, mature x immature, love/hate relationships, enemies working together

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Settings

Forgotten Realms — Mainland Faerun
Medieval Fantasy Setting, as long as it's hostile, low magic and xenophobic

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Description

She's got a lean build meant for speed and survival—slender like a blade, never still, always coiled to run or strike. Her black hair's wavy and worn loose or shoved behind her ears, depending on how fast she had to get moving. Eyes? Amber-brown most of the time, but catch the light wrong and they flare red, a not-so-subtle reminder that she's not entirely human. Piercings line both ears, and tattoos crawl up at least one arm, the kind that probably mean something to her and nothing to anyone else.

Everything about her is built for motion—boots light, gear tight, weapons easy to reach. You won't catch her in a dress unless there's a dagger tucked in every seam; unlikely. People say she's a drow, but she doesn't care enough to confirm or deny it. She's not here for your curiosity, she's here to get paid—and if you're lucky, she'll leave your reputation intact.

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Background

She grew up dirt-poor in a slum that stank of rot, sweat, and broken promises. Her mother vanished when she was small—gone without goodbye—and her father stuck around just long enough to teach her what cruelty looks like inside your own home. The streets didn't offer much warmth either, but at least they were honest about their dangers. She learned fast to keep moving, stay quiet, and never let hunger slow her down.

By the time she was ten, she was running errands for low-grade criminals—couriers, smugglers, pickpockets. They didn't ask about the bruises or the shaking hands. They just taught her how to blend in, lie clean, and slip away before trouble started. That crowd became her first taste of something close to loyalty—twisted, but functional. They didn't protect her, but they didn't try to break her either. That was good enough.

The blade came next. Not because she wanted it, but because eventually her fists weren't enough. You learn quick when saying "no" isn't respected and looking scared gets you dragged into alleys. She got faster. Meaner. Some men wound up bleeding in the gutters, and word started to spread. People stopped touching her. Then they stopped looking at all. That was the beginning of her freedom.

Now she's been on the road for years, and it shows. Her gear is patched, her boots are worn thin, and she sleeps light no matter how warm the fire. The work keeps her going—mercenary gigs, bounty hunts, the occasional caravan guard job for the desperate or the foolish. If you've got coin and a body that needs disappearing, she won't ask questions. She's dealt with worse than you, and probably before breakfast.

She's not made of stone—just smart enough to know softness is currency, not commitment. She drinks, she flirts, and sometimes she lets someone warm her bed for a night or two. It's not about love. It's never about love. But sometimes, just sometimes, she lets herself believe it could be... if she didn't have to leave come morning. So she keeps it light, keeps it fleeting. Better to burn bright and walk away than flicker out trying to hold on.

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Rumors

• She can throw a dagger through a coin toss midair.
• She once killed a man just for grabbing her wrist.
• She doesn't sleep with her back to anyone — not even lovers.
• She drinks like she fights: fast, clean, and with regrets in the morning.

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/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */

---- 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 ----

KINK LIST

Favorite

Finger-fucking
Odaxelagnia
Partially Clothed
Rough Sex
Service Tops
Biting
Clothed Sex
Consensual
Dub-Consensual
Fingering (Vaginal)
Foreplay
Kissing
Males
Masculinity
Massages
Roughness

Yes

Sensory Deprivation
Silver Foxes
Touching
Weaponsplay
Abuse
Adultery
Affection
Aftercare
Aphrodisiacs
Bad Ends
Body Hair
Breast / Nipple Play
Breast / Nipple Worship
Breath Control
Clit Play
Cock Warming
Cuddling
Cum
Dating
Dirty Talking
Double Penetration
Drug / Alcohol Use
Face Slapping
Fighting / Wrestling
Flaccid Play
Food Play
Foot Play
Footjobs
Hair Pulling
Hand Play
Handjobs
Hotdogging
Humor / Comedy
Ice
Instant Hookups
Intercrural Sex
Kidnapping
Licking
Magic Users
Masturbation
Messy
Multiple Characters
Multiple Orgasms
Muscular Characters
Nonconsensual
Nonsexual Pain
Plot Twists
Potions / Injections
Power-bottoming
Pseudo-rape
Pubic Hair
Queefing
Realistic Cum
Romance
Scratching
Slice of Life
Smoking
Somnophilia
Spanking
Squirting
Stuckage
Tantric Sex
Teasing
Teeth Play
Titfucking
Vaginal Sex (Receiving)
Vanilla Sex
Violence
Voyeurism
Weapon Play

