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Lilith Amon

(marking place, mwip)

0 · 387 views · located in Roinnte, Ireland

a character in “The Fair Folk”, as played by themis




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| COURT | UNSEELIE -- (court of the unblessed)

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EYE COLOUR (brown) -- HAIR COLOUR (varies) -- HEIGHT (5'6) -- WEIGHT -- SKIN (piano-key ivory)

      A soft opium-dream beauty, placid and ultraviolent-- her visage transmutes from glacial to an intimate pastel glow of warm eyes bent on all-knowing destruction. Her limbs are lengthy, ghostly and long dead; from her arms extend elegant fingers of languid and strange proportions. Her face-- all soft angles, cheeks full, marble and silk carved in long descending strokes with the touch of a creative hand. Her nose is somehow avian, it extends from her skull almost indentical to her father's nose and his father's before that (and forever more) The slight downwards curve of it is strong and familiar, a constant jigsaw piece in a face that changes each time the light fades from under the clouds. Her hair has metamorphosed from ink black to a spectrum of colour; from a platinum-gold that grazed her spine and glinted like sun-rays through clouds, to vein-red that spilled from her scalp like a pierced artery. Currently, it is dormouse brown.


LICH FORM (first) -- PRE-LICH FORM (same as earthly form) -- HEIGHT (10'11) -- EYES (none/black)

      l i c h ; Frightening is an understatement. A parabolically hunched skeletal figure, bones gleaming fresh-snow white under a large mink-lined robe, eye-socketless, noseless and teeth slightly pointed-- it is fair to say she never takes this form unless dire circumstances are at hand (it is not beautiful enough to be seen, and she does not associate herself with it often, if you have seen this form-- she trusts you well) her voice grows deeper and richer, her height grows extremely dramatically. I would even say she despises this form very deeply and is ashamed of others seeing it.

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Image| SPECIES 」


      They never intended to become liches. Originally, the curse only called for each member of the Amon family thereafter to be mortal, in contrast to the fae their forefathers had been. Yet, some form of magic survives within selected ancestors, it can skip thousands of generations, or happen in succession, yet it always happens just as the ceaseless tide laps against the shore, or the moon circles around the earth in an unbroken cycle. The first lich was Belphegor Amon's grandson Barabbus Amon, who was tortured relentlessly for information on why he possessed magic abilities. In punishment for what the court saw as this biological act of defying law, they casted another curse upon the bloodline-- as each magical member reaches exactly twenty-five, they must die, give up their body and become a lich. This process is excruciatingly painful to flesh, but more-so to the soul. The branch of the Amon liches all possess what is christened phylacteries, objects that if destroyed, end the life of the lich who is bound to it. Lilith's particular object is to the human eye a mere opalite amulet; yet to the sight of Fae it is a small perpetually burning fire.


      Naturally, every Lich possesses the ability to sustain a form of immortality and an appearance of agelessness, yet, they still die if their phylacteries are destroyed, as their immortality is only connected to their magic and not to a definite biological law. As they were sorcerers before they died, they retain most of their powers. Although they have to relearn spells and curses, as memories are often left to escape in their transformation forcing them to constantly relearn things they seem to forget. As the years tick by their memories of their past life lessen, and a maddening hunger for power roots inside them, vines wrapping their way around the lich's soul, their grasp tightening. Liches lose a part of themselves with each passing year, they grow insane with the constant hunger for more, and they often die from mistakes caused by their own stupidity and lack of clear thought. In addition, it would be idiotic to expect a lich to win a sword fight, or any sort of fight for that matter. They are astonishingly weak creatures in true combat, using magic as their means of survival due to bodies fragile as fine china. If a lich's body is harmed greatly, cracks begin to form of their phylactery- this causes them to be interior creatures, only venturing outdoors with charms on their body. Some develop agoraphobia, especially as they age and paranoia sets into their soul... this means they need to have rich inner lives to avoid complete boredom, partaking in a variety of hobbies and reading plenty, they often end up accidentally cultured.

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superfluous | eloquent | melodramatic | unhinged | passionate | lonely | loyal | idiosyncratic | flamboyant | secretive | cruel | emotional | frightened

    If you've taken step after step over the cobbled streets of Roinnte long enough for the wind to change, you will hear the name "Lilith", whispered under the mouths of fae, you will hear the wind pick up each syllable of the name, the name you may associate with a biblical demon will soon be attached to a woman who walks among you. Perhaps, you will witness her and never know of it. Her appearance, while pretty in a woollen jumper, linen sheet under soft touch way, does not connote anything but desperate normality, round angles, placid lakes that hold nothing but water beneath their intangible depths. Not an undead being of a chaotic nature, nor a woman older than Abraham Lincoln, nor the incandescent passion in her soul. You see an approachable girl, a next door neighbour and friend bundled under coats and licks of mascara.

    Who is Lilith Amon?

