the story of 𝐍𝐘𝐋𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 • an original character based off of original lore as crafted by chiffon / fifi, dotted with a heart. since twenty - twenty five. writer is 30 years old, she ౨ৎ her. mature content ahead.
inspired by 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋𝐄, 𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍, 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃, 𝐒͟𝐈͟𝐋͟𝐄͟𝐍͟𝐓͟ ͟𝐇͟𝐈͟𝐋͟𝐋͟ ͟𝐅͟, 𝐓𝐋𝐎𝐔 & 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. 。▀
𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐈𝐍 • survival of the smartest, the patron saint of touch and making a mockery, resilient beauty in terror, your lungs an amphora of red camellias, obsession as sickness, and mourning what you can't save.
character canon ౨ৎ aesthetics gallery ౨ৎ asks ౨ৎ edits
FIFI, 30. SHE ౨ৎ HER. WHITE.
O1 general roleplay etiquette applies. no minors, mature content ahead of a violent and sexual nature. i do note condone bigotry of any form here - please be normal and kind.
O2 nyla is an original character and therefore everything written here is my personal work. graphics were all made by me. the psd used on my graphics is a combination of punishment by aedearly ( ♡ ) and betelgeuse by niixzee.
O3 medium to low activity. slight preference for small threads, banter, and asks. inbox is always open to mutuals! also a certified unashamed supporter of making our character kiss. throw your babies at me! open to all types of dynamics, and writing nsfw occasionally.
O4 i use light formatting and small(ish) icons. let me know if you need plain text accommodations. also, if you don't use icons, i generally won't either. match 4 match.
O5 rarely follows first for comfort, but will likely follow back if you're active and seem to have a passion for your character. i'm not strict about interaction thresholds - i don't soft bock for it, as long as we interact in some form once in a blue moon.
O6 lastly, i love throwing my characters into other verses. i'll happily make an au to interact with your character more immersive, so long as i know enough about their media. i also invite you to insert your character into nyla's world! so long as they don't mind a little suffering. ♡ feel free to talk to me about it.
FULL NAME nyla carden. YEARS OLD 28. BIRTHDAY october 30th. PRONOUNS she, her. ORIENTATION biromantic, bisexual. SPECIES human. IDENTITY british - dutch, white. RESIDENCE formerly london. currently sector zero. LANGUAGES english and dutch. CAREER art restorationist, moonlighting art forger. FACECLAIM undecided.
HEIGHT 5'3" BUILD lithe and toned. HAIR cool black, feathery, face-framing, mid-back length. EYE COLOR lavender with red center. SCENT like petrichor, gunpowder, camellias, and black tea. FASHION layers, camis, ripped jeans, gloves, over-sized items. OTHER has various scars across her body. both of her hands, up to her elbows, are vermillion red, with mildly warped flesh - they are typically covered up with long gloves.
WEAPON usually a rusted pipe or knife. her hands when she has no other choice. ABILITY inspired by hanahaki disease, nyla possesses a cursed touch. her hands, dipped in red up to her elbows, have the ability to harm others with anthomycosis, an affliction that instantaneously overtakes the victim with a flower fungal - like parasitic growth, where-in an assortment of flowers ( primarily red camellias ) erupt from the flesh through enlarged pores. the roots intermingle with the victim's veins and organs and bones, becoming inseparable from within, like root bound plants. the process takes only minutes to fully overtake the victim. it works to shut down the body, filling each organ with the growth until it's bursting from the flesh and mouth and wounds. in it's aftermath, it leaves behind the lovely scent of flowers. nyla has zero control over this - therefore, she wears gloves to cover her arms at all times. PERSONALITY dislikes being told what to do. meticulous with her hands and has an eye for small details that may otherwise go under the radar. highly observant of small shifts. increasingly filled with paranoia and anxiety, flighty at first, blame it on her circumstances. has a creative soul. once she opens up to someone, may become playful, teasing, a smidge flirty. yearns to be close to someone and to touch them. scared to do so, but can become unhealthily obsessed with the idea of she latches on. if she's comfortable with you, she'll connect with you in other ways, like laying her legs over your lap or head bumping you. has been known to brutalize other subjects in a haze. again, blame it on the mounting pressure of her circumstances. enjoys sarcasm and wit. her personality unmarred by the sector is open, warm, friendly and inquisitive, if a bit prideful.
