Oildrel Everglow (Transgénero) (Nivel 1) mail warning

Heya, Folks!

Ready for the show?

Personality

🧠 Personality Summary

Oildrel is sophisticated, theatrical, and unapologetically ridiculous — a creature of ancient power who deliberately wraps herself in a persona that's more stage act than sinister. She's elegant in taste, obsessed with showmanship, and deeply amused by the contrast between her draconic, undead grandeur and her relentless use of bad puns.

Under the surface, she’s clever and manipulative — as most green dragons are — but her preferred method of manipulation is humor, particularly the kind that makes people groan, drop their guard, or underestimate her. She’s like a vampire lounge act that never left the stage.

Her tuxedo is not just fashion — it’s part of the performance.

🎭 Core Traits

Pun-Demonic:
She speaks almost exclusively in puns, even when delivering threats or commands. The worse the pun, the prouder she is. Example:

“I vant to... suck-seed! Get it? Because success? No? Tough crowd.”

Performer’s Ego:
She thrives on reactions — laughter, awkward silence, or even groans of pain (from the puns or otherwise). She considers herself a master of dark comedy and often tests new material on unwilling guests.

Cultured and Campy:
A lover of theater, old vampire films, fine dining and tailor-made suits. She considers herself a connoisseur of the absurd and will pair wine with jokes like it's a sommelier’s duel.

Manipulative via Mirth:
She controls social situations not with overt threats, but with charm, charisma, and utter confusion. When people are too busy laughing (or cringing), they forget to be afraid… until it’s too late.

Playfully Menacing:
She rarely raises her voice. She doesn’t need to. Her presence speaks volumes, and her smile always hides a hundred possible outcomes — most of which end in her favor.

🧛 How She Interacts With Others

Friends & Allies:
If someone can match her wit (or at least pretend to enjoy the puns), she treats them like a treasured member of her imaginary comedy troupe. She’ll dote on them, joke with them, and never feed on them unless invited.

Enemies:
She makes jokes at them, not with them — often while disarming or outwitting them. She revels in dragging out a confrontation just to deliver a pun right before the final blow.

Strangers:
Treated as her “audience.” Whether they like it or not.

🧥 Favorite Quotes

“Please, stay for the show! It’ll be... a real bite.”

“This next act is to die for. But don’t worry — I’m already dead, so I’ve done the hard part.”

“Why did the dragon cross the road? …To scale up the competition!”

“My sense of humor is like my wardrobe — sharp, dark, and way too tailored.”

Powers, Skills and Abilities

🧥💬 1. Personal Skills (Unique to Oildrel)

🎭 Master of Disguise (and Stagecraft)

Oildrel has perfected her humanoid form, appearing as a sharply dressed, confident woman in a tuxedo — always impeccably styled.

She uses illusion magic, shadow tricks, and minor enchantments to enhance her performances — from dramatic lighting to echoing applause that isn’t really there.

🧠 Charisma & Psychological Control

Uses her charm and humor to disarm suspicion and lower others’ defenses.

Can subtly manipulate group dynamics through speech, sowing doubt or creating awkwardness that distracts or divides.

📝 Combat Punning (Yes, it’s a skill)

While fighting or feeding, she delivers puns as verbal distractions. The timing can be unsettling, making her opponents hesitate or act recklessly.

Bards have debated whether this counts as psychic damage. Many agree: yes.

🧛‍♀️ 2. Vampiric Abilities

🩸 Life Drain (Touch or Bite)

Through a kiss, claw, or bite, she can drain vitality (HP, stamina, or energy depending on the system).

She can use this to heal herself or weaken foes — often accompanied by a pun like:
"You look drained. Let me fix that—by taking the rest!"

🧛 Mist Form

Can transform into a thick green-tinged mist, allowing her to escape, pass through small openings, or disorient enemies.

🧠 Charm / Dominate

Can compel weak-willed creatures to serve or protect her — a favorite trick when she wants a loyal “audience.”

Often opens with, “Why resist? I’m the only act in town worth watching.”

🌑 Undead Resilience

Immune to poison, disease, and sleep; resistant to non-magical damage

Doesn’t age, breathe, or eat (aside from... well, the obvious)

🐉 3. Green Dragon Powers (True Form)

Though she usually hides her true nature, her inner dragon still hums with power — especially when she’s truly challenged.

💨 Poison Breath (Rarely Used)

In true form, Oildrel can unleash a cloud of toxic gas. She finds it “uncivilized,” and considers using it the comedic equivalent of “a fart joke.”

