✞ ⸻ 𝗔 𝗦𝗧𝗨𝗗𝗬 𝗜𝗡 : blood mistaken for rosewater, coffins mistaken for altars, holy water replaced with wine and blood, soft hands capable of impossible cruelties, crimson roses blooming where tragedies were buried, old manors that remember every soul they've ever sheltered, the unbearable beauty of ruin, devotion sharpened into worship, saltwater clinging to skin like an unanswered prayer, velvet dresses trailing through haunted hallways, wolves howling beneath a harvest moon, old churches filled with more sinners than saints, seafoam tangled in dark hair, beautiful women with dangerous hearts, gardens watered with blood instead of rain, the quiet certainty that every beautiful thing is capable of becoming monstrous ⸻ 𝚆𝙴 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝚂𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙳 ✞
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐘𝐀𝐑𝐃 was what you put in the ground. Unless, of course, you were a lavish estate with ample space and fertile grounds, all prettily perched atop a labyrinth of catacombs. In that case, Iara supposed, you were a little bit of both—Which is exactly why she found herself there rather than any of the commercial nurseries across the three nearest towns.
From the blazing sun above to the ink dark soil below, Crimson Peak uniquely straddled the line between life and death and that was precisely the key to what she needed. At least, so she hoped.
In the next moment slim, paint flecked fingers delved into her back pocket and then re-emerged with a neatly folded square of paper. Iara handed it down, allowing enough time for her to consider the request penned upon its single page, before she spoke.
“If you can spare a few, of course.” She’d already seen that the particular breed of rose she sought grew on Amara’s land, but whether or not she’d be willing to part with them was another story. From what she understood, the blooms were rare, temperamental, and, above all else, pricey. "The stems would need to be freshly cut, and the thorns left intact." Especially since it was those, even more so than the petals, she was after.
amara accepted the folded note, her eyes drifting over the request before settling on the sea of crimson blooms surrounding them. they swayed lazily beneath the afternoon breeze, impossibly vibrant against the rich, dark earth. earth that had been spelled generations ago. soil that had been fed far more faithfully than rain alone could ever manage. the montclairs had long understood that beautiful things always demanded a price.
❝ they're beautiful, aren't they? ❞ she folded the paper closed once more before lifting her gaze. ❝ most people only ever see that much. ❞ her fingertips ghosted over a blossom still rooted to its stem.
❝ they are particular. they don't take kindly to unfamiliar hands unless I permit it . . . they aren't harvested for trade, nor are they simply cut because someone asks. ❞ her gaze lingered on the bloom for a moment longer. there was nothing unkind in the refusal. only quiet certainty.
her attention returned to the witch, head tilting ever so slightly. ❝ they remain where thry're planted unless i decide otherwise ❞ after all, No rose of Crimson Peak can be cut unless a Montclair grants permission. ❝ tell me what it is you're making or doing, lara. why do you need my roses ? ❞
so this totally didn't happen because of a wrong turn or anything. really need to watch that; the last thing the siren needs is to fall too deeply into their thoughts and end up lost after dark. thankfully, no darkness abounds, and they glance behind to ensure she means them, in their cropped sweater and white keds. "... my whimsy." can you say that? you can say that right? "is my magical appearance answer to your ... hopes and dreams? a tarot reading? i can never get card readings, they freak me out." the death card shows up a lot. so does the wheel of fortune. if any others do, pear remembers them not, blanked out by the on-the-nose reading of their past. hopefully me wandering around isn't disappointing or something.
A quiet laugh escaped her, warm enough to rival the afternoon sun. Whatever answer she'd been expecting, it certainly hadn't been that and the siren's thoughts certainly were amusing. ❝ I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping for something a little more exciting than a wandering stranger. ❞ Her smile lingered as she set the rose into the basket beside the others. ❝ Though... magical appearances have a certain charm to them. ❞
At the mention of tarot, her brows lifted ever so slightly. ❝ I think the cards only frighten us when they tell the truth before we're ready to hear it. ❞ Rising to her feet, she brushed the dirt from her skirt with practiced ease before putting one of the freshly cut roses in the basket. ❝ Fortunately for you, I much prefer flowers to fortunes. They ask far less of us. I'm Amara. Welcome to Crimson Peak . . . even if you arrived here by whimsy instead of intention . ❞
garden shears rested loosely in one hand as she knelt among the crimson blooms, carefully trimming away dead branches before gathering the healthy ones into a basket at her feet. the afternoon air carried the scent of rain and rosewater, the same delicate fragrance that seemed forever woven into her skin, broken only by the soft crunch of footsteps along the gravel path behind her.
