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About Purplelessly

  • Birthday 09/11/2003

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  1. A letter would find itself into the hands of one Eistalyn Othelu’maehr, stamped with an uncommon seal..- The waxen crest of the Talonnii known as 'Brodielonde', gilded into admiral-blue beeswax. The letter was seemingly scented with something reminiscent of sea-salt and brine; the paper itself woven from coarse fibre that resulted in the penmanship being hardy; sternly simple, with an austere elegance. "Esteemed Eistalyn Othelu’maehr, I understand that you have, once more, been placed upon the path of Tilruir'mali. Such a.. feat must be congratulated and, in such spirit, I invite you to take tea at our mannerly estate-- at your earliest convenience, of course. I look forwards to speaking to you directly and in kind. With Regards, Feyre Myrian Brodielonde." @CyyanTea
  2. [[MC Name: Purplelessly]] Name: Feyre Brodielonde Vote 1: Eistalyn Othelu'maehr Vote 2: Eistalyn Othelu'maehr
  3. Purplelessly


    You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” Feyre eyed the hag with dull eyes, teetering on her feet..- Exhaustion languidly wearing on her gaunt frame. She was less than graceful in her descent as she near fell onto the cushions- legs folding tremulously beneath her. Her expression was grim- paranoid, yet this did not seep into her voice..- The typical, panicked intonation that one would usually become acquainted with when on the run finding no place in her flat, apathetic voice. ".. Hm. There is not much to say that you do not already know." She withdrew a pouch from beneath her skirts, then..- And from it, retrieved a rusted little chain- a small charm dangling from it. An anchor. She held it in the space between them..- Trying to muster the energy to intimidate the hag, though failing as her features tired and drooped into a pitiful scowl. "Now, where is she?" Though she did not dare to speak her truth to the old hag, she began to recall- as she glared into the woman’s eyes- her past. Feyre was born weak; limbs twisted, drawing shallow breaths as she lay unmoving in the bassinet- skin pale and lips grey. Ignis took one look at her second daughter and turned away, considering her a lost cause even in her last moments. After all, such a bloodline as the Brodielondes did not look favourably upon weakness, nor on impurity. Her father would become the one responsible for ensuring that his sons recognised Feyre as a weakness; he kept her in the nursery, even when her twin sibling was of age enough for her own room. She was merely an instrument of control; an example of the weaknesses that would not be tolerated from the rest of the family. To him, Feyre’s had already failed in her single purpose- too weak to become a catalyst for further pureblood heirs. She was an example to all the rest..- And as such, became the subject of persistent ridicule from her brothers. The only individual who dare approach Feyre is her twin, Khyana..- a girl wearing her face, yet living a life free of sickness and enveloped in the love and attention of their family. Considered a leech for her dependency, she has internalised feelings of envy and a complicated love for Khyana..- Uncertain as to whether she wants to be with her, keeping by her side and helping her thrive, or to become her.
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