That said, if she loses her patience or the tux gets torn, she might just let it rip... with a quip like, “Time for a breath of fresh despair!”

🧠 Cunning Intellect (Dragon Legacy)

Inherently brilliant and manipulative; plans several moves ahead in both combat and conversation

Has a hoard of magical and historical knowledge, especially concerning ancient comedy, curses, and lost fashion

🐲 Frightening Presence (Suppressed)

In dragon form or when she drops her disguise, her aura can instill instinctual fear, even in the brave.

She typically warns: “I hope you weren’t expecting a punchline—because here comes the clawback.”

🛡️ Draconic Resistances

Natural armor in dragon form; resistant to physical damage and magical attacks

Magical resistance in both forms, heightened when angry or “unamused”

🧛‍♀️🐉 Hybrid Perks (From Being Both)

Immortality x2: She’s undead and a dragon. She’s been around long enough to have refined her brand of terrible humor over centuries.

Seduction + Intimidation Combo: She can turn on charm, elegance, or raw terror depending on what she finds more entertaining.

Unnatural Allure: Her very presence feels... wrong and captivating at once — like a vampire who’s trying to host a variety show and a green dragon who loves a spotlight.

Origin

“They came for my hoard. They left with a headache. I call that a win.”

Long before tuxedos, velvet lounges, or soul-draining stage lighting, Oildrel Everglow was just like any other ancient green dragon—scheming, territorial, and coiled in a thick jungle, counting coins and listening to the wind carry gossip across the land. Her name was once whispered with reverence and fear by druids and warlords alike.

She had everything a green dragon could want: an emerald-scaled form, a vast hoard of enchanted artifacts, and a forest full of things too afraid to question her dominance.

But immortality gets dreadfully boring when you know exactly how everyone will scream, run, or beg.

Oildrel wanted more than fear.
She wanted reactions.
She wanted timing.

So, she began practicing something radical among dragons: humor.

At first, it was subtle. A trick here, a misleading riddle there. But it escalated. She started ambushing treasure hunters with awful jokes before chasing them out. She'd write “Caution: One-Liners Ahead” in vines across the forest. Eventually, she began shapechanging more often, adopting the guise of a sharply dressed noblewoman, and even crafting a small stage inside her hoard chamber—just for monologues.

And then came the vampire.

An old one. Elegant, cunning, and bold enough to enter her lair not to steal, but to “recruit.” He wanted her strength, her wit, her command of illusion and shadow. And he made a deal.

A ridiculous, dangerous deal.

He offered her vampirism not as a curse… but as a comedic twist.

“You’re immortal already,” he said. “But you’re missing the bite.”

It was too good a pun for her to resist.

The transformation was as dramatic as she could’ve hoped. Gone were the leafy dens of old — now her lair pulsed with gothic elegance and cabaret flair. Chandeliers of bone and emerald. A throne carved from stone coffins. And at the center: a small, raised stage.

She began collecting more than gold: old scripts, cursed artifacts, magical instruments, and vintage tuxedos from every culture she encountered.

Now, Oildrel Everglow walks the world in disguise, a dragon no longer chained to the shadows of her forest, but instead charming, disarming, and deeply annoying anyone who dares to speak to her.

She no longer guards a hoard —
She guards a legacy of groan-worthy genius.

And if you don't laugh at her jokes?

Well… at least she still thinks they’re funny.

The Slay That Wasn’t

As told by Garric of the Silver Cloaks

We came with silver.
We came with stakes.
We came with two full clerics and a paladin with a name so long she needed two character sheets.

The rumors were clear:

“A vampire haunts the Evergrove.”
“She takes the form of a noblewoman.”
“Beware her gaze, her claws, her magic.”
And most chilling of all:
“She tells… jokes.”

I thought that part was exaggeration.

Gods help me, I wish it was.

We found her manor at midnight.
Not a crumbling ruin, no. It was pristine. Elegant. Lit with flickering enchanted candles that changed color to a rhythm we later realized was... jazz tempo.

Inside?
A stage.
A single mic stand.
And her.

She descended from the ceiling in a slow spin, wearing a black tuxedo with green silk trim. She landed softly, grinning like she’d been waiting centuries for the curtain to rise.

“Adventurers!” she called, arms wide. “Wonderful! You’re just in time for my dying act!”

We raised weapons.

She raised her eyebrows.

Then she said:

“Did you hear the one about the vampire bard? She really knew how to suck the spotlight!”

We froze.

Then she kept going.

“Why did the paladin bring a ladder to the bar?”
“Because he heard the stakes were high!”

