Ebony
-
Queen of the Darkness
"I've got a river running right into you.
I've got a blood trail, red in the blue;
Something you say or something you do,
A taste of the divine.
You've got my body, flesh, and bone;
The sky above, the earth below.
Raise me up again,
Take me past the edge,
I want to see the other side."
She moved through the world like a whispered incantation; graceful, dangerous, and impossible to forget. Every glance from her eyes shimmered with an unspoken promise, a lure as irresistible as the tide’s pull beneath a siren’s song. There was something ancient in her allure, something that transcended mere beauty; the way shadows bent slightly toward her, the way the air seemed to hum when she appeared. Some swore her charm was otherworldly, a gift - or perhaps a curse - from powers far beyond mortal comprehension. Beneath her velvet voice and the curve of her onyx lips lay the faint echo of an eldritch hymn, as though an unseen deity stirred in the depths whenever she spoke. Her beauty was not the fragile kind that fades in daylight; it was the dark, consuming sort that lingered like perfume on the soul. Eyes the colour of the burning sun seemed to know too much, reflecting starlight from places no mortal had ever seen. When she smiled, it was with the quiet confidence of one who understood the power of her own enigma; and perhaps the fragility of those who gazed too long. People spoke of her in murmurs, describing her voice as something more than sound - an esoteric reverberation, carrying the faint cadence of a language that predated the very stars. At times, the shadows around her moved as if alive, coiling with reverence and fear alike. There were stories, of course, that she was a vessel, chosen by something vast and unnameable; that in her dreams she conversed with a God whose face no induvial mind could endure. Yet when she danced or laughed all rumours fell away, leaving only the certainty that she was both muse and mystery, a living riddle draped in silk and smoke. To love her was to step willingly toward the edge of madness, and to find - in the fall - a beauty far older and darker than desire itself.
She was not chosen; she chose, though even that truth has eroded over time. Her life before the pact is a haze of half-forgotten dreams and faint, nameless longings. All that remains clear is the night she first heard the voice: soft, resonant, like a prayer whispered backward. It promised her the power to be seen, to be remembered, to be loved beyond measure. The deity - unknown, unspoken, perhaps even unnamed by itself - is a thing older than language, older than music, the echo of devotion that refuses to die. Its worshippers vanished long ago, but she has become its vessel, its muse, its living avatar. Now, her presence bends reality in small, imperceptible ways. People don’t just notice her, they orbit her, drawn by a gravity they can’t name. Her beauty is not the kind that dazzles; it consumes. The longer one remains near her, the more her rhythm seeps into them - breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat - until they cannot tell where her will ends and their own begins. Yet, for all her grace, there is something hollow in her eyes. A constant ache, like an unfinished song. What she sacrificed is not spoken of, perhaps she cannot recall it, or perhaps remembering is forbidden. Some say it was her heart, others her name. Some whisper she traded away her mortality, and now walks forever in a body that remembers warmth but can no longer truly feel it. Every act of love, every gaze, every whispered confession are all are offerings to her God, siphoned unknowingly from the souls who adore her. Whether she resents this, or revels in it, no one can say. She is both the worshipper and the idol, bound in eternal reciprocity to something that loves her as much as it devours her.
╔═════════════════════════════════════════╗
Playlist;
Rev 20:20 - Puscifer
The Summoning - Sleep Token
Playground - Bea Miller & Arcane
╚═════════════════════════════════════════╝
-
The Mistress
"I could unmake you softly, and you would call it love."
Name: Rozalija Sraosha.
Nicknames: Roza, only by friends and close associates.
Titles: Madame, Mistress, Domme, never 'Miss' or 'Mrs'.
Age: Thirty-four years, though she may appear older.
Gender: Cisgender female, she/her pronouns.
Species: Sag-e Tazi, Balkh Hound, or Afghan Hound.
Mutation: Melanism; an excess of melanin, resulting in her dark fur/skin/hair.
Orientation: Pansexual, with no imperative preference for gender or identity.
Position: Unquestioningly dominant.
Martial Status: Single, unobtainable.
Vocation: Owner and Madame of The Ebony Hound.
Height: Five foot, eleven inches. (5'11")
Weight: 140 lbs, including the weight of her voluptuous fur.
Voice: Deep, raspy, smoky; akin to Shohreh Aghdashloo. (x)
Fur: Black as pitch night, with a greyish-purple underbelly.
Hair: Dark heliotrope, with a curious smattering of purple highlights that appear like a lucent cosmos.
Eyes: Black sclera with pastel tangerine irises, and sharp, saffron pupils as captivating as a black hole.
Build: Exaggerated hourglass; wide hips, corset trained waist and a moderate bust.
Makeup: Wears a small amount regularly. Typically white or silver eyeliner, purple or blue eyeshadow and a dark shade of lipstick, usually glossy black, purple, sometimes dark blue and even rarer a deep shade of red.
Jewellery: A single labret piercing on her upper lip, made of white gold. An intricate silver collar necklace embedded with a cut, yellow diamond in the centre; rarely seen without it.
Perfume: Shumukh by Nabeel. Notes of Indian agarwood, patchouli, ylang-ylang, sandalwood, Turkish rose and amber.
Attire: Cold, shiny leather, silks of the finest quality, sublime and expensive furs. (x)
Personality: Unsettlingly calm, even in the midst of chaos, she moves through the world as though the storms themselves are beneath her notice. To those who observe from afar, she might seem detached, cold and perhaps even unfeeling, but that stillness is not born of emptiness. It is control. Every flicker of emotion, every breath, is measured, deliberate. Her temper is a rare and precious thing, seldom seen but never forgotten by those unfortunate enough to provoke it. When anger stirs within her, it doesn’t explode; it seeps. It coils through her veins like venom, quiet and deliberate, finding its way into the softest parts of others - their pride, their guilt, their fear. She will not raise her voice. She will not strike. Instead, her vengeance comes wrapped in velvet, her words gentle, her smile patient. You may not even realise she is dismantling you until you stand amid the ruins of your own making, wondering how she managed it.
She holds no desire to dominate in the crude, overt ways of those who shout to be obeyed. Her power is subtler, more intimate. She does not demand submission; she cultivates it. She will guide you with tenderness, with warmth, until your will bends toward hers without resistance. When she breaks you - and she will - it will be softly. You’ll mistake the pain for affection, the surrender for choice. And in the end, you will thank her. For the comfort. For the clarity. For the exquisite ache of being undone by hands so gentle, so sure, you never thought to resist them. To the world, she is composed, unhurried, and enigmatic. She rarely interrupts, rarely raises her voice. Her silences are deliberate, and when she does speak, it feels as though she’s offering a secret; even if she’s only saying your name. Her calmness is her power; it unsettles those who rely on chaos or confrontation. Every action feels measured, as though she’s aware of something far greater. Inside, she is haunted by an absence she can’t name. She remembers sensations - warmth, love, music - but they feel distant, distorted, like echoes underwater. She is aware of what she’s become, but not entirely sure where her deity ends and she begins. There’s a quiet tragedy in her; devotion has given her transcendence but stripped away her certainty of self.
-
Portraits
"You say you cannot live without me. But tell me, when did I ask you to try?" -
-
Guestbook
Something in the way you lay,
enough to make the dead switch graves.
No guestbook entries yet.