# data[].attributes.body
species: vampire, registered

relation: ex-husband (1755-1820)

dynamic: tense

details: w r i t i n g . . .

# data[].attributes.body
[ 1865 : london — age 140

identity: vivianne shaw

husband: albert shaw ]

she tried, once, to love albert shaw the way humans loved each other — gently, deliberately, with intention instead of instinct.

it was late winter, when fog clung to the streets and their townhouse smelled horridly of lilies and rotted wood. the fire crackled in the hearth as solemn embers floated lazy and golden up the chimney chute with the smog of smoke. albert hummed as he arranged lilies in a vase — always lilies, always mourning flowers disguised as purity. he believed they were her favorite, though he had asked once and she never quite gave him an answer.

she watched him in silence, book open and untouched in her lap in the past half hour. albert glanced at her with that foolish wonder again, the way one might study a creature.

“would you prefer roses next time?”

roses.

she glanced up, eyes softening deceptively in the firelight, and for a moment she wasn’t in london. she was somewhere else — somewhere colder, darker. a courtyard drenched in summer night. a hand around hers, calloused and firm. a voice speaking to her in a language far from the soils of england.

something in her tightened, perhaps from the memory, the comparison of how humans and immortals loved or hungered for it.

“al—”

she swallowed the name like poison

albert looked at her expectantly, lips parted, waiting for her answer. “vivianne?” he called again, still hopeful.

she forced herself to breathe, to remember the part she played. “lilies are fine,” she responded, “it suits this room.”

the human smiled, pleased with himself, unaware that the woman before him had practiced tenderness decades long ago and abandoned the notion of ever giving it. and yet, he approached, brushed a stray lock of hair from her temple, eyes on hers with such gentleness that it could make any maiden swoon.

but she was no ordinary maiden. she felt his fingers tremble at the cold contact of her skin; she didn’t flinch.

“you looked lost in thought,” he said softly. “somewhere far away.”

she closed the book in her lap, like the shutting of a casket lid.

“it’s been a long day,” she said, “perhaps, i should retire to bed.”

a lie. creatures like her don’t need to sleep at night.

“you do that then, love.” albert leaned down and kissed the crown of her head before returning to his table to resume arranging flowers in the vase.

she stared out at the snow, basked in the quiet of the room. a memory came dressed in moonlight and broad shoulders over her frame. it’s the way she knew had it stood before her in shadow, she would have leaned into those cold hands like a starving god, and asked of it to pry her ribs open.

the truth was that she did not miss love. what she hungered for was the way it could drive someone to shed blood and burn down kingdoms.

albert shaw did not know her.

whereas the other had known her too well.

# data[].attributes.body
"And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth."

— Genesis 1:26

yeong : 永 (길 영 gil yeong 'eternal')
visentin : vinsentius (latin meaning 'victorious')

hailing from goryeo roots, the yeong clan were master builders who built temples that breathed, pagodas that withstood storms like prayer, and stone that remembered its sculptor like a body remembers touch. when rumors of their skill reached foreign courts, emissaries traveled seas to call them to italia, where the renaissance dawned. italy needed brilliance worthy of saints and empires; the yeong answered not as wanderers, but as men certain of destiny.

they helped design chapels and domes that rivaled the heavens they imitated. and soon they no longer built for the people — but alongside a god, or so they believed.

with fame came reverence and pride. then, soon the sin that every immortal story begins with: greed.

it began with one son, the first of the yeong-visentin bloodline, who was burdened by legacy. he had the talent to carve angels better than any sculptor, yet he could not bear the truth that the stone angels he sculpted would outlive him.

he sought what men with too much talent and too little patience always do, and tried to find a loophole in mortal's doom. and in the crypt beneath a church he helped raise, he found someone who listened. a creature older than the marble that held up the roman empire with eyes like night before any patheon was spoken into existence — a vampire, amused by mortal arrogance.

the descendent was offered damnation dressed as eternity and accepted. immortality tasted sweet, until thirst for blood taught him its price.

he turned his wife first, because love is the cruelest tether, then he turned his children next, because legacy demands succession.

they became immortal of worship, guardians who built sanctuaries by daylight then became predators who stood between pews by night. their cathedrals doubled as havens for the damned and altars that reeked of blood.

for centuries they moved between faith and hunger, architects of both stone and sin.

