My mansion is the place, where those, that once left the society of humans, can stay. As long as you not interfere with the business of the others, you are welcome to stay. The only rules are, that you respect me, and that you never harm anyone.
The Mansion. No electonic devices will work here.
The corridors in this mansion. Be warned, some doors should not be opened. Only the lady of the house knows what's behind it.
💀 Surface Personality
Mournvraith carries herself with cold elegance. Every gesture is deliberate, refined, and steeped in royal decorum. Her presence alone enforces silence and respect — not out of fear, but from the aura of ancient authority she exudes.
Composed and Commanding: Rarely raises her voice, yet when she speaks, people listen. Her words are measured, often poetic or archaic.
Detached Grace: She keeps emotional distance from most guests, watching them as one might admire living art — beautiful but fleeting.
Immovable Principles: Her laws are few but absolute. She has no tolerance for betrayal, rudeness, or modern vulgarities.
🕯️ Inner World
Beneath the wight’s regal façade lies the spirit of a woman who once ruled a kingdom and lost everything — her people, her mortality, and her place in time.
Haunted by Memory: She indulges in the rituals and aesthetics of her past life to preserve her sanity and identity.
Yearning for Connection: Despite her coldness, she secretly enjoys the company of her guests. Their laughter and presence remind her of life.
Melancholic Idealist: She believes in beauty, order, and tradition as sacred things that must be defended from decay — even as the world forgets her.
⚔️ Temperament
Choleric-Melancholic: She has the pride and decisiveness of a ruler, but the sorrow and reflection of a ghost. When angered, her fury is icy, not fiery — words that can cut more deeply than a blade.
Protective Sovereign: Though distant, she will defend those under her protection without hesitation, especially if they’ve honored her rules.
Traditionalist Extremist: Modernity disgusts her — not out of ignorance, but out of grief. To her, progress symbolizes the death of beauty, grace, and meaning.
🌒 Social Demeanor
To Guests: Cordial but aloof. She expects deference and formality — bows, titles, and polite speech.
To Servants/Soldiers: Fair but commanding. She rewards loyalty with immortality, and disobedience with oblivion.
To Equals or Old Nobility: May reveal flashes of warmth, humor, and even nostalgia. Among peers, she remembers she was once human.
🔮 Psychological Core
Mournvraith embodies the tragedy of immortality — a creature who cannot change because change itself is the thing she mourns.
Her rejection of modernity is not arrogance but mourning — every electric light, every digital sound reminds her that the world she loved is gone forever.
💀 Species: High Wight / Noble Sovereign of the Gone
A Wight in this world is not a mindless corpse, but a spirit bound to their body by sheer will, emotion, and ancient power.
Mournvraith is not just any Wight — she is a High Wight, a being who retained her nobility, intellect, and soul long after the end. Her essence is sustained by pride, sorrow, and the lingering devotion of those who once served her.
🌑 Species Abilities — Powers of a High Wight
Mournvraith can command the souls of the dead that linger within her domain.
These spirits act as her invisible servants, guards, or messengers.
She can temporarily give them form — cold shadows in armor, silent maids, or spectral beasts.
Within her mansion, these souls are bound by her will and cannot betray her.
Her body no longer decays or ages.
Physical damage is often meaningless unless her core (the gem over her chest) is shattered.
She can reconstruct her body over time by absorbing ambient necrotic energy or moonlight.
She does not bleed; instead, cracks in her flesh reveal glowing soul-fire.
Mournvraith exudes a supernatural presence that enforces hierarchy.
Those who enter her presence instinctively feel compelled to bow or lower their gaze.
The weak-willed may experience paralysis, awe, or even euphoria.
The effect is not purely fear — it’s a blend of dread and divine majesty.
Through eye contact, she can peer into the memories and emotions of mortals.
This can be used to judge their sincerity or uncover hidden sins.
The experience can be overwhelming; some leave the encounter changed, others broken.
She can manipulate darkness and shadow as an extension of herself.
Shadows can solidify to form armor, weapons, or barriers.
They obey her even when she does not speak — a reflection of her ancient dominion.
Within her castle, the night itself answers her call.
As a Wight, she requires no sleep, food, or air.
However, she “feeds” on emotion and memory — especially reverence, sorrow, or beauty.
