Name: Domitille de Villiers Age: 262 / Physically 25 Pronouns: She/Her Species: Primal Witch, Blood and Bones based Faction: None Occupation: Owener of the Peséphone's Den, a shop located in France (For now) Hometown: Marseille, France Sexuality: Lesbian Relationship Status: Single
TWs: torture, murder, beheading, blood, cruelty, body horror, gore, The French
You were not meant for Paris — Maman used to joke the city belong to charlatans and revolutionaries only, of which you were neither. (Laughable, really, how your history had been written in between-the-lines from the beginning — If you could find it in yourself to laugh.) You could not imagine Maman strolling the streets of Paris, your hand gripping hers tightly. You belonged to the woods, the two of you — Where grass and dirt touched the bare sole of your feet, the trees whispered songs of old gently in your ears, and the sun warmed your pink cheeks while gathering herbs for Maman’s next concoction.
(But, you've come to learn, life makes a mockery of us all, does it not?)
Maman was careful — undeniably so. The little cabin in the woods you called home was under powerful protection wards you can not replicate to this day — Its magic so heavy you could taste it on your tongue. But the cruelty of humans reach even the farthest of paradises. They came in the morn — When fog still covered the floor and sleep clouded your eyes. You were dragged, kicking and screaming, outside with Maman — Where you watched and felt how evil men can be. Her head was cut off after hours of torment, falling by you as the hunters laughed and laughed and laughed.
They had cut your arm off a little below the elbow, but it was the sight of your head mother which made indescribable rage fill every nook and crevice of your being. You made their blood boil with the same ease as breathing. (You never could, before — Channel your magic in multiple targets, so strongly as you did then. You had not found in you the cruelty to do so until that moment.)
After your mother was buried and the cabin burned, you limped your way to Marseille. You had never been around people before, but their rightful anger and discontent welcomed you in with open arms. You cared not for kings nor queens, but the rage of the revolution kept you grounded — It was the perfect cover to train and honor your magic.
You were not meant for Paris — Yet, you sat squashed in between warm bodies stuffed inside an old wagon, making way to the damp city with little complaints. The revolution was not yours — you cared little for politics — but you were starved for a proper fight, and you thought blending in a big city would be easier. Life is not kind to a covenless witch — Easy targets, watched by hunters hiding in enemy lines. You were not surprised they were in the palaces, slithering like snakes around the throats of were-influential people.
What surprised you was how they followed you back to Marseille. It shouldn't have, you now know, for men will do anything to dispose of those they deem dangerous — But back then, you did not see the prosecutor. You were weak, captured, and thrown in Château d'If — For you were no woman, but a demon in disguise. You screamed and punched the walls until your hand was broken and bleeding, spending days in the darkness of a cell meant to be your end.
When you thought of giving up, Andreas crawled in your cell through a hole he carved in the walls.
Old, frail, but refusing to break, Andreas were your light in the darkness. He taught you everything he knew; languages, etiquette, mathematics, alchemy, poetry — He believed knowledge could save your soul. He told you of a treasure from the Crusades, hidden in an island only he knew the location of. You, however, were too caught up in your anger to care about riches. You wanted revenge. You made a deal with the old fae — Entered a Gaes. The details of it are a secret the both of you will take to the grave, but it gave you enough life and power to get revenge.
Andreas, however, died before the two of you could escape — Ten years after you met him. You took your opportunity, changed places with his body when the guards put him in a sack. The ocean against your skin was the first touch of freedom you felt in a long time. You snuck your way to Paris, in time to watch Marie Antoinette's trial and beheading — But you couldn't join your old friends in commemoration; they were dead. Killed, like you should have been.
Alone once more, you found your way to Andreas's treasure, now yours, and found your revenge. However, once it was done, you had no desire to keep your end of the deal. You became mad with power, greed. The Gaes did not like that. You became sick — Your life slowly being stolen by magic you could not understand. You became killing witches, hoping to buy time, but you know you are only rescheduling the inevitable. It is why you found your way to Eden Ros — To find a way out. You will do anything to save yourself.
HEADCANONS:
Domitille’s antiques and magical artifacts’ shop is a front for what she truly desires; information on how to free herself of her curse. She dabbles in the black market often, finding rich investors (or older women) whose fortunes she can steal.
Domitille has a very short temper, shorter than a cut nail, but she never raises her voice. Her tone turns colder than a glacier, but it never grows.
Having fought in the revolution, Domitille has became quite adapt at climbing - what the kids call parkour - and she is skilled into breaking in.
She has a prosthetic arm made of her own skeleton, that she creates at will. It takes a lot of her magic, however, to grow it, so she has found a way to attach and reattach it with the help of a witch she murdered after.
Has written too many dark grimoires.
Is getting worse by the day, but tries to hide it.
WANTED CONNECTIONS:
People who know of her
Flings
Enemies
People she can try to manipulate for funsies