she/her
Origin: Abnormal (Torn Love Letter) Nature: Obsessing Size: Elegant Boundary: Forgotten Moonlit Overgrowth Nature Feature: Shaggy Inkcap (coprinus comatus) Enchantment: Perceptive Lover Elemental: Shadows |
Can freely be drawn, ask before writing | Able to be depicted with others as long as you maintain her nature | Leniently open as a creator
.;Origin Prompts;.
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Ever since her creation, Carmilla has had a curious ability to control the shadows that fall from her ink cap. Though unlike her creator, she doesn't use them for devious purposes such as making companions to fill a lonely void, or even using them to trick at all. That serves no purpose to her, and this shade is more useful as just that. Shade. A kindly break from blistering light, hiding her form and keeping her fur safe from too much ache. She uses those shadows to envelop her body and keep it covered, and little else.
But of course, she is not above hiding others too. Her silken shadows have learned well the shape of those she calls her own, whether child or lover alike. And she has no qualms in holding them between her front arms, and looming over so that they too might be safe beneath that wonderful shade.
But of course, she is not above hiding others too. Her silken shadows have learned well the shape of those she calls her own, whether child or lover alike. And she has no qualms in holding them between her front arms, and looming over so that they too might be safe beneath that wonderful shade.
Though Carmilla might no longer be a letter, one scrawled with the writings of a mind obsessed and hoping, the intents and content of her original form has never left this current one, and never will. Her face might be blinded, but her mind knows all too well. Six eyes, present always and floating just around her ink cap. They stare unblinking unless she wishes them to, gaze always locked on whatever has captured her attention.
From a sickly sense of being watched, a weight on your neck and hair standing on end, facing her head on is nothing short of an amplified dream-state. The weight you might feel will grow only worse, pressing on your spine and beckoning you down. That chill will fade to a tingle, hot-wired through false veins and making them fuzzy. And your mind, oh your mind. Fogged and clouded, nothing but a sense of pillowy cotton taking up that little head of yours, is there? But not to worry, Carmilla has you. She'll always have you, little thing.
Some might call her crude for such a skill, but her? She likes to think of herself as more of a,,, 'Perceptive Lover'.
From a sickly sense of being watched, a weight on your neck and hair standing on end, facing her head on is nothing short of an amplified dream-state. The weight you might feel will grow only worse, pressing on your spine and beckoning you down. That chill will fade to a tingle, hot-wired through false veins and making them fuzzy. And your mind, oh your mind. Fogged and clouded, nothing but a sense of pillowy cotton taking up that little head of yours, is there? But not to worry, Carmilla has you. She'll always have you, little thing.
Some might call her crude for such a skill, but her? She likes to think of herself as more of a,,, 'Perceptive Lover'.
Background
Obsessing | Vain | Devout
BoundaryDeep within a forest, almost as if it was meant to be hidden, a forgotten moonlit overgrowth is where Carmilla first began to think.
She remembers the feeling of being pressed against wood, clutched in shaking hands, the scrape of pen and pencil furiously scrawling on her form. She remembers, oh how she remembers the chill of the moon, gazing down at her and the vile things she carried and whispered. That overgrowth was hidden yes, for the things written and done there were never meant to be seen by prying eyes. Animals live in those woods of course, but Carmilla has never had much concern for them. Their actions are slim to none, the deer, birds, foxes and rodents all quieted by her presence. Her eyes send them settling, sleeping. And her beam of moonlight she woke within is a beacon for them to remember. A once cherished area now tarnished by misdeeds, and with only the moon and trees to bear witness. Despite this place, and all those delightful memories she has of it, she doesn't often stay. No no, especially not now. She has better things to handle, much better places to spend her time. The moon will always stare down at her, always make her remember what she carries. But a 'shrike's nest' housing a flock of estranged birds is far more intriguing than just an overgrown woodland. |
The Creator
He made her. She knows this, to some degree. Yet by all accounts, Carmilla has no concern or opinion when it comes to the strange Wanderer. He's nothing more than a distant thought in her head, a bone faced owl that stood over her once, and made a creature far more towering than he is. She cares not for his games, his 'talents', his behavior. No, that all means little to her.
What she does care about, however, is the strange view her little magpie has on such a creature. She loathes him as much as she likes him, she hates him to her very core yet remembers him fondly beneath her venom. She speaks of him like an old friend, and tears at the ground like she wishes him torn apart.
Carmilla has no view on it, none aside from interest and amusement. It's not her choice to make, after all. Not her vision to dictate. But she catches sight of that strange creature at times, that owl too stretched and shaded. And she can't help but be amused at him. How could something so terrible be something so pathetically little?
He made her. She knows this, to some degree. Yet by all accounts, Carmilla has no concern or opinion when it comes to the strange Wanderer. He's nothing more than a distant thought in her head, a bone faced owl that stood over her once, and made a creature far more towering than he is. She cares not for his games, his 'talents', his behavior. No, that all means little to her.
What she does care about, however, is the strange view her little magpie has on such a creature. She loathes him as much as she likes him, she hates him to her very core yet remembers him fondly beneath her venom. She speaks of him like an old friend, and tears at the ground like she wishes him torn apart.