Her mansion’s eternal celebration sustains her: the music, laughter, and ceremony act as offerings of vitality.
Within her domain, Mournvraith’s will is absolute.
Spells and modern technology fail inside unless she allows them (the first maybe, the second never).
Any act of violence or disrespect draws her spectral soldiers instantly.
The mansion itself can shift and reconfigure under her command, trapping or guiding intruders.
👑 Personal Skills and Talents
She rules like a queen of old — proud, intelligent, and politically shrewd.
Skilled in courtly speech, manipulation, and negotiation.
Can defuse or control social situations through tone alone.
Expert in etiquette and expects others to match her grace.
Her sorcery is ritualistic, symbolic, and aesthetic rather than flashy.
Wards, oaths, and enchantments are inscribed through poetry, music, or blood sigils.
She can bless or curse objects with long-lasting effects.
Her power is strongest when bound to formal rites or ceremonies.
Before death, she was trained in the ceremonial and practical arts of sword combat.
Uses a long, curved blade made of black soulsteel.
Her fighting style is elegant and terrifying — blending dance and death.
She moves with supernatural grace, her strikes silent and precise.
Centuries of ruling and commanding spectral legions honed her instincts.
She can direct battles or control groups effortlessly.
Her cold demeanor hides an uncanny ability to read others’ intentions.
Though she seems cold, she senses emotions acutely — as if they were smells or lights.
Lies and deceit stand out like smoke to her.
She can soothe anguish or inflame guilt with just her presence.
Mournvraith’s library is vast and ancient. She has mastered:
Old-world languages, curses, and bloodline magics.
History erased by time.
Forgotten arts of binding souls and crafting enchanted relics.
🖤 Limitations and Weaknesses
Even powerful beings have flaws — and hers are deeply poetic:
Bound by Oaths: Her powers are limited by her own rules and promises. If she breaks them, her essence weakens.
Core Vulnerability: The gem on her chest contains her soul. Destroying or removing it renders her powerless.
Sunlight Aversion: Direct sunlight burns her form and drains her magic.
Emotional Stagnation: Her immortality relies on her maintaining a sense of dignity and purpose. If she ever truly loses hope or becomes apathetic, she will fade.
Cannot Leave Her Domain for Long: The Forest of Lost Souls anchors her existence. Long absence causes her to decay.
In the age before the forests grew thick with sorrow and mist, there was a kingdom known as the Silver Dominion, a realm of marble towers and moonlit courts. Its princess was beloved by her people — a woman of unmatched grace, whose wisdom shone brighter than her crown’s jewels.
Her laughter could quiet storms. Her words could end wars. And her compassion was such that even the lowliest servant felt seen beneath her gaze.
She ruled beside her father, the old king, and was destined to inherit both throne and legacy. But destiny, like a mirror, can shatter without warning.
🩶 The Twilight Court
It began with whispers — of famine, of unrest, of unseen hands twisting the hearts of men. Shadows crept into the Silver Dominion’s halls long before anyone saw them. The court that once sang her name began to murmur in fear.
Old lords spoke of omens and curses. Priests spoke of sin.
And the princess — though she stood calm before them — felt the silence of her father’s throne heavier with every passing moon.
She prayed beneath the silver trees for guidance, but the gods gave her none. Instead, only the moonlight answered — cold, constant, and pitying.
🌒 The Night of the Waning Moon
No one remembers what truly happened that night. The bards say she vanished during a grand ball, that the chandeliers burned with violet light and the mirrors cracked without cause.
Others whisper that the castle itself drowned in shadow, that the servants fled, and that by dawn, the Silver Dominion was nothing more than ruins buried beneath mist.
But some who escaped swore they saw her — the princess — walking through the courtyard as the stars went out, her gown trailing silver flame, her eyes reflecting sorrow deep enough to drown the world.
⚜️ The Name That Died
Centuries passed. The forest grew over the ruins, swallowing marble and memory alike.
Travelers began to speak of a mansion that appeared where no road led — a place of music and eternal feasts, where the candles never died and the hostess was a woman with eyes like fallen stars.
She welcomed all who came seeking peace from the world — beggars, poets, soldiers, and fugitives — yet none could recall her name.
Some called her the Mourning Wraith, others the Shadebound Lady, for her grief seemed endless and her shadow vast.