without looking up, a small smile found her lips. ❝ I was beginning to wonder if I'd have company today. ❞ she plucked another rose, turning the bloom thoughtfully between her fingers before finally lifting her gaze. ❝ to what do I owe the pleasure ? ❞
it was obvious, if you looked for it . the way that callie's eyes had started to glaze over , nails tapping lightly against the bar as the length of her attention span got tested . she couldn't even tell , at this point , the source of the aggravation. it'd started off with someone hogging the jukebox , she knew that much , but it'd turned into something about pickles on a burger and now she wasn't sure if they were recalling an episode of spongebob or was truly looking for her do something . “ right , yeah , ” intones lowly , someone shifting in the corner of her eye giving her all the out that she needed . “ give me one sec . ” a shift down the bar , dark hues landing on the next person's . “ hey , sorry for the wait . what'll you have ? ”
Illyria had been watching. Not the woman behind the bar, but the people. The way they spoke over one another. The way they laughed with too many teeth. The strange ritual of exchanging paper for food and drink. When the woman's attention finally settled on her, Illyria blinked once, head tilting in quiet confusion.
❝ Have? ❞ she echoed, the word unfamiliar on her tongue. Her gaze drifted toward the rows of bottles behind the bar before returning just as steadily. ❝ Water. ❞ A pause as she looked over at the man having salmon and pointed at it ❝ That … ❞
tamara retreats considering her mission is complete. she's delivered them their food ; hot vapor rising from the delicious looking meal. she could salivate just at the sight, her v - enhanced senses on full alert. has to reign in her inner wolf from jumping out and devouring it entirely in a few bites. oookay, maybe having lunch is long overdue.
taking off her apron, she's on her way to the section for designated staff when they wave her over. dark brows furrow, tamara reluctantly approaches their table ; tries to conjure up a happy-you're-our-customer smile, though it comes out forced. “ somethin' bad? this is your order. i am sure. ”
Dani pushed through the diner door with a container in one hand and her truck keys in the other. One of the morning co-worker had texted, begging her to bring them some of whatever lunch she was making on her way in to grab her paycheck. she made carne asada with tostones ( fried plantains ). The exchange at the table caught her attention. She gave the plate a quick once-over before looking at the customer.
❝ Food's fine. If there was somethin' wrong with it, I'd be the first one tellin' you. ❞ Her eyes slid to Tamara, then to the container in her hand. ❝ Now go eat before you're eyein' customers' plates harder than the menu. Brought enough lunch for anyone who's tired of the burgers and fries if you want some. Imma grab my paycheck while you're busy rememberin' what food tastes like. ❞
✞ 「 wolf tracks disappearing into black water, the kind of woman who smells of cedarwood and rain-soaked earth, southern lullabies echoing through ancient woods , wildflowers growing where blood once soaked the earth , the taste of iron on her tongue 」 cis woman. she/her. ╱ now nobody in lafleur is saying daniella 'dani' beltran is trouble, but nobody's exactly rushin' to defend them either. folks have been talkin' about the 34 year old bartender / chef at last stop since the day they rolled into town. seems there's always some new story about how they're allegedly a werewolf and have been here for all her life. i don't put much stock in every rumor that floats through this shithole, but with a protective , blunt & ruthless reputation like theirs, something tells me we only scratched the surface of the melissa barerra wannabe's story.
quirks: always barefoot behind the bar after closing • whistles old cajun melodies while cleaning • instinctively sits facing the nearest exit • disappears into the bayou for days without telling anyone • always smells faintly of cedarwood, whiskey, and rain-soaked earth.
pet peeves: dishonesty, unnecessary cruelty, wasted food, people abusing animals, anyone who mistakes kindness for weakness.
mbti personality: ESTP • the entrepreneur.
enneagram type: 6w5 • the defender.
temperament: choleric-sanguine.
moral alignment: neutral.
IV. relationships.
parents: human mother (alive), werewolf father (deceased).
siblings: none.
children: none.
significant other(s): tba.
best friend(s): tba.
enemies: anyone threatening lafleur or those she considers family.
pets: every stray animal in town seems to find its way onto her porch.
other important relationships: the regulars at the local bar & the werewolf community of lafleur
V. bio.
⸻ born and raised in lafleur, louisiana, daniella beltran never knew a life beyond the bayou. she grew up with muddy feet, scraped knees, mosquito bites, and the understanding that the swamp gave just as much as it took. while other children were warned to stay out of the woods after dark, dani followed her father deeper into the cypress trees, learning how to track animals, navigate by the stars, and survive long before she was old enough to understand why those lessons mattered. the bayou wasn't simply where she lived, it raised her.
