NAME: Lily Frankenstein BIRTH NAME: Brona Croft NICKNAMES: Bride of Frankenstein, Merry murderess of east end, The pale lady, La Dame Blanche, The woman in black, Her that makes men bleed, Mother of Mayhem, Little flower, Miss F, Man slayer, Murder queen ALIAS(ES): Yerma AGE: 27 - Immortal BORN: 1862 DECEASED: 1891 SPECIES: Resurrected human SIGNIFICANT OTHER: Klaus Mikaelson FATHER: Unknown MOTHER: Unknown SIBLINGS: Unknown OTHER FAMILY: Unknown CHILDREN: Sarah Croft 🕇 BIRTHPLACE: Belfast, Co. Antrim, Ireland CURRENT RESIDENCE: London, England EYE COLOUR: Brown/Yellow hued HAIR COLOUR: Blond
HEIGHT: 5 feet 2 inches - 157 cm WEIGHT: 50kg or 110.3 lb SKIN TONE: Pale/porcelain PAST OCCUPATION(S): Factory worker, prostitute CURRENT OCCUPATION: None PREVIOUS RELIGION: Catholic CURRENT RELIGION: Atheist
Relationship
Name: Status: Link: Met: Song Dedication[s]: "Title" by Band
Comments:
PERSONALITY
Traits: Info Here
Quirks: Info Here
Likes: Info Here
Dislikes: Info Here
Strengths: Info Here
Weaknesses: Info Here
RISE UP
My doomed, keening women... shall we be immortal? Shall we sing from the gallows? We must have faith, we must have strength and commitment, we must be bloody or n o t h i n g else! And now you must prove your commitment to our great cause. Go now... every one of you; rise up. RISE UP! Go into those dark streets you know so well, those foul alleys and secret back lanes and find me a bad man! A faithless husband, a cruel lover, a rich despot, a scrofulous john fucking some girl just like you and quick with the back of his hand while he's at it. Find him and bring me his right hand! Cut it off and hold it bleeding to your breast! Bring it here, fling it on this table and we shall sing out OUR joy!
SOMETHING
SOMETHING: Info Here
SOMETHING:Info Here
SOMETHING: Info Here
SOMETHING: Info Here
NEVER AGAIN
We flatter our men with our pain. We bow before them. We make ourselves dolls for their amusement. We lose our dignity in corsets and high shoes and gossip and the slavery of marriage. And our reward for this service? The back of the hand... the face turned to the pillow. The bloody aching cunt as you force us onto your beds to take your fat heaving bodies! You drag us into the alleys, my lad, and cram yourselves into our mouths for two bob... when you're not beating us senseless! When we're not bloody from the eyes and the mouth and the ass and the cunt! Never again will I kneel to any man... now they shall kneel to me.
Darling Doctor
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Dorian Gray
Dorian Gray
ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean sed urna. Integer nulla purus, tempor vel, vestibulum id, ullamcorper id, sapien. Nulla facilisi. Sed tempus. Fusce metus. Curabitur rhoncus fringilla ligula. Ut euismod justo at elit. Quisque in massa. Nullam ut justo. Donec a diam. Ut nec sapien in velit ultricies adipiscing. Duis fermentum justo sed arcu dapibus ultrices. Proin semper, quam a semper egestas, tellus ligula sagittis ipsum, nec condimentum enim neque quis lectus. Fusce consectetuer, lacus vitae laoreet viverra. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean sed urna. Integer nulla purus, tempor vel, vestibulum id, ullamcorper id, sapien. Nulla facilisi. Sed tempus. Fusce metus. Curabitur rhoncus fringilla ligula. Ut euismod justo at elit. Quisque in massa. Nullam ut justo. Donec a diam. Ut nec sapien in velit ultricies adipiscing. Duis fermentum justo sed arcu dapibus ultrices. Proin semper, quam a semper egestas, tellus ligula sagittis ipsum, nec condimentum enim neque quis lectus. Fusce consectetuer, lacus vitae laoreet viverra. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean sed urna. Integer nulla purus, tempor vel, vestibulum id, ullamcorper id, sapien. Nulla facilisi. Sed tempus. Fusce metus. Curabitur rhoncus fringilla ligula. Ut euismod justo at elit. Quisque in massa. Nullam ut justo. Donec a diam. Ut nec sapien in velit ultricies adipiscing. Duis fermentum justo sed arcu dapibus ultrices. Proin semper, quam a semper egestas, tellus ligula sagittis ipsum, nec condimentum enim neque quis lectus. Fusce consectetuer, lacus vitae laoreet viverra.