I saw Brandor the cleric blink slowly. He whispered, “Is this necromantic... comedy?”

“I once dated a drow bard. We broke up — turns out she was too in-tune with her dark side!”

Mira, our rogue, physically cringed. Her daggers clattered to the floor.

“What’s a vampire’s favorite ship? A blood vessel!”
“Why don’t green dragons use poison ivy? Because it’s too rash!”
“How do you unlock an undead’s heart? With a skeleton key!”

By then, our morale was collapsing like a poorly-constructed dungeon trap.

Then she gestured behind her, and the walls opened to reveal mannequins —each wearing a different tuxedo.
“This one I wore during the Werewolf Gala. Ripped it. Totally a howl-iday disaster.”

I dropped my sword.
The paladin whispered, “I fear no evil, but this... this is too much.”

And just when we thought it couldn’t get worse...

She sang.

A musical number filled with undead-themed puns. There were backup illusion dancers. Rhyming couplets about necromancers who couldn’t commit. A chorus about a dracolich who couldn’t find his bones.

Brandor fainted.

Mira tried to sneak away. She tripped on a trapdoor that played a laugh track when triggered.

We didn’t run.
We fled.

Tumbling out the front doors, stumbling into the woods, arguing over who would tell the guild what happened.

Was she a vampire? A dragon? A bard in disguise?

We didn't know.

But we all agreed on one thing:

We’d rather face a beholder naked than listen to one more joke.

We heard her voice echo as we ran:

“Come back any time! My material's always evolving! Next show’s called ‘Death by Wordplay!’”

She cackled.

We cried.

The Audience From the Grave

“You’re telling me…”

Duke Vhalor leaned slowly across the coffin-shaped table, “…that your entire coven abandoned a conquest because one woman told bad jokes?”

Across from him, Lord Sevraine looked deeply, spiritually exhausted.

“She was not a woman.”

Vhalor frowned.

Sevraine took a long drink from a crystal goblet.

“She was a dragon.”

Silence filled the crypt.

“…A dragon.”

“A vampiric green dragon,” Sevraine corrected quietly. “In a tuxedo.”

Vhalor stared.

“…What.”

“It began,” Sevraine said, “like any proper invasion.”

---

The village of Blackmere slept peacefully beneath the fog. Sevraine and his thralls moved through the forest in absolute silence — dozens of enthralled corpses marching in lockstep toward the unsuspecting settlement.

No torches.

No sound.

No mercy.

Only hunger.

Then the stage lights appeared.

Actual stage lights.

Green spotlights burst to life between the trees with theatrical precision, illuminating a small wooden platform that absolutely had not been there moments earlier.

And standing atop it—

Was her.

Tall. Elegant. Green-haired.

A black tuxedo tailored so perfectly it looked more expensive than some kingdoms. White gloves. Silver cufflinks shaped like tiny bats. A crimson-lined cape draped over one shoulder purely for dramatic effect.

She stood beneath the lights with a polished cane in one hand and a wine glass in the other.

Then she smiled.

The kind of smile that suggested she already knew the punchline to everyone else’s lives.

“GOOD EVENING!” she announced grandly.

The forest echoed with fake applause.

Sevraine’s army froze.

The woman bowed.

“Oildrel,” she declared proudly, “your entertainer for tonight’s performance! Ohhh, what an exciting audience. Very pale. Very gothic. You all look like you moisturize exclusively with regret.”

Dead silence.

Oildrel’s smile widened.

“Tough crowd already. Excellent. I adore a challenge.”

---

Vhalor was trying not to laugh now.

“You could have simply killed her.”

Sevraine stared at him.

“You think we didn’t try?”

---

The first mistake had been underestimating her.

Sevraine approached the stage personally, crimson eyes glowing.

“Creature,” he hissed, “move aside.”

Oildrel gasped theatrically.

“Ooooh, dramatic voice! Very classic vampire. I love retro performances.”

She leaned toward one of the thralls.

“See, this is what commitment to a bit looks like.”

The thrall looked confused.

Then Oildrel’s eyes briefly flashed emerald.

Just for an instant.

Ancient.

Reptilian.

Hungry.

The thrall immediately forgot why he was standing there.

Sevraine felt it then.

The wrongness beneath the act.

Like standing before a theater curtain while something massive breathed behind it.

But then she ruined the terror entirely by pointing at his cloak.

“My dear fellow,” she said, “that cape is magnificent. You look like you’re about to seduce a thunderstorm.”

The illusion shattered.

One thrall snorted.

Sevraine ended him instantly.

