I gave you my voice, my skin, my soul—every breath a hymn, every wound a vow. If this is ruin, let it be holy.

Transcendence   —

Mariska Svalras

penned by @straycatte

OOC
Character and player are 21+
CONTENT WARNING
NSFW, triggering, & mature themes. 21+ Only.

I was born fated to bear the curse of calamity

*

You love blood too much- but not like I do. Not like I do.

bonds

Ellinora Svalras
Her first born daughter, she is deceased.
Katrin Svalras
Twin to Ellinora and very much living, much to her mother's dismay.
Lenka Huin
Mari's closest friend among the matrons.

I lay in the ashes, of you
In a spider's web, between the stars

*

What ripped away? Check my body now. Was it body or soul?

dos
sier

   name     Mariska Svalras
   age    70
   gender     female
   pronouns     she/her
   role     Mother. Martyr. Vessel.
   birthdate     dob
   religion     devoted to the whispered one

  height    short
  voice    soft, rasping, like breath over bone
  eye color    Gold—bright as warning fires
  hair color    silver, worn long, untouched since the offering
  other    littered in scars, some old and others self-inflicted to show her devotion

ONE
She keeps two unsent letters to her daughters. One, her true feelings toward Ellinora and a last goodbye as a mother, it rests beneath the altar stone, sealed in wax, and wrapped in the blood-stiff cloth of her daughter's sacrifice. The second is an unsent letter, somewhat of an apology, to Katrin that is tucked away in an old prayer cloth never meant to be found.
THREE
She feels closest to the divine when she's bleeding. Even if it's just a nick from a blade. Pain is prayer.
TWO
In the depths of winter, Mariska doesn't survive the cold. She worships it. Because it makes everything else go quiet and in that silence, she believes the gods come closest. Offerings are often left out in the night for the whispered one, be it carvings or trinkets she finds, or a heart from a sacrifice.
FOUR
No healer touched her. No ritual revived her. She was brought back because the Whispered One chose her not to rest, but to serve. From that moment on, she was no longer just a woman. She was a vessel. Not alive. Not dead. Something in between.

  • altar smoke clinging to bare skin

  • blood-stained prayer cloth

  • gold eyes glowing in candlelight

  • root-bound relics and cracked bone jewelry

  • barefoot in the snow, unflinching

  • whispered hymns in a dead tongue

  • knives cleaned in silence

  • veils soaked in grief

  • voice like a dying wind

reborn ;

Mariska’s voice is a remnant—
not of song or speech, but of survival.It is soft, but not gentle—
rasping, but not broken—
thin as breath over bone, drawn slow through ruined cords.When she speaks, it does not fill the room.
It carves through it—
low and weightless, like fog spilling from the mouth of a long-sealed tomb.There is something unnatural in the way her voice lingers. Not inhuman, but no longer entirely mortal either.
It carries the scent of old ash and the memory of screams buried beneath prayers.
Measured. Hollow. Heard by the soul before the ears.She does not raise her voice. She never needs to.
Her words are not loud—
they are heavy. Each syllable feels paid for, dragged up from the dark below with reverent pain.When she speaks, the world quiets.Not out of fear.But out of knowing that what speaks has already died once and was welcomed back by _something with teeth.

about ;

Scars bloomed across her body like a second language-- raised and white, puckered and purposeful. Some were elegant, curved in sacred patterns, drawn by her own hand with glass and prayer. Those were offerings. Proof of devotion, years of silent penance.But the oldest marks-
The ones that mattered-
Those told a different story.Around her throat, a jagged ring of scar tissue clung like a phantom collar. Torn flesh, once gripped by rope or chain or worse. Not self-inflicted. Not willing. Her wrists bore the same memory-- thin, deep ridges where bindings had bitten too long. The skin had broken. The blood had poured. She had not screamed then, either. Her ankles matched: fractured circles of damage left by iron and escape. A time before she was a matron who served the Whispered One. Before she was the one holding the blade.The Whispered One had found her in chains, bleeding and abandoned. And in the silence between breaths, in the stillness after the scream, she had heard her name called. Not in pity. Not in comfort. But in claim.So Mariska had lived. Scarred. Sanctified. No longer a woman, no longer victim-- only vessel. And every time the blade sank into a body on the altar, it was a thank you. A reminder. She was not saved for peace. She was saved to serve.

Blessed be you, girl

*

I was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood. I am here now, as you run from me still. Run then, child; you can't hide from me forever.

his
story

Reveal Letter

My dearest Ellinora,

You will never read this.

If you did, everything I’ve given myself to would tremble and fall apart—
like I sometimes do,
in the cold,
when no one sees.

They told me not to love you too much.
That a mother’s love must be measured,
disciplined,
held like a blade to her own throat,
or else she will falter when the time comes.

I loved you anyway.
Too much.
Too fiercely.
Enough to carve that love into obedience
and offer you up to the silence
with a steady hand
and a shattering soul.

You didn’t scream until the end.
You were brave.
You looked at me like you wanted to believe I had no choice.
I let you believe that.
I needed you to.

