La sororité infernale

[bebemoon]

cinq bridal collection iv presentation, nyc .

[bebemoon]

dilara findikoglu rtw autumn 2o25, london .

[forestlore]

“—softly, with hands as gentle as rain, I shall strangle him.”

— Angela Carter, The Erl-King (via liquidlightandrunningtrees)

[theconstantnymph]

Oro, 1992

[beingharsh]

The Story of Adele H. (1975), dir.François Truffaut

[henk-heijmans]

Dance scene, from the “Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes”, Paris, 1925 - by Franz Löwy (1883 - 1949), Austrian

[rosierlily]

yuhan wang spring ‘26 sword details

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Antonio Canova (Italian, 1757-1822) The Three Graces, c.1814-17

[lasororiteinfernale]

back here for a bit due to the fucking bee in my bonnet

[lasororiteinfernale]

okay- tangent, actally. the danaïdes one is sticking in my head

[lasororiteinfernale]

PREMISE;

Welcome to CAMELIARD- a flourishing city inhabited by hybrid descendants of Mortals and Fairies- the so-called "Morvain".

After a thousand or so years of mixing together, the Morvain are much more Mortal-appearing than the modern-day fae gentry- the winged, magic-wielding dwellers of "The Shining Throne" (faerie realm)- yet they are still distinguishable from any mere human who may still exist outside of Cameliard, Neuve Ferte, Causuel or any of the other outer cities.

Widely considered to be one of- or even the- last vestiges of Mortal lineage, the Morvain are disdained by the upper echelons of the Fae realm for their perverse hybrid ancestry. The Seelie King, himself, has been cited as implying the Morvain are clearly a "wicked breed" for their inability to utilize magic. Their powerlessness, the Fae consider to be evidence of "unfitness"- divine retribution upon an accursed ilk that should never have existed in the first place.

In the past hundred years, the Fae have, by and large, left the Morvain to their own devices, save the occasional tithe abduction or some poor soul accidentally thanked a fairy/told them their name/ate their food (all those old traditions the Fair Host can't seem let go of). (The Fae don't take people away for use of their red blood anymore. This was an old practice of the Fae in a misguided attempt to "secure their place in Heaven". This was an extremely ancient and now defunct practice. The Fae- Seelie and Unseelie, alike- have long abandoned any notion of attaining a blessed death.) However, with a recent and violent turn-over in power, the Morvain now find themselves placed firmly in the eye of a storm.

A new Seelie Queen has risen "Under the Hill".

Where her late brother was largely disinterested in the feeble Morvain strain and their city, this new sovereign, indeed, has a wandering eye- and a fascination . . .

Though quite outside of her realm of jurisdiction, Cameliard has recently become the center of an onslaught of Seelie hostility- a bid for domination, the Morvain officials imagine. For the past week, hundreds of Morvain, driven mad by Fae song, were forced into rings of death dances the outskirts of Cameliard as a gruesome warning- submit or perish.

But the growing fear is that this is only the tip of the iceberg- that this stirring will entice another into the fray. Like shades rising out of an abyss, the Unseelie will surely follow suit to vie for the Morvain. (For how cold they sit still and let the Seelie to expand unchecked?)

With Cameliard and the lives of millions of Morvain beneath the heel of the Seelie Queen, how can the last remnants of Mortals survive ?

Could it be possible to forge a strange alliance with a stranger foe ?

All these answered and more...by us !

[lasororiteinfernale]

back here for a bit due to the fucking bee in my bonnet

[lasororiteinfernale]

. P L A Y G .

[Open.]

Wands, Dark-leaning, Earth.

Twenty.

Aka "Splinter". Playg is said to have been raised in the sewers of Stregapolis by rats. If it's true, it makes sense- after all, she can turn into a rat (rattus rattus) herself, and she knows the Strega underground like the back of her own hand. Playg can be . . . off-putting. She has a bit of an eerie presence- a small, fidgety shadow-dweller with long fingers and the uncanny power of witherment and decay (which is why she is absolutely prohibited from entering Midsummer's back garden). One half expects to find her hiding under sinks or scrabbling up the walls. For the most part, Playg is tasked with collecting protection money from the local non-magic gangs and their various affiliates- which they seem almost too willing to comply with because they just want her unsettling ass to leave them alone as soon as possible. For the other part, she plays the eyes and ears of Strega, using the sewer system and her Ratskin as handy tools. (Having an eidetic memory also helps.) Traveling via Stregapolis' vast underground is Playg's m.o.- she doesn't know how to drive, and even if she did, it's unlikely anyone would allow her to get behind a wheel anyway. More of a loner, she's likely only around the Coven house for important reasons- namely for handing over the money she's collected. It's for the best, anyway, as Playg isn't generally well-liked among the others. They have their suspicions- that Midsummer will hear none of- that Playg asks for more protection money than she's telling everyone so that she can skim a nice profit for herself off the top. How else was she able to get her needly hands on a brand new PS5 for her rathole in the sewer or wherever the hell she curls up at night? Well, for starters, she stole the PS5, and for another, if she has extra cash, it's likely from her side gig as, the sometimes literal, eyes and ears of the High Priestess of Blackly St., who uses her ability to posses the senses to personally keep tabs on the one Hight Priestess she fears the most- Midsummer. For all of Playg's hard and treacherous work, she receives a tidy allowence courtesy of Blackly St. Coven and keeps her mouth closed where she should. Ask her is she has trouble sleeping at night and you'll find she's already alseep.