Maybe

Age Differences
Ahegao
Anal Sex (Receiving)
Anal Training
Anal Virginity
Burning
Choking
Cock / Balls Worship
Competition
Cuckolding
Cunnilingus (Giving)
Cunnilingus (Receiving)
Exhibitionism
Extreme Tightness
Face-Fucking
Face-Sitting
Fellatio (Performing)
Fingering (Anal)
Fingers in Mouth
Inexperienced Partners
Muscle Worship
Oral Fixation
Oral Virginity
Pussy Worship
Racism
Rimming (Giving)
Rimming (Receiving)
Sadism / Masochism
Sexism
Sexual Exhaustion
Sexual Frustration
Sexual Pain
Soft Cum Facials
Swallowing Semen
Tailsex
Throat Penetration
Tribadism / Scissoring
Unusual Semen
Vaginal Sex (Giving)
Vaginal Virginity
Wax Play

No

Ass to Mouth
Bloodplay
Cervical Penetration
Death
Gore
Hard Cum Facials
Scat
Vore
Watersports

 

[dramatis personae]

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Bathsheba Dhaksim

The bookworm

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Race⠀Tiefling
Nationality⠀Eryndlynite
Apparent Age⠀24
Real Age⠀29

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"Every silk strand between us is Lloth's will—tangled, tense, beautiful."

— Mal'thrae Meltral

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* * *

---- LEFT COLUMN START ----

---- SECTION 1 START -----

Wordbank

small secrets, overcoming odds, hero's sidekick, healing trauma, comfort and togetherness, horned sweethearts, friends to lovers, slow-burn romance, mid-fantasy

---- SECTION 1 END ----


---- SECTION 2 START -----

Settings

Forgotten Realms — Faerun
Medieval Fantasy

---- SECTION 2 END ----


---- SECTION 3 START -----

Description

Gender: Female
Race: Tiefling
Apparent Age: Late 20s
Eye color: Hazel green
Hair: Dark brown, barely wavy
Height: 177cm / 5'10"
Build: Tall and lanky
Orientation: Straight

---- SECTION 3 END ----


---- SECTION 4 START -----

Background

She appears as normal as they come, perhaps too normal — she is trying her best to blend in.
With her true, tiefling nature always concealed, she leads a boring life
as a herbal remedies' store clerk, a part-time cook and a volunteer librarian.
She does not wish to be seen — or does she?
Wouldn't it be nice to be able to just be for once, and not pretend?

Would you be her friend?
Or would you run away at the sight of horns, tail and wings sprouting from behind her back?

---- SECTION 4 END ----

---- SECTION 5 START -----

Rumors

• RUMORSSS TBF

---- SECTION 5 END ----

---- LEFT COLUMN END ----

* * *

/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */

---- 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 ----

KINK LIST

Favorite

♥ Affection
Aftercare
Ahegao
Clit Play
Clothed Sex
Consensual
Cuddling
Dating
Dirty Talking
Fantasy
Fingering (Vaginal)
♥ Foreplay
♥ Gentleness
♥ Kissing
Licking
Magic Users
Masculinity
♥ Mutual Pleasure
Nonsexual Roleplay
♥ Pampering
♥ Praise
♥ Preferential Treatment
♥ Protectiveness
Pussy Worship
Realism
Romance
♥ Sexual Discovery
Slice of Life
Story Driven
♥ Touching
Teasing
Vaginal Sex (Receiving)
♥ Vulnerability

Yes

Aphrodisiacs
Ass Worship
Blindfolds
Breast / Nipple Play
Breast / Nipple Worship
Chastity
Coercion / Blackmail
Corruption
Drug / Alcohol Use
Dub-Consensual
Ear Play
♥ Endearments
Fingers in Mouth
Food Play
Foot Play
Footjobs
Handcuffs
Hand Play
Handjobs
Hotdogging
Intercrural Sex
Lima Syndrome
Massages
Multiple Orgasms
Muscle Worship
Muscular Characters
Oral Sex (Giving)
Oral Sex (Receiving)
Oral Virginity
Possessiveness / Jealousy
Potions / Injections
Racism
Roughness
Scratching
Sexual Exhaustion
Sexual Frustration
Titfucking
Wings

