❀ info + lore dump

[chrysolis]

PLAYER

NAME: Nilla
CONTACT: PM preferred for people from Bakerstreet!
ACTIVE TIMES/PACE: uhhhhh I'm slow as shit I'm sorry.
BRACKETS/PROSE: brackets, but either!
OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS & TRIGGERS: please avoid yandere tropes, descriptive gore, and discussion of burning buildings

OUT OF CHARACTER

BACKTAGGING: yes please and thank you
THREADHOPPING: in general yes? just please get permission from the other players, and avoid threadhopping into a serious thread.
FOURTHWALLING: no
NOT INTERESTED IN: threads where she actually kills someone

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

VISUAL: a girl around 5'3"/163 cm with purple hair and eyes, wearing a dress with bone, flower, and butterfly motifs
AURAL: soft-spoken, gentle, almost whispery. English VA (Melody Muze) line compilation | Chinese, English, Japanese, and Korean voice comparison
OLFACTORY: she smells strongly of flowers
DEMEANOUR: withdrawn within herself, keeping her distance from others and her hands often tucked in front of her body. tends to observe from afar opposed to interact with things directly

IN CHARACTER

PHYSICAL AFFECTION: she has a touch that kills living beings on contact, so she is extremely avoidant when it comes to touch. but at the same time, she's incredibly touch-starved and desperately wants a hug. so basically it's complicated
PHYSICAL VIOLENCE: Y
RELATIONSHIPS: Y - my favorite canon ships are her with the Trailblazer, Mydei, Aglaea, Phainon, and Cipher, but I'm down for anything! including cross-canon!!
PSYCHIC & PSIONIC INFORMATION:
MAGICAL INFORMATION: she has a deadly aura to go along with her deadly touch. It's usually suppressed, but she's able to activate it at will, causing anything within five paces to enter a trance where they feel like they're being swallowed by darkness and unease.
MEDICAL INFORMATION:
OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS & TRIGGERS:

☆ code by kimmiserate ☆

Comments

▶ i. twirling in fallen bloom

[chrysolis]

1-1
I see a sword that grants death,
A shackle of destiny,

Next to the silver-haired girl,
Worshiped at the demise's hallow.

The sword stained with unknown blood, lying shattered and snapped.
The shackle chained pale wrists, dotted in thickening rust.

The priest asks with a shaking voice—
Upon whose fingertips will the butterfly perch?

The girl never answers,
Like death itself, wreathed in silent solemnity.

---

1-2
People often say that,
Dying is to meet the palm of the Hand of Shadow,
And dreaming is to be brushed by their fingers a little.

In the mirages when the girl petted death,
She sees black waterfalls foaming and bellow,

Pouring down from a chasm in the sky,
Where a solitary tower withstands torrents sallow.

When she wakes, she can still feel the water's freezing touch,
And the cacophony's billow—

Like the wail of the dead, the howl of beasts,
In confusion, delirium, and clamors hollow.

---

1-3
The girl's embrace is not meant for the living.
Thousands have entered the eternal sleep in her arms,
Granting to the dead solace and dignity.

She mentions a ferocious warrior, feared in battle...
"She did not go with a smile, but to me, she cursed—"

"O, life's end! How ugly you are! How despicable!"

And from that day on, she adorned herself.
Her dress, white as a radiant moon,
Became always dotted with flowery petals.

"For if death cannot be avoided..."
So says the girl,
"I wish it could contain beauty more plentiful."

---

1-4
Among the manifold rites about death,
The ones she knows with most intimacy are burial rites.

One burial of unfamiliar countenance after another wherever she presided,
From the angelic visage of a babe passed in the cradle,
To the despairing eyes of the mother drowning in sorrow.

From the scars on a war-battered general's torso,
To the unending tears pouring from his bereft widow.

Yet she remembers not a single living human she had seen,
Even in the mirror, she thinks her own face strange, with an alien glow.

In the countless words buried in forgetfulness,
The only thing she manages to gleam is a mockery to fate, a sarcastic whistle—

"Stay alive."

---

1-5
When she cast aside the shackles and stepped beyond Aidonia,
A déjà vu most violent seizes her whole.
Did she, perchance, conduct some previous escape?

Illusions dance across her eyes—

She had once drifted in an endless river,
Then drove her single boat out of the deluge.

She had wandered in the battlefield covered in corpses,
Then recovered the path back to life.

Why must she escape? Over and over again?
She now knows the answer and quivers, for it is a ludicrous surmise—

The woman embodying death walks this world,
Only because she knows she must stay alive.

But alas—
At that time, she knows not,

That death is not the end.
It is only a butterfly landing on a withered branch.
Utterly meaningless. Profoundly trite.