The Creature
It's watching you. It sees you!
ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean sed urna. Integer nulla purus, tempor vel, vestibulum id, ullamcorper id, sapien. Nulla facilisi. Sed tempus. Fusce metus. Curabitur rhoncus fringilla ligula. Ut euismod justo at elit. Quisque in massa. Nullam ut justo. Donec a diam. Ut nec sapien in velit ultricies adipiscing. Duis fermentum justo sed arcu dapibus ultrices. Proin semper, quam a semper egestas, tellus ligula sagittis ipsum, nec condimentum enim neque quis lectus. Fusce consectetuer, lacus vitae laoreet viverra. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean sed urna. Integer nulla purus, tempor vel, vestibulum id, ullamcorper id, sapien. Nulla facilisi. Sed tempus. Fusce metus. Curabitur rhoncus fringilla ligula. Ut euismod justo at elit. Quisque in massa. Nullam ut justo. Donec a diam. Ut nec sapien in velit ultricies adipiscing. Duis fermentum justo sed arcu dapibus ultrices. Proin semper, quam a semper egestas, tellus ligula sagittis ipsum, nec condimentum enim neque quis lectus. Fusce consectetuer, lacus vitae laoreet viverra. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean sed urna. Integer nulla purus, tempor vel, vestibulum id, ullamcorper id, sapien. Nulla facilisi. Sed tempus. Fusce metus. Curabitur rhoncus fringilla ligula. Ut euismod justo at elit. Quisque in massa. Nullam ut justo. Donec a diam. Ut nec sapien in velit ultricies adipiscing. Duis fermentum justo sed arcu dapibus ultrices. Proin semper, quam a semper egestas, tellus ligula sagittis ipsum, nec condimentum enim neque quis lectus. Fusce consectetuer, lacus vitae laoreet viverra.
Wicked Women of Deathhttps://www.roleplayer.me/deathwitch"Her heart was kind, filled with empathy and understanding, but would turn wicked and heartless, punishing souls undeserving of solace."Ireland holds untamed beauty, profound mysteries, and magic. It was her birthplace, haven, and sanctuary from the escaped world. It was in her beating heart and weary soul. The spirit of the land flowed through her veins since her birth. The roots of their stories are in her bones. Its magic was forged in her essence.
Vesna was the daughter of Cernunnos, Lord of the Wild Things, but her father was much more. Traditionally, her father was viewed not only as the god of nature, animals, and fertility but was sometimes considered the God of Death and Dying.
She recalled being young, witnessing her father condole the dying, descent them a song of the old Gaelic, soothing them until they departed to the Otherworld. It was the day that she knew Death was not terror, not a foe, and not to be feared, but Death was merciful, understanding, and empathetic.
Watching her father show mercy to those departed from trh world. The way he guided them with a gentle touch and soothing words were admiral. There is beauty in the cycle of Life, Death and Rebirth - a beauty she was born to do and already written in her destiny.
