[PK] Rosaria Devione-Vincrute | Kram'Diiznak

[KeiaTypeBeat 3286]

Chris Cold

Spoiler

Content Warning: Self Harm, Suicide

 

Dread. So familiar, it was to her. Nauseating, all encompassing dread. It poisoned the waters that formed her. When she entered this world, she did so wailing. In fear. Anxiety. Dread. Before she experienced the joy of a smile, before she basked in the warmth of her mother's arms, before she drew in the first breath of life, she knew nauseating, all encompassing dread. 

She never had a chance. 

Pain. Never devoid of it, she was. Blinding, soul-wretching pain. Searing flames licked at ivory bone as it became wrapped in ashen flesh. Ashen flesh tore and gave way to an ebony carapace that lined her extremities. The ebony carapace reverberated with sickening cracks, and the sections of her natural armor that hindered her movements shattered; a hellish orange glow seeped forth from the wounds. A delirious wail of agony accompanied the percussive rhythm of cracking chitin.

It took an entire year for her to be reborn. And as her tapered spines burst from her back, as her curved horns ripped through her skull, as her crooked limbs snapped into place, she knew blinding, soul-wretching pain. 

It wasn't for a lack of trying. Her parents showed her love, as best as they could, at least. It's not that their love wasn't genuine, either. She had a doting father and an attentive mother. Sometimes. Other times, her parents weren't themselves. They'd become cruel, resentful, even monstrous. Only to snap back to normal and usher empty apology after empty apology. 

That was the cycle that defined Rosaria Devione-Vincrute's childhood. She did not play with other children, nor did she contend with the stresses of schoolwork. No. She managed her parents' mood swings, and she learned how to stay out of the way when their demons tookover. 

A cicada-like chittering buzzed to life, then ended in a rapid series of percussive clicks. Burnt lungs inflated with air, and the thing's chest creaked as chitin struggled to expand with the increase of volume. Awareness of the world gradually returned. It was on its hands and knees, and it dug its hands into the soil. Sensation was returning.

This was her only reprieve. In the moments between death and life, where she was just sentient enough to register the soft, cold ground against her scorched hands.  A microsecond of peace. Dumb, ignorant peace. And then, it was overshadowed by the return of higher brain functioning as oxygenated blood finally revived crucial grey matter required for higher consciousness. And then, she remembered what she was: indebted into the service of a warlock. 

This was the cycle that defined Kram-Diiznak's existence. She did not enjoy the comforts of life, nor did she know its love. No.  She obeyed the orders of her masters, then she would be slain after inevitably disappointing them. 

Rosaria Devione-Vincrute deserved better than what life gave her. Never once did she let her own grief be used as an excuse to cause harm. Not once in her two hundred and fifty years of mortality did she find release in inflicting pain on those around her. She wasn't manipulative and deceitful like her father. She wasn't driven by reckless abandon as her mother so often was. She was, in that sense, better than them. 

For a time, she lived in a broken down manor with her brother and his cohorts. When her niece, Vivian, was born, she eventually set her mind on escaping with the child. Maybe she could forge a better life for the both of them. This is where her pattern of failure began.

Caught with the five year old in her arms, she faced a decision: let the young Vivi back into the hands of that monster, or die protecting her. 

The choice she made was why she would deserve everything that would come to her.

"I didn't ask for this," uttered the lowly and destitute Kram-Diiznak. She dug her fingers into the dirt beneath her palms. "I didn't ask for any of this." 

"Pathetic." "Useless!" "Miserable." "Weak!" "Pointless." "Unending!"

The words resounded from the hundreds of short, stubby cilia at her back whispering in unison. She hated the way their pitch pierced her eardrums like nails on chalkboard. She hated a lot of things, and typically, she dedicated a lot of time towards voicing that hatred. But, right now, she couldn't be bothered to care. She knew what her lack in memories and the ache of her revival meant: she failed once again. 

"I didn't ask for this." The chittering began again, and the two tendrils at the back of her shoulders lashed at the ground. They undulated as Kram's trilling magnified, and soon the forest echoed with the cacophonous buzzing of millions of insects.