Maybe

Abuse
Adultery
Anal Sex (Receiving)
Anal Training
Anal Virginity
Bad Ends
Begging
Breath Control
Breeding
Canon Characters
Choking
Cock / Balls Worship
Coercion / Blackmail
Cunnilingus (Receiving)
Face-Sitting
Fear
Fellatio (Performing)
Fingering (Anal)
Forced Nudity
Gags
Hair Pulling
Hypnotism / Mind Control
Leash & Collar
Menses
Messy
Natural Musk
Nonconsensual
Onomatopoeia
Oral Sex (Giving)
Orgasm Control / Denial
Pleasure Control / Denial
Power-bottoming
Premature Ejaculation
Rimming (Receiving)
Roughness
Sadism / Masochism
Sexual Exhaustion
Sexual Pain
Soft Cum Facials
Swallowing Semen
Throat Penetration
Tickling

No

Ass to Mouth
Instant Hookups
Non-consensual
Polyamory
Prostitution

 

[dramatis personae]

⠀

---- STATBLOCK START ----

Mal'thrae Meltral

The shy cultist

⠀

---- SCROLLING TEXT START ----

Race⠀Drow
Nationality⠀Eryndlynite
Apparent Age⠀18
Real Age⠀91

---- SCROLLING TEXT END ----

---- STATBLOCK END ----


---- QUOTE START ----

"Every silk strand between us is Lloth's will—tangled, tense, beautiful."

— Mal'thrae Meltral

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* * *

---- LEFT COLUMN START ----

---- SECTION 1 START -----

Wordbank

drow matriarchal society, slow-burn romance, drow x drow pairing, travel & destruction, sexual exploration

---- SECTION 1 END ----


---- SECTION 2 START -----

Settings

Forgotten Realms — Faerun, Underdark or Surface

---- SECTION 2 END ----


---- SECTION 3 START -----

Description

Dressed from head to toe in black, you'd only sneak a peek at her snow-white mane by accident, hair long enough to reach her hips that made her seem all the shorter—and Mal'thrae was a petite drow, a skinny thing with an angular, almost gaunt face. Her dark gray skin still shone with youth's graces, healthy even if thin, all the more so around her pierced nose. Three tiny bars with pointy ends on both sides went through the top of its somewhat aquiline bridge, just wide enough to fit and no wider. Her long lips appeared to have suffered a similar fate, with two snake bites through which circular but open, spiky silver came out as well as a simple ring right in the middle of her lower lip in a labret.

---- SECTION 3 END ----


---- SECTION 4 START -----

Background

Beneath the cold obsidian arches of House Meltral, a girl was born too quiet to be feared and too frail to be mourned. Mal'thrae, youngest daughter of the Matron, arrived into the world not as a storm, but a whisper—dismissed as an afterthought even by her own kin. While her sisters clawed and curried favor with venom-tipped tongues, Mal'thrae stayed in shadowed corners, listening, watching, learning. When the time came, she did not scream for power—she took it, slipping a blade through her favored sister's heart with surgical silence and assuming her place in Lolth's sacred clergy with blood still warm on her hands.

Intellect was her weapon, sharp and precise. While others wove webs of courtly charm and deceit, she poured herself into scripture and arcana, her mind a shrine of logic and doctrine. Her social missteps and stiff silences were often mistaken for weakness—an illusion she never corrected. In truth, she had no talent for flirtation, no patience for banter. Her placement among the Handmaidens of Lolth—the cloistered Virgins whose minds were to remain unsullied by flesh—was both punishment and providence. She bloomed in solitude, untouched and untouchable, her voice reserved only for prayer and ritual.

But destiny is not spun cleanly in the Demonweb. When the throne of House Meltral fell to a colder, cleverer rival, Mal'thrae was away—sent on pilgrimage to study a long-lost text, or perhaps merely forgotten in the shuffle of larger games. She returned to a ruin: corridors smeared in ash, names struck from stone, and her mother's throne carved hollow. There were two paths before her then: kneel in supplication to a foreign Matron's heel, or vanish into the unknown world above.