Carmilla has no view on it, none aside from interest and amusement. It's not her choice to make, after all. Not her vision to dictate. But she catches sight of that strange creature at times, that owl too stretched and shaded. And she can't help but be amused at him. How could something so terrible be something so pathetically little?
art by Tayleaf
A Supple Lover
Mira. Oh, Mira.
Her darling, darling little magpie. The inexplicable call she'd felt to run, to find, to leave her boundary so soon and follow that strange pull. She'd walked for so long, so long even she doesn't know how long it was for. But she ventured anyway, following that faint sense in her head with nothing more than an implied rope and mild curiosity. And oh, what she found. What she had found-
There is a yearning in her chest, a heart that beats and bleeds for such a wondrous creature as her. She has learned the ways of her darling bird, and she clings and begs with honey on her tongue. Her claws ache to sink in, and teeth she doesn't have wish to bite, but she refrains. She loves her, worships her. She is the vile member bent at the knee of her alter, the sickly woman spending her final days cleaning it, the man who would destroy the world yet leave this standing. She beckons and pleads for those darling feathers and vibrant eyes - she wants. Oh how she wants, to protect this dear bird, to destroy her herself, to rip her to pieces and sew it all back anew.
She loves her. Vilely, violently. She loves her she'd give her the stars if she dared ask for them, would cut her form and let inky blood spew should that be even thought.
She will protect her, this darling creature. She will gaze into her and keep her close, forevermore. She will not let her go, not till eons have passed them by and all that remains is them. She will ache for her. She will kill and die for her.
Anything. Everything.
She need only ask for it. Need only think it, and it will be hers.
Mira. Oh, Mira.
Her darling, darling little magpie. The inexplicable call she'd felt to run, to find, to leave her boundary so soon and follow that strange pull. She'd walked for so long, so long even she doesn't know how long it was for. But she ventured anyway, following that faint sense in her head with nothing more than an implied rope and mild curiosity. And oh, what she found. What she had found-
There is a yearning in her chest, a heart that beats and bleeds for such a wondrous creature as her. She has learned the ways of her darling bird, and she clings and begs with honey on her tongue. Her claws ache to sink in, and teeth she doesn't have wish to bite, but she refrains. She loves her, worships her. She is the vile member bent at the knee of her alter, the sickly woman spending her final days cleaning it, the man who would destroy the world yet leave this standing. She beckons and pleads for those darling feathers and vibrant eyes - she wants. Oh how she wants, to protect this dear bird, to destroy her herself, to rip her to pieces and sew it all back anew.
She loves her. Vilely, violently. She loves her she'd give her the stars if she dared ask for them, would cut her form and let inky blood spew should that be even thought.
She will protect her, this darling creature. She will gaze into her and keep her close, forevermore. She will not let her go, not till eons have passed them by and all that remains is them. She will ache for her. She will kill and die for her.
Anything. Everything.
She need only ask for it. Need only think it, and it will be hers.
Character Details and Notes
- Carmilla's voice or vibration is almost aged in tone, as silky as it is scratched. She speaks poetically yet rambles, her words meaningful as they are jumbled. She speaks her mind with little filter, and her words are often lit with a gentle laugh, a touch manic in how she behaves. But beneath those old tones, there's something like crinkling paper and pencil on parchment that scratches beneath her tone. A faint sound to bring more life to her ways, as if someone to this day writes out all the things she speaks, and no amount of destroying will ever get rid of the vile things written. Musical and poetic, maybe, but disgusting nonetheless.
- For her size, Carmilla stands with a decent stature. At the shoulders she's around the same height as a larger ended tiger, though her neck and head stretched far beyond that. She walks with a gait akin to the beast she shares a stature with too, steps a delicate balance between a graceful doe and stalking cat. Her presence is a looming thing however, her aura stifling and pressing in around those nearby - made only worse by the enchantment she adorns.
- When drawing her, there is only a few things to keep in mind: 1, her ink cap mushroom is always dripping, and often with long strands stuck together. 2, the cracks on her neck are always in three sections, with two connect together, and they are always white. And 3, the lacey, almost fish scale-like markings on her body are always glowing at the connecting dots, and connecting dots only.
- When it comes to the Conservatory, Carmilla is an infrequent visitor. She doesn't seek interactions with other Esk whilst there, often only coming when she feels some strange pull in her chest or when her darling magpie has decided to take a stroll within. As such, it's rare to find her here, and even rarer to communicate with her whilst inside. She has no room that she's aware of, though the Conservatory has left strange scrawlings in her memory, an echo of her being there. An overgrowth painted silver and stained with ink, a vile place that threatens to suffocate those who enter. She doesn't know of its existence, and perhaps never will.
- As a creator, Carmilla is cloying and saccharine. Her words are kind, her gestures too, but they'll all a farce. She's a manipulative figure, not unlike the woman she's attached herself to. If you are made, it was out of curiosity or request by another, and she will do everything in her power to keep you close. She does not view them as her children most days, but children of hers. Her darling magpie, they are gifts, the things she makes. Whether done from glittering trinkets, rotting bodies or souls gone mad, they are not made with freedom in mind. They are made with clipped wings and claws in their spines, made to sit pretty and await the judgement from that who will choose if they are worthy or not.
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credits ; pexels, wikimedia commons