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Immortal [Year 505 Winter]










16 hh







Last Visit:

Yesterday, 05:43 PM


Signos: 435 (Donate)
Total Posts: 22 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 5 (Find All Threads)

“Lost in Hell,-Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;”
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

Never has a child born of hunger and seed been so suited to the form her bones and flesh have melded themselves into.

She is a weapon made soft, a seed made hard, a hunger made delicate instead of destructive. In the right light her coat looks made of moon-white instead of bone-white. The flecks of blood-red on skin that is the opposite of her sister's darkness look more like smears of dirt than blood in the dappled forest light.

Each line of her body is fragile, soft and curled, leggy instead of made-for-war. She is a unicorn, a seed of one when she's first born, and there is no mistaking the innocence draped across her like a bridal veil. Even her horn, blood-red as her mother's skin and her father's eyes, seems made of shell-bone instead of steel (they do not feel that way, not when it counts).

The bloody horn curls from her brow in thin spirals that seem almost profanely innocent when vines and wilting flowers twine between the hollow places of it. And her eyes, well surely they look more like rubies than wounds, when she smiles in the gentle dawn with a garden growing around her.

(Don't look, don't look, do not look at the way all the flowers are gilded in rot and weeping pollen instead of petals.)

(Don't look, don't look, at the way she grows inches each day like a thing made instead of born. Don't look at how wrong she seems.)

“and under what country;
some blue darkness, farther from hell;
a landscape of absence and root and stone.

There are no bodies here,
we dream shapeless dreams--
a constant, cloudless storm.”
- Cecilia Woloch

There has always been something spectral and incandescent about her. Sometimes she seems more spirit than form, more ghost than soul trapped in a cage. And then there are times when she gets that wild look in her eyes, the monstrous one, when ruby-red turns to blood-red. Those are the times when she’s half-girl, half-hell, and everything that innocence might become in the world below this one.

When she dreams, it’s of that world, the one with white and black magic rivers and monsters with fangs instead of eyes. Those are the mornings where she walks as if the walls are gravestones and dirt instead of a cage shaped like home. And when she lays back down in her father’s gardens, tangled leg to leg and horn to horn with her sister, a wilted garden rises up around them like a guardian thicket and the buried bones rise up with roots holding their jaws together. It’s after the dream that the garden sings them back to sleep. Sometimes they miss the sunrise, lulled into that realm where only the two of them exist.

And how can a girl of seed and hunger, life and death, rot and root, be anything but strange? How can she seem innocent with her whispering soot and smoke voice, and the way she floats instead of walks (like a ghost, like a corpse, like the monster the city sees her as)? How can she be anything but awful and wicked with a smile like hers, with a dreaming and weighted sort of stare that looks through instead of at?

How can she be anything but the sum of all her lovely, rotten pieces?

“they do not speak of how she grew flowers
because she enjoyed watching them
fade and die”
-on persephone

born 505 winter from the love of seed and hunger.

Active & Parvus Magic

Do not send flowers,
we’ll throw them in the river.
‘Flowers are for the dead’,
-Daniella Michalleni


At the core of her magic there lives both life and death twisted together not in an embrace but a war. Hour by hour they struggle, these two sharp weapons of time, and press against every one of her organs like a blade. She can feel it, her magic, like a living thing inside her (a monster curled black and oily in the center of her heart). Others have told her that it should not be this way, that magic is a thing to be controlled not controlled by.

But each time a flower dies and blooms against her lips, she knows that they are all wrong. So very, very wrong.

Sometimes her magic is more life than death. Sometimes she is seed instead of rot, rain instead of drought. The next day she might be more worm than honeybee. She is the cycle of the forest melded down into the body of a girl like it's steel forming a sword instead of time. And it hurts, oh this monster of hers, it hurts.

But when she stands side-by-side with Isolt, and bones rise up like flowers in the spring around them and walk on wobbly fawn legs to lay kisses to their cheeks---

Is the pain not worth it then?


Around her life blooms in places that it has long since turned to rot or that it seems impossible for life to survive. A flower might unfurl from the dead wood of a cottage door. Mushrooms might rise from the base of a newly dead tree. She cannot grow a flower in a garden, but in the half-decayed rib of a animal a small poppy might rise from the rot like a newborn heart. The flowers she grows unintentionally are always small and quick to die once she's no longer there to whisper sorrows into their petals.

i. discipuli

All the hours she has spent learning how to sprout a seed with her father's gardener's have reaped no rewards. No matter how hard she tries, Danaë cannot grow anything in soil ripe for the seed. But in a skull, in a rotten tree, in a bone with vine filling the holes were marrow once was flowers bloom with nothing more than a thought. The gardener's call her a nurse-log, the dead thing in which a forest is born. But she does not want to be dead. She wants her father's flowers, and birch-trees, and poppies.

