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Immortal [Year 505 Winter]










16 hh







Last Visit:

10-28-2020, 03:20 PM


Signos: 285 (Donate)
Total Posts: 32 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 8 (Find All Threads)

to be beautiful is to be

Isolt is the color of blood.

Her father would tell her no, that she is the color of the poppies in the springtime meadow beneath a red morning sky. But she knows better. She knows something like herself could never be compared to something so beautiful. She likes to think she gets that from her mother.

Every bit of her is rotten, death and hunger twisted into the arcane shape of a unicorn. From her horn spiraling out from her brow like a thread coming undone, to the blade half-hidden in her tail, the only part of her that knows how to sing. The white splashed across her skin looks like so many dried and broken bones, hollowed out with disease.

And her eyes —

It is best to not look upon them for too long.

Every day she is growing inches, every day she looks less like a child and more like a weapon hardened in the fire. Blink and she is grown — grown into something profane, something wrong, something-that-should-not-exist. She never learned how to play like a child should play, how to laugh or cry or dance.

And even when she steals a dozen ruby-red roses from her father’s garden and braids them upon her own brow, it is never long before they are rotting off. Like even the flowers know better than to linger.

in this part of the story
I am the one who dies

In all the places where my sister is soft, I am sharp. Where she is the pale glint of a bone picked clean in the moonlight, I am the shadow of the wolf still pacing between the trees, the blood dripping from its jaws.

I was not made to be gentle.

When she looks upon her creations, with their bright white bones and the tree roots peeking through their empty eyes, creaking and smelling like a blooming flower dying, she thinks they look like monsters.

Monsters. Like herself.

And sometimes she wonders if there is a world in which she lives without all of this rage inside of her. Or if her rage would exist if it was not for that black-pool of magic living in the corners of her heart, drowning her as surely as it is teaching her how to breathe.

It is only with her sister that she thinks that other-her might exist, the one that knows how to love instead of consume. In the gardens where they sleep in the dirt (as things made instead of born, as gods instead of princesses), when they tangle leg to leg and horn to horn like they are the only things still alive. She dreams of flowers that bloom as eagerly for her as they do for the spring, of planting trees instead of tearing them roots and all from the earth.

But where her sister raves and rails against the dark that lives in them both, she peels back her skin and cracks open the gates that are her ribs to welcome it in. She revels in the shadows and in all the twisted things that make their home within them.

Maybe she likes being seen as a monster after all, as an oddity, as a thing-that-should-not-exist.

your words can plant gardens

or burn whole forests down

born 505 winter to a king and his unicorn.

Active & Parvus Magic



Plants around her begin to wilt, wither, and rot, like time is speeding up and she is the grim reaper dressed in red, ushering them along to their deaths.

i. discipuli

Later in life when she looks back on this moment, she will wonder if it was her magic who made her or she who made her magic. In the beginning she will begin to develop a sense for death and dead things, a craving to draw all things closer to their inevitable conclusion. The things she touches will begin to slowly wither and turn black. As her death sense grows stronger she can call out to the bones and other dead things in the ground - and sometimes, they answer her. Only for a few seconds, but it is more than can be said for the living.

On her own, her magic is in pieces. A few rotten roots here, a flower crumbling to ash there, a skeleton clawing its way to freedom from the earth. Perhaps it is a good thing it is like this, broken and incomplete, tempered by her twin; otherwise, Isolt might have destroyed the whole world by accident.

ii. vexillum

She is more successful now at sensing death, understanding the reason for a plant’s ailment; with it she has the knowledge of how to prevent its death — but she never does. She only hastens it along, causes it to wilt and rot with a single touch. She twists branches and vines into something profane and unhealthy, turns once proud oaks into fallen logs ripe with decay (and hopes her sister will bid new life to grow overtop). She can only destroy a few parts of the world at a time, but that is enough for her for now.

As she works to hone her death sense she can begin to raise lifeless corpses from the ground, can piece skeletons back together like a puppet master holding their strings. However this part of her magic is nearly useless without her sister there to help her guide it; on her own her corpses fall apart into piles of bones that want desperately to be held together, that ache to be something more.

iii. periti

Sometimes she wonders if she could have chosen to do more, to be more; maybe if she had been happier as a child, or born instead of half-made, half-born, perhaps then she would have been able to grow a garden of wildflowers as readily as one full of belladonna and chrysanthemums. Perhaps then she would have been able to enjoy their fragrance as well as their poison. As it is, she only ever has death in store for anything but those few deadly plants that call back to her. Trees fold in upon themselves when she walks by, flowers bow their heads and sink into dust, animals feel their hearts begin to tremble and their lungs begin to rattle. The bones beneath her feet shiver, all too eager to come to her, all too eager to twist her magic with her sister’s and give them back a half-life, a life of monsters.

But perhaps her rage is beginning to ease now; perhaps she is learning that by choosing to be a monster, she can also choose to stop. She can not reverse it (she was not made to save, to heal, to make things grow wild and strong), but she can halt their dying now. Her death sense whispers to her of all the ways she might be able to save as well as kill, of the antidotes to the poison she creates. But more often than not, the things in her presence continue to die. And any blossoms that dare to bloom (by accident, always by accident) in her death-circle are only ever poisonous.

iv. dominus

She has learned now to let herself be the monster she made herself into so long ago. Isolt revels in the death she brings; and no longer does she try to grow (or even speak with) anything that is not just as poisonous, just as deadly, as herself. The poison running through hemlock’s veins, through foxglove, to the parasitic dodder, it all calls to her. The corpses come to her without hesitation when she calls, and with her sister's magic holding her's together there is little they cannot make them do.

But in those few fleeting, tremulous moments when she wishes to not be a monster anymore, she can pretend, for a little while, that she is something more. She can beg a flower to bloom instead of wilt, to root instead of rot. It is far too late for her to learn how to revive things (she is made only to kill, destroy, consume); but from the ashes of the things she kills, she can bid something new to grow.

But like all beautiful things, they are always deadly to touch.

Passive Magic

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Played by:

sid (PM Player)


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Staff Log

08/01/20 Character application approved. Immortality approved and sent item from breeding roll. Approved active magic and sent tier 1 item. Sent 20 signos for profile reference. -NESTLE
08/10/20 +9EXP for sid's 1, 2, and 3 year anniversaries. -SID
10/10/20 +100 signos for winning 505 Winter spotlight nomination: Thread, TID5320. -INKBONE