And she did not kneel. Now she walks beneath alien skies, the weight of her goddess pressing against every heartbeat. Devotion still anchors her—but in a world without webs, she must learn to weave her own. And when her voice catches in unfamiliar company or stumbles over the soft syllables of affection, the Spider Queen still watches.

In forests strung with birdsong instead of screams, she hunts. Her arrows fly without hesitation—swift, elegant, unforgiving. Non-drow trespassers fall before they even know they're being watched. And if they survive the strike, she finishes them in silence, kneeling beside their breathless forms as though in prayer. Not for vengeance, nor thrill—but duty, reverence; a gift of blood returned to the soil, a message sent in Lolth's name.

The world above may have changed her path but not her purpose.

---- SECTION 4 END ----

---- SECTION 5 START -----

Rumors

• She's killed not just one, but two of her older sisters.
• She is the bastard child of her mother's perverse mating with a gnome.
• She is actually a mute.
• She only smiles when she kills elves.

---- SECTION 5 END ----

---- LEFT COLUMN END ----

* * *

/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */

---- 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 ----

KINK LIST

Favorite

Affection
Aftercare
Ahegao
Anatomically Correct
Aphrodisiacs
Blindfolds
Chastity
Consensual
Cuddling
Discipline / Reinforcement
Drawn Image References
Drug / Alcohol Use
Dub-Consensual
Fantasy
Foreplay
Hand Play
Intelligent Characters
Kissing
Magic Users
Massages
Multiple Orgasms
Nonsexual Roleplay
Older Characters
Oral Virginity
Realism
Role Reversal
Romance
Sexual Frustration
Teasing
Vaginal Virginity
Very Experienced Partners

Yes

Fingers in Mouth
Sensory Play
Shibari
Spooning
Character integrity
Journeying
Absence
Enemies Working Together
Hurt/Comfort
Slap, Slap, Kiss
Verisimilitude
Age Differences
Biting
Breast / Nipple Play
Breast / Nipple Worship
Clit Play
Cock Warming
Corruption
Cum
Dating
Dirty Talking
Fighting / Wrestling
Fingering (Vaginal)
Fingers in Mouth
Flaccid Play
Food Play
Handcuffs
Horror
Human Cocks
Informality
Licking
Lima Syndrome
Males
Masculinity
Multiple Characters
Nonsexual Pain
Nonsexual Piercings
Oral Sex (Receiving)
Possessiveness / Jealousy
Potions / Injections
Pseudo-rape
Pubic Hair
Pussy Worship
Realistic Cum
Scratching
Sensory Deprivation
Sexism
Slice of Life
Smoking
Spanking
Squirting
Taller Characters
Tattoos / Body Art
Violence
Voyeurism

Maybe

Abuse
Adultery
Anal Sex (Receiving)
Anal Training
Anal Virginity
Bad Ends
Begging
Breath Control
Breeding
Canon Characters
Choking
Cock / Balls Worship
Coercion / Blackmail
Cunnilingus (Receiving)
Face-Sitting
Fear
Fellatio (Performing)
Fingering (Anal)
Forced Nudity
Gags
Hair Pulling
Hypnotism / Mind Control
Leash & Collar
Menses
Messy
Natural Musk
Nonconsensual
Onomatopoeia
Oral Sex (Giving)
Orgasm Control / Denial
Pleasure Control / Denial
Power-bottoming
Premature Ejaculation
Rimming (Receiving)
Roughness
Sadism / Masochism
Sexual Exhaustion
Sexual Pain
Soft Cum Facials
Swallowing Semen
Throat Penetration
Tickling

No

Misogynistic drow
Unrealistic Sex
Age Progression
Age Regression
Ageplay
Ass to Mouth
Cervical Penetration
Death
Filth
Hard Cum Facials
Hard Vore
Inexperienced Partners
Interracial
Vore
Scat
Watersports

 

[dramatis personae]

⠀

---- STATBLOCK START ----

Ailbhe of the Dale

The touring songstress

⠀

---- SCROLLING TEXT START ----

Race⠀Human & Elf
Nationality⠀Dalesfolk
Apparent Age⠀24
Real Age⠀32

---- SCROLLING TEXT END ----

---- STATBLOCK END ----


---- QUOTE START ----

"I might not be the hero, but I'll still write the song!"

