Hello, Guest! Register
Inactive Character
Send Message


8 [Year 496 Winter]










15 hh







Last Visit:

03-30-2020, 08:01 AM


Signos: 0 (Donate)
Total Posts: 56 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 8 (Find All Threads)

Full Reference
"Death is the mother of beauty."
And what is beauty?
Like the subtle turning of leaves during autumn, the pristine loveliness of winter's first snow, Messalina possesses a sort of allurement where a first glance would make her seem rather... ordinary, compared to others roaming the land. But a second glance, a third, and before long her features will have aligned to paint a portrait of perfect elegance.

Dominating her fine-boned face are her eyes. Big, baby blue eyes framed with thick and long, dark lashes give her a doll-like look; combined with high cheekbones and sculpted nostrils, she appears as exquisite as a porcelain figurine, perpetually frozen in its lovely smile.

A slightly dished head always held in a high carriage leads to a slender neck and body, with light, bird-like bones. She possesses thin and long legs, yet they do not give her that much height. Standing at around fifteen hands, she is neither short nor tall--a happy medium.

A pure white coat with a slight pearl sheen covers her body, her skin pink rather than black like most. A sprinkling of cream dapples lightly peppers her body, though they aren't patterned like that of a typical dapple horse. Her spots are spread more sparsely, and do not gather in one place. Her face is free from blemishes, and fades to a pale pink towards her nose.

Adorning Messalina's neck and tailbone rests lengthy, cream and caramel streaked hair. Either due to force of will or just skill, her hair, either weaved into intricate braids or curled, has an eerie ability to stay where she arranges it, not a strand falling loose. If left natural, it gathers into soft and flowing curls. Her forelock, never braided, is pushed to the side so as to allow her to see clearly. An inch or two of her tail drags lightly across the ground.

Tucked behind Messalina's left ear is a blood-red rose that never seems to wither, captured in a moment of magnificent bloom. She is never seen without it.

And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.
Messalina wonders if she has a heart. Surely, if Mother was accused of being heartless, how could she raise her daughter to have one? Perhaps one day she may arrive at a conclusion—but that day has yet to come.

If defined by nothing else, Messalina is elegance incarnate. She lives and breathes it, her poise impeccable, her devotion to physical perfection unshakable. Her mornings are spent in the company of her reflection, her expression one of utmost concentration as she arranges every last hair on her fair crown.

Oddly enough, the girl is not driven by something as shallow as vanity, and feels no particular pleasure in the task—more like appearing composed at all times has become ingrained into her very being, and not doing so is akin to walking out nude. (To Mother, it would be worse than nudity.) Nothing irritates her more than a stray curl or a mud-stained hem, and she is apt to fix it on the spot to save herself the headache.

Her speech is formal and eloquent, voice as silken as the precious satin she so often dons. She speaks pleasantries like her own form of magic, charming most, if not all, of the noblemen Mother brought to her. But if for some reason conversation wanders into something deeper, something requiring more than shallow answers, Messalina is quick to excuse herself with a curtsy and retreat to her room, seeking comfort among the quiet and her cherished dolls.

Besides that however, it proves difficult to describe Messalina in terms of what she is, and far easier to describe what she is not. She is not kind for one, and she is certainly not sympathetic. Mother warned her of the merciless nature of the world, and if one remains ignorant of that fact, it is not her duty to enlighten them. She is not reckless nor passionate, nor prone to judging or caring or feeling. In fact, she is full of so many ‘nots,’ one questions if she isn’t completely empty inside.

Perhaps she would be, were it not for dance. She likes to believe that the sensations flowing through her when she performs as Aurora or Clara or Odette, or just simply Messalina, are akin to what others feel for many other things. Her performances were the only time she escaped her role as the Enchantress’s puppet, as Mother’s obedient daughter, and embodied a character who lived a life more fulfilling than she ever would.

In truth, the girl is lonelier than she cares to admit. Though she may not comprehend her loneliness fully—how could she when it’s all she’s ever known—she is acutely aware that she has been deprived of something others seem to have in abundance. She is hollow, adrift in an endless sea with nothing, no-one, to anchor her heart to.

For it is still there—frail and whole and beating—under a nigh impenetrable layer of the Enchantress’s poison-soaked lies. Locked inside is what remains of a girl as bright as the sun, warm to the touch. What she could’ve been, had fate willed it so.

I had something in place of the sun. Enough so I was able to live in the night like it was day.
“I do not partake in sharing to others my past. I know what they will think of me afterwards, and I have no wish in garnering even more scornful gazes than I receive already.

But, I am in a state of melancholy today. It must be the weather—curse this storm—that has put me in a nostalgic mood, so I suppose to you, Annette, I can spare some details.

Others start at the beginning, recounting the marvels of their birth and their bloodline. I have no such beginning. My life starts—and ends—with Mother.

It happened in a storm as violent as this one—I was a filly, still weak on her legs and shivering in the rain, when Mother found me. She appeared between one lightning flash and the next, her pelt and hair somehow still immaculate and dry amidst the relentless downpour. Silent, she walked over to me and knelt in the mud. I recall how molten gold her pupil-less eyes were as she swept her gaze over me. She seemed at that moment a goddess, glowing and beautiful and ephemeral. She lowered her head to mine as her light enveloped me, and my world faded to white.

