Blog Home
View All Posts
Priscilla -- Cambion
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Basics ~
Age: 133
Gender: Female
Species: Cambion (Antichrist)
Orientation: ????? (Abstinent)
Hair: Long, black
Skin: Fair
Eyes: Periwinkle
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
In the heart of the Ancient Woods, where the whispers of the earth are as clear as the babbling brooks that vein the fertile soil, there dwells a being both of this world and of a realm beyond. Priscilla Blackburn, a cambion of ethereal beauty and enigmatic origin, tends to her garden with a grace that belies her formidable nature. Her skin, unblemished and as pure as the driven snow, glows with an inner light that seems to pulse in time with the life force of the woods themselves. Beneath the canopy of ancient oaks and whispering pines, her black hair cascades like a raven's wing, starkly contrasting her fairy-like appearance and the periwinkle hue of her eyes, which shimmer with the wisdom of ages.
Priscilla's lineage is a tapestry woven from the threads of shadow and fire. Born to a human mother and a fiendish father from the nether realms, she has inherited the best and the most bewildering aspects of both worlds. Her human side grants her a semblance of mortality, a connection to the denizens of the woods, and a capacity for empathy that endears her to the creatures she nurtures within her sanctuary. Her infernal heritage, however, gifts her with a longevity that defies the passage of time, a resilience to the darkness that lurks beneath the soil, and a latent power that simmers just below the surface of her alabaster skin.
The garden she keeps is a wonder to behold, a living testament to her dual nature. Here, plants of both heavenly and earthly origins thrive side by side, their vibrant colors and intoxicating scents a siren song to all who wander near. Priscilla moves among them with the delicate precision of a master weaver, her hands coaxing life from the ground as she whispers ancient incantations that bind the elements to her will. Her connection to the flora is profound, almost as if the plants themselves respond to the unspoken language of her soul.
Despite her reclusive nature, Priscilla is no stranger to the ways of the world beyond her woodland home. Her periwinkle eyes have seen empires rise and fall, and her ears have heard the laments of the forgotten and the triumphant cries of the valiant. She walks the line between light and darkness, a guardian of balance, ensuring neither side gains too much sway over the other. Her wisdom is sought by those brave or desperate enough to venture into the Ancient Woods, and her counsel, though rarely given, is as valuable as the rarest of jewels.
In the twilight hours, when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest, Priscilla's true power becomes evident. Her voice, a melody that can soothe even the most tormented spirit, carries on the wind, weaving spells of protection and healing over her domain. The accents of her speech are a blend of the celestial and the infernal, a linguistic tapestry that reflects her unique heritage. Her laughter is a balm to the weary, and her tears, though seldom shed, can cleanse even the most tainted of hearts.
Physically, Priscilla bears marks of her lineage that are as mesmerizing as formidable. Her fingers, though slender and delicate, end in nails that can, when the situation demands, sharpen into talons capable of rending the very fabric of reality. Her ears, subtly pointed, hint at her fey-like grace, and her presence commands respect from all but the most foolish of creatures. Her attire reflects her environment, simple yet elegant, crafted from the finest silks and the toughest leathers, adorned with symbols and runes that speak of her ancient knowledge.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
~ Priscilla is an older OC of mine and has a backstory~
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
In the shadow-draped corners of Castle Combe, where the cobblestone whispers secrets of a bygone era, Elizabeth's tranquil life was torn asunder on a night when the very air seemed to portend doom. It was a night when the stars themselves seemed to recoil in horror, withdrawing their silver glow from the earth below. The ancient stones of the castle, once mere sentinels of history, now seemed to breathe with a sinister life of their own, as if the fabric of reality had been stretched thin, allowing the abyssal darkness to reach through with grasping, spectral fingers. She was the unwitting chosen vessel, marked by the infernal gaze of a demon that coveted her vitality for a purpose so vile, so perverse, that the mere contemplation of it turned the blood to ice in her veins. This demon, a creature of ancient and unspeakable evil, had emerged from the pit of its own accord, driven by an insatiable hunger to merge the divine with the demonic, to birth a being of such power that the very balance of existence would tremble at its feet.
