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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
25.55 m
Wingspan
20.38 m
Weight
8890.93 kg
Genetics
White
Iridescent
Iridescent
Blood
Current
Current
Sanguine
Thylacine
Thylacine
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Imperial
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
6
AGI
6
DEF
6
QCK
5
INT
8
VIT
8
MND
6
Biography
PROFILE
Name: Carmilla Bloodborn
Gender: Female Pronouns: She/Her Profession: Geras' Companion & Research Assistant Interests: Learning how the world has changed since her death and resurrection. Virtues: Loyal and deeply compassionate, Carmilla cares greatly for those around her. Flaws: As the above might suggest, Carmilla can sometimes take things more personally than is intended. Vibe Song 
TREASURES
The thing that tames her hunger for blood, this ring was the first gift she was ever given by Geras. 
Before her death, Carmilla was an excellent shot, at times tasked to help hunt Emperors. Her skill has not waned. 
A welcoming gift on being taken into the clan, Carmilla treasures this clear sign of her acceptance. 
Though since adjusted to the sensory shock of being re-ensouled and her body remade, Carmilla sometimes prefers softer candlelight. 
She lost the piece she was given as a hatchling, a marker of her clan's teachings. She suspects it resides in her grave. This is her new piece, and her new reminder. 
This coral simply makes Carmilla happy, and Ennis gifts it to her when she harvests any. It reminds Carmilla of her own antlers. 
TRINKETS 
FAVOURITE FOODS 
BEFORE RE-ENSOULING 
Feral Carmilla
WHERE ONCE SHE HATCHED  It was a small village, built into the caps of the mushroom forests, spores as thick on the wind as the fragments of flesh. She'd loved it there, bathing in the pools of ground-pus and leaping from cap to cap. She'd been happy. WHERE SHE WAS SET TO REST  At the edge of the Wyrmwound, under the vast ribcage of a carcass long dead but only partially rotted. Her friends set her to rest. No one thought any raiser of undead would dare step so close to the Plaguebringer's Domain. WHERE ONCE SHE ROAMED  She never roamed far from her grave, even after hundreds of years. Somehow the soil she clawed her way from called to her. They grew to fear her, the dragons there, the villages, the serthis and manticores and all else. Geras refused to. WHERE SHE WAS RETURNED  Carmilla only remembers so much of how she was remade wholly, her soul returned and her body forming back together. She remembers Geras, though, and the pink-purple of Arcane magic as wielded by a dragon of Plague. WHERE SHE MAKES HER HOME  Carmilla and Geras live in a comfortable hut above the clan's smelting pools, close enough to feel the heat as a fever-warmth. Both are Plagueborn, after all. A feverish soil is one they know best, and they're as comfortable there as Fireborn. WHERE SHE CONTEMPLATES  Carmila loves the clan, but sometimes she seeks peace and quiet and contemplation in which to consider her thoughts. There is an old, abandoned settlement not far from where the clan now lives. She finds its architecture comfortingly familiar. PHILOSOPHY  She does not know who or what raised her, nor does she know when or why. She knows she was, and that she did terrible things. Carmilla does not believe she will ever find the one responsible for her raising. Instead she lives, and enjoys living. 
FAMILIAR 
Familiar: Webwing Alpha
Name: Trocar Personality: Just the most monumental pain in the backside. Carmilla's fond of him. TRUE ELEMENT 
|
Even a fragmented dragon
can be pieced together again with care. PERSONALITY Beloved and recently re-ensouled wight assistant to Geras, Carmilla was a ferocious beast before Geras used his vast and often underestimated magic to piece her back together. An ominous and deathly quiet figure, Carmilla rarely speaks and it is known that, for all her re-ensoulment and careful tending by the seeming-infant Geras, she still feeds on blood on a semi-regular basis. Generally, Carmilla prefers to keep to herself or spend time with Geras, but this obscures the deep love she has for the clan that has so unflinchingly taken in Geras and herself. ABOUT Once she remembered something else. Then there was nothing but screaming pain. (is it life when you starve and hunger for it? is it life when every part of you aches?)
