ᝰ.ᐟ diamond of aersahir

date of birth: 70th day of caelunor, 1470 (30)

home: theraine temple - located on the fringes of typh, once a small parish with veilmaidens and monks, now abandoned unbeknownst to constance

rank: commoner

occupation: courtesan of the realm's embrace

ᝰ.ᐟ skills:

court dances from all four kingdoms: specialising in aersahir, proficient in wind instruments, embroidery, storytelling, advanced court ettiquete, knowledge of history and heraldry, ciphering, forgery, housekeeping

ᝰ.ᐟ powers: n/a

orientation: biromantic/sexual

marital status: single

ᝰ.ᐟ height: 160cm

ᝰ.ᐟ build: thin, but sturdy from years of hard work

ᝰ.ᐟ signature scent: angelica, pink pepper, bergamot, ambrette

^{think diptyque's fleur de peau}

threads:

summary of thread - location

rank:

themes:

age/gender:

enneagram: 3w4

constance is fiercely intelligent and deeply perceptive, with a natural gift for reading people and situations. it is a habit that disguises as a skill honed from years of surviving danger masked by politeness and charm. beneath her poised exterior lies a restless spirit, shaped by loss and hardship, but fueled by a relentless drive to reclaim control over her life. she is simultaneously warm and guarded; incapable of genuine empathy, and wary of vulnerability. to be vulnerable means to succumb to misfortune in the eyes of constance.

her charm is not mere performance but a carefully calibrated tool she uses to protect herself and shape her world.

she thrives in social settings where influence and subtlety matter most, and she relishes moments when she can quietly pull strings behind the scenes. while she enjoys connection and attention, she prizes depth and authenticity—relationships must hold meaning beyond surface-level politeness or convenience. to constance, trust is earned, never freely given.

ᝰ.ᐟ item - description

ᝰ.ᐟ item - description

ᝰ.ᐟ item - description

ᝰ.ᐟ item - description

ᝰ.ᐟ item - description

DISLIKES

ᝰ.ᐟ item - description

ᝰ.ᐟ item - description

ᝰ.ᐟ item - description

• feel free to address me by my rpr username,  fc's name, or mobi.  

• due to work, my hours of activity will usually be during the evenings on weekdays and weekends. 

• currently i'm on break and i'll have more time, but i've also filled up my irl schedule with whimsy, dillydallying, and nonsense so activity should still be about the same as when im working.

• you can nudge me about replying only if it's been more than three weeks since i've last responded, chances are my schedule has been very hectic and i haven't been able to accommodate other things!  

preferred pov: third
genres: angst, fluff, humor, drama, friendship, hurt/comfort
will very rarely do smut, comfort level varies.  characters & mun must be 21+.

the temple housed many middle-aged to elderly veilmaidens and monks, who lived out their lives serving the nearby village. they offered prayers during the spring sowing and tended wounds when the snow fell too hard. in turn, they lived humbly through the meager yet kind-hearted alms gifted by the villagefolk: barley, goat’s milk, river salt, and firewood. theirs was a quiet life, stitched together by routine and reverence.

on one particular morning, the veilmaidens sifted through pieces of freshly picked barley in their woven baskets; they moved in a near state of trance. the hush of the sorting hall was punctuated only by the soft clink of husks falling away and the wind threading in through the open lattice.

then came the cry.

a sharp, shrill sound, piercing through the stillness like a silver pin through linen. it wasn’t the cry of any villagefolk in distress, nor the grumbling bellow of the ever-self-important monks.
no, it was the wail of a babe: thin, urgent, and evocative of parental instinct.

the veilmaidens froze, barley slipping through their fingers. they exchanged looks—confused, alert. the villagers often brought sick or wayward animals to the temple, but never children. and certainly not newborns.

as seasoned midwives, they knew the calendar of their village well. no mother was expecting this year, and the youngest children had already begun toddling after their mothers with mud on their hands and twine in their hair. the cry they heard was unmistakably new, raw, and recent.

then came another sound—a louder shriek, this time full of breath and familiarity.

“sisters, it’s a newborn babe!” came the voice of elincia, the youngest of the veilmaidens and by far the most excitable.

“move, elincia, you’ll distress the baby with your volume,” came gwendolyn’s dry voice, seasoned as old stone. she nudged the girl aside with a firm elbow and knelt down beside the source of the commotion.

in a worn basket laid a child, swaddled in thick wool, still crying but red-cheeked and warm.

“by mauravi’s great winds, it is a baby.”

gently, gwendolyn scooped the child into her arms, still wrapped in the coarse but carefully layered cloth. the moment her hands touched the bundle, the crying ceased.
a heavy silence followed, and then—her sigh. gentle. relieved.

“they must have loved you so, to have placed you by a temple in such warm fabrics,” she murmured, rocking the child with the practiced rhythm of years long passed.
her voice turned gentler still, directed not to the sisters but to the child.

