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Θ ex-sacrifice Θ
"would you be willing to donate your body for... research?"

a dossier

Name: Genevieve Crane
Alias(es): Any and all variations on her name; despises "Vivi" the most
Gender: Female
Age: Apparently early 20s, she can’t really remember
Born: June 2nd (a tried and true Gemini)
Race: Human
Class: Necromancer
Occupation: Recluse
Eyes: Heterochromatic: left eye is inky black, right amaranth
Hair: Deep mahogany
Build: Weedy at 5'3"; 104 lbs
Alignment: Neutral (Evil)
Marital Status: Married to her work!

first glances

  • Genevieve’s very being practically radiates dark magic. Anyone with even a sliver of magical ability can detect her before they see her. Those without it will still feel an odd sense of wrongness if they gets too close.
  • Similarly, a touch from her won’t harm, but it will send a brief jolt of unease, like sticking your hand in ice water.
  • Calls the above her “dark field” or “presence” and is extremely embarrassed by it.
  • Currently trying to learn how to channel her “presence” into her black eye — making it a true evil eye. Hoping it’ll deter people from getting too close. Unsuccessful thus far, but that never stopped her before!
  • Surprisingly well-dressed underneath her tattered shawls. Smacks of wealth she doesn’t own. Remnants of her cult days.
  • Has a pronounced stutter and appears to be incapable of swearing, among other things. This does not help when attempting to intimidate. Once again, from her cult days.
  • Looks younger than she is on account of malnutrition. Disdains being treated as if she’s a child, though she often acts like one.


Breakable is the first word that comes to mind when eyes fall on Genevieve.

Standing at 5'3", her willowy frame and poor posture grant her a smaller stature. She possesses spiderlike digits and limbs with protruding joints; a short torso with long legs highlights her awkward lankiness. Sallow skin is marked by powder blue veins juxtaposed against the richness of her dark brown hair. Her features are surprisingly youthful behind the curled bangs that cover half her face — a button nose, bowed lips, and sharp chin — yet her eyebrows mar this, furrowed in a perpetual wrinkle of frustration. Behind the glare of her glasses, one can make out her startling heterochromia: her right eye a bright amaranth, her left an oilslick black.

It’s apparent that she’s fastidious about grooming in spite of her emaciation and squalor living. Genevieve is aware that she’s unsightly and does her best to mitigate this by bundling up in thick layers of cloaks, skirts, and shawls. Her go-to hairstyle is a pair of twintails that cascade down to the small of her back, combing through them with care when she has the energy. The majority of her wardrobe is dark neutrals — leaning towards browns and greys — patched and worn but treated incredibly gently. Hidden by her attire is a pastel ensemble, all ivory and peaches, with her initials embroidered in red. Falling apart but taken good care of, just like her outerwear.


She carries two bags, one a leather satchel stuffed with her life: changes of clothes, tomes on dark magic, random herbs, a poorly-aged map, scraps of food, medical instruments and a bottle of antiseptic. A handmade knapsack contains random skeletal remnants, and if one prods her enough, she may be inclined to show off her collection. Maybe the remains of some pets she used to own?


Eccentric at best.

When meeting someone new, Genevieve is incredibly skittish and poor at communication. Rarely does she have overtly malicious intent but often will she think the worst of another, reflecting her own suspicious motives on a stranger. Her first instinct is to flee when caught in a compromising position (e.g. playing with corpses, romping in mausoleums) rather than fight; self-preservation is very, very high on her list, while fraternizing is dead last. When forced to converse, her speech is fast and rambling, punctuated by stutters. Blushes easily and terrible at eye contact. Her actions and attitude would be charmingly awkward if her presence didn’t emanate pure malignity.