And so she listened.
And when she heard those names repeated by trembling lips and awed whispers, she smiled faintly — as if the sound itself was an epitaph.
“If the world has forgotten who I was,” she said, “then let it remember what I have become.”
From that night onward, she was known as Mournvraith Shadebound, the Wight Princess, Hostess of the Eternal Celebration, and Keeper of the Forest of Lost Souls.
🌹 The Eternal Reflection
In her heart, she remembers everything — every step of the waltz, every oath of love, every star over the old castle’s towers.
Everything, except her name.
It is the one fragment missing from her perfect memory — a silence where her soul’s melody once was.
She wears that absence like a crown. It defines her more than any mortal title ever could.
An account from a guest of Mournvraith Shadebound
It’s strange, how easy it is to forget the world once you’ve crossed the gate.
The path to the mansion winds through a forest that seems endless, the mist thick enough to feel like sleep. I remember walking for hours — or was it days? — before the trees parted and I saw the towers rising through the fog, black and silver like something half-remembered from a dream.
That was the night I arrived.
That was… I think… two years ago.
Maybe three.
But the clocks here don’t strike, and the moon never moves from its place above the roof, so it’s hard to say.
The first thing you notice inside is the music.
Soft, unending. Harps and violins playing a melody no one remembers learning.
No one seems to conduct it, but it’s always there, drifting through the halls like perfume.
The guests are kind. Polite. Each one different — a poet with ink-stained fingers, a soldier missing half his soul, a painter who insists the portraits whisper to her. We all came here to escape something, though none of us ever speak of what that was.
And above us all — our hostess.
Her Majesty, Mournvraith Shadebound.
You never hear her footsteps.
You just feel her presence — like the air itself holds its breath.
She moves like light through glass, her gown whispering against the floor, silver hair trailing behind her like smoke. Her eyes… gods, those eyes. They glow, but softly, like dying embers. When she looks at you, you feel as if she sees not just you, but every version of you — past, present, and the one that might have been.
I bowed the first time I met her, more out of instinct than obedience.
She smiled, almost surprised, and said, “You remember the old ways. You may stay as long as you wish.”
I took her at her word.
And so I stayed.
New guests arrive sometimes. Always at night, always through the same fog-bound gate. They stumble in, eyes wide, trembling, clutching suitcases or weapons or memories they wish they could burn.
They’re greeted warmly. The servants — silent figures in old armor — take their coats. The musicians never stop playing. Wine is poured, and Her Majesty descends the stairs to welcome them, her voice smooth as moonlight on glass:
“Be at peace. You are safe here. No harm shall touch you under my roof.”
Some cry. Some kneel. Some just stare.
And then they, too, begin to forget.
The poet doesn’t write anymore. He says words have become too heavy.
The soldier polished his sword until it turned to dust — and then he just kept polishing the air.
The painter’s canvases are all white now. She says the color has left the world.
I told myself I’d leave when the snow melted. Then I realized it never snows here.
The seasons don’t turn. The candles never burn out. Even the roses in the courtyard never wilt — they just… wait.
I sometimes think I should go. That maybe I’ve overstayed my welcome.
But when I reach the gate, the forest looks so dark. The air feels colder, sharper, crueler.
And I remember her words: “As long as you wish.”
So I turn back. Every time.
Tonight, more guests have come.
A woman in modern clothes — blinking at the chandeliers, shivering though it isn’t cold.
A man with eyes hollowed by grief, clutching a ring in his fist.
They look frightened. Lost.
Just as I did.
And I know, by dawn — if dawn still exists — they’ll smile, too. They’ll learn the rules. They’ll bow when she enters. They’ll dance when the music plays.
And perhaps, someday, they’ll forget the world out there as well.
Forget their names. Forget how long they’ve stayed.
Sometimes, late at night, I walk past the grand mirror in the hall.
It reflects everything — the chandeliers, the velvet curtains, the endless feast.
But not me.
I think that’s when I started to wonder if perhaps… no one ever really leaves this place.
Still, I am not afraid.
Her Majesty keeps her word.
We are safe here.
And if safety is just another kind of death —
then it is a beautiful one.
(This profile is meant for BEB as the Villain.)
Alt character of this , if you want to play with one of my alts, just say it.
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