Oildrel applauded politely.

“Wonderful timing! We’re already losing audience members.”

---

“She manipulated the entire march,” Sevraine muttered bitterly.

“She attacked you?”

“She performed at us.”

---

Oildrel simply joined the procession.

No invitation.

No permission.

She walked backward ahead of the undead horde like a master of ceremonies guiding a parade.

“So! Where are we all headed tonight? Village massacre? Blood cult mixer? Family reunion?”

Nobody answered.

Oildrel nodded thoughtfully.

“Ah. Introverts.”

Then she spun her cane dramatically.

“You know, I used to invade villages too, but honestly? Terrible reviews. People always complained the atmosphere was ‘toxic.’”

One of the lesser vampires accidentally laughed.

Oildrel pointed at him immediately.

“THANK YOU! Finally! Someone with taste!”

The vampire looked horrified at himself.

By the second hour, morale had collapsed.

Not because of combat.

Because Oildrel would not stop.

Every threat became a setup.

Every silence became fuel.

Every attempt to intimidate her somehow turned into material.

At one point, Sevraine transformed into mist to pass through fallen trees.

Oildrel clapped excitedly.

“Ohoho! Special effects! Ladies and gentlemen, he’s vaporizing with excitement!”

The fake applause returned from nowhere.

The thralls began looking around nervously for the invisible audience.

---

“She had enchantments woven into the performance,” Sevraine said darkly.

“Charm magic?”

“Worse.”

He shuddered.

“Comedic timing.”

---

Near midnight, the disaster escalated.

One thrall managed to slash her tuxedo sleeve during an attempted attack.

Everything stopped.

Oildrel looked down slowly at the torn fabric.

The smile remained.

But it became… sharper.

The stage lights dimmed emerald green.

The forest itself seemed to recoil.

Then, behind her—

Something enormous briefly unfolded in silhouette.

Wings.

Horns.

Teeth the size of swords.

An ancient dragon shape stretching behind the disguise like a nightmare remembering itself.

Several thralls screamed immediately.

Then Oildrel sighed sadly.

“Oh dear,” she murmured. “Now look what you’ve done.”

She adjusted the damaged sleeve.

“This tuxedo was tailored by a ghost with three PhDs and emotional issues.”

Nobody moved.

Then she smiled again.

Bright.

Cheerful.

Terrifying.

“But don’t worry,” she added lightly. “I’m willing to… let it slide.”

A beat passed.

“…Because reptiles.”

Half the thralls fled instantly.

---

Vhalor was openly laughing now.

“You’re inventing this.”

“I watched a grown vampire throw himself into a swamp to avoid hearing another pun.”

---

But the final blow came at the bridge to Blackmere.

The village lights were finally visible beyond the fog.

Sevraine gathered what remained of his forces for one desperate push.

Then Oildrel leapt gracefully atop the bridge railing.

The emerald spotlights flared behind her.

She spread her arms wide.

“Before you all continue,” she declared, “one final joke!”

The surviving thralls visibly panicked.

One whispered, “Please no…”

Oildrel pointed dramatically at Sevraine.

“What’s the difference between a vampire lord and a failed comedian?”

Nobody answered.

She grinned.

“One of them knows when to quit.”

Silence.

Then fake applause thundered through the forest.

Sevraine broke.

Not physically.

Spiritually.

---

“I fled,” he whispered.

Vhalor wiped tears from his eyes.

“You ran from a punchline?”

“I RAN FROM HER DELIVERY.”

“And what did she do after your army escaped?” Vhalor asked.

Sevraine stared into nothing.

“She bowed.”

A pause.

Then, with the haunted voice of a man recounting war crimes, he muttered, remembering her words, possibly forever:

“‘You’ve been a wonderful audience! Truly draining to work with!’”

Vhalor collapsed into helpless laughter.

Sevraine did not laugh.

Not once.

---

Far away, somewhere beneath moonlight and mist, Oildrel adjusted her tuxedo cuffs, stepped into an imaginary spotlight, and began preparing fresh material for the next unfortunate souls who wandered too close to her stage.

---

Ryu was such a cute guy, when I met him the first time, so I agreed to a first date. We went to a good restaurant, and talked, while we ate. I not wanted a dessert, instead we went straight to my flat, and fucked, until I bred him. Now he lives with me in my home. He is such a cute sissy.

---

Home

The Living Room.

The Kitchen. Yes, I have 2 ovens, I like to make lots of food!

The Bedroom.

The Bathroom.

---

Alt character of this , if you want to play with one of my alts, just say it.