
Player Character Lore Vol. v
This week is Geneieve from u/candy-coloured
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Genevieve is of humble beginnings. The daughter of a barren peasant women, it was rumoured by the villagers that it was an unholy bargain that gave her life.
Believed to have been born with a rare blood condition, Genevieve was a sickly child possessing pale skin and distinctive yellow-orange eyes.
Too ailing to work the harvest, Genevieve supported her mother working in the nearby town tavern, collecting the discarded tankards of the local reprobates.
Shunned by the local townsfolk, for her wraithlike appearance, she later developed an ethereal and uncanny beauty as she came of age.
Aloof, she seemed disinterested in the scorn, and later fascination, of these leering vermin but fate had her catch the eye of the town’s feudal lord; spellbound by her strangely frightful and sickly, but eerily captivating, allure.
Promptly escorted to his fortress, the lord soon grows tired of her indifference to him, offering the finest feasts and silken attire, in return for her adoration, only to be spurned again and again. After refusing to consummate the unwilling betrothal, she is sent to a life in the dungeon in an attempt to provoke a change of heart.
Her mother is presented as a bargaining chip but she bites the lord’s face and, as the blood flows down his cheek, urges her daughter not to submit.
The mere sight of the glistening crimson ignites an infatuating thrill Genevieve has never felt before; for one fleeting moment she sees God before her mother is cut down before her.
Maddened by grief, and to the horror of the guards, Genevieve failed to resist the bewildering urge to feast upon the blood of her mother. Rejuvenated, in the blood drunk haze, she wolfishly tore out the throat of her captors and slowly made her way through the shadows to the lord’s bedchamber.
That night she bathed in the blood of her consort and won the loyalty and fear of all in the stronghold.
Word soon spread throughout the land of the blood-soaked, alabaster, warlord beauty claiming fiefdom after fiefdom. Clad in the rags of her peasantry, and the crown of her slain sire, she savours the blood of her felled foes, believing it to gift her eternal youth.
Then, one moonless night, her camp is visited by a mysterious stranger, upon jet black steed, clad in paper-thin silver armour, and bearing a blade that sang in scarlet hues.
In his hands, a gift; a regal piece graced by intricate gold-work — the black and scarlet attire of a noble bloodline.
It seems destiny has found Genevieve at last.