rise . e-cho . pm
vi . purgatory . female


16.1 . trakehner x
Shattered starlight on a vacant canvas of space before the cosmos came into being; an oilslick body of glittering delight both deadly and beautiful to dull and ensnare the senses; a woman of great and terrible intent who bows to no man, woman, nor being alive. Imogen is a natural disaster with all the grace and venom of a coiled cobra ready to strike. With each step the world trembles, the grounds quake, the waters step back, and even the moon hides her face. Such poise should not be held by one such as she who has lived too many lives and died too many deaths. This power should not be given to one who looks at the Reaper and laughs in his face, embraces him with a smile, and then slits his throat. Blue eyes are so kind, so deceptively sweet, and so unassumingly innocent. When you look in them all you find is starlight and blue skies. A summer breeze could be just around the corner if you stare too long. When trapped so tightly within those weeping eyes, the only solace, the only escape, is found in the only hint of light upon her body. Like the moon swallowing the sun, like a supernova exploding, like endless waves of clouds floating in the sky, a pure white, endless oval that rests so delicately between two black brows that it seems it could tip and disappear into the darkness at a moment's notice.

Imogen is a woman unabashed and proud, manipulative and full of yearning. Her spine does not bend, but instead is infused with steel, her shoulders are squared and her head is high. Stubborn pride meets stubborn pride and she's ready to go toe to toe with any willing contenstants. Some women simper, but Imogen burns.


(+) individualistic, loyal, wise; (+/-) hollow, reticent, ambitious, enigmatic, willful; (-) amoral, fiery, possessive, cold
A shattered sun left to die, searching eternally as a lonely star for another to dance through every world beside her, Imogen is an old soul in a young body. In her heart love is found, but it is such a small amount, so hidden and so reserved - kept secret for only one. Its reach is never quite long enough to share. With litle love and warmth to give, she is left a burning mystery waitin gto explode.

A hard bed of rocks to dash your dreams upon, only an unyielding will and tempestuous spirit is found here. As stubborn as the seas are wide, to argue with her is ot fight a raging wildfire: impossible to win. There is no end nor beginning to the depth of her willful pride. Possessive, jealous, demanding.

She's lived a thousand lives and loved one man through it all. She's cried a thousand rivers and known only one sea of lonelieness. She's breathed a thousand breaths and cherished so few as she does him. He is the morning sun. He hung the stars in her night sky, and she is hte darkness so that he may shine.

Faithful to only those she deems fit, and only he fits in that puzzle.

Imogen has been hard and she has been soft. Throughout the ages she has been both a ruler and ruled, traitor and betrayed, lover and beloved. Now, with him gone, her heart is a hollow, cold husk left to wither in the winter storms. She is a winter storm, a summer fire, an awesome and terrifying hurricane.

In his absence her ambitions has grown and her world has expanded. She will rend families and swallow hearts, she will burn bodies and trample homes. An unrepentant daughter of the night, an uncrowned queen of the damned, a reckoning in the making; tread carefully around this ticking time bomb or risk fatal retaliation.


How do you tell the story of lifetime after lifetime? What record book holds such extensive detail and journal after journal of a soul that has traveled through time itself and body after body? Where would such a recollection be kept? When would it spread into a labyrinthine library that climbs into the sky and the heart of the world? And would that world even be the same as the last?

She cannot tell you how many colors of eyes she's had, nor how many bodies have hosted her. Imogen has seen so much before this life, but the one constant had always been him - her immortal love.

Born in this life to the moon and the night, she kissed her beginning with abyss-dark lips and carried her mother's light upon her head. The sea rocked her to the shore with her star-bright diadem. Her father held her in his arms and nearly cursed her, for he left the very heavens to raise her. Away from her mother, Imogen's father was a temperamental, fickle beast at best. Hidden away in dark lands, raised on ashy shores where fires burned and heat reigned supreme, where the skyline always met the sea and the moon could kiss them every night, she became a creature suited for the dark just as she was born to it.

Others came, of course. But they were half dead and water logged. Her father did not nurse them back to health, yet he let Imogen listen to the stories they told - revel in their last breaths, the last beats of their heart, and kiss their brow before sending them back to the briny sea. Those that survived were mercurial beasts: kelpies, sirens, creatures far more dangerous than half-dead corpses with grinning skulls. They brought offerings to the man born of night and the child he bore. Fish to eat, sea flowers that only lived briefly out of water, and tales. Tales of lands far away, of the riches under the water surface, and of people she longed to meet.

None of them sparked anything truly worthy of going after. None of them made her remember him. None of them brought his new face to her mind and eased her into a fitless slumber.

She grew up on seasides and dark tides, but something was missing. Her heart grew colder while her father's warmer. When he could return to the sky beside her mother where he longed to be once more, only then was she released from the island to seek what her heart yearned for.


purgatory. shadow manipulation. novice


Idendoro . Bearded Vulture
A creature wholly unto his own mechinations, Iden would rather peck your eyes out and sweet-talk Imogen into murder than have her make friends. Possibly more possessive than the woman herself, he enjoys her company about as much as he appreciates a fresh meal. Clinging tight to her side when they travel, yet as adventurous as the morning breeze when she asks for him to be her eyes, the vulture proves both useful and an ideal companion.

He has wings where she has none, but he is not made of inky caverns and blinding moonlight. While black flight feathers coat his arms, and black tearstains fall down to a darker beak within a bald face, there is much left to be appreciated. Gold starts at his neck, flows like a mountain stream down his stomach, and covers heavily feathered legs in the rustic hue. Upon his chest a white tuft of feathers is left - eternally bleached it seems, unable to malt into that rich golden hue. Bright amber eyes glare at the world, seeming to be as broody and judgemental as they come.


Reliquary - Profile of Imogen