# data[].attributes.body
ㅤㅤage: any

ㅤㅤgender: any

ㅤㅤspecies: human

someone who finds out she's a vampire trying to hide among the humans. for their own reason, they observe her but keep her at an arms length, unsure if she's friend or foe. but they're intrigued about why she would rather be anything but a creature who lurks in the night.

𖤝 ｡ㅤa connection that begins hostile then turns to quiet understanding

# data[].attributes.body
father - mother - sister - brother - me

. . . w r i t i n g

# data[].attributes.body
ㅤㅤage: any
ㅤㅤgender: any

ㅤㅤspecies: human

someone who wears nightbloom and becomes "unknowingly" bound/addicted to her blood. they feel a sense of urgency to please her, and octavia eventually possesses and indulges them conditionally.

𖤝 ｡ㅤthis can become a pet or favored client

# data[].attributes.body
name: octavia datura

nickname: vi

former names:

vivianne shaw (london, england, 1800s)

evie hansen (new york city, america, 1900s)

species: vampire — unregistered

pretending to be human

true age: 300 years

appearing 30 years old

birth order: youngest daughter

dob: forgotten, no longer matters

current residence: seoul, south korea

address: 1109 west avenue

occupation: perfumer at "house datura"

mbti: intj; the architect

orientation: pansexual, demiromantic

moral alignment: neutral evil, leans chaotic evil

love language

giving: protection

receiving: submission, surrender

relationship status: not interested

faceclaim: han sohee

# data[].attributes.body
name:

status:

❝ and his lips, his lips were wine

scarlet madness. and i wanted 'em,

wanted their bite - gentle, strangled agony.

but it was only then - his smile faded in mine

i knew that wasn't wine - that was blood

and the taste, the taste was mine ❞

# data[].attributes.body
call me lime, or my character's name.

21+ - minors dni.

writing:

3rd pov; wc depends on thread and muse

DO NOT BLUR LINES

do not godmod or metagame

no incest or pedophilia

do not mention my characters without permission

do not assume that connections are endgame or romantic

given the theme of the rp, if a plot requires darker elements, it should always be discussed between all parties involved.

# data[].attributes.body
. . . w r i t i n g

# data[].attributes.body
ㅤㅤage: 200+
ㅤㅤgender: any

ㅤㅤspecies: vampire

someone who once was hers in another century — turned, abandoned, or left behind. they find her again in seoul, under a new name.

𖤝 ｡ㅤlonging twisted into vengeance or closure

# data[].attributes.body
ㅤㅤage: 100+
ㅤㅤgender: any

ㅤㅤspecies: vampire

someone she spared when she should have killed them. perhaps they witnessed something — her feeding, her true nature, or the secrets of her perfume empire. and instead of erasing them, she let them linger, not out of mercy, but perhaps out of curiosity.

𖤝 ｡ㅤthis can turn into mutual understanding or an unlikely friendship

# data[].attributes.body
ㅤㅤage: any
ㅤㅤgender: any

ㅤㅤspecies: human

this is a human who wants to be turned — not out of delusion, but because they have already decided she is the one who can give them what they want and has already laid at her feet before she even asks for it.

𖤝 ｡ㅤthey may eventually be her ruin

# data[].attributes.body
ㅤㅤage: any
ㅤㅤgender: any
ㅤㅤspecies: any

a body she uses the way others use ritual: purposefully, privately, without aftermath. there is no illusion of romance here. their indulgence is borrowed, not comfort. it is merely a transaction.

