Her ancient gestures, her perfume, the infinite intimacy of her rage,

As a raven predicts darkness and ill omen, so too is The Black Doe likened to shadow and mystery. Her stature is unimposing and controlled, her coat shines dark in all lights — offering her namesake title to those before they have a chance to properly meet her. Lithe and sleek, she carries herself across the ground with an almost unnatural grace. Unmade for the trials of a warrior, or to feel a blade upon thin skin, she almost seems porcelain. For every inch of her there is a shroud of anticipation, of comprehension and a deep, innate sense of curiosity and intrigue, even fear, of the world around her.

She is everything it is to be something wild, something that refuses to be captivated and held, so she treads the world in search of something she knows not to find, in a constant loop of failure and progress, victory and defeat. The repetition has made her both cautious and intrigued with the world around her, with the minds and lives that seem to have made their mark and found their purpose where still she wanders, lost and aimless, in the midst of her own mind. Split, cloven hooves lead her to many things, new and old alike; carry her to her countless destinations, though never seem to wear down terribly.

Her eyes are, too, dark and pool with emotion, although similarly they may seem to give away nothing at all. If anything is to be seen, it is the expanse of which appear to rest in them; a depth that runs far deeper and more intricate than what might be considered usual, as though the void of black space is looking right back at you: considering and introspective and gentle and intense.

A beckoning and a repulsion.

A push and a pull.

Flux and flow.





Inhale, exhale.






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My bones are immaterial, the lance of my eyes is unsheathed, insomniac, sunken in sorrow—

Forgetful. Private. Guarded. Secretive. Lost. Antisocial. Forthright. Serious.
Silent. Awkward. Yearning. Nostalgic. Sleepless. Critical. Controlling. Paranoid. Restless.
Gentle. Passionate. Sentimental. Sensitive. Sincere.

For all her listlessness, the mare seems to be constantly yearning for something at her core. Longing for something unattainable, or just out of reach, that she cannot help but wish she knew what it was, or where to find it. And perhaps it is not something physical, but something inside her she wishes to find that eludes her so vehemently, that makes this task so impossible. Constantly on a search even when she is still, and always thoughtful and lost in her own mind. For this, she is often forgetful of even the simplest of things; a name, a place of significance, even a face of an acquaintance, or things she’s said or done. Oftentimes she may confuse the things she sees or glimpses in her own mind to be real, or vice versa. It’s a frustrating thing, and even drives her to moments of paranoia of her surroundings, those around her, and herself. Such a thing drives her further away from her peers with antisocial behavior, and more to nestle into the black lonesome of her own being.

It is important to understand at least one thing in order to begin understanding the Black Doe herself: she does not remember where she came from, nor how she came to exist. To her, she simply began. All she remembers is waking in a lone forest where the cold frosted over her, heart itching in a way a wanderlust does an adventurer, yet with no direction or purpose to go. To live, live, live. But for what? It is from this lack of direction, of her lack of memory, the constant yearning, the fear that follows her steps, she has grown to be utmost guarded of herself. There is surely more than meets the eye with her, and she is most comfortable keeping others at a healthy and perhaps long distance way away from her. Overwhelmingly private in this respect, it would take quite a lot of chipping to begin to see beneath her surface. Even then, she has a knack for pulling the strings, making it seem that she shares quite a bit of herself, when the reality is often the complete opposite. She is not a liar, but she is secretive and silent of a great deal many things, and very direct when it comes to things. She has her moments of subtlety, but she has no need nor desire to sugarcoat things, which may easily come off as cutting or careless words. The Black Doe is often quite critical of what she sees and hears around her, which can easily fester and pull out a chastising side of the mare. Unafraid of being heard, but unwilling to share if she believes the alternative is best.

If one might chip away at her walls, or even glimpse of what lies beyond them within her, one can find sincerity in her, and even a gentle spirit within. For all her awkward vices, she is intimately acquainted with a passion that lingers in her breast, a sentimental heart that beats within her ribs as a bird might its loathed cage. So often she may long to see herself open and let her colors free without a care in the world, but the comforts of her limited emotions and gilded cage are all too familiar for her to give away so easily. She longs to be in control of herself and her life, where she might otherwise fail to. If she cannot temper her listless aim, to have power over what she can or cannot reveal is enough to sate her and comfort her sorrow.

Sleepless, restless. In her moments of reflection, which have been known to steal rest from her, she may remember events experienced not of this world; vague and terrifying as they sometimes are. Still, she cannot place them, and often she is left wondering all through the night and into day what their meanings are. Sometimes, she is even too scared to sleep.





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Cracked ribs, spilled viscera, there was so much blood, there was so much blood, and a heart beating–I want I want I want

Black. All that she remembers Before is the color of her pelt, of her eyes, all around her. Nothing and everything. Emptiness and expanse. Curled close to the nothingness as though nestled within a womb, safe and secure in its familiarity. But after and even before she remembers that, if anything happened at all, was lost to her. In what she can only describe as a blink of an eye, she was tangible. Cold. Breathing. Alive.

She woke up in a forest cloaked in snow, her heart beating, her lungs expanding, eyes seeing more than what they never had before. Colors. Sounds. Movement. Yet of all the overwhelming stimulation, she had never felt so envigorated. She lifted her legs, thin and weak and new as they were, and took her first steps. She didn’t know what had brought her here, nor who she was, only that she had awoken here in this white forest with only herself to cling to. And it would not take long for her to realize that that’s all that she would ever have in permanence.

Steps would turn to trails, roads, aimless wanderings. Lonesome nights with only the stars as her company and listeners. Her questions only grew in fervor, evermore with the flashes of scenes in her mind and emotions raw in her heart that were surely made up in her own imagination - until they became so frequent and felt so real, no matter their vague manner of visiting her, that that explanation and possibility too became more of a question than an answer. To this day she has no certainty in herself or her purpose, who she is, why she’s here: and it is this question that drives her on each day. A forlorn and star-crossed hope that, perhaps one day, she will find the answers she so desperately seeks.

She stumbled upon the world of Novus by what appears to be an unknown decision of chance; or fate veiled expertly in the word. With nowhere to go but forward, the nameless mare begins her existence in this new world. The first face she would come across is the elderly horse by which offers her the history and past of this new land, and she is soon settling in to listen patiently the legends, the stories, the origin of Novus. It would not, of course, take long for her to single out the ostracized sister of the siblings; as she felt just as alone, even betrayed by some unknown force, as she did. It gave her a feeling of belonging, however vague and distant it may seem, that perhaps all those nights spent under the stars were not spent in deaf ears or blind eyes; perhaps, just perhaps, there was someone listening, feeling just as alone as she does. Appealing greatly to the demi-goddess Caligo, and with a heavy heart and nothing to lose, she afterward starts toward the Court of Night as her next direction. Where it will lead her, however, only the stars know.





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