--
She doesn't know which Shade-touched raised her - failed to raise her. She would eat them too if she could. She has eaten- (a flash of a mirror's double eyes, the hard-armoured side of a multi-eyed guardian, the twisted thrashing of a struggling spiral, the sense of her muzzle buried in the belly of a snapper-) She doesn't know how many she's eaten. She barely has enough left to her to eat flesh - more often her claws rend flesh and bone from the bodies she makes, her magic picking up parts and latching them onto her. She was born to plague, to a very specific sect of plague - she knows an old truth. Bodies may survive. Bodies may carry the heritage. But in death, with no hatchlings to follow, the only secrets of survival you can steal from the dead are those carried in their blood. (immunities, viruses, hormones and chemicals. immunities in the pale cells, secrets of what they've faced in the past. viruses they don't yet know, what they could perhaps have survived. chemicals to indicate what corruptions they carry in their blood, indicating what part of them is failing. hormones to tell their age and health, their emotional impulses - it is these that make her feel most alive.) (she lifts her dripping maw from the bodies and swallows down the blood) It is not just dragons she faces. Manticores too, and serthis, harpies that try to swarm her, and longneck mediums trying to set her to rest. She is too wild and strong for any of them. Instead she roams and she feasts and she tries to piece herself back together. How many other bodies has she eaten by the end? When she has the mind to consider it, she's surprised she's not an emperor. The world is cruel, after all. The world has been cruel to her. So many have acted, unthinking, unconsidering, uncaring. (Later, she thinks: so has she.)
--
It is a village she is terrorising, living - unliving - out of a cavern of bones on the cliff-rise above it. She prowls down like a cat, waiting for nightfall before she seeks prey. Strained as she is, unliving and living, floating, amorphous parts as she tries to piece herself back together, blood flowing through intangible channels - she seeks those bright with magic. Bright with primal eyes or runeblight blood, sorcerers and witches, those of such power that perhaps consuming some part of them might save her. Each night, one by one, she goes. Each night, one by one, she picks them off. And then, one evening, there is a child there. A hatchling she has never seen before. She recognises the markings - of course she does. Even as raw and fragmented as she is she recognises those thylacine slashes so alike to her own, recognises the colours and the plague eyes, recognises the wealth of magic stored in so small a form. The hatchling is perched at the rim of the village well, one claw scratching it's belly, eyes scanning the area. Quietly she prowls forwards. There is a skill to hiding size such as hers. To, even on so brightly moonlit a night, hiding the moon-pale of what skin she has, the bright gleam of the magic that makes her up and holds her together. She has spent many years like this. So she does not expect when the hatchling launches upwards, wings beating with a strength she hadn't expected, reaching a single claw in her direction and pulling. And the village around them alights in the pink-purple of arcane rituals.
--
She is stretched. She is pulled. She is held in place. Her limbs are stretched out, pulled so far the magic that makes her up can barely hold her together, but something else is being pulled too, some deep and old part of her memory, and she hears, hears something she doesn't recognise, clear and high as can only come from a child, but with a confidence born of maturity. The words aren't modern draconic. They aren't even old. The child is chanting in Ancient, her great-grandmother's mother tongue. And suddenly she feels her soul pulled fully back into her body.
