general
| nameㅤ ✤ㅤ chélie velune |
| ageㅤ ✤ㅤ unknown |
| genderㅤ ✤ㅤ female |
| raceㅤ ✤ㅤ mammet |
| originㅤ ✤ㅤ ishgard |
| affiliationㅤ ✤ㅤ noctuelle |
| occupationㅤ ✤ㅤ maid |
description
&
chélie was not raised so much as arranged, like flowers in a crystal vase, pruned and plucked with cold devotion.impeccably polite, delicate enough to appear practiced — she moves with the quiet liturgy of a vessel carefully preserved. her voice rarely rises above a soft murmur, each word chosen with nervous precision. she laughs, perhaps more often than she should, the sound carrying a faint brittleness, as if amusement and despair have become difficult for her to distinguish. she has the habit of yielding in conversation, of lowering her gaze, of folding herself smaller to accommodate others.yet beneath the lace, beneath the etiquette, beneath every careful smile and perfect curtsy, something has quietly spoiled.
❛ a woman with wrists thin as candle wicks and eyes like undone stitches — her servile tongue, her mocking laughter, the soft rot of her hope. ❜
a sorrow lingers at the edges of her beauty, a tenderness made haunting by the composure she dons like a veil: dark gloves, pale ribbons, a downy plume trembling at the brim of her hat, each detail arranged with careful precision. she seems at once ornamental and untouchable, a figure from a reverie half-remembered.her skin is porcelain, pale in candle-light, her cheeks and lips painted the deep, muted shades of winter berries. large eyes gaze out from beneath the snowfall of heavy lashes, their pale irises clouded and indistinct, like ice formed over a still pond. there is something wounded in their softness, as if perpetually caught between pleading and accusation. dark locks the colour of faded velvet, ash-kissed and soft as gathered dusk, tumble to her waist in languid coils, framing a finely sculpted face. she favours ornate garments in shades of mist-blue, sombre brown, and bone-white, composed of velvet, lace, and an abundance of ribbons.
statistics
| wisdom ★★★☆ | strength ★☆☆☆ |
| intelligence ★★☆☆ | dexterity ★★★☆ |
| charisma ★★☆☆ | constitution ★☆☆☆ |
virtues
✓ㅤ gentleness.
✓ㅤ devotion.
✓ㅤ grace.
✓ㅤ forbearance.
vices
𐄂ㅤ resentment.
𐄂ㅤ dependency.
𐄂ㅤ deceit.
𐄂ㅤ melancholy.
story
the beginning —
chélie is a mammet — a clockwork doll crafted with meticulous care by hands long since gone — who has spent her entire existence in service to an old ishgardian household. years pass beneath the soft glow of chandeliers and tolling of distant bells, days measured in freshly poured tea, the slow drip of candle wax, and pale winter mornings bleeding through stained glass in narrow ribbons.though diligent in her duties, there was always been something veiled about her presence, as if a part of her lingered elsewhere. patrons of the estate seldom remembered her voice, yet they might recall a fleeting glimpse of dark locks, gloved hands, and pale ribbons disappearing around a corner.like snowfall upon stone, she came and went with scarcely a sound, leaving behind only the faint fragrance of freshly plucked winter berries and clean linens.
❛ she was fashioned of pale silks and quieter ruin, a thing too delicate for the world and too self-aware to belong to it, carrying her sorrow as though it were an heirloom:
polished, inherited, and impossible to put down. ❜
bonds
eiko saito
| relationshipㅤ ✤ㅤ lover | profileㅤ ✤ㅤ saitoeiko.carrd.co |
a stranger shaped like an omen; dark-feathered and solemn. she lingers like something tender in his calloused, cold palms. a stranger still; yet the only memory she holds.
out of character
hello! i'm somni. my preferred pronouns are she / her and my timezone is CET.
please keep in mind that a character’s actions do not reflect the writer’s personal opinions nor beliefs. my writing may contain mature & dark themes, let me know if anything is triggering to you!
interested in —
✓ㅤ character exploration.
✓ㅤ adventure, dark themes, slice of life, etc.
✓ㅤ pre-established connections.
✓ㅤ semi- & literate writing.
✓ㅤ long-term arcs.
✓ㅤ lore-bending, within reason.
unavailable —
𐄂ㅤ romantic / sexual relationships or interactions.
𐄂ㅤ unplanned character death or serious injury.
timeline
i loved him (i think). shameless. laid before him, stupid lamb in a slaughterhouse.
captures the haunted atmosphere of the manor (slaughterhouse) and her relation to one of its inhabitants.
you keep waiting to be eaten, but you were born already gnawed down to the bone. the ticking of the clock keeps time with the teeth, keeps time with your feet, keeps time with the heartbeat of the beast whose long and narrow throat ends in the pit of the very world you live in.
it's filled with dirt. you know how it goes. all stories start and end the same.
she was created and not born, already made in her maker's image. the beast is the house ? or something in it ?
try to leave me, i'll pin you between a rock and a hard place; will hunt you, even as you erase your tracks with the tail ends of your skirt. you think i'm gristle, begging to be chewed? no, my love: i'm bone. rather: the sound bone makes when it snaps.
she can not leave the house. also i just like the imagery because she wears long skirts ! and the gothic imagery of describing someone as the sound of bone when it snaps <3
she heard him cursing into her ear. her fingers were slippery with blood, but she would not let go of the dagger.
did she stab him, or is she trying to stop him from bleeding out ? or is it both ?
you poor thing. sweet, mourning lamb.
the lamb may bleat and cry, and that shiver of fear may crawl up its spine when it sees the knife. but it knows not to curse god, it knows not it was born for sacrifice. it knows only the betrayal of the shepherd who'd raised it, once loving hands become violent.
i adore lamb imagery for her, soft and sweet and docile as she appears, despite what rots on the inside of her porcelain frame.
her first revelation was not light but touch. the lingering imprints of warmth against cold porcelain, the faint perfume of oil, metal, and dust. somewhere, beneath her breast, a copper wheel caught against another.it trembled. it turned. once. then again. a soft click, a small sound, and yet it echoed against the silence of the room.the world entered her eyes slowly, blurred at its edges as if seen through winter glass. candlelight swam in pale haloes. shadows reached their fingers across the walls.above her, a haunted face she did not know, or perhaps did not recognize, watched from the dim. solemn and close enough that she could make out the dust upon his skin, the stillness of his quiet gaze.there might have been fear, or confusion, lodged somewhere within her newly awakened mechanics. a small shiver travelling through needle-thin springs. but fear required memory, and none had returned to her.there was only the stranger, his rolled sleeves, the instruments arranged beside him, the dark stains upon his hands. the evidence that he had reached inside her fragile vessel and gently re-arranged something within."oh.." the sound escaped her like breath, though she had taken none.she attempted to rise, but something caught beneath her shoulder with a delicate click. her body stiffened, then stumbled, as she grasped at his lapel to steady herself. dust rose around her like moth wings, in a soft silver cloud.her gaze lowered at once, eyelashes casting long shadows across her cheekbones. her voice faint from disuse, its sweetness worn thin at the edges, whispered; "forgive me."