The horror that clawed at Elizabeth's mind was a tempest of despair, a relentless torrent that threatened to sweep away her sanity. It was a darkness that fed on her light, a parasite of the soul that left her teetering on the brink of madness. The demon's presence was a palpable miasma, a stench of brimstone and decay that clung to her skin, invading her nostrils with every breath, a constant reminder of the defilement that sought to claim her.
In the grip of this unspeakable terror, Elizabeth was faced with a choice that no mother should ever have to make. The thought of extinguishing the innocent flame of life that she had nurtured within her was anathema to her very being. Yet, to allow her child to fall into the clutches of the demonic force that pursued her was a fate far crueler than death itself. With hands that trembled like leaves in a tempest, she swaddled her precious newborn in the softest of blankets, a futile shield against the harsh world she was about to entrust with her most precious treasure. The alleyway she chose was a narrow sliver of despair, a place where hope seemed to wither and die in the shadows. The concrete walls rose like monoliths, cold and unyielding, their surfaces slick with the filth of neglect. It was a place forgotten by time, where the only signs of life were the skittering vermin and the occasional ghostly whisper of a stray cat, their eyes reflecting the barest glimmer of humanity's detritus.
Elizabeth's heart shattered into a thousand pieces as she placed her child upon the unforgiving ground, a sacrifice to the uncertain mercy of strangers. The bundle, so small and vulnerable, lay amidst the refuse of civilization, a beacon of innocence in a sea of indifference. As she stepped away, her soul ached with the weight of her decision, each step feeling like a journey through the very depths of hell.
In the stillness of that forsaken alley, the only sound was the soft, mournful cry of a baby, a lament that seemed to echo the sorrow of the ages.
-----
Adopted from the cradle, she was woven into the fabric of a family whose threads were spun with secrets and half-truths. Her childhood, a mosaic of ordinary moments, was framed by the extraordinary gift she harbored unknowingly: A gift that whispered in the language of the universe, bending reality with the faintest murmur of her voice.
The city, once vibrant and pulsing with the rhythm of the mundane, became a stage for the uncanny. The air, thick with the scent of rain on concrete, now carried a charge, an electric hum that preceded the inexplicable. Buildings twisted, shadows danced with lives of their own, and the sky, a canvas of twilight hues, rippled with the strokes of an unseen painter. Priscilla, oblivious to her role in this surreal theater, spun her little white lies, each one a siren song that called forth the chaos. As her abilities burgeoned, the celestial realms took notice, their denizens stirring from their ancient slumber.
The Angels, with eyes like shattered stars, perceived in her the seeds of Armageddon, a potentiality that could unravel the very tapestry of existence. They moved with the grace of falling snow, their whispers a cold wind that promised a swift and silent end to her nascent power.
The Demons, creatures of flame and desire, saw not a harbinger of doom but a bloom of untapped potential. They salivated at the thought of harnessing her power, bending it to their will, and sculpting the world in their image. Their laughter echoed in the dark places, a symphony of lust and ambition that sought to ensnare her soul.
Caught in the crossfire of this eternal conflict, Priscilla's world crumbled. The family that had nurtured her and had taught her the language of lies was obliterated in a maelstrom of divine retribution. The walls of her home, once a cocoon of safety, were now rubble and memory, leaving her to navigate a world fraught with danger. On this battlefield, every shadow could be a soldier in a war that raged beyond human comprehension.
With a resolve that belied her years, she closed her eyes and summoned the image of a sanctuary - A verdant haven where the air was perfumed with pine, and the earth hummed with the music of life. When her eyes fluttered open, she stood in the heart of a forest that was both ancient and alive. The trees, sentinels of a bygone era, stretched their limbs toward the heavens, their leaves whispering secrets in a language older than time. The air was a balm, infused with the scent of moss and the subtle sweetness of wildflowers. The symphony of nature enveloped her: the melodic trill of a distant thrush, the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze, the soft, mournful cry of a lone wolf in the distance.