--
She hurts that is the first she thinks, but then all the gaps between her flesh are filled as the magic of a living soul, not a Shade-driven husk, puts her back together. She hurts but then she realises it is not hurt, is simply sensation, the thing she has been so long without, dead flesh unable to detect pressure as the living can and she is hypersensitive, the softness of the fleshsoil beneath her, the grittiness of the bonesand, the aching brightness of the arcane light that is only starting to fade. "Well," says a now familiar voice. "That went much better than expected." For a moment it's too loud, and then it's too quiet and then, as at last she adjusts, it is just right and she turns her head to look at the hatchling. This close she sees: they are not a hatchling, not quite. There's something to the face that bespeaks adulthood, for all the body is youthful. As she watches, they inspect their claws. "Arcane magic is not my forte, and to find the spell to do that, well that was almost heresy - but I argued Ague into agreeing with me - is it truly a heresy to undo undeath and return it to true life? If you're undoing the work of the Shade itself?" "You-" "Geras Everyoung," the small imperial says. "At your service. Plaguepriest of no particular home and not yet of any particular note." Not yet of any particular note. She is herself again. She rather thinks that is of note. "No, no-" The imperial's hands gesture her back down when she tries to rise. "You're not yet fully re-formed; the lingering magic needs to make sure you're fully put back together. Hurry and you'll pull something - literally. Your tendons might come loose, or your bones dislocate or even fragment. Let the magic do it's work on your body. The only ones who can work on your mind right now are you and me." She blinks at him, uncomprehending, and the imperial sighs, shoulders slumping. "Nameless one," he says. "Wight. What do you remember of-" Oh. Oh. Oh gods.
--
Geras keeps her from moving as the memories make themselves known. She retches and on her back as she is it might almost choke her but Geras' magic is thorough; the small dragon tides her through it. "What's done is done," Geras reminds her steadily, talking to her for the hours it takes for the re-ensoulment magic to do it's work. "You cannot change that, not unless you wish to delve into true necromancy or thanatomagy and I truly do not recommend that course of action. Not least because the Council will have your head." It's strange to hear so mature a voice from one so small, but - well. Geras had glowed with magic when first she'd glimpsed the small form sat on the lip of the well. Geras had managed to trap her, to remake her, to give her back her soul. "You," she says. "You made me this. You gave me back myself. You say you are here to work on my mind. What should I do then, if I cannot change the past?" Geras' smile is a small thing. "Live the present," he says. "And change the future."
--
Geras is a strange master to serve. He insists on keeping near her for the next few days - to ensure the magic has fully settled, that she's whole, that her soul is in place, that she will not relapse. She learns a great deal about him in that time - as much as he learns about her, she rather suspects - and even more about the state of the world this far on from her original death. "We've grown that far?" she asks of the Council. "So much we have that, now?" "It wasn't popular with everyone," Geras says. "You know how independent we can be; there were some who felt it was an imposition. A chance for some of the more vocal and powerful Priests to dictate their beliefs to everyone, regardless of veracity. But the founders had their own points and a good number of the more collectivist-minded dragons backed it. After that the dissidents either went their own heretical way, or joined the council." "Are you part of it?" "Not yet," Geras replies. "Maybe one day. But first I'd need an entourage. Technically no councillor needs one, but most look at me and assume- well. They assume many things. An entourage would help." She learns, over this time, one of Geras' favourite sayings. It's not about you. It's almost callous how he says it, uncaring, except he doesn't mean it in malice but simple fact. He hadn't saved her for her sake - the terrible memories she has speak to that - but for other reasons. He had done it for the village, because all other Priests of Plague had turned them down and he thought that foolish. He had done it for himself, because he sought to prove himself and taming a wight would be most effective a feat. He had done it for her last - though her education now, it seems, is for both of them. His other activities not so much. His letters are about who knows what, his experiments none of her business. Even those experiments he starts specifically when she speaks of how she still hungers for blood- "It's not about you," he says. "It's about my own scholarship, to prove what I know, and about other wights we might try to save. It's no good doing what I did to you if it doesn't fully work." "My hunger isn't about you either," she snaps back. "I didn't even ask you to bring me back. You say my ensoulment wasn't about me