[lasororiteinfernale]

. J E A N I E .

[Open.]

Neon District, Neutral, Fire.

Twenty-five.

When the Necropolis went up, Jeanie had to go in on her own to rescue her grandmother and her small daughter from the infected area of the city. It's certainly not been a bed of roses for Jeanie though you'd never know it. While she seems to be glowing, heart-shaped, carefree and flirty, it's mostly all facade. After all, she's meant to be the "love witch" of Stregapolis. What else can she do but put on a show for paying customers? Money has always been tight, but a witch has her ways of survival. Joining up with the Coven has kept her safe and allowed her a modicum of income (most of which goes straight to her Nan and little girl). The Neon District is no place for a child, and though it's not the ideal situation, Jeanie's daughter lives with Jeanie's grandmother- Nan- who is also magically-inclined. In fact, it was Nan that taught Jeanie a simplified love potion that wears off over the course of a year. Of course, love elixirs are one of the many banded magical substances in Stregapolis as it's lent to no small amount of violence- and as always, there is the matter of consent. However, Jeanie's priority is supporting her family, and this is one of the best ways she can contribute to the Coven. Apart from her sweetheart elixirs and love potion lollies, she also makes a nice bit of scratch from her ruby-red, home-brewed pomegranate wine, which is also sold through the Neon Coven-run corner bodega (overseen by a Coven member's aunties). Her wine is also sold at the Stupid Cupid, a sultry little club bathed in red light and owned by the Neons. Once in a blue moon, when there's need, Jeanie tends bar or waits tables, garnering a good bit of unwanted male attention. But the tips are quite nice, especially if she dons the Venusian persona. Weapons and fast rides might be beyond her, but Jeanie is nevertheless a dedicated Neon. Without her Coven, how would she ever be able to take care of her kid?

[lasororiteinfernale]

. B A D M O U T H .

[Open.]

Neon District, Dark-leaning, Air.

Twenty-two.

Badmouth is infamous within the Coven for being a vessel for Chaos- her scream can shatter glass, her words can undo reality, her touch can crack stone and command the wind. She's a force on her own, slicing through the night on a breeze- like a bat flung across the pale moon. Not surprisingly, Badmouth's an adrenaline junkie; if she isn't jumping off of high-rises to show-off, she's betting on underground cage matches or stealing something shiny for the Coven-run chop shop (which is how she came by her slick little bike by the way). Her mechanical skills are decent- and she likes the smell of gasoline and oil . . . would probably bathe in it if she could- which is why she's can be found more often than not at the Coven's hidden garage. Badmouth's made friends with some of the mechanics Drew keeps running the place, and she often crashes there overnight to avoid the piling onto the sofas and the floor with everyone else back at the apartment. Recently, in a fit of brilliance, Badmouth realized there's a treasure trove of scrap for the taking concealed within the Necropolis. It's not like the undead drive cars, and since they aren't using them anymore, she sees no reason why she shouldn't pop over with her designated scrapping crew to take advantage of a good deal. Since she started lifting parts from the Necropolis, she's also realized (That's right- two big ideas in a single month!) that the Neon District is underutilizing what is essentially in their backyard. The Necropolis will, therefore, become the setting for a motorbike raceway as well as a demolition derby- entry prices may vary. The Necropolis is absolutely a dangerous area to be in, but Badmouth has every confidence that the undead can be handled well enough with the Neon Coven's modified flamethrowers (pilfered from the SPD armory, thank you) and strategically placed electrified fencing. Where else can a witch safely demolish various vehicles for bragging rights, away from the prying eyes of law enforcement, if not the Necropolis?

[lasororiteinfernale]

. S A B L E .

[Open.]

Blackly St., Dark-leaning, Water.

Thirty.

