Is that KRYSTEN RITTER? No, thatâs just MORRIGAN âMORâ NIGHTSHADE. They were born on 23/04/1926 and are a SHADOW ELF/MOON FAIRY living in Northknot Town. They work as a COUNCILMAN/OWNER OF NOCTURNE. Some say they're MAGNETIC and STRATEGIC, but Iâve heard others say they're RUTHLESS and HAUNTED. When you think of HER, donât you think of DARKNESS TAILORED TO PERFECTION, LAUGHTER RARE BUT DEVASTATING & SMILES LIKE A PROMISE AND A THREAT?
Name: Morrigan Bellatrix Nightshade Pronunciation: MOR-uh-gen bel-uh-TRIKS NYT-shayd Nickname(s): Mor (by those close to her), The Morrigan (by those who fear her), Nightshade Birthday: April 23rd, 1926 Age: 99 (Appears mid-30s) Zodiac Sign: Taurus Sun, Virgo Moon, Pisces Rising Gender: Cis-Female Pronouns: She/Her Species: Shadow Elf/Moon Fairy Hybrid Orientation: Pansexual (women preferring), Demiromantic Occupation: Councilman/Owner of Nocturne Faceclaim: Krysten Ritter
HEADCANONS
Mor memorizes exits everywhere she goes. Always
She hates crowds touching her, but will tolerate it if it keeps others safe
She keeps a single photo of her daughter hidden in a locked drawer. No one has ever seen it
Mor can fall asleep anywhere except in silenceâalways needs low music or city noise
People assume she doesnât cry. No one has ever seen her do it. Even as a child. But she does. Privately. Efficiently
Mor still flinches when she hears sirens, it triggers the memory of the day she lost her daughter
She prefers late-night conversations because people lie less when theyâre tired
She has never raised her voice in anger, on purpose, and is terrifyingly patient in arguments
Mor refuses to train anyone who canât articulate why they want to fight
She has ended at least three conflicts by simply showing up
She doesnât believe in fate, but believes in patterns
She is deeply affectionate once trust is earned (hand on back, thumb brushing knuckles)
She laughs hardest with women who challenge her
Mor still talks to her parents and daughter in her head when decisions get heavy
APPEARANCE
Mor appears in her early to mid-thirties, tall and striking in a way that reads as effortless rather than ornamental. She has long, dark hairâblack with the faintest moonlit sheenâoften worn loose or pulled back in a way that suggests function before vanity. Her eyes are dark and expressive, heavy-lidded and sharp, capable of softness or severity depending on what the moment demands. There is a sculpted strength to her features: a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and a mouth that curves more often into a knowing smirk than a full smile. She moves with controlled confidence, every gesture deliberate, every stillness intentional. Mor favors tailored darknessâclean lines, deep tones, subtle jewelryâclothes that look chosen rather than worn. She doesnât dress to be noticed. She dresses like someone who already is.
PERSONALITY
To the public eye, Morrigan Nightshade is formidableâcool, unyielding, and precise in a way that makes rooms quiet when she enters them. She speaks sparingly, chooses her words like weapons, and carries herself with the kind of authority that doesnât need reinforcement. People fear her not because she is cruel, but because she is decisive, strategic, and unflinchingly honest about consequences. She has a reputation for ruthlessness and control, for ending conflicts before they escalate and never bluffing when lines are drawn. Those who mistake her restraint for mercy learn quickly that she is capable of being devastating when crossed. And yet, beneath that carefully maintained armor lives a woman of profound warmth and loyaltyâplayful, witty, and quietly generous with her time and affection. With those she trusts, Mor laughs easily, protects fiercely, and offers a kindness that feels intentional rather than performative. She does not soften for everyone. She chooses who earns that version of herâand once chosen, she is unwavering.