"Pointless!" "Unending." "Damned!" "Mortifying." "Miserable!" "Pointless."

"I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS, [---]!" She roared with anger, then threw herself from the ground and onto her feet.

Rosaria Devione-Vincrute had grown tired of isolation. For forty-five years, she struggled with her decision. Alone. She considered going back for Vivian several times. But, just like her father, ultimately, she was a coward. She thought about him a lot. As a girl, she tried to reason away his behavior. She tried to understand why he claimed to love her so much as a child, only to abandon her like she was nothing. Now, she understood: Vas Vincrute was a coward, and he raised a coward just like him. Many people hated her father. No one hated him more than she. 

She used this hatred to fuel a resolve to rise above him. So, she found herself stumbling into Haelunor, cold, tired, and frightened. She was a Mali'ame'ker, by no means a welcome resident. But she didn't need to be. Her father was forbidden from the Silver City, so she had planned to take Vivian there for that single promise of protection. No sense letting the idea go to waste. 

She spent years on the streets, begging for work and housing. Eventually her persistence was rewarded, and she came to have a warm home all to herself. She had even begun the process of being hired as a servant to an affluent family. There, she could at least stay busy and occupied doing what she knew best. 

Loneliness still accompanied her. Fear prevented her from acting on it. She hadn't socialized since her twenties, which were hundreds of years ago. She set about to people watching. Maybe this way, she could learn how to be normal.

One day, after finding solitude in the city's library, Rosaria stumbled upon the scene of a manic 'aheral darting back and forth between shelves. The woman was in a frenzy. Rosaria eventually found the compassion to offer assistance, and the hope a friend would be made from the ordeal catalyzed her decision. After a back and forth between the two, Rosaria learned the 'aheral's name: [---].

Over the course of a year, maybe two, Rosaria trailed after [---]. The 'aheral was reserved and jumpy, though she did have the odd, occasional musing that Rosaria might one day prove to be useful. Rosa wrongfully used the vague comments to assure herself that her efforts weren't being wasted. She kept following [---]. Keeping in touch with the woman. Coincidentally, [---] lived right next door to Rosa's own home. It must be fate, Rosaria thought. 

It was fate. Though, Rosaria's destiny was not in any way a road that led to friendship. No. Rosaria's path was paved by karma, and it led only to justice. 

Having grown depressed in her ceaseless isolation, Rosaria drank herself into a stupor one morning in Haelunor. [---] found her sprawled atop a bench. She told Rosaria she was in need of her assistance, and the ame'ker was too drunk and desperate to do anything but jump at the opportunity to finally prove herself. And so, [---] led Rosaria away from Haelunor. To her fate.  

That was the day Rosaria Devione-Vincrute died.

Two women loomed over a gaping, bloody pit. One, a human, the other, an 'aheral. The air around them was ripe with the heavy scent of iron, raw meat, and brimstone. The human held a tomb within her hand, and she was reciting a chant in some demonic language. Within the pit was the burning, screaming body of a Mali'ame'ker. The flames did far more than cook her alive: they morphed her. That wicked hellfire warped and twisted the very blueprint of her soul, altering her shape and forever marking her as damned for Moz Strimoza. 

Once the ritual was complete, the newly formed Kozunka became bound to the human warlock. At the human's command, the being climbed out, and it began its new life of wretched servitude. 

That was the day Kram'Diiznak was born.

Kram'Diiznak clutched at the horns crowning her skull. "Release me from my burdens." Her hands trembled as that chittering swelled into a disharmonious uproar. "Release me from my burdens." Two sickening cracks were added to the clamor. "RELEASE ME FROM MY BURDENS!" Her arms arched downwards as her keratin protrusions broke in two. Hot, thick ichor pooled from their jagged bases, and they dropped to the ground with dull thuds. "I AM MEAT! WORTHLESS, MISERABLE MEAT!"

"Weak! Pointless. Miserable! Pointless. Pointless! Pointless. Pointless! Pointless."