When she walked the invisible path between life and Death, it was part of her purpose and who she was, which was of utmost importance. It was evident and determined she followed the sacred path with iron resolve. The sensation and perception of wandering spirits shone with their spectral vulnerability. There was an unbearable weight of pain and sorrow heavily pressed upon their fragile shoulders. She possessed an innate aptitude to heal the spirits of the hopeless, the lost, and the weary. Her curative touch provides them a light of hope within their bleak path, guiding them through their labyrinth of sorrow and providing a safe sanctuary for their fractured hearts. As the Keeper of the Forgotten, Vesna occasionally broke the laws controlling her divine existence in the higher sphere. Her heart was kind, filled with empathy and understanding. Vesna would give the dying or the departed the comfort they sought. At times, she granted them a second chance at living. But her heart would turn wicked and heartless, punishing souls undeserving of solace. The stories of the departed and those who dwell upon them always attract her and tug at her heartstrings. It cried to her. The steps Vesna took upon the earth beneath her bare feet led her to a hallowed and sacred place, the land of eternal sleep - the cemetery. She strolled among the tombstones with her finger brushing against the stone of old age. She often traced the engraved names of the stones with her fingertips. Listening to their stories and honoring those who journey to beyond the veil. - 1891 - The day when Vesna saw the halo of death above Lily’s head. The whispers of departed spoke of the woman losing her child. It stuck her deeply. She can comprehend well the loss of a child. She silently approached Lily with her long ebony hair cascading down her back, a black lace veil over her face, wearing a dark gown, appearing like a deathly ghost figure. The closer she has gotten, the more she senses the heavy weight of grief and loss embracing her like a suffocating shroud. The pain oozed off of Lily and the way her figure hunched over the grave of her daughter. Her heart ached for her. She wanted to place her hand upon Lily's shoulder to offer solace, but she was against it. She wasn't sure if Lily would wish for the solace she provided. Sorrow was deeply engraved upon Vesna's face. Usually, her voice would tremble when she spoke about the tragic loss of her children, but her voice was calm and soothing. Perhaps to comfort Lily and, in a way, for her to know she is not alone in her grief. "I was a mother once." A shiver crawled up her spine as she remembered the way the flames engulfed her home along with her children and others. "Innocent and helpless, my sweet children. They were brutally snatched away by the cruel hands of mortal men, leaving me with the echo of their laughter and innocent smiles." Her eyes welled up, but she did not weep because she didn't have it in her to let go. Her voice filled with agonizing sadness as she continued to speak. "Hunters without an ounce of mercy. They left no trace of their being. All that was left were their ashes. The ashes I held until they slipped between my fingers. I know my children have found serenity in the Otherworld." Taking a deep breath, she shifted closer to kneel beside Lily. As Vesna lifted her hands to reveal her pale face by removing the veil. Her eyes resembled a forest, filled with empathy. She tilts her head slightly to glance at Lily’s face, knowing she has been crying. She stared down at the grave, seeing Lily’s hands dig deeper in the grave of her daughter, Sarah. She has been there before. She remembered having to dig a grave for her sister until her fingers were bruised, cut, and bled. "You want to dig her grave, to hold her once again, don't you?" she paused momentarily before she considered her decision. "I understand your desire to return to the Isle of Erin. I can take you to see her. She is in the Otherworld or would you genuinely desire to join her?,” she questioned her without hesitation. Darkness started to embrace them, and a fog began to materialize, caused by Vesna, who rose to her feet. She extended her hand towards her to take what she spoke of or perhaps Lily had other intentions. She stood ready for what she desired and would support her.
"Being a witch means living in this world consciously, powerfully and unapologetically”"
He didn’t blame a woman for being a man hater in the End of Days. He knew from endless hours spent reading book after book at homebase that before Earth fell to sh*t, women already had it bad. Unlike some planets where the female species was revered, respected, and at least given equal rights to the male species, this planet was fairly far behind when it came to equal rights in any aspect of the word.
The End of Days had firmly seen to furthering that gap between men and women. He knew what most settlements did to their women, what most men did to women and children now that there weren’t laws to stop them. It was brutal, sick and disturbed, but also went to show it didn’t pay off not to have a backbone or a way to protect yourself with over half the species dead or undead all around you.
Rase didn’t blame a woman for being especially cautious or even confrontational at the slightest provocation. It was a defense mechanism for most, he knew—if you seemed more dangerous than everyone else, you tended to be left well enough alone. But the fact remained that he’d done many things, but he’d done nothing to the women of this planet. In fact, he’d barely done anything to anyone on this planet besides take care of whoever tried to take care of him first. In a kill or be killed world, you’d be dead if you weren’t the first one to pull the trigger.