but it affected me pretty directly. My hunger is mine. I only told you because you seemed to want to know every little thing about my new status." He stills at that. "Yes," he agrees. "That's true." Then he vanishes for the rest of the day and she doesn't see him until evening. He brings something for her, something small and cool to set around one finger. An onyx ring set with a ruby. "This should help soften the hunger. You will know it, but it will not drive you. This way we can find a solution without it being overwhelming." He looks her in the eye as he helps her twist it into place. "This," he says. "For reference, is about you. I would like to have a solution for my own reasons, but- the hunger seems to concern you. So this is to aid with that. This is for you." She lifts her hand, twisting it in the moonlight so she can see how the stone glints darkly, like blood. Geras says nothing more. "I know what you mean," she says eventually. "That nothing is about me. Nothing is about anyone, really, is it? The gods do what they will for themselves - the Plaguebringer challenges us to prove ourselves, throwing challenges our way, but she doesn't do it for us as individuals. She does it because she wants those of us who bear her magic to be the best - at least as she deems what 'best' is. So the gods do what they will, and the world has storms and cataclysms and grand mistakes of magic, and none of it is about any one of us." "There are a few seers," Geras says. "Who claim to have true truck with the gods, who speak to them and hear their voices directly. Mostly waterborn, but a few else. And- well, a few dragons do act in vengeance or in spite, specifically to target another, or will act in kindness, because they feel another is in need of it. Some few times it truly is about someone. But rarely, in my experience. People take - well just about anything that affects them they take it personally. But it rarely is. Many don't even think about how what they do affect others." She barks a laugh. "So you decided you wouldn't care either?" "No," he says. "Just that- I would note when it was about them, but otherwise I would remind them that it wasn't. We're encouraged to think much of ourselves. Some of us don't. Some are failures or think themselves failures or-" he gestures towards her "-have such experience that much of their arrogance is removed. But there are many at the Council who think that they are everything, that everything comes back to them. I cannot stop them taking my choice to halt my ageing personally, as though it is an insult to them, that I can do this and they cannot, or that I should mature like them, because to stay young is to suggest that they failed in not doing the same. I do this for me, not for them." She waves her beringed hand. "And you did this for me, not for you. Unlike everything else so far." "I do not pretend to be a kind person," Geras says. "But the world doesn't pretend either. It is people who do." That is true. It was dragons who set her to rest, thinking she would be allowed to. That no one would dare disturb the dead. They thought the world would be kind to the dead, would be fair. It was some Infested thing which raised her, who made a deal with the Shade for- well she hardly knows what reason. But they must have thought the Shade would be some kind of fair too, that it's offer of a deal was a kindness, not that it would forever be twisting and hollowing them out to nothingness. It was a dragon who saved her, not for her own sake or even entirely for the village, but because he wanted to. Because he wanted to prove he could. But he also hasn't lied to her. That is a strange kindness from one who professes not to be kind. The ring glints on her finger. "Promise to be honest with me," she says, "if you cannot be kind." Geras' brows rise as he watches her. Slowly, she smiles. "Do that," she says, "and I will join your entourage." "Oh, well," he says, a laugh colouring his voice. "In that case. I will make that promise. Do you have a name, nameless wight?" She'd had a name once. It had hardly fit her. She'd chosen a new name when she'd first taken the trials, and she still likes that one, still thinks it fits, for all her mindless sins. "Carmilla," she says. "Carmilla Bloodborn." "Carmilla," Geras says and it is something almost fond to his voice and his smile as he watches her. "I promise to be honest to you, if nothing else." "Then I will serve you," she says. "At least until my sins are paid for." She can see the look in his eyes, that he thinks she should not pay for them, that she should let the past be the past, that she shouldn't let what was done mindless still come back to her but- It's not about you. Geras knows that truth as well as she does. Instead, they look back to the moon, now waned to only half, and sit in peaceful silence. RELATIONSHIPS
   Daemonorops, Dracaena, Smoke | Parure Carmilla has the jewellery gifted to her by Geras, as a member of his entourage, decorated as much for his status as hers, but she also has these three living pieces of mixed origin. They adore adorning her, and she is happy to be adorned, if it keeps them safe and well. |
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