Stregapolis' foremost crimelord. To her mother (who, in fact, lives on a yacht far away from any one country's legal jurisdiction), however, Sable is merely the city's most eligible bachelorette. Nevermind expanding Blackly St. territory, drug operations, attaining a third Rolls Royce- naturally, what matters most is a husband of some sort. Sable hardly has the time to entertain her mother's flights of fancy, but the old woman has run out of patience of late and she's seen fit to deliver a suitor straight to Blackly St.'s doorstep. In the form of a rapacious young realestate mogul, well-known in Stregapolis for his outrageous, playboy lifestyle. Grotesquely charming, slick and money-driven- willing, and even happy, to overlook Sable's so-called "little operation" as if he finds Sable and her Coven to be so terribly quaint. Sable would have liked to kill the man on the spot, but upon being gifted a rather splended black diamond collar (an engagement gift), well, she's realized there's still much to consider . . . and it's not as if killing him later isn't still an option. Anyway, nuptials are not at the top of Sable's mind, and neither are the romantic whims of the madwoman that raised her. After all, there's a Coven to oversee and many black deeds to be done in order to maintain it, including but not limited to wiping out the rival Covens to make way for her own grand ambitions and continuing her extortion campaign on SPD. For the moment, things are hairy (especially with the erection of the Necropolis which has placed a considerable strain on her supposed fiancé given many of the buildings within the contained area belong to him), but Sable has every confidence that once she has the SPD safely in her back pocket that it will be simple enough to get rid of the other Covens. Soon enough, the whole of Stregapolis will belong to Blackly St. And, in the meantime, there are lavish engagement parties to plan and realestate moguls to break.

[lasororiteinfernale]

. G R E N N A L L . F L I N T .

[Open.]

Blackly St., Dark-leaning, Earth.

Twenty-nine.

Right-hand man to the High Priestess. Lady Poison, if you must know- the crafter of any and all things noxious, toxic and deadly lethal. Though quirky, as only one with a proclivity for banes and venoms would be, Grennall has an excellent head for the business of the gang which is why she's charged with looking after many of the street-level businesses that the Blackly coven has their hands in. She sees to book-keeping, maintaining the shops and staffing them- the usual sort of thing. But the lion's share of their income is naturally through back-door dealings of their unique hallucinogenic tab ("Tita", i.e. "Tina Tab" or "Titania"), which Grennall crafted a few years ago on her own, along with a highly addictive poison powder ("Goose", i.e. "Golden Soot") which produces a sensational high but requires a detoxifier ("P" or "Purgo") to be administered within hours of its use. Since the advent of these two drugs, Blackly St. has enjoyed a steady flow of income and wealth to spare. All thanks to Grennall. Seedy workings aside, Grennall has plenty of opportunities to meet all sorts of people in Stregapolis, and thus, has made many connections throughout the city. (She is hardly above greasing palms where necessary for the sake of Blackly St. Coven's survival.) There is some dark talk among Coven members that she has some connection with the necromancers involved in the undead infection- such whispers are hardly tolerated by the High Priestess who grew up alongside Grennall and trusts her implicitly. But even the most trusted general has her secrets- Grennall does, indeed, have certain connections to at least one necromancer . . . her twin sister.

[lasororiteinfernale]

. C O W E R . C L A C K .

Wands, Neutral, Earth.

Twenty-four.

Though a witch of some renown, Cower has a reserved temperment and is much too mild for any real gang activity. More or less, she's one of Midsummer's retainers- a Coven member whose main directive is healing. Anything, from a cold to a gunshot wound, Cower can handle. She oversees her own apothecary, concocts medicines and teas, keeps meticulous journals for her own medical treatment archives, and has even helped deliver a baby or two (outside of the Coven). Where Cower falls short is bedside manner. Though attentive to her patients, she can be alarmingly direct. She tends to be somewhat stoic in social situations, but given time, the young healer will warm up to those around her. Things like tagging and grand theft auto may illude Cower entirely, but there is some measure of violence that she can respect. Ultimately, if it were not for the rival gangs, she would still have her younger sister- a gratuitous death for which she quite often beats herself up. Since the undead outbreak, Cower has become a bit more in-her-head than usual. She leaves at night- hooded and masked from nose to throat and smelling heavily of white sage and sandalwood- to infiltrate the Necropolis alone. Risking her own life . . . trying to understand the infection. Cower wants to help eradicate the sickness, but she fears there is only one way to do so: by allying herself with a necromancer. Which is much easier said than done. Their ilk keep to the shadows, slink around underfoot like serpents- catchable as air. Cower believes in healing, in staving off death. She's accustomed to solo work, but this time, given the scale, it will be difficult to handle all on her own. Though she hates the idea, she needs a necromancer.