Vethysnia 'Royal Phoenix' Narghile


IV | LUX | FEMALE | CHAOTIC GOOD | VOICE | DEMISEXUAL

                    

"The sting of learning never ceases."

                                     
            
            
                                                  
                    

And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung

The silken seamstress of gold beams of sunrise and sunset hue strewn violently across sky canvas. First the color of pure light, warm and radiant with the oily glow of satin shine whose luminescence tapers to the dark mantled cosmos of night's fathomless brigade. Her eyes swallow and consume, their blackened pits with slits of gray sapience warding off those who cannot resist her enigma, and coercing them further into a deathly grasp alike.

Her slender thigh bears the birthmark scar of Pluto, whose underworld kingdom would forever be kept at bay and the mercy of pure unrelenting brightness. Profuse plumage bustles in the richness of grapes, of a reminiscent tall regal headdress donned only by they of such privileged and hereditary ancestry. And a white orchid; for purity, of course.                     

                
            
            
                                                  
                    

Would you hear my voice come through the music

 

FLAWS
Dangerously self righteous, wholeheartedly judgmental, craves the throne, utterly blindly ambitous, salacious appetite for feasting upon the souls of the evil
LIKES
Peace, harmony, others sharing their stories with her, deep meditation, being exposed to new ways of thinking (even if she hates it)
HOPES
To one day find her place in this world; to answer the telltale question in her heart about why she left a life of luxury to pursue an existence of constant struggle and hardship
FEARS
That her people's hunt for her will never end and she will be forced to go back, being destitute of emotion and compassion, losing the will to fuel her faith
                I remember my thoughts as I gazed upon sheltered loft at the seas chaos forever careening and eroding my family's shore. How I stood there each morn and eve, contemplating succulent life, sifting the scales of death, weighing my prosperity, by aeons of blood shed and the tears which I've graciously dried. They say my heart pumps this body full of frigid ice water. That I fear not pain, not death, or the faint ambrosia of the unknown. Oh yes, this shell remains stoic, so the bruised flesh beneath may continue to bleed an endless river for the weak.

Fleeing not from neither fantasy or reality, she has found his place among the tender threshold of dream and awakening, a creature familiar and entirely at ease within realms untold, midst views unseen. She is literally the mouth-like gateway to both everything and nothingness, and her reach, both kinetic and metaphysical, is frighteningly grand. Those who wish to escape the sheer precision of her honed psyche and temptingly merciless sagacity must build walls, moats, and carve deep rivers in order to keep such invasive intuition at bay.

Mistake not her generosity, and kindness. Queenly and mindful, she is highly attuned to the emotions and needs of others. Fairness, and justice, are held dear to her beneath the seething waves of depths rarely foretold. She is also not above the painful act of sacrifice, whether it is the existence of another for the good of the many, or herself for similar purpose. Her intent may wax mystery, but the core of its writhing volition time and time again proves pure and unadulterated.

She absorbs all; utilizing all forms of energy and blessedly sending it back to its sacred origin to be recycled once more. Beneath the veils, constructs, and carefully placed compulsions, she has the potential for miraculous healing, and yet has found far more personal satisfaction through means of conflict. Through years of individualized and unique self inflicted and intrinsic discipline her deepest desire is to purge the suffering that plagues her, and oft seeks to perform the same for those who surround her. Puerile, yet strangely seasoned, the woman is an pertinent incarnate of the power of the great web that binds all and any.                                    
            
            
                                                  
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Would you hold it near as it were your own?



F A T H E R

Moussama

M O T H E R

Ashwinda

M A T E

None

O F F S P R I N G

None

S O U L S H A D O W

None



The sheer power in this girl...how was a father to truly reckon so early on? The signs were there, but all men who adore their kin do anything for their happiness, no matter the cost. Mad, no? I sacrificed everything for her, and she demanded more, and rightfully so. Surely you wonder why I side with my betrayer, and the answer is simple. Her answer was forever pure, forever anointed with the sacred oils of unrelenting truth, and whatever prophecy came from her lips, be it lyrical or the spitting of a viper, all who knew her well wisely revered her omens.

Omens...how can I even reduce them to that. Whatever she uttered, would eventually come true. Either my daughter really could foretell the future, or even more frightening, she could bend the very universe to each whim she machinated. But such is the desperate speculation of a tired, senile old man, for my daughter, too, was a wise and modest woman, generous, compassionate. But wrong her, and her cold distance would fester like a seed, and she would surely watch with a semblance of deep, repressed pleasure as they who took her for granted writhed without her divining presence. She was destined for greater things. Grander things.

She would steal away in the night, silent with a glacial breeze and darkness in her wake (so fitting of her, so appropriately my beautiful daughter), only this time never to return. Even now, I truly believe it was not she who forsook us, but us unto she, ergo, she would search to find the ultimate source of her miraculous gifts. How I long for her happiness. How I long for her safety. How I long for her to find what she so desperately sought.

Verbally composed by King Moussama of the Rajasthan Steppe




Birthed, trained, humbled, and then inflated by two distant but mindful parents, she became the woman she is within the near utopian confines of a seaside desert tribe with rich unearthly heritage. She never sought to be isolated in her childhood, but it was discernible from her evocative, heeding, and strangely independent nature that the others in her generation would find the young woman hard to assess. Gifted in the ways of the seer and masterful in dominating the more volatile elements within herself, she would, in the years that followed, earn the recognition of the tribe's spiritual leaders.

And eventually, on the sixth sun cycle after her entrance into the world, she would be given the title of High Priestess, the youngest in over a century. There was, growing within her, a ruthless and idealistic sense of justice she felt she must fulfill, and she also found herself wary of the idea of staying in one place for the rest of her finite existence. Sometimes she almost longed for death, for the release of her soul into the great beyond, to at last become one with the great mystery that would certainly envelope them all after their long journey of fleshly becoming.

Her mind was sharp, senses honed, intuition a ceaseless ethereal machine, but they would never be enough if she confined herself to one life, one way, one ending. She, without emotion, announced her plan of embarking on a trek of new truths to her tribe, and they gave her no rebuttal for the decision. When she set out that night the next full moon graced the skies, her father wept for her eventual and safe. But perhaps she was never to return. There was a world out there, a world that suffered and thrived and constantly shifted within the sands of time and circumstance. She wondered if it was wrongful to feel such wanderlust. Yet to deny it would be an insult to her craft.

For months she remained alone, by then a great distance separating her from what was once her entire origin. At last, she washed up upon the shores of Victus, exhausted and invigorated, sensing the seeds of chaos even from afar, each aging border laced in a harrowing omen of ripened malevolent energy. There was a budding fruit of fear within her for what she would encounter. And yet, she entered despite this. Fear is only feasted upon by the feeble.