In this place, where the divine could not trespass, Priscilla found solace. Here, in the embrace of the wild, she could lick her wounds and piece together the shattered fragments of her existence. The forest became her refuge, a sacred grove where she could explore the depths of her power and the breadth of her soul.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁݁
*Photo of her full Cambion form is available, but it is ... Not sfw enough.*
Basics ~
Age: 133
Gender: Female
Species: Cambion (Antichrist)
Orientation: ????? (Abstinent)
Hair: Long, black
Skin: Fair
Eyes: Periwinkle
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
In the heart of the Ancient Woods, where the whispers of the earth are as clear as the babbling brooks that vein the fertile soil, there dwells a being both of this world and of a realm beyond. Priscilla Blackburn, a cambion of ethereal beauty and enigmatic origin, tends to her garden with a grace that belies her formidable nature. Her skin, unblemished and as pure as the driven snow, glows with an inner light that seems to pulse in time with the life force of the woods themselves. Beneath the canopy of ancient oaks and whispering pines, her black hair cascades like a raven's wing, starkly contrasting her fairy-like appearance and the periwinkle hue of her eyes, which shimmer with the wisdom of ages.
Priscilla's lineage is a tapestry woven from the threads of shadow and fire. Born to a human mother and a fiendish father from the nether realms, she has inherited the best and the most bewildering aspects of both worlds. Her human side grants her a semblance of mortality, a connection to the denizens of the woods, and a capacity for empathy that endears her to the creatures she nurtures within her sanctuary. Her infernal heritage, however, gifts her with a longevity that defies the passage of time, a resilience to the darkness that lurks beneath the soil, and a latent power that simmers just below the surface of her alabaster skin.
The garden she keeps is a wonder to behold, a living testament to her dual nature. Here, plants of both heavenly and earthly origins thrive side by side, their vibrant colors and intoxicating scents a siren song to all who wander near. Priscilla moves among them with the delicate precision of a master weaver, her hands coaxing life from the ground as she whispers ancient incantations that bind the elements to her will. Her connection to the flora is profound, almost as if the plants themselves respond to the unspoken language of her soul.
Despite her reclusive nature, Priscilla is no stranger to the ways of the world beyond her woodland home. Her periwinkle eyes have seen empires rise and fall, and her ears have heard the laments of the forgotten and the triumphant cries of the valiant. She walks the line between light and darkness, a guardian of balance, ensuring neither side gains too much sway over the other. Her wisdom is sought by those brave or desperate enough to venture into the Ancient Woods, and her counsel, though rarely given, is as valuable as the rarest of jewels.
In the twilight hours, when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest, Priscilla's true power becomes evident. Her voice, a melody that can soothe even the most tormented spirit, carries on the wind, weaving spells of protection and healing over her domain. The accents of her speech are a blend of the celestial and the infernal, a linguistic tapestry that reflects her unique heritage. Her laughter is a balm to the weary, and her tears, though seldom shed, can cleanse even the most tainted of hearts.
Physically, Priscilla bears marks of her lineage that are as mesmerizing as formidable. Her fingers, though slender and delicate, end in nails that can, when the situation demands, sharpen into talons capable of rending the very fabric of reality. Her ears, subtly pointed, hint at her fey-like grace, and her presence commands respect from all but the most foolish of creatures. Her attire reflects her environment, simple yet elegant, crafted from the finest silks and the toughest leathers, adorned with symbols and runes that speak of her ancient knowledge.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
~ Priscilla is an older OC of mine and has a backstory~
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
In the shadow-draped corners of Castle Combe, where the cobblestone whispers secrets of a bygone era, Elizabeth's tranquil life was torn asunder on a night when the very air seemed to portend doom. It was a night when the stars themselves seemed to recoil in horror, withdrawing their silver glow from the earth below. The ancient stones of the castle, once mere sentinels of history, now seemed to breathe with a sinister life of their own, as if the fabric of reality had been stretched thin, allowing the abyssal darkness to reach through with grasping, spectral fingers. She was the unwitting chosen vessel, marked by the infernal gaze of a demon that coveted her vitality for a purpose so vile, so perverse, that the mere contemplation of it turned the blood to ice in her veins. This demon, a creature of ancient and unspeakable evil, had emerged from the pit of its own accord, driven by an insatiable hunger to merge the divine with the demonic, to birth a being of such power that the very balance of existence would tremble at its feet.