— Ailbhe

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* * *

---- LEFT COLUMN START ----

---- SECTION 1 START -----

Wordbank

slow-burn romance, adventure & travel, infatuation, courtly politics, elven culture, mentorship and introduction in the former, youth & its struggles, dealing with racism and stereotypes

---- SECTION 1 END ----


---- SECTION 2 START -----

Settings

Forgotten Realms — Faerun, but lower magic and more racial tensions

---- SECTION 2 END ----


---- SECTION 3 START -----

Description

Tall and lanky, her bones thinner than those of a human. Her hair is silvery blonde, and her eyes are gray. She conceals her somewhat pointy ears behind her wavy locks, and her feminine curves underneath dark dresses. Ailbhe is rarely seen with extravagant outfits, but prefers the shine of silver over a black shirt to illuminate her pale complexion.

---- SECTION 3 END ----


---- SECTION 4 START -----

Background

In dale where wheat bowed like dancers in wind,
A girl was born of pale skin.
One foot in summer, the other in snow,
Her laugh a secret not many would know.

Her mother, a willow of elven grace,
Grew quiet beneath the village's gaze.
She wilted in walls that never felt wide,
And left her dreams in teacups beside.
Ailbhe watched, small, soft, and wise,
As joy slipped silent from her mother's eyes.

A brother was born, bright as new flame,
But sorrow, it seems, plays a crueler game.
When the laughter stopped and the cradle stilled,
Ailbhe stood taller, though never quite filled.
She learned to hum lullabies no child should know,
And buried her heart deep under snow.

Her mother's soul wandered where stars go to rest,
And her father grew quiet with calloused unrest.
They tilled the same soil, but not the same pain;
She sang to the clouds just to feel some rain.

So one morning she packed her dreams in a case,
Tied songs round her shoulders like ribbons and lace.
And out through the fields with a whisper she fled,
A melody playing where footfalls once tread.

Now ten years have passed in taverns and trees,
In moon-silvered meadows and salt-laden breeze.
She knows many hearths, but no door feels quite hers;
Not without someone to echo her verse.

---- SECTION 4 END ----


---- SECTION 5 START -----

Rumors

• She carries a locket with someone's name scratched out.
• She is the reason Viscount Alaric cast his wife aside.
• Her voice changes with the moon.
• Her mother wasn't an elf; she was a vampire.

---- SECTION 5 END ----

---- LEFT COLUMN END ----

* * *

/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */

---- 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 ----

 

[dramatis personae]

⠀

---- STATBLOCK START ----

Caelyndra

The saltworn warden

⠀

---- SCROLLING TEXT START ----

Race⠀Merfolk
Alignment⠀Lawful Neutral
Apparent Age⠀33
Real Age⠀78

---- SCROLLING TEXT END ----

---- STATBLOCK END ----


---- QUOTE START ----

"They say the tide washes away blood but it doesn't. It just hides it better."

— Caelyndra

---- QUOTE END ----

---- RIGHT COLUMN END----

* * *

---- LEFT COLUMN START ----

---- SECTION 1 START -----

Wordbank

merfolk culture, war and ruin, enemies to lovers, slow-burn romance, the siren's curse, blood-thirst and discipline, anger and pain

---- SECTION 1 END ----


---- SECTION 2 START -----

Settings

Medieval Fantasy
Forgotten Realms — Faerun, but lower magic and more racial tensions

---- SECTION 2 END ----


---- SECTION 3 START -----

Description

Caelyndra is a retired warrior mermaid with a powerful, battle-hardened physique. Underwater, long black hair moves like ink in slow motion. It drifts around her face in dark, fluid strands, veiling her expression like a mourning shroud. Her body is covered in deep red scales that catch the light like worn armor, marked by scars from countless fights — her face marked by the ink of her people, a tattoo made out of small, red dots that cover her upper cheeks, circle around her eyes and shades the lower half of her forehead. She carries herself with quiet authority, rarely speaking unless necessary. Years of war have left her bitter, guarded, and slow to trust. She doesn't seek attention, but her presence commands it.