He'd spent five years of his life before this planet protecting a woman from any type of harm that tried to come for her. If nothing else previous to that had opened his eyes to the plights of women, those five years of his life certainly had.
The fact that she accused him of thinking lesser of her because she was a woman didn’t phase him, and he didn’t react to it the way she probably wanted him to. Rase knew who he was, what his principles were, what his moral code was—he didn’t need to defend himself to someone that didn’t and wouldn’t ever know him or his past.
There was a monster in him, a switch that was easily flipped if he had a need of it, but man or woman aside, he’d never hurt someone that didn’t try to hurt him first. That was the truth.
And she did, didn’t she? She hurt him first. By the time he knew what was happening, he was already sailing through the air as if he’d been blasted from his spot by a grenade. Pain erupted bright and glaring, registering on several different levels in his head and body as he collided with objects along his path and still he kept sailing through the air as if he’d sprouted wings.
But he wasn’t flying, he was falling, colliding sickeningly with the wall that’d moments before been well across the room from him.
For precious moments he laid there completely motionless. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do much of anything besides feel pain vibrating through his being. Pain though, wasn’t an unfamiliar burden for him to bear. Experiencing discomfort and paralyzing agony had become like second nature in a time of his life he only dwelled on in his darkest dreams. So, while most men would more than likely pass out from being thrown into several objects and smeared like an insect into a wall, Rase coughed and wheezed for breath, and battled past the all-consuming white-hot pain to check if anything was broken. He knew how to get past the crippling sensation, had learned from an early age how to take a beating and remain alert enough to protect himself from whatever was coming next.
All the while he knew the blonde was narrowing in on his prone form, slowly but surely.
He didn’t move except to subtly test each of his limbs. He was bleeding somewhere on his chest and arm, and he spat out blood from a cut inside his mouth where his teeth had dug in—but he’d be fine if he kept his wits about him.
He couldn’t let her touch him again. Earlier suspicions confirmed, this woman had superhuman strength, and who knew what other tricks she had up her sleeve.
He wetly coughed again, sharp eyes laced with pain centring on her as she strolled closer. Still he didn’t move from his place at the base of the wall. The way she called him ‘boy’ brought him back to times he didn’t care to dwell on. A four walled prison, his impossibly small, bloody body quivering like a leaf in the fetal position on the floor. Pain . . . so much pain, while General 890 looked down at him and spat, ‘That’s it Boy? That’s all you got? Get up Boy…get UP!’
He shook the memory away and concentrated on her, a strained sort of laughter bubbling up his throat before he managed to grit out past the throbbing of his body, “Well you are strong. Who would’ve known?” Then he narrowed his eyes to tiny slits as he regarded her, blood dripping from the corner of his lip unchecked, “What the f*** are you then?”
It occurred to Rase she could be some type of undead he hadn’t encountered yet, one that wasn’t brainless and could perhaps control the lust for human flesh and blood. One that remembered their past and came back from the other side stronger, faster, better. But everyone had a weakness . . . even this one, he knew, would have a weakness.
“I don’t want to have to hurt you.” He added softly, “Despite what you believe to be true about me, you couldn’t be more wrong. Now I don’t know what you’ve been through, just like you don’t know what I’ve been through. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Blade that you want aside, it doesn’t have to go down like this.”
There was no egress in sight— not even a sliver of an illumination at the end of an atramentous tunnel; as he was now evidently the sacrificial lamb in someone else’s ceaseless scheme of retribution. All men, right?… the intonation of her voice haunted him in the depths of each night tide, susurrations wafted through the dusty particles, that brimmed the air around him. He couldn’t ascertain, whether it was her, in actuality, tormenting him, relishing in another twisted game of control— or it was his boisterous, dishevelled mind, that was deluding him.