The horror that clawed at Elizabeth's mind was a tempest of despair, a relentless torrent that threatened to sweep away her sanity. It was a darkness that fed on her light, a parasite of the soul that left her teetering on the brink of madness. The demon's presence was a palpable miasma, a stench of brimstone and decay that clung to her skin, invading her nostrils with every breath, a constant reminder of the defilement that sought to claim her.
In the grip of this unspeakable terror, Elizabeth was faced with a choice that no mother should ever have to make. The thought of extinguishing the innocent flame of life that she had nurtured within her was anathema to her very being. Yet, to allow her child to fall into the clutches of the demonic force that pursued her was a fate far crueler than death itself. With hands that trembled like leaves in a tempest, she swaddled her precious newborn in the softest of blankets, a futile shield against the harsh world she was about to entrust with her most precious treasure. The alleyway she chose was a narrow sliver of despair, a place where hope seemed to wither and die in the shadows. The concrete walls rose like monoliths, cold and unyielding, their surfaces slick with the filth of neglect. It was a place forgotten by time, where the only signs of life were the skittering vermin and the occasional ghostly whisper of a stray cat, their eyes reflecting the barest glimmer of humanity's detritus.
Elizabeth's heart shattered into a thousand pieces as she placed her child upon the unforgiving ground, a sacrifice to the uncertain mercy of strangers. The bundle, so small and vulnerable, lay amidst the refuse of civilization, a beacon of innocence in a sea of indifference. As she stepped away, her soul ached with the weight of her decision, each step feeling like a journey through the very depths of hell.
In the stillness of that forsaken alley, the only sound was the soft, mournful cry of a baby, a lament that seemed to echo the sorrow of the ages.
-----
Adopted from the cradle, she was woven into the fabric of a family whose threads were spun with secrets and half-truths. Her childhood, a mosaic of ordinary moments, was framed by the extraordinary gift she harbored unknowingly: A gift that whispered in the language of the universe, bending reality with the faintest murmur of her voice.
The city, once vibrant and pulsing with the rhythm of the mundane, became a stage for the uncanny. The air, thick with the scent of rain on concrete, now carried a charge, an electric hum that preceded the inexplicable. Buildings twisted, shadows danced with lives of their own, and the sky, a canvas of twilight hues, rippled with the strokes of an unseen painter. Priscilla, oblivious to her role in this surreal theater, spun her little white lies, each one a siren song that called forth the chaos. As her abilities burgeoned, the celestial realms took notice, their denizens stirring from their ancient slumber.
The Angels, with eyes like shattered stars, perceived in her the seeds of Armageddon, a potentiality that could unravel the very tapestry of existence. They moved with the grace of falling snow, their whispers a cold wind that promised a swift and silent end to her nascent power.
The Demons, creatures of flame and desire, saw not a harbinger of doom but a bloom of untapped potential. They salivated at the thought of harnessing her power, bending it to their will, and sculpting the world in their image. Their laughter echoed in the dark places, a symphony of lust and ambition that sought to ensnare her soul.
Caught in the crossfire of this eternal conflict, Priscilla's world crumbled. The family that had nurtured her and had taught her the language of lies was obliterated in a maelstrom of divine retribution. The walls of her home, once a cocoon of safety, were now rubble and memory, leaving her to navigate a world fraught with danger. On this battlefield, every shadow could be a soldier in a war that raged beyond human comprehension.
With a resolve that belied her years, she closed her eyes and summoned the image of a sanctuary - A verdant haven where the air was perfumed with pine, and the earth hummed with the music of life. When her eyes fluttered open, she stood in the heart of a forest that was both ancient and alive. The trees, sentinels of a bygone era, stretched their limbs toward the heavens, their leaves whispering secrets in a language older than time. The air was a balm, infused with the scent of moss and the subtle sweetness of wildflowers. The symphony of nature enveloped her: the melodic trill of a distant thrush, the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze, the soft, mournful cry of a lone wolf in the distance.
In this place, where the divine could not trespass, Priscilla found solace. Here, in the embrace of the wild, she could lick her wounds and piece together the shattered fragments of her existence. The forest became her refuge, a sacred grove where she could explore the depths of her power and the breadth of her soul.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁݁
*Photo of her full Cambion form is available, but it is ... Not sfw enough.*
1 | Apr 28th 2024 20:36