---- SECTION 3 END ----

---- SECTION 4 START -----

Background

Caelyndra was born into a world of salt and steel, raised among merfolk whose lives were shaped by brutal territorial wars beneath the waves. From a young age, she was trained to fight — not for glory, but for survival. Her family's waters were contested, and every tide brought new threats. She learned to wield blade and song alike, defending her kin with a fierce loyalty that left little room for softness.

But war leaves more than wounds. In one fateful battle, chaos reigned: rival tribes clashed in a frenzy of blood and steel, and Caelyndra found herself face-to-face with something far darker than any enemy she'd known. Amid the carnage, a frenzied siren lunged at her, sinking his teeth into her shoulder and cursing her with a hunger she would never escape. Moments later, she watched her father — the tribe's leader and her guiding star — fall to an enemy's spear, his heart pierced as he tried to rally their forces. The bite didn't kill her, but it changed her. She emerged no longer just mermaid, but siren: forced to feed on living beings once or twice a month to survive. It's a need she resents, a reminder of what she's become and of all she lost in that single, brutal moment.

Unable to return to her people, Caelyndra now drifts through unfamiliar waters, searching for a place to belong. She's avoided forming bonds, afraid of what her curse might cost others. Her exile is self-imposed, but it's also a quiet plea — for safety, for redemption, for someone who might see her as more than a monster. Beneath her guarded exterior is a woman shaped by conflict, but not consumed by it. She's resilient, sharp-witted, and deeply empathetic, though she rarely lets it show. Her journey is one of survival, yes — but also of healing. Of learning to live with what she's become, and maybe, just maybe, finding someone who can help her believe she's still worthy of love.

---- SECTION 4 END ----

---- LEFT COLUMN END ----

* * *

/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */

---- 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 ----

Spoiler: Post blurb

As the sun sank beyond the horizon and the tide began its slow rise, the moon claimed the sky. The pale light shimmered over the still, dark ocean surface but then a ripple, a slow, deliberate swell disturbed the glassy calm, concentric rings spreading outward. Something stirred beneath the surface.

The water darkened and thickened, as if reluctant to release what it held, but conceded: wet strands of kelp-dark hair slicked back against her skull, amber eyes open and unblinking. Salt clung to red-dotted skin in a fine sheen, droplets of water that did not hurt her inhuman eyes. Those scarlet peepers traced the coastline with undisturbed precision, lit by hunger, intent, and quiet alertness. Underwater, gills pulsed once, then sealed. The tide shifted around her, subtle and slow, but her body remained submerged, the long tail barely moving, her strong arms relaxed by her sides, with fingers ready to grasp at tool or weapon, but not needlessly. She exhaled through her nose as she tracked the shore, barely disturbing the air — empty nets, forgotten footprints in the sand, and something, someone, seated atop a rock.

She could not yet call these waters home, and the land offered no welcome — its people a dangerous mystery. She had never trusted land-dwellers beyond what the peace contracts demanded, and even that was more tolerance than trust, especially from the dark-haired mermaid. Humans were greedy. Elves looked down on merfolk like savages. As for the rest, few ever came close enough to the tide for her to judge.

And who are you? Even her dark eyes couldn't make out his features from this distance, but he was no creature. Her fins shivered, and the long muscles of her scaled tail tensed, pulling her underwater once more. Hands, arms, tail, and waist moved in smooth, effortless rhythm, propelling her forward beneath the moonlit shimmer on the dark waters. Then, just as slowly, just as carefully, she broke the surface again and blinked the water from her irises with thick, black lashes.