There was zero eschewal of what his mind had to u t t e r to him, swathed in this eerie stillness. Usually, when enshrouded in these tenebrosity abyss of his spirits, he would resort to his vices— usquebaugh; laudanum and it had become more tolerable, withal he possessed no such thing here — the sole thing that was staring back at him was his own reflection in the thousand of mirrors that embellished these wraithlike walls. Old blemishes adorned phalanges, old injuries — from when he catapulted balled fist into these looking glasses in a fruitless attempt to demolish them. Even if fractured— his reflection was still boring holes into him— staring, speaking to him. It was solely a smashed image of himself now; but it didn’t alter anything for him. He coveted to feel, as if he didn’t recognise himself within the monstrousness of it all, but the most trist part about this, was that — he did. He descried himself in a l l the broken pieces of the mirror. All the atrocities and the repercussions that clung onto his body like a death’s embrace. This was who he was. What had become of him.
Blunt nails had even begun to bore its way into his flesh; as if he desired to crawl out of his own skin and if it was at all possible, he would have achieved such by now. Dried vestiges of claret etched into his countenance. Dust, dirt and mud veiling his entire form. His death wish had never been as vigorous, as it was right in this instance. He would’ve never envisioned, that he would be de novo encompassed in something that resembled a tunnel; precipitating his shell-shocked mind, cannonade him right back into the time back in France. He couldn’t even burrow his way out— he had to suffer through this and that was what coerced him to the precipice of his sanity. He needed to try and regain control of the situation once more. He couldn’t perish like that. not here.
Even supposing that the hollow muscle, that its only task was to pump blood through his system— was seized by the vice-like grip the devil had obtained upon it— he could still feel everything and even in the midst of his own bedlam and the hell that he architected— he did harbour deep sentiments for the ones around him. But his evil deeds didn’t necessarily attach weight to that, right? If anything, it only proved how everything he did, stemmed from egoistical criterions and his unquenchable thirst for omnipotence. More, more, more… was it ever enough for a man like him? Would he ever stop?
He failed to convince himself to ingurgitate even a morsel of the meals that she had proffered to him in this dimly-lit, wretched gaol. He was aware she would take offence to it— as she took offence to practically everything in regard to him. The only thing that bound these two together, was their mutual rancour they harboured towards each other. Albeit, the brummie was in no position to clamour his grievances with the aspect of her as an individual. It would only further doom him into the claws of her unrelenting urge to crush him like a delicate flower.
It was no secret, that it submerged her with gratification upon perceiving him incant the blues of his spirits, for it seeped out of her every pore; and she wore such an achievement like a gilded emblem. She had him right, where she had coveted him to be.
He could barely make her out from the umbrage that she was engulfed by, as she infiltrated the makeshift cage, for men like him. Her inquiry sliced through the thick tension that beguiled the non-existent air, capered around his abalone and permeated his tympanums; as a product of that, the hair at the back of his neck stood on end; shoulders rolled upwards, as if to drown out the sound of her evocative voice. Was he not satisfied with his lodgings, she asked— she wasn’t done taunting him, even supposing that there was not a modicum of fight left within the Shelby. He would relent, for he could not spend another minuscule of a minute here. She lit three candles— the golden illumination adumbrated her form and permitted him an ephemeral sense of tranquility. He was scarcely present— mentally. His b a r r e n, sombre-laden hues diverted upwards to meet hers; he sucked in a deep breath through his mouth; and floundered over towards her.
Stood before her— he ingurgitated around an impassable lump that had resided within his gorge for d a y s now— adam’s apple bobbing, as he did so. His mouth felt like bloody sandpaper and he coveted a glass of w a t e r, whiskey— anything to get rid of that vexing sensation.
“What makes you think I’m anything like that man? You know as well as me that I do not like my own f***in’ reflection. Please—“ A hand elongated to direct it towards the only egress of this hellhole. He was pleading; remorseful, on pins and needles to be let out of his cage. Approaching her like a dog, that tucked in its tail in— he repented long enough, right? “Let me out, let me go home, I’ll do whatever you want me to do, just…let me out of here, please.” A tremor-wrecked respiration flowed through the hallows of his chapped kissers; and he meant every utterance that had departed from his mouth, for he would do anything to endow her with whatever she would require of him to do.