“we will love you too, sweet child. may you call this place home for a long time.”

they named her constance, hoping that she was their permanence in a land where people were quickly forgotten with the wind. they gave her a surname too, despite her status as an orphan. the name lysara was a somber prayer that her life would only be filled with light. hopeful then, now, it simply felt ironic.

for thirteen winters, constance brought warmth to theraine’s frostbitten halls like a flame cradled in cupped hands. she was cheerful, chatty, and endlessly curious. she teased the elder veilmaidens with pet names, hummed tuneless songs while steeping herbs, and twirled through her chores as if the cold never quite touched her. the village children adored her. even the monks, stiff as icicles, learned to soften beneath her bright laughter. but constance was always chasing something—stories, birds, the wind itself. one morning, with the sky clear and the air biting, she followed a snowbird beyond the old boundary stones. her laughter rang through the trees, light and unbothered, until it faded into stillness. she didn’t return by dusk.

she was too beautiful, an unfortunate truth that drew the wrong kind of attention. the lord’s sons and uncles, draped in arrogance and wine, cast leering eyes that lingered longer than politeness allowed. they delighted in petty cruelties: a dropped spoon that forced her to bend again and again until her knees ached, a whispered jest shared behind hands while she carried heavy trays of wine. once, a young master tripped her deliberately in a corridor, laughing as she stumbled into a suit of armor. the clang echoed through the hall, and no one came to help.

but constance learned swiftly to bend her spirit without breaking it. she braided her dark hair tight each morning. she shrouded herself in muted tones—grays, browns, and dull greens, cloaking the brightness her smile until she nearly forgot the motions. she quieted her laughter to a whisper, and when forced to join in the cruel jokes, she did so with practiced ease, her eyes always watching.

her days were filled with endless chores: scrubbing floors until her hands bled, hauling buckets of water from the well that never seemed to fill fast enough, folding countless linens until the scent of starch clung to her skin. but it was the nights she feared most—the long hours alone in drafty corridors, the sharp looks from the lord’s kin, the cold fingers that brushed her shoulder “accidentally” too many times. she learned to slip away into shadows, to hold her breath until the danger passed.

yet the shadows followed her steps, and she knew their hunger. still, there were moments of quiet rebellion: stealing scraps of bread to share with the scrawny kitchen cats, humming the old songs of the temple when no one was near, or tracing the shapes of the constellations scratched into the ceiling beams, dreaming of freedom.

despite the cold walls and harsher days, constance found small sanctuaries within the sprawling estate: hidden alcoves and dusty shelves in the family’s vast libraries where she could steal moments away from prying eyes. she learned to move silently between towering stacks of leather-bound tomes, fingers tracing gilded spines, savoring the rare warmth of parchment beneath her palms. the books became her quiet rebellion: windows into distant lands, ancient histories, and whispered secrets of power and freedom. each stolen hour turned pages into weapons and knowledge into a secret strength she carried beneath her muted clothes and careful smiles. what others saw as mere servitude, constance transformed into education—arming herself with political intrigue, the art of persuasion, and the subtle tactics that would one day allow her to navigate enthralled bourgeoisie and command influence, turning her past chains into tools of power. these books gave her courage to feel free again.

and so on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, beneath a sky heavy with frost and silent stars, she made her choice. the lady of the house was away, the younger sons drunk in the cellar, she had laced their favorite brew with sleeping herbs.

the halls were empty but for the whisper of her own footsteps. she gathered what little she could—an old cloak, a half-loaf of bread hidden beneath a loose floorboard, and a small purse of silver coins pilfered over the years—and slipped out into the biting cold. barefoot, breathless, and trembling with both fear and hope, constance vanished into the night, carrying with her the fragile promise of freedom.

as if she were a butterfly enduring metamorphosis.

she learned to bend the art of seduction into an intricate dance of power, weaving music and movement into spells that ensnared the hearts and minds of the most guarded patrons. her femininity was no longer a vulnerability but a finely honed weapon, sharp and irresistible. with every step, every glance, she crafted an identity that shimmered brighter than the cold stones of aersahir: earning her the name the diamond of aersahir, a legend whispered in the halls of edrathan. here, she became more than a girl fleeing her past; she became a force that commanded both fear and desire.

age/gender: 27+ / any
description: highbrow souls and whispered voices who orbit constance’s glittering sphere: each drawn by the radiant allure of her presence and the subtle mastery of her will. some seek only fleeting pleasure; others, the delicate art of an alliance, weaving intricate games of favor and expectation. flowery ciphers and a game of chess. yet beneath their polished smiles lie veiled ambitions and shifting tides of control.

age/gender: 28+ / any
description: a kindred spirit whose footsteps once danced alongside constance’s through the abundant barley fields of her youth. the one who would join her when being scolded by veilmaidens about dipping their legs in frigid waters to catch fish. their reunion stirs the fragile embers of forgotten innocence and whispered secrets, weaving a tapestry of comfort, longing, and unspoken questions. for the first time in long decades, she gazes at them with eyes that threatened to spill delicate tears.

"and what of theraine?"

"the temple...vanished into oblivion."