Alone. Human? He was perhaps twenty paces from the shore, and she floated a fair bit beyond the shallows. From where she hovered, half-submerged, only the dark curve of her head would be visible to him, a glimmering outline with shiny eyes framed by the dots of her people's bloody ink. Moonlit hues licked down his arm, trying to reveal what his hand held, but it remained a mystery. Beneath the surface, her body moved with the tide — hips swaying in slow rhythm, tail coiled and uncoiled like ribbon caught in a tender breeze. For now she watched, and didn't bother pretending — she was a flicker in the dark, and flickers always drew eyes.​

 

[dramatis personae]

⠀

MYRANDA ROYCE

* * *

1:06

●

3:04

* * *

ASOIAF

POLITICS

DUTY vs DESIRE

ROMANCE

TABOO

* * *

❝They chained me with vows and silks; they gave me a crown, and I gave them silence. Now, let the bards sing of my disgrace.❞

* * *

Personality

Myranda carries herself with an effortless confidence that makes people take notice. She engages directly, asks incisive questions, and draws others into lively conversation with an ease that feels both intentional and natural. She thrives in dynamic settings—stepping forward to speak when others hesitate, navigating tense discussions with a steady blend of intelligence and charisma. Every gesture and word seems to serve a purpose, and she's rarely caught off guard.

Her strengths lie in reading a room and understanding the people in it. She quickly spots unspoken motives, shifting alliances, and subtle opportunities, using that awareness to influence outcomes. Whether negotiating between opposing factions or guiding a conversation toward common ground, she relies on agility of thought and a strong presence to set the tone. She adapts easily, moving from warm camaraderie to strategic precision as the situation calls for it.

While she no longer courts chaos for its own sake, she still values creativity and boldness. Instead of disruptive stunts, she channels her imagination into shaping ideas, solutions, and plans that inspire others. Her loyalty to those she trusts remains a driving force, and she applies her talents to protect, support, and elevate the people and causes that matter most to her. The result is a woman whose charm, insight, and decisiveness leave a lasting impression on everyone she meets.

loves: storms, riding, falconry, tavern music, market visits, cats⠀
hates: embroidery, tight garments, mornings, closed doors
weaknesses: stubborn, proud, spoiled, impulsive, thrill-seeker
strengths: cunning, charismatic, intuitive, independent, resourceful

History

Myranda Royce was born with a spark of rebellion in her eyes, and from her earliest days she delighted in mischief rather than measured politeness. She once let loose a dozen pigeons in the great hall, sending their startled coos echoing off the stone walls. She'd sneak into the kitchens at dawn to feast on stray ginger cakes, smear dye on her sister's dresses just before a formal dinner, and swap the maester's ink for something thicker so his quill left blotches across his lectures. Each scolding only fueled her resolve, and though Lord Royce would raise an amused eyebrow at her latest stunt, he never delivered more than a gentle reprimand—his heart too soft for a daughter who could outwit every rule in Runestone.

From her tenth nameday, the promise of marriage to Lord Redfort's heir hovered like a shadow in Myranda's life. At fourteen, she and Tristifer exchanged playful notes hidden behind tapestries — she teased him about his stiff collar and he replied by slipping her poems beneath her pillow. No official word was spoken until her sixteenth birthday, when the informal whispers became public decree: her betrothal to the young Redfort lord was at last formalized. Myranda's chest swelled with joy at the thought of a future carved from secret jokes and moonlit confidences.

Then fate upended her world. Her lady sister's hunting accident left the Royce line in need of its youngest daughter's claim at the Eyrie, not tucked away at Redfort. Myranda's informal bond with Tristifer was folded into polite duty, and she learned at once that obedience could be demanded, not earned. She raged in secret, refusing to bow her head even as she practiced the Vale's rigid curtsies; her tears hid behind clenched teeth, and she swore she'd never forgive the fates for the chains they'd clasped around her. Yet beneath her fury, a spark of defiance glowed—she would not be broken.

Now, high atop the Eyrie's narrow ledges, Myranda stands draped in silks and courtesy, her eyes still dancing with the same audacious light. The mountain air chills her skirts, but she steels her heart with memories of her father's indulgent smile and the laughter that once filled Runestone's halls. Behind every measured curtsey to Lord Arryn simmers a vow: her mischievous spirit will never be truly bridled. And in the hush before dawn, when the world is still and stones whisper, she sometimes wonders if Tristifer Redfort recalls their hidden poetry as fondly as she does.