But the truth, my beloved—
the truth is that I chose the goddess over you.
I chose the promise of salvation over the warmth of your hand.

And now I sleep with your name in my mouth
like a sin I’m too weak to confess.

They call me holy.
They say I’ve been saved.
But I am haunted.

Every child I offer in your memory
is a shadow of you.
Every hymn I sing
is a desperate cry into the nothing
where you used to be.

Sometimes I dream of undoing it all—
burning the altar,
smearing the sigils,
and calling your name
until the sky answers.

But I do not.
I will not.
Because then you will have died for nothing.

So I stay.
I serve.
I survive.

And I love you still.
Always in silence.
Always in secret.

—Mother
Mariska

Sacrifice ;

  tw: death   —— the first born

The moon hung sickle-thin over Skatay, casting long shadows over the snow covered trees. The woods were silent, save for the distant hymns murmured beneath the roots—whispers that came from below, where no light ever reached.Mariska stood barefoot in the circle, her silver hair clinging to the sweat of her brow, her body a tapestry of pale skin and old scars. Each mark a vow. Each wound a debt paid in the currency of faith. Her golden eyes were locked on the altar of stone where Ellinora now lay.The child was not crying.She was fifteen winters old, crowned in a halo of flaxen hair, eyes wide but dry. Brave. Just like those before her.Around them, robed figures swayed to the rhythm of the chant—the song that was not sung, but given. It came from the mouths of the faithful like mist from a frozen lung. The language of the Whispered One was not made for mortal tongues, but they spoke it all the same, teeth cracking with every syllable.“She is ready,” one murmured.“She is willing,” said another.Mariska had raised Ellinora in the hollow of this cult along with her twin sister Katrin. She had fed her not with milk, but with scripture. Not lullabies, but revelations.Yet tonight was different. Tonight, she saw not a disciple, but her daughter. There was a small thrum of pain buried in her chest where that cold heart resided.And still, she lifted the dagger.The blade was old—older than any of them. It pulsed when it neared the girl’s chest, thirsting. The Whispered One had no name, no form, no end. But It had one need:The price paid in the blood of the first.Ellinora looked up at her mother, lips parted, voice steady: “Let it be me.”And Mariska, broken with grace, nodded. She pressed her forehead to her daughter’s.“I have loved you like the sky loves the sea,” she whispered, “but the sky still swallows it at dusk.”Then the dagger plunged, not from her alone, but from a dozen arms.
The cult moved as one. Bone met blade. Flesh opened like scripture.Ellinora’s haunting screams echoed through the night.And yet her mother swore she saw her smile.Blood bathed the altar. Roots drank deep. And beneath the earth, something stirred—a sigh from the void, a whisper of approval.Mariska fell to her knees, hollow and holy.The child was gone. The goddess remained. And the will to continue… was bought.At what cost?════════════════════════════════════
✦ .   ⁺    . ✦ .   ⁺    . ✦ .   ⁺    . ✦ .   ⁺    . ✦ .   ⁺    . ✦ .Smoke clung to the temple like regret, thick and choking, curling into the wooden beams where Ellinora’s laughter once echoed. The stone altar still glistened with her blood, not yet dry, not yet forgotten. The cult had returned to silence, descending back into the roots, their robes trailing crimson as they vanished from sight.But the silence did not last.Katrin’s scream tore through it like a knife.She stood at the edge of the altar, chest heaving, hands trembling, golden hair matted to her face. Her eyes were not wide with grief—they were burning.“You killed her!” she shrieked, voice cracking with too many emotions to name. “You killed my sister—your daughter! HOW COULD YOU?! Yenzelle fled-“Mariska turned slowly.Her face was calm. Distant. Somewhere in her, a mother had died too. But what remained was something colder—something sharpened by doctrine and devotion.“She chose to give her life,” Mariska said, voice soft, deliberate. “She was worthy of the Whispered One’s gaze. You should envy her.”Katrin took a step forward, fists clenched. “I don’t envy a corpse! I don’t care what some rotting god whispered in your ear! I want my sister back!”Mariska’s eyes darkened. Her hand moved before thought could catch it.Crack.The slap rang through the chamber like a bell tolling for the dead.Katrin staggered, a crimson bloom rising on her cheek. But she didn’t fall. She didn’t cry. Her voice came quieter now, full of venom, not sorrow.“I’m sorry, mother.” The title now sounded like a curse. “I don’t understand how you can’t feel anything.”Mariska loomed over her, teeth clenched, shaking with something she refused to name.“I feel faith,” she hissed. “I feel the weight of sacrifice. I feel the breath of our goddess warming the soil with your sister’s gift.”Katrin’s lip trembled. “She was my twin. Half of me is gone.”Mariska’s voice dropped, deadly quiet.“Then make yourself whole in worship, Katrin. Or you’ll be the next offering. Go pray. I won’t tell you again.”She turned and walked away, robes trailing blood and ash.Katrin stood alone, the altar behind her still warm. Somewhere beneath her feet, the roots were still drinking.And above, the moon watched in silence, its pale face unmoved by her grief.