I remember feeling so cold in the storm. But after Mother’s arrival, I never felt the cold again.

She brought me to her home in the Court of Algernon, and I became the Enchantress’s daughter. Mother trained me in dancing, dressing, etiquette, history—all non-magical things as I did not have the aptitude for magic like she. I was as well-mannered and groomed as any member of the royal court, and I accompanied her to shows as a performer to her spells, dazzling the king and his subjects with my dance.

The extent of my interaction with the public remained limited to the time I spent entertaining them. Mother kept me away from others my age, finding faults in my performances that kept me practicing from dusk till dawn. I complied happily however, as Mother’s praise was as rare and precious as the molten gold of her eyes.

As I grew, I began to understand why she separated me from everyone else. It was for my own good. Whenever I passed through the halls of the castle, gazes would slip from me like water and laughter would ebb away, replaced by hushed whispers. Witch’s daughter, witch’s daughter. When I turned to face them, they would look down in barely-concealed contempt.

They called Mother a witch. What a horrible name, spoken with nothing but vile jealousy. Because of Mother’s beauty and favor with the king, they thought her guilty of conspiring against the royal family. Mother was the High Enchantress of Algernon, capable of conjuring the most magnificent of spells. It was natural for her to be favored, as no surrounding court had someone of her caliber in their ranks.

Their judgment extended to me, and I became nothing more than Mother’s little puppet, beautiful to look at but toxic to touch. In spite of that, I was never lonely as I spent my days in the company of the two dolls Mother had gifted to me—yes, you and Finn—after an especially splendid performance. They were enchanted to speak if I said the right things to them, each as extravagantly clothed as royalty.

In the spring of my fourth year, my world crumbled around me.

It was during a ball hosted in honor of Prince Felippe and Princess Arabella, the king’s children who had both been killed in an attack by the kingdom of Bugantia last winter. An hour in, the jovial atmosphere was shattered by the thundering footsteps of Algernonan soldiers swarming the halls, and I froze in the midst of my dance as they all headed in the direction of Mother. They locked her in chains as they declared her guilty for the murder of the Prince and Princess, all while Mother blinked not an eye in response.

A moment of silence followed, in which her golden orbs found mine—and then all hell broke loose. Mother’s eyes glowed in fury as she made a sound I thought her incapable of making, a vicious cackle that chilled the hearts of all who heard it. I remember still the intensity of the heat that radiated from her as the chains melted, trickling into a silver pool around her hooves.

In a flare of light, she vanished into the darkness. The rest of the night is a blur to me, as I fled from the castle and the murderous rage of the citizens. Kill the wench, as she is as heartless as her mother!

I ran until my hooves were tattered, my hair fallen from its braids and wild around my face. As my vision became cloudy and exhaustion threatened to overtake me, Mother appeared in front of me, brilliant and divine, for the last time.

Do you see, my child? They will not fail to turn on you if you possess something they do not. The world is cruel, and you will be hurt if you are not strong. Do not let their accusations undermine my love for you, as I am and will be the only thing you will ever need.

A blood-red rose materialized in front of her, and it came to lay gently at my feet.

I will always be with you, Messalina.

And my world faded to black."

“That is my story, Annette. And though you are no longer here with me, talking to you like I used to brings me comfort. As a doll, I do not expect you to understand. But I wonder sometimes… if Mother was as heartless as they say, was her love for me nonexistent as well?”

Active & Parvus Magic

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
Upon entering the lands of Novus, Messalina gained an inkling of magical power, much to her surprise. After some practice, she is now able to move smaller things within a short distance with her mind. It has proven very useful in tending to her hair.

Passive Magic


Armor, Outfit, and Accessories

Enchanted Ice Bow

This bow, wrought from silver and—according to the notes of its lost maker, a specimen of ice able to pass unscathed through Hell's fires—is deathly cold to the touch. Its bowstring is made from a silvery fiber so fine to be near invisible, and sings like a harp when plucked. On a full moon night, the bow glows an eerie ice blue, like it is absorbing the moon's light only to breathe it back out.

Yet once you look past the bow's beauty, and remember it for the weapon it is, you will notice that its wielder carries no arrows. For the ice bow is arrow-less: draw tight its singing bowstring, and it will let fly a shaft of ice that shoots straight through the heart of its quarry, killing small animals instantly and bloodlessly. The ice bow never misses; nor will it ever harm its owner, if an enemy dares to seize it and use it against them.

However, the reason why the ice bow has lain overlooked and unwanted by all but one of the crafter's customers, is because it is lethal only to animals no larger than a fox. Against bigger quarry, the bow does no permanent harm; its arrows of ice stun instead of kill (for the arrows work not by penetrating flesh, but by magically freezing the heart—something it can only do to those with hearts smaller than a hoof) and only temporarily. Against beasts or a strong enemy, the ice bow is effectively useless.

These peculiarities make the ice bow useful only to someone with a very specific need of killing small prey quickly, bloodlessly, and without them suffering needlessly. Someone like Messalina.

  • A blood-red rose that never withers, tucked behind her left ear

  • Small golden pins and ties that keep her hair braided and in place

Agora Items & Awards

(View All Items)


Painting (c) mariahimmel, Pagedoll (c) erasvita, Po & Messa (c) shyponies

Played by:

rallidae (PM Player)


minthee    //