⸻ her parents were an unlikely pair. her mother was human, stubborn, and hopelessly in love with a man she believed to be entirely ordinary. her father kept one life hidden from the woman he married, convinced that love would be enough to outrun the truth. for six years, it was. then the first full moon came, and dani transformed. in a single night, her mother discovered that werewolves were real, that her husband had lied to her for years, and that her little girl had inherited everything she'd never known to fear.
⸻ while her mother mourned the life she'd imagined, dani's father refused to let the wolf become something shameful. he taught his daughter to embrace it instead. how to hunt. how to survive. how to trust instinct without surrendering to it. the wolf was never a curse in his eyes. it was blood. inheritance. family. dani believed him. she has never apologized for what she is, nor has she ever asked anyone else to accept it.
⸻ the years that followed were anything but easy. her mother loved her fiercely, but she hated the wolf with equal conviction. some days she could separate the two. other days she couldn't. dani learned early that love could be messy, frightened, and painfully imperfect.
⸻ when dani was seventeen, her father passed away unexpectedly. whatever fragile peace had existed inside their home died with him. grief slowly twisted into illness, leaving her mother trapped between memories and reality. there are mornings she's as gentle as she once was, humming while she cooks breakfast and asking dani if she slept well. there are others where fear takes over, where she looks at her own daughter and sees only the wolf. sometimes she lashes out. sometimes she forgets why she was angry moments later. dani never left. she became her mother's caretaker without hesitation, loving her through every lucid smile and every violent episode alike. family isn't always easy. it simply remains family.
⸻ somewhere between pouring whiskey, breaking up bar fights, and throwing out people twice her size, dani became as much a part of lafleur as the bayou itself. if you've lived in town long enough, chances are she's cut you off after one drink too many, patched you up after making a stupid decision, or called you an idiot while helping you back onto your feet. she's got a mouth sharp enough to start a fight and a heart stubborn enough to finish one for someone else. people mistake her sarcasm for indifference until they realize she's already solving their problem while telling them exactly how dumb they were for getting into it.
⸻ she doesn't hand out respect freely, but she gives everyone the same chance to earn it. humans trust her because she never bothers dressing the truth up pretty. wolves respect her because she has never forgotten where she came from. vampires keep coming back because she's never cared about a pair of fangs so long as they know how to behave. even hunters know better than to waste their breath lying to her. dani has no patience for self-righteousness, excuses, or people pretending they're better than everybody else. in her experience, stupidity comes in every species.
⸻ when vampires stepped out of the coffin, lafleur lost its damn mind. neighbors turned on neighbors overnight, churches filled with sermons about damnation, and everybody suddenly became an expert on monsters. dani mostly rolled her eyes. she'd spent her entire life watching people blame whatever frightened them most. first it was the satanists. now it is vampires. tomorrow it'd be something else. she refused to join the hysteria. if a vampire started trouble, she'd throw them out of her bar. if a human started it, she'd throw them out just as fast. she doesn't pick sides. she picks whoever's being the bigger asshole.
⸻ now, with annie mae boudreaux's murder threatening to tear lafleur apart, everyone seems desperate to find someone to blame before the truth has a chance to catch up. dani isn't interested in gossip, panic, or witch hunts. she'll keep pouring drinks, calling people on their bullshit, and protecting the town she loves the only way she knows how ... even if it means getting blood on her hands. because one thing the bayou taught her long ago is that the loudest people are rarely the dangerous ones. it's the quiet ones you've got to watch.
✞ 「 saltwater drying on sun-kissed skin, deep waters hiding forgotten kingdoms and the bloody crown she wears, the ocean's alpha trapped beneath an unfamiliar sky, instincts far older than language, hunger mistaken for violence, every wave whispering come home. 」 gender nonconforming. she/they. ╱ now nobody in lafleur is saying illyria 'lyra' is trouble, but nobody's exactly rushin' to defend them either. folks have been talkin' about the 31/150+ year old unemployed since the day they rolled into town. seems there's always some new story about how they're allegedly a siren and have been here for a week. i don't put much stock in every rumor that floats through this shithole, but with a predatory, naive & stubborn reputation like theirs, something tells me we only scratched the surface of the phoebe tonkin wannabe's story.