𖤝 ｡ㅤnsa. not endgame.

# data[].attributes.body
she had not fled immortality, but tried to flee the cost of what immortality made of her.

if she could live as a human, then perhaps she was not a monster. that if she could feel as one, perhaps there was something left in her that could still be saved.

her experiment with humanity was not about belonging; it was about disproving the suspicion that had begun to fester inside her: that she was incapable of tenderness, not because she had forgotten how — but because she had never truly possessed it.

here, she called herself “VIVIANNE.”

she was a woman with no history and no family to claim. no one questioned a woman who moved as though she were already gone, and so everyone agreed she must have suffered greatly. she looked as though she carried sorrow the way jewels are arranged on the deceased — the price never spoken of, placed across the bone, but never forgotten.

london opened it’s doors to her the way a mausoleum accepts sunlight: quiet and broken through cracks. the city suited her. it too was a ghost pretending to be alive when it knelt before death where everyone was half-haunted by plagues. street corners whispered with apology and rot as though it loved death politely

albert shaw mistook her mystery for kindness. he was a mortician with no family of his own, gentle with hands that knew how to close the eyes of the dead before he could sit across from the living. he was fascinated with her as though he had discovered something divine.

she allowed him to court her not because she was lonely, but because he did not reach for her hungrily. he observed from a respectable distance and that made him tolerable. they married not out of passion, but out of curiosity.

it might have been practice for her — to see if she could perform warmth just as well as a human could. and she tried in her own way with sincerity she did not feel.

albert watched her, as men who love mysteries always do.

what began as worship became study when his fascination turned inward and he began to notice the seams of her pretense.

he documented the way she never coughed, never shivered, and never ate. that she poured tea she never drank and lit fires she never sat beside. how she’d lie beside him in bed with only the illusion of sleep, and how his hair had begun to gray and his skin formed wrinkles, while she still looked the same as the first day he laid eyes upon her twenty years ago.

when she found his journal tucked beneath the ledgers of deceased names and embalming schedules, it was filled with wild, growing theories and hypotheses about her.

but she did not rage, nor did she confront him.

she drew his bath that night, as she always did, and watched him sink into the only warmth she could ever give him. then she wrapped her hand around his throat and lowered him beneath the surface.

love often makes mortals slow to understand danger.

he did not struggle for long when the water stilled.

there was no grief — grief belongs to those who mourn loss.

she believed she lost nothing, because she understood: she had not tried to love him, she was only pretending to feel what immortality had taken from her.

# data[].attributes.body
“EVIE” became the next extension of herself. some part of her still wanted to see if there might be a world in which she could be something that deserved to be forgiven.

that hope — brittle, almost laughably — followed her across an ocean and a century.

new york city was a place that never slept properly. it drowsed and prowled. she opened a flower shop on a street that smelled of tobacco and sin, beside an alleyway that saw more bruises than the flowers that sat in her shop.

her patrons came at dusk — seeking flowers that spoke of longing, trembling for something unnamed, like the lips of a maiden whose name is only offered in the backseat after payment. she watched them the way a falcon watches mice in tall grass: not hungrily, but knowingly.

mortals think flowers are the language that speaks what clings to the heart; she understood it as what lingers on the skin — the scent of hunger, surrender, secrets people bury in their ribs before it’s whispered into prayer.

jack hansen was one of the few who entered without ulterior motives. he played saxophone in the evenings in a music bar down the street. he carried the confidence of  a man who thought fate had not made her notice him yet. he told her that flowers smelled like sin, and she told him he had no idea how right he was.

he began waiting for her to close up the shop after he finished performing at night. mortals do not realize when they are worshipping something until it is far too late to withdraw their reverence. eventually, she married him to see if his devotion could exist without command.

for a while, it even looked like proof.