On her own she might grow flowers and fungi. Each is lovelier than the last, colors bright as the death in which they grow is dark. It does not tire her much to grow small things. But anything larger will cause blood to drip from her nose and eyes with a black-out soon to follow.

It's with her sister that she can feel the bones in the belly of the earth. She can start to hear them, like sirens calling her into the black. And when her sister braids cold vines between the bones she can grow spores to replace long rotten hearts and organs. They do not walk far when she grows life in the corpses.

But they walk.

ii. vexillum

It seems to her that dead things, dead places, have started to sing a strange song that sounds like bell-chimes and lion-roars. Each note of that song echoes in her ears like a drum (or maybe she's only learning to listen for the sounds her monstrous magic speaks in). Day after day it reverberates in her ears and her bones until she can hear nothing else but dead things crying out for life.

But they do no know she cannot save them.

A dead thing will always be dead. She can regrow a birch tree but she cannot save the dead one. But sometimes she likes to pretend the soul of the tree lives on in the roots the new one grows through the rot of the last. Flowers bloom in numbers too high for her to count now when she walks through a forest Isolt (or her mother) have laid waste to. Vines have become her favorite things to grow (and to weave with). Trees are easy to grow one at a time anything more causes the bloody noses and black-outs.

When she joins her sister the bones (both old and fresh) risen from the soil can do more than walk. They have learned to run. Her spores have started to act like brains and nerves that speak easily to the vine sinew holding the dead together. Each reborn corpse can stay with them for a while but if they try to raise more than two all of them crash to the ground and start to rot again.

iii. periti

With but a thought (and a bit of focus) the death song can become mute or roar louder than a dragon. When a dead forest or a bit of cottage cries out again she can pinpoint its location down to an inch by simply closing her eyes. Bones beneath the earth whisper to her of all the things they wanted to be and of all the dreams they never dared to touch. She can grow a copse of pines, or birch, or oaks with nothing more than a thought. A garden takes no more than in inhale. To grow a forest might take an hour or two with rests between. Some start to call Danaë the princess of life and death.

On her own she might be able to raise a corpse or two from the rot. When she weaves together bones and broken down flesh it's with poppies, and blossoms, and vines sweet enough to heal. They can walk, and run, and their thoughts have started to bleed into her own. It's painful to hold the thoughts of her risen dead but later when she's not bloated with the weight of them it seems worth the suffering to give the corpses a bit of life. Each of her risen can last weeks before they must rest once more in the dirt.

With her sister they might raise an army to last an hour or so. Or perhaps they might raise a few to last months instead of days. Their corpses are held together both with poisonous flowers and healing flowers (for each poison there is an antidote blooming beside it). Each of the dead think thoughts into their heads. The risen's spore minds are unable to form sounds that seem anything but nightmarish and grotesque. But despite the horrible sounds they make, and the way their sunflower eyes seem to look through instead of at, the corpses are content to experience a pale mockery of the lives they have lost.

Or at least that is what Danaë chooses to believe.

iii. dominus

From death she can grow a forest, a jungle, a garden with willows trees and oak trees that curl above her head like wings of the earth. And yet, no matter how hard she tries or how many tears she waters the earth with she cannot pray a single seed to life in soil ripe for it. Death is her dominion, her master, the never-sleeping ache in her bones that will always hurt (if only just a little). It never stops calling. Even when she begs it into nothing more than a whisper it calls, and calls, and calls.

Death tells her that is home, and that there is no life without it, that she will be happier to open her jaw and inhale the shadows. But she rails, and rails, and rails against the withering of that last hopeful seed in her chest.

It does not matter how desperately she fights. She becomes the Queen, the Lover, the Mistress of the Death.

On her own she can raise a herd of corpses from the soil. They gather around her like sentries with their flower organs and sun-bright spores open for all the see the glory of this new half-life. Sometimes she cannot pull her thoughts from their own. They walk as she walks, run as she runs, devour as she devours. For all their beauty they are still death and sometimes when they slumber in sun-rays around her it is hard to tell where the unicorn ends and the dead begin.

And it's with her sister, that she becomes terrifying in her power. They could conquer worlds with their army of corpses (and for each fallen solider, each torn open chest, another body joins their army). Their corpses do not slumber, or rest, or return to the earth until they pick them apart like threads in a tapestry. Are they gods or unicorns now?

Or are they something else? Something worse?

Passive Magic

Bonded & Pets

power into will, will into appetite;
and appetite, an universal wolf,


coming soon.

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Header: Dirty-whale
Ref Image: Sid <3

Played by:

nestle (PM Player)


lovesome    //   


nestle #5513

Staff Log

08/01/20 Character application accepted; +20 signos for visual reference. -SID
08/01/20 Immortality input, Active Magic approved and added to the records. Tier 1 item sent. -SID
08/10/20 +6EXP for nestle's 1st and 2nd anniversary. -SID
10/10/20 +100 signos for winning 505 Winter spotlight nomination: Thread, TID5320. -INKBONE