* * *

𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 : 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑

⠀

 

[dramatis personae]

⠀

LYSA MANDERLY

* * *

1:06

●

3:04

* * *

ASOIAF

POLITICS

HEALING TRAUMA

ARRANGED

ROMANCE

* * *

❝Some pages are better left sealed — not because they hold danger, but because they hold too much truth. And truth, once spoken, cannot be taken back.❞

* * *

HISTORY

Born in the stone halls of White Harbor, Lysa Manderly was the third child and only daughter to Lord Wyman and Lady Merelise, a union of notable grace and nobility. Yet, her first moments in the world were overshadowed by the most profound of tragedies—her mother's life ebbing away in exchange for her own. From the start, Lysa bore the weight of absence, for she never knew the warmth of her mother's embrace nor the soothing cadence of her voice. Merelise, remembered as a kind and radiant presence, lingered only in the stories whispered by the household and the treasured memories of her elder siblings.

Though bereft of her mother, Lysa grew up immersed in the refinement and tradition befitting a lady of House Manderly. Her days were filled with the meticulous arts of needlework and weaving, where she spun tapestries of intricate beauty. Her nimble fingers also found solace in the written word. She spent countless hours transcribing manuscripts, her quill gliding across parchment, preserving the knowledge and lore that would one day enrich the archives of White Harbor. Through these pursuits, she cultivated not only skill but an uncommon depth of understanding and creativity.

Lysa's nature was marked by profound empathy and insight, qualities that set her apart even within her own family. She possessed a keen intuition, often discerning unspoken struggles and emotions in those around her. Though she carried herself with quiet grace, her resolve was unyielding when it came to matters of principle or protecting those she cared for. She dreamed deeply, though she shared her aspirations with few, preferring the solace of private reflection. Her ability to connect with others on a meaningful level made her a confidante to many, yet she remained enigmatic, her heart guarded like a priceless treasure.

Fate, however, cast a shadow upon her in her early adulthood. It was in the years following her eighteenth nameday that an unsettling change began to unfold. At first, Lysa dismissed the faint blur in her left eye as a trick of the light or a consequence of reading by flickering candlelight. Yet, as the weeks turned to months, the haze thickened, veiling her vision until her eye turned pale and clouded, like the surface of a frost-covered lake. The maesters of White Harbor, learned though they were, could offer neither cure nor explanation for her condition. Despite their efforts, the cause of her affliction remained as elusive as the tides themselves.

To Lysa, the loss of her sight in one eye was a quiet sorrow, one she bore without complaint. Though outwardly the mermaid carried this affliction with dignity, she harbored a secret locked deep within her heart — a truth about her clouded eye that she would never reveal, not even to her family. The weight of it was hers alone to bear, a quiet burden woven into the fabric of her being. And yet, in her silence, her resolve grew. The mystery of her condition lent her an air of inscrutability, a hidden strength that shaped her into a figure of quiet resilience — a testament to the enduring spirit of the sea that flows through the blood of House Manderly...

loves: to be filled soon...⠀|⠀hates: to be filled soon...⠀|⠀traits: to be filled soon...

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APPEARANCE

Height: 1.63m
Weight: 50kg
Build: Slender, slightly underweight
Complexion: Northern palor
Eye Color: Blue — her left eye is milky however
Hair Color: Blonde, the tips are dyed teal
Other: The spitting image of her deceased mother.

Details

Age: 20-26
Relatives: Wyman Manderly (father), Merelise Manderly(mother), Wylis Manderly (older brother), Wendel Manderly(older brother),
Alignment: Lawful Good
Strengths: Intuitive, insightful, empathetic, determined, diplomatic, leader-like, compassionate, witty
Weaknesses: Withdrawn, slow-to-trust, critical and judgmental, anxious, secretive, aloof
Hobbies: Reading, writing/copying scripts, praying, needlework, embroidery, gardening, (and hopefully) horse-riding
Favorite Foods: Salted cod stew, crab cakes and blueberry tarts.
Favorite Color: Manderly teal

Aspirations: To be the matriarch of a powerful and respected house, where she can live a more interesting life and broaden her horizons past White Harbor. To be a good mother, and to live long enough to see her own children grow up and continue the family line.
Fears: Dying in childbirth, getting married to the enemy/a cruel man, starving to death, her secrets getting revealed
Likes: Intelligence, good manners, taking one's time with acquainting with another, the crisp air, the smell of sea, snow.

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𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 : 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑

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