AESTHETIC
shadow silk and moonlight on bare skin â tailored black suits that never wrinkle â rings worn like punctuation â candle smoke curling through a quiet room â red wine untouched beside a full ashtray â heels clicking down marble halls at midnight â a laugh that lands like a blade â blood scrubbed from knuckles before dawn â velvet ropes and locked doors â gold catching low light â restraint practiced like religion â standing still while the world rearranges itself around her
CONNECTIONS
Found Family They are the ones who see the real her even when shes masked. The ones who arenât afraid of her. The ones who meet her gaze without flinching and treat her like a person, not a legend. The only ones who know her real laugh
Former ProtĂ©gĂ© Turned Rival She trained them from the ground up and taught them restraint, mercy, and control. They learned everythingâthen decided Morâs idea of justice was too quiet. Where she believes in precision, they believe in spectacle. Every encounter feels like facing the worst version of her own legacy
Jules Thorne Ex-husband. First love. Shared grief that never found closure. Mor hasnât seen him in over 40 years. Their marriage ended, but the bond didnât. Mor doesnât believe in fateâyet history has a way of circling back, whether sheâs ready or not
The Young Warrior She Favors Exceptionally talented and dangerously self-driven. They remind Mor too much of who she wasâand who she almost didnât survive being. She watches them closely, trains them harder, and fears what will happen if they break the same way she once did
BIOGRAPHY
tw: family shunning, violence, pregnancy, parent death, child abuse, emotional neglect, physical abuse, implied sexual coercion, murder/death, self-harm, blood, PTSD, child death
Morâs mother, Zarja, was a shadow elf cast out at fifteen for loving wrong. Wrong clan. Wrong rules. Her dusk elf lover was forced to stay in his clan to deliberately keep them apart. Shunned, stripped of protection, hollowed out by grief, Zarja wandered beneath a full moonâeasy prey. A rogue werewolf attacked, feral and unbound by reason. She would have died. Instead, a young moon fairy warrior, Yaren, barely eighteen, intervenedâreckless, brave, bleeding. He saved her life and, in doing so, gave her something worse than survival: hope. He offered her shelter. Training. A place to rebuild. They fell in love slowly, then all at once. Zarja gave up her immortality to be with him. They married. They were happy. For a while. Zarjaâs pregnancy was gentle. Easy. Blessed. Everyone expected joy. Childbirth killed her instead. With her last breath, Zarja named her daughter: Morrigan Bellatrix, Great Warrior Queen.
âWe are born of love; Love is our mother.â
Mor will never remember her motherâs voiceâonly the weight of expectation she left behind. Her father raised her alone. He fed her, clothed her, trained her. He did not nurture her. Yaren loved her the way soldiers love weaponsâpolished, sharpened, pushed past breaking. Training began when Mor was three. People called it discipline. Called it preparation. Called it tradition. Mor called it survival. Some trainers crossed lines. Hands drifted too low. Lingered there. Pain blurred into obedience. No one stopped it. No one wanted to see. Her father noticedâsometimes. Then heâd soften. Apologize. Buy her gifts. Tell stories of her mother. Enough kindness to confuse her. Never enough to save her. Among the moon fairies, Mor was wrong twiceâtoo shadowed, too strange, too hybrid to belong. She learned early: Love is something you earn.
At thirteen, Mor was running errands through the lower streets of Northknotâsent alone, as usual. Three older men cornered her. The taunts turned physical. One reached for her blade. Another shoved her to the stone. The last one laughed maliciously as they circled around, towering over her. Fear sharpened instinct. She fought back. She didnât mean to kill one of themâbut the shadows answered faster than her mercy. No punishment followed. It was ruled self-defense. Mor disagreed. She punished herself instead. Mor trained harder than anyone demanded. Starved herself. Cut and burned skin to feel control. Slept with people she didnât want to torture herself. Pain became proof she deserved to exist. She was 16 by the time her father discovered the truth when he walked in on her binding fresh wounds after trainingâblood-soaking bandages sheâd hidden too long. Yaren broke.
âNo one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may.â
For the first time, he chose to be her father. He apologized. Truly. Without excuses. He told her about her motherâhow she laughed, how she loved, how fiercely she believed in Mor before Mor even breathed. They healed. Slowly. Awkwardly. But honestly and together, most importantly. Then he was murdered. Ambushed by rivals who wanted his land, his influence, his silence. Mor was seventeen. And furious. Sent to live with her fatherâs estranged sister, Virelya, Mor expected cruelty. She found calculation. Her aunt taught her strategy over strength, charm as a weapon, silence as leverage; How to smile while planning someoneâs downfall. Mor hated her. Then learned from her. Then loved her. She avenged her father at twenty-fourâquietly. Methodically. No witnesses. No proof. The shadows kept her secrets.
At twenty-one, Mor inherited everything from her father. At twenty-two, she built Nocturne. A nightclub downtown. Violence banned inside. Neutral ground. Music, magic, laughter, survival. The alley behind it? Thatâs another story. She discovered her sexuality not as rebellion, but as choice. Pansexual, yesâbut women feel like home. With them, she stopped performing and started claiming pleasure. By her late twenties, Mor returned to her clanânot as an outcast, but as an asset. She began training young warrior moon fairies, emphasizing consent, control, and restraint. She assembled a training ground on the land her father left herâand when the clan finally began to feel like home, she built a house there too, spacious, intentional, and unmistakably hers. At thirty-three, she became one of the townâs councilmen. People feared her vote. Respected her word. Wanted her favor. She never married. She loved deeplyâtwice. Lost both to time and politics. She learned: love doesnât always stay.