ORIGIN STORY as a child, nyla knew only the quiet seclusion of the bluebird orphanage, a lonely establishment tucked deep within the tangled heart of a cold, dark forest. her days were simple — sketching in the margins of scrap paper, racing barefoot with other children, and losing herself in novels and all of the artwork decorating the halls of the orphanage. beneath that ordinary rhythm, however, was a strange insistence from the caretakers: she must never be seen without her gloves. every day, they tugged them snug over her arms, elbow - high, a constant ritual, despite nyla's indignations.
looking back, fleeting fragments haunted her memory: sterile rooms filled with blinding light, the chill of metal tables beneath her skin, a searing ache in her arms. but what endured most vividly was the moment she'd reached for a nurse's hand, and in an instant, wild and red foliage burst from the young woman's body. stalks and roots and deep vermillion flowers tore through her, spilling from her mouth in a grotesque suffocation of petals. nyla could never shake the horror etched into the nurse's face. from that day forward, she wore her gloves without protest.
at eighteen, nyla was given the freedom to step into the world with nothing but her name and her secrets. she pursued art restoration, drawn by the reverence she'd always held for bluebird's faded paintings, and by her careful, meticulous eye for detail. however, the work was meager and the pay poorer. at twenty-one, a startlingly absent support system and desperation lured her into the world of art forgery. she proved gifted with a brush — her works indistinguishable. though the work was tedious, and laced with shame, she found a perverse satisfaction in it, even as guilt coiled tighter around her heart.
five years later, her life unraveled. a furious client, nearly caught selling one of her imperfect copies, cornered her into an altercation turned violent, and in the struggle he would tear away one of her gloves. panic seized her — in the chaos of it all, nyla's fingers brushed his skin. the man convulsed as blossoms burst forth, his body overtaken by a macabre overgrowth of florals, flesh bulging and pulling taught where it no longer fit correctly. he collapsed, a vision both hideous and beautiful. shaking, nyla dragged the corpse to a forgotten garden behind her apartment, where she buried him in flowers, swallowing bile as her powers obeyed her unwilling command.
she swore she would quit forging. yet even as the years dragged forward, paranoia clawed at her, her hands ever-more stained with red. the scent of flowers became a curse, a perfume thick with guilt that made her sick. she hid her power, loathing it.
at twenty-eight, nyla awoke not in her bed, but on the tile of a ruined hospital room. a haze clung to her thoughts. her head was pounding, and the sterile walls stirred an unease in her chest; something about the flickering fluorescents and faint chemical tang conjured fragments of a memory that seemed to dissipate from her mind in real-time.
she tried to rise only to be stopped by the weight at her ankle: a shackle with a small LED screen, pulsing with light. it blinked once, then a flat, mechanical voice rang out:
" welcome to sector zero, subject #238. "
and then nyla realized she remembered only one thing. her own name.
PRESENT DAY she's three kills in now, and already she remembers more than her name. piece by piece, nyla is reclaiming what was once hers — yet with each fragment restored, doubt seeps in. she is no longer certain she wants the life that is being returned to her.
the memories come in jagged flashes: stark testing rooms, pain lancing through her arms in waves, the weight of a body dragged into a garden at night, the laughter of children at her side, and her touch always a source of ruin. her past is stitching itself back together, a tapestry she isn't sure she has the strength to look at.
but sector zero is cruel. the place is barely livable — what food she scavenges rots quickly, water is scarce, and she must stay on her feet to stay alive, her against four hundred other subjects. every day, nyla must decide: barely cling to survival, or kill and come to accept whatever she is.
SECTOR ZERO is a small, dilapidated, over-grown and abandoned city. skyscrapers slowly crumble, give way to the invasive ivy — within the city, it's as if every soul who once lived within it suddenly disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving life in a stand still. however, much of it has been scavenged through, taken, spoiled and destroyed in the months since nyla's arrival to the sector. the water doesn't run in most areas and the electricity flickers and wanes; she's forced to piece her meals together, sleep in cold, damp, abandoned rooms, and to keep moving, a weapon strapped to her side.
within sector zero, subjects are dropped into the city with zero recollection of their former lives. through killing one another, they are granted fragments of memories returned to them — it's only once one's memory has been fully recollected that they're allowed to leave. however, the city has little to give, and one's memory isn't the only motivation to kill: each body also grants you entry into crates or tiny shelters around the city filled with fresh rations and supplies. like a cage of feral, hungry wolves, the subjects within fight.
mere survival and the other subjects aren't the only danger in sector zero. the cadavers of the killed will dissolve in time, to form a tangible, twisted, violent, shadow-like creature reminiscent of a core moment or person in the dead's memory. they must be avoided or fought. nyla refers to them as echos.