    Enchanting to many, she lures you in with the sweet sound of Lizst's symphonies, she lures you with the grandiose unspoken promises that tumble from her closed lips, coloured rouge with the finest Parisian lipstick. Her vocabulary precisely learned from reading archaic books cover-to-cover it emanates an aura of only the most pretentious sophistication, peppered with foreign words from unlearned languages that harmonize with her ears. Intellectual, you may observe, but there is a plasticity to each Spanish word, a certain lilt in her voice that is staged. Yet, you are still spell-bound by her histrionics, the almost comic theatricality of each encounter, the adventures she brings around her.

    She's fun; fun to gossip about, fun to be around, or rather, amusing to be around. Her ability to speak to each individual and make them feel as they are the most important person in her world, it is ineffable and rather creepy. Lilith dispels rumours of an anger problem with a gentle wave of her perfectly manicured hand and a lilting "dear" tumbling from her lips. The unexplainable limerence of her actions, the cupid's bow's elixir fades as they learn her true nature: with the epiphany of her insanity and narcissism begins dislike and avoidance. The true Lilith does not resonate kindly with many.

    The poison in her actions, the slightly uncertain air to her movements, a fault in the armour shows- the woman behind the noxious cloud of Shalimar and vintage Chanel begins to appear. Her tantrums, the shattered glasses of saccharine liqueur, red nail marks across doll skin and messy, upturned furniture. The staff are used to nonchalantly watching her unravel when she doesn't get her way, with crocodile tears and a screaming pain in her strained voice she takes out her anger on the world around her. There is a terrible loneliness inside her, a drowning loneliness- one that is not simply filled with superficialities and a mask of terrible flamboyance as she might believe herself, it is a loneliness etched into her very existence that will never leave. She cannibalises each silly misused foreign word, her façade dropping to the floor in a dramatic crash of expensive jewellery and bloodstained cashmere.

    Her loyalty and blood-filled bond to those that she holds dear is frightening in it's intensity. In her polarized soul and blanc/noir mind she takes no notice at the revelation that she would die for someone. Years of isolation and fear force her to grasp on to any slightly meaningful relationship in her life, and fearing rejection and stigmatization she is possessive and over-protective. Soren Amon hits the full force of these traits, adopted young and her only gentile family for hundreds of years, he means the world to her.


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    Ashes, ashes.

    It's hushed, whispered between children as grandmothers shake their heads, remembered as what could've been. Campside stories tell the hundreds of poisoned bodies that lined the streets of the wretched village, in their tear-stained Sunday clothing they lay beside their children, each family holding hands until the end. The remnants still survive, a small wooden community- doll-house perfect and unassuming, their murder plans sat next to scratchy hand knitted blankets, their knives under uncomfortable pillows and beneath their picture-perfect smiles hid a darkness and evil, a desire for death and destruction of innocent people. What once was a small farmland is overgrown as a jungle, a blood-red horsedrawn harvester lies abandoned, stables and mangers filled with fresh hay, a farmhouse with peeling paint. A faux church, pictures of a false messiah still hung, their holy water is now lined with algae and the pews thick with nine hundred years of dust. Stilted City, more of a small village, is quiet as a graveyard and long-forgotten so it sleeps under a blanket of thick mist.

    We all fall down.

    The day of reckoning came just as summer solstice celebrations lit the sky with amaranth and blood-orange. Nine hundred and two exactly, lined up, slowly eating poison laced goods and dropping like flies. Children first, they screamed more than some of the adults but eventually they were sedated. The elderly next, the women, the men and finally the one behind it all; Belphegor Amon. Alone with hundreds of the dead surrounding him, his friends and his co-workers, children as young as two months old. It never seemed so bleak, his situation, and a cup of cyanide laced whiskey never seemed so delicious.

    In the four walls of the house she was never anything but Lily- a name that tasted to gentle on her tongue, each sound flowering against her skin. She was never a Lily, never floating over the water and lightly upstream; she was always completely ferocious in her uncertainty. A Lilith, a demon, a vixen, a fury underneath a celestial guise, she held mangled claws under a perfect manicure, blood-moon eyes under their murine familiarity. To Barabbas, she was altogether pathetic in her actions, yet still he felt pity, a strangled pity mauled with insanity and blurred memory; he recalled shattered fractals of his human sister in her, centuries dead and forgotten in each mind except for his own-- he wanted to make sure death would never come early to her, she should be a rose, most delicate red and fragile as each falling petal, eternally trapped in glass. His loathsome obsession with this fact caused her to be almost permanently trapped in her room for at least eighty never ending years, only venturing outside just long enough for fresh oxygen to reach her tired lungs. Lilith despised his household tyranny with a quiet disdain, her caged fate and forced, indoctrinated agoraphobia. After entering the household she can only recall short, rushed trips to nearby villages and running through fields of wildflower (planning escape with each step around crushed Dianthus caryophyllus and weaving together wilting daisies: her dark hair tied messily with ribbon and mud streaked across her skin). Only an echo of the true Lilith that would be cultivated in later decades, this girl simply longed to obtain a key for her iron birdcage captivity.


So begins...

Lilith Amon's Story