II. basic information.
name: illyria.
nickname(s): lyra.
date of birth: unknown.
place of birth: the atlantic ocean.
age: 31 / 150+.
zodiac sign: unknown.
gender identity: gender nonconforming.
pronouns: she/they.
sexual orientation: demisexual.
romantic orientation: demiromantic.
faceclaim: phoebe tonkin.
species: siren.
languages: siren tongue, english ( broken ), understands body language better than words.
negative traits: territorial, possessive, ruthless, naive, stubborn, emotionally detached from human customs.
quirks: tilts her head when studying people • sniffs those she meets before deciding whether they're trustworthy • dislikes wearing shoes • maintains unwavering eye contact • circles people like a predator before deciding they're safe.
pet peeves: cages, confinement, loud machinery, polluted water, anyone threatening her colony, being ordered around.
mbti personality: ENTJ • the commander.
enneagram type: 8w7 • the maverick.
temperament: choleric.
moral alignment: chaotic neutral.
IV. relationships.
parents: deceased/unknown.
siblings: none.
children: every member of her colony is considered her responsibility.
significant other(s): tba.
best friend(s): tba.
enemies: the humans responsible for capturing her ( deceased )
pets: a couple of sea creatures.
other important relationships: the vampire, werewolf, or witch who discovered her after her escape and has been teaching her how to survive on land ( wanted connection ) & the two sirens she freed from captivity, each from a different colony ( wanted connections ).
V. bio.
⸻ long before ships carved paths across the atlantic and long before men gave names to the waters they feared, she was born beneath them. deep within the endless blue, where sunlight surrendered to darkness and ancient songs echoed farther than memory itself, she drew her first breath. among her kind, lineage mattered little compared to instinct, strength, and the ability to lead. from the moment she was old enough to swim beside her colony, it was evident she possessed all three.
⸻ the sea was never merely her home, it was her kingdom. raised among one of the oldest siren colonies in the atlantic ocean, illyria grew beneath the watchful eyes of queens and hunters alike. sirens did not inherit crowns simply because they were born to them. queens were chosen through strength, instinct, wisdom, and the unwavering trust of their colony. illyria earned that place long before she reached maturity, proving herself through seasons of hardship and sacrifice until the colony accepted her as both their queen and alpha. leadership was never about power. it was about ensuring every member of the colony returned home.
⸻ unlike the stories humans tell, sirens kept their distance from mankind. they did not seek ships or lure sailors for sport. humans were unpredictable creatures who scarred the ocean with noise, blood, and iron. illyria had never spoken to one, never walked upon land, and never cared to know the world above the waves. it simply wasn't hers.
⸻ the day everything changed began like countless others. illyria had left the colony behind to inspect the outer reaches of her territory, patrolling the waters as she often did before the mating season. she never returned. hidden beneath the surface waited a group of humans who had spent years searching for proof that creatures like her existed. electrified nets, iron restraints, and tranquilizers accomplished what no predator beneath the sea ever had. separated from her colony and unable to call for help, the queen of the atlantic was taken far away from the sea that is her own.
⸻ captivity did not break her. she watched and waited until the opportunity finally came. when her captors grew careless, illyria killed every one of them without hesitation. before fleeing, she broke open the remaining cages, freeing two captive sirens from rival colonies. despite generations of territorial rivalry, she refused to leave them behind. the sea would decide their future not the cruelty of mankind.
⸻ only days have passed since she reached lafleur. the land still feels foreign beneath her feet. she struggles with human customs, language, clothing, and the strange expectation that people should hide what they are. she still tilts her head when confused, studies people the way a predator studies unfamiliar prey, and finds herself instinctively searching every horizon for the ocean she can no longer hear as clearly. there are moments she forgets to speak at all, believing actions have always carried greater meaning than words.
⸻ despite everything, illyria remains exactly what the atlantic made her. she is queen before captive, predator before prey, and she will endure the unfamiliar world of men until she is back home. but make no mistake, the tide has not forgotten its queen, and neither has she.
✞ 「 she’s made up of blood, silk, lace, and rose water, winter roses blooming where blood once stained the earth, candle wax dripping onto forgotten love letters, a house that collected lost souls as easily as dust. 」 cis woman. she/ her . ╱ now nobody in lafleur is saying amara montclair is trouble, but nobody's exactly rushin' to defend them either. folks have been talkin' about the 29 year old owner of crimson peak since the day they rolled into town. seems there's always some new story about how they're allegedly a halfling and have been here for all her life. i don't put much stock in every rumor that floats through this shithole, but with a morally questionable, passionate & resourceful reputation like theirs, something tells me we only scratched the surface of the danielle campbell wannabe's story.