"IT'S ALL SO POINTLESS!" The demon dug its fingers into the crevice of her carapace, then ripped a piece from her arm. She screamed in agony, then ripped a piece of chitin from her leg. She buckled over in pain, and she fell onto her bloody knee. Hot liquid pooled down her arm, and she threw her hand into a crack at her shoulder. Digging into the natural wound, she wailed as she tore herself apart. Her eyes became hazy as she stared at her discarded pieces. Then, her brows furrowed, and her lips tore at their edges as she howled with rage.

"I HATE YOU!" She roared over the reverberating chittering that accompanied her anguish. "I HATE YOU!" She slammed her hand against her chest, clutching at the illuminated crevice that allowed her the movement to breathe. "I HATE YOU!" She pulled at her exoskeleton. "I HATE YOU!" A scratchy, tearing sound akin to velcro vibrated from her torso. "I HATE YOU!" 

For the first time in decades, tears formed at the demon's eyes as she continued staring forward. Her lips began to quiver, and her voice started to break. "I hate you." Her vision rested upon a particularly smooth piece of her broken carapace, and her reflection stared back at her. "I hate you." Her voice was a defeated whisper, drowned out by the sound of chitin being freed from bone and flesh. 

Kram'Diiznak held a jagged piece of her natural breastplate. Her gaze unmoving, she released a final breath. "I hate you." She plunged the broken piece of carapace into her own open, exposed chest. Her tendrils seized, the cilia at her back screamed, and the chittering plateaued. For a moment, Kram was left in that blissful state of stupid half sentience. The last peace she will ever know. Silence.

That was the day Kram'Diiznak died.

 

Sappy OOC

Spoiler

 

I don't quite expect anyone to really care about this character's death other than me. Rosaria was the last character I made before my hiatus fourish years ago. When I started playing her, I actually hated playing female characters, lol. It was really, really hard, and for reasons I would come to understand much later, the discomfort I had felt personal. But, I really wanted my character's daughter to be played, and I decided to give it another shot. By then my egg was beginning to crack; playing Rosaria was probably more influential to my journey as a trans woman than I would like to admit to myself. 

 

And that's all Rosaria really ever was. A stepping stone. She was always meant to be temporary, as these characters so often are. She served her purpose, and the brief time I've spent playing her since my return has helped me appreciate her role as the first female character I played that I didn't abandon after a week.

 

When I got the DM in my inbox asking for consent to make her a demon, I had no idea what Naztherak was at the time. I've always played with the mindset that I don't say no to those kinds of things when they happen spontaneous in game. I'm not sure if this experience will make me change that policy or not. I joined the community at the end of map change, so I can understand how limited roleplay was forced to be. I didn't realize how much drama consumed every facet of this magic / creature until after my application had been accepted and I had already been playing her, rofl. Oh well.

 

If I had the drive and the motivation, I'm sure I could have done some cool stuff with the character. I really do enjoy the horror elements of the server. Unfortunately, I think that's all I was ever really good at on her. Ambience. I'm not good at magic CRP, and I doubt I would have faired much better if I was trained. It's also become very difficult for me to do the bad guy stuff I used to be cool with. I worry about ruining someone's day, or powergaming, or somehow intruding. I love dying in roleplay and making it a spectacle, but I don't like the anxiety I get during the fight that leads up to it. Quite honestly, it makes me feel a bit like a baby. It's something I'll have to improve throughout this new year.

 

Lastly, I want to close this out by thanking the players who did make this experience enjoyable. I wish things had gone better for our court, but I don't hold anything against y'all. Except the babysitting. **** off on that one. The one character I wasn't chill with doing SOL shit on. Lol. I'm exaggerating. Mostly. I had a lot of fun, and I really do appreciate y'all's help in easing me back into roleplay, and for also helping me learn I don't like villainy stuff much anymore. Much love.

 

And thank you, Rosaria, for everything you did to help me.

And thank YOU @pexchysa for being one of my FAVORITE go to skinners! Kram's skin is probably my favorite ever and it's a pity I have to divert my focus in other areas right now. Seriously, thank you so much. I can't recommend this artist enough.