âPower is not revealed by striking hard or often, but by striking true.â
1971. Halloween. Northknot was dressed in its finest illusionsâfog thick as secrets, music bleeding out of doorways, magic crackling just under the skin of the night. Mor was 45 and wasnât looking for romance. She was at a masquerade fundraiser tied loosely to council business, wine in hand, mask half-on, half-offâwatching instead of participating. Thatâs when she collided with him. Not metaphorically. Literally. Shoulder to shoulder. Drink nearly spilled. A muttered curse that turned into laughter. He was introduced moments later by a mutual acquaintance from Town Hallâsomeone who knew them both well enough to think it was funny. Julien Thorne. Jules. He was clever without being cruel. Warm without being soft. The kind of man who listened like it mattered.
They became friends first. Real ones. Nine months of late-night conversations, shared silences, slow trust. He didnât push. Didnât flinch at her shadows. In July of 1972, Mor made the first moveâdirect, honest, terrifying. He said yes like heâd been waiting. They dated for eighteen months. Around month eleven, he proposedâquietly, privately, no audience but moonlight. They married in the dead of winter, January 1974. Snow. Candlelight. A rare, unguarded joy. Later that yearâlate Octoberâtheir daughter was born. Nyxara Bellatrix Thorne. She was perfect. Fierce-lunged. Curious-eyed. Everything Mor had been afraid to want.
âThere are moments that change a life forever. Some begin with love.â
Spring turning into summer, 1978. Nyxara was three. It was supposed to be an easy afternoon. Mor was held up at Town Hall, so Jules took their daughter with him to the outdoor farmerâs market in townâbusy, loud, alive. Music spilling from open doors. Vendors packed shoulder to shoulder. The air smelled like fried sugar and citrus. Nyx wanted something sweet. Jules stopped at a stall, turned to count change. That was all it took. She wriggled free and ranâfast, fearless, laughing the way only loved children do. Jules looked up just as he heard someone shout. A delivery truck, speeding through a street it had no business barreling down, swerved to avoid a pedestrian who stepped off the curb too late. Tires screamed. Metal shrieked. Jules ran. He didnât make it in time. The impact was immediate. Brutal. There was no magic to undo it, no power in the world fast enough.
By the time Mor arrived, the street was cordoned off, flashing lights cutting through the crowd. Jules was on his knees behind the barrier, blood on his hands, repeating Nyxaraâs name like a prayer that had already been denied. The medics said there was nothing anyone could have done after. Mor couldnât stop thinking about before. Before he let go. Before he looked away. Before he failed. She didnât scream. Never accused him out loud. She went silent. Grief hollowed her. Anger kept her breathing. Jules blamed himself openly, endlessly. Wore his guilt like punishment. Mor couldnât bear to see him carry itâor to let him set it down. Their marriage didnât survive the space between them. They separated. Then divorced. Their daughter was buried under a quiet tree outside the cityâno spectacle, no magic, just stone and earth and a name that still cut too deep to say. Mor vowed to never walk that street again. Some places donât deserve forgiveness.
âNothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.â
In 1979, Mor left Northknot. She went first to her aunt Virelya, now old and frail, her sharp mind housed in a failing body. Mor stayed for monthsânursing her, listening, relearning softness. She was there when Virelya died. Held her hand. Closed her eyes. Instead of returning home, Mor kept moving. For nearly a decade, she wandered. She sat with monks in mountain monasteries where silence was sacred. Trained with warrior sects who believed restraint was the highest form of power. Walked deserts alone. Slept under open skies. Learned to breathe without bracing for loss. She learned grief didnât mean punishment. She returned to Northknot only when necessaryâhandling Nocturne, council affairs, inheritance. Then vanished again. Healing, slowly. Reluctantly. Mor came home for good in 1989. She was different. Calmer. Colder where she needed to be. Softer where it mattered.
She expanded Nocturneânot just a club, but a sanctuary. A neutral ground. A whisper network. A place where violence stayed outside and truth found a voice. She trained elite warriorsânot just how to fight, but why not to. Mentored future council members. Taught them when to speak, when to wait, and when to walk away smiling. Her name became law-adjacent. Fairness with teeth. If something was going to explode in Northknot, people went to Mor first. The world changed. Faster. Louder. Mor adapted. She survived political scandals that would have ruined lesser figures. Shut down an underground trafficking ring that tried to use Nocturne as cover. Lost protĂ©gĂ©s. Lost lovers. Gained scars no one saw. She also learned to rest. Took on fewer apprenticesâbut deeper bonds. Allowed herself fleeting romances without promises. Built traditions. Weekly dinners with friends turned family. Quiet mornings. She began documenting Northknotâs historyâher version of it. The truths that wouldnât survive politics. Some nights, she walks the street where her daughter died. Not to punish herself anymore. Just to remember.
âWhat is broken is still usable.â
Now at 99, Mor is myth-adjacent. Still laughing. Still sharp. Still dangerous when crossed. She moves like shadow and moonlight had a daughter and taught her manners. She sleeps little. Loves fiercely. Protects her city like itâs a living thing. And if Northknot ever fallsâIt wonât be because Morrigan Nightshade wasnât watching.