II. basic information.
name: amara montclair.
nickname(s): the rose of crimson peak, princess, lady montclair.
date of birth: december 21st.
place of birth: crimson peak estate, lafleur, louisiana.
age: twenty-nine.
zodiac sign: capricorn.
gender identity: cis woman.
sexual orientation: bisexual.
romantic orientation: biromantic.
faceclaim: danielle campbell.
species: halfling.
languages: english, french, latin, german, aramaic, old norse.
occupation: owner and proprietor of crimson peak estate.
quirks: keeps fresh flowers in every room • lights every candle in crimson peak before sunset • treats burying a body with the same care she gives tending her roses • routinely walks the catacombs beneath the manor • remembers every guest who's ever slept beneath her roof.
pet peeves: disrespect toward her home, broken promises, anyone threatening the people living under her roof.
mbti personality: INTJ • the architect.
enneagram type: 8w9 • the bear.
temperament: melancholic–choleric.
moral alignment: true neutral.
IV. relationships.
parents: deceased. daughter of a faerie father and a human mother.
siblings: none.
children: none.
significant other(s): wanted connection.
best friend(s): tba.
enemies: the vampire responsible for the massacre that claimed the Montclair family.
pets: a murder of crows that has claimed Crimson Peak as their home.
other important relationships: the vampire who raised her following the massacre of her family ( wanted connection ) & the permanent vampire residents of Crimson Peak, whom she considers family rather than guests.
V. bio.
⸻ born on the longest night of the year, december 21st, amara montclair entered the world within the walls of **crimson peak**, the sprawling estate her family had called home for generations. the daughter of a faerie father and a human mother, she was born into a bloodline as beautiful as it was tragic. before she was old enough to remember the warmth of her parents' embrace, tragedy found the manor. a vampire with an old vendetta against emilia montclair descended upon crimson peak, slaughtering nearly everyone within its walls. amara was only three years old. she survived by nothing more than chance, left scarred by that night before one of the estate's longtime vampire residents carried her from the blood-soaked halls and refused to let the montclair name disappear with the rest of her family.
⸻ the child everyone expected to fear monsters instead grew up among them. crimson peak remained her home, and while her guardian oversaw the estate, everyone knew it belonged to amara. from the time she could walk the halls on her own, she insisted on helping with whatever she could. welcoming guests, learning the history of every room, memorizing old ledgers, tending the rose gardens, and listening to the stories of the vampires who had called the manor home for decades. crimson peak was never simply inherited ... it had always been hers.
⸻ raised almost entirely by vampires, amara learned history, languages, music, and the quiet etiquette of immortality. they also taught her something the rest of the world never seemed to understand ... that humanity had very little to do with a heartbeat. the creatures who tucked her into bed, celebrated her birthdays, and mourned alongside her possessed more compassion than many of the people who whispered prayers every sunday. it shaped the woman she would become.
⸻ there has always been something deceptively delicate about amara. perhaps it's the softness in her voice, the lace she favors, or the way she greets every guest as though they'd been expected all along. people have spent most of her life looking at her as something fragile. something to be protected. an angel wandering through a garden of evil. they mistake her warmth for innocence, her compassion for weakness, never realizing she survived horrors that would have broken most people long ago. amara simply learned that kindness and violence have never been mutually exclusive.
⸻ the older she grew, the more impossible she became to ignore. there was an undeniable allure about her that lingered like the scent of roses after rain. vampires found themselves extending their stays at crimson peak for reasons they could never quite explain. she became forbidden fruit without ever trying to be. beautiful enough to tempt, gentle enough to disarm, and quietly dangerous enough that few ever realized the mistake until it was far too late.
⸻ today, amara runs crimson peak exactly as it has always been run. every candle is lit before sunset, every room is meticulously cared for, every guest welcomed with effortless hospitality. beneath the manor, however, lies a far older inheritance. hidden beneath its foundations stretches a labyrinth of an ancient catacomb spoken of only in ghost stories. amara knows every passage by heart. she tends to them as faithfully as she tends the crimson rose gardens blooming above, believing the dead deserve as much care as the living. over the years, crimson peak has become the final resting place for many souls.
⸻ when vampires revealed themselves to the world, lafleur divided almost overnight. neighbors became suspicious of one another, churches preached damnation, and fear spread faster than truth. amara watched it unfold from the front porch of crimson peak with quiet certainty. she'd spent her entire life surrounded by vampires and knew monsters were measured by their choices, never by their species. human, vampire, werewolf ... it had never mattered much to her. beneath her roof, respect was the only currency she accepted. kindness would always be offered first. mercy, however, had to be earned.
⸻ these days, the people of lafleur speak about the lady of crimson peak the way they speak about the manor itself. some insist she's an angel misplaced among monsters. others swear the roses bloom so vividly because the soil has tasted too much blood. some whisper that the house collects lost souls as easily as dust. amara has never confirmed nor denied a single rumor. she simply smiles, pours another cup of tea, and lets people believe whatever helps them sleep at night. after all, the safest secrets have always been the ones hidden in plain sight.