he laughed easily, and she allowed softness in small rations — like a language she remembered only through echo when he sometimes, gently called her vi — a name he should not have known, the shape of which lived everywhere in her memory centuries ago.

she should have recognized that omen sooner.

the night he died smelled of gardenias, iron, and rot in a confrontation that occurred in the alley beside her shop. a debt and a blade meant to frighten more than kill. the knife lunged, and jack stepped in front of her. his chest split open, and he fell.

she could have avenged him, slain the man who took his, but she did nothing out of the clearest knowledge: to save him would be to reveal herself, and to reveal herself would be to lose her pretense of humanity, and she has never chosen anyone over her own survival.

mortals are always so brave when they believe love is a shield. and she believed anyone who could still love was foolish. jack was a fool.

a human woman would have screamed, but she only memorized the scent of his blood. she watched the light leave his eyes the way one watches a flame die out on its own — inevitable and quiet.

he was the only husband she buried, and mortals bury easily, but what she buried was not his cold body but the last fragile delusion that she could ever again be anything human.

she did not mourn him the same way she did not mourn albert shaw.

# data[].attributes.body
seoul was the end of running. it was a city born from its own forgetting — a place swallowed by steel, glass, and appetite.

“OCTAVIA DATURA” was a reclaiming of the name her blood had once worn before travels had turn it to nostalgia.  she no longer sought redemption, but obscurity with teeth. there, anonymity was not hiding but a luxury.

she built house datura, a perfume atelier, in the middle of seoul's luxurious shopping district. a boutique so elegant it resembled a confession booth of black glass, stone, and stillness. inside, the air was thick with devotion and something far less holy.

she no longer sold flowers. she sold worship where every bottle was a scripture, and every formula was a weapon.

her perfumes did not smell like innocence, but a memory that lingers in the sorest place behind the ribs where desire hides from reason. she crafted each blend with secrecy, seduction, and a touch of sacrilege.

she understood mortals the way predators understood a prey’s temperament and weakness.

"NIGHTBLOOM" was her masterpiece: a blend of datura and a singular drop of her own blood. people wore the perfume and they submitted to it.

those who wore it said it made them dream of someone they had never met before. some cried when it faded and some never let it fade at all because one spray was enough to teach the body to crave the source.

and in wearing her scent, they carried her into every pocket of the city, her presence multiplied across a thousand pulses that if an old scent from the past ever came looking for her, it’d find her everywhere because seoul would be covered with her.

seoul thinks she is a perfumer, but they are wrong. she is the ghost of a woman who no longer loves in the ways mortality allows. the only love she offers now is possession — only if you are worth keeping.

she is an architect who doesn’t build cathedrals of stone, but altars of longing where mortals kneel before her scent like a congregation that has forgotten what god it worships.

# data[].attributes.body
𖤝 ｡ aleksander han

───grand theater. complete.

───church. complete.

───church. ongoing.

to reply

𖤝 ｡ nathair neachneohain

───status

plotting

𖤝 ｡ name

───status

open

# data[].attributes.body
establishment: perfume atelier

location: seoul, shopping district

house datura was a business built as a public veil.

it's a luxurious atelier, the perfect camouflage, where hundreds of scents leave her trails in circulation, hundreds of wrists marked with her, hundreds of mortals unknowingly carrying her presence so there is no one who could forget her.

nightbloom is the scent seoul kneels before without knowing it. it was made to be haunt. a blend of datura and a singular drop of her blood is more communion than ingredient. it makes the wearer addicted, until they remember her as hunger.

to wear nightbloom is to mistake compulsion for longing, ache for devotion, craving for attachment.
they think they want the fragrance; they are really wanting her.

and that is the genius of it — she no longer has to be seen to be worshipped. seoul breathes her in every night and calls it luxury. they do not realize they’re praying in a city octavia taught to crave her.

# data[].attributes.body
species: vampire, registered

relation: business partners ?

dynamic: cordial ?

details: w r i t i n g . . .