As a result, she’s startlingly competent on her own and values self-reliance. Having little to no trust in others means that she has to trust herself, else she’ll end up dead, dying, or worse. Bumbles through conversation but can last weeks in the woods, dependent upon nothing but her knowledge, keen, and a fervent desire to stay alive. Funnily enough, she still lacks knowledge of some basic things* due to her upbringing. Incessantly curious and will ask a lot of questions regarding something she doesn’t know every last detail about.

hidden depths

Betraying her restive nature, Genevieve grows attached fairly quickly when she realizes someone isn’t out to kill her. One discovers that she is equal parts petulant, inquisitive, and self-abasing, more of a child than an adult if that child had a pessimistic streak and a Napoleon complex. Grows bored when understimulated, cranky, thinks the worst of any situation, but also easily intrigued, empathetic (on occasion), and, interestingly, pliant to another’s commands, shrinking if threatened or intimidated. Genevieve makes for a very talkative companion when she grows comfortable with another — it’s common for her to spout off trivia about the minutiae of a particular plant or discuss her current research involving deer entrails. She genuinely enjoys teaching others and going into detail about her studies. This point in a relationship is when one discovers that Genevieve is more outright weird that malevolent, unless they manage to set off her paranoia, in which case she’ll probably try to murder them. This capricious personality, along with a number of strange habits**, can be attributed to her unique upbringing.

Although she doesn’t relish in playing with dead things — having a keen awareness that the practice is morally wrong, that it’s gross, that people don’t appreciate the desecration of their loved ones’ bodies for some reason — she’s come to accept her talent regardless. Even when her learning is going nowhere, Genevieve reminds herself that the only potential she has is within her magical abilities, which is enough impetus to continue on. Above all, she is absolutely terrified of being a failure. Consequentially, anyone who gets in the way of her ambitions is an obstacle to be destroyed (or avoided).

Since her cult days, she has no interest in becoming the follower of a god nor in joining an organization like the Mage’s Guild. Presumptuous, she believes she can achieve greatness without the help of another — human or divine — and tends to disdain both religion and the deeply devout. Genevieve has thus chosen to more or less isolate herself to continue studying her craft in peace. As someone unsocialized and weird, isolation suits her. Not that she enjoys being alone; despite her self-sufficiency, Genevieve gets lonely very often, and wishes for the company of a friend or two. It’s just difficult when you think that everyone is out to get you.

Likes to play with herself. (Not like that!) Wants to begin replacing herself limb by limb or organ by organ, becoming a human ship of Theseus. For now, she simply experiments on herself as frequently as she can — testing the limits of her frail body by breaking and fixing her fingers, trying to unlock deeper levels of magical understanding. Will she become more powerful the more she fractures herself? In a similar vein, she wonders if she can do the same to the soul — cutting it up and sewing it back together, making it stronger in the process.

A strange girl, all in all.

*e.g. non-human races, most animals, the ocean, newspapers, medicine, food that isn’t grown in a dirt field, the concepts of money, privacy, love, trust, friendship, etc.
**Incapable of swearing; stutters frequently when nervous; never wastes food; wakes up incredibly early; excessively neat; becomes docile and almost spineless when someone shows her affection or scares her enough; has no idea how to communicate like a normal person; more to come!


Budding necromancer with a certain quirk.

Genevieve has little idea how to properly control, hone, and develop her nefarious abilities, nor does she understand her limits (and as far as she’s concerned, she has none). She manifests her power like a cornered animal, only becoming a threat when she knows she’s in imminent danger.

Despite her noted inexperience, she seems to be naturally in tune with dark magic, having already grasped the art of raising animal dead and eager to move onto humanoids. Along with this, she has started to study cursing and similar branches of necromancy, hoping to round out her knowledge in due time. She’s also vaguely interested in learning to communicate with the dead rather than making the dead do her bidding for a reason she’s hesitant to expand upon…

Her magical repertoire consists mostly of spells she’s conjured on her own — half-finished, volatile, sporadically backfiring — but a growing number of them have been gleaned from the odd grimoire or text. As a voracious reader with zero qualms about “borrowing” the occasional book or ten, her skills continue to improve by the day. Whether or not that’s a good thing is yet to be seen.

To accompany her magical studies, Genevieve has recently taken up anatomical research, using herself as a subject. Of course, other subjects are more than welcome — she argues that the dead can’t not consent to forced organ donation and defilement since they’re, well, dead. Why should it matter?

the dark field

Genevieve’s “dark field” or “dark presence” (also called her aura, efflux, emanation, radiation, and so on) is a fundamental aspect of her being. Two decades without magic outlets, summarized by stress, isolation, and abuse, resulted in an unhealthy buildup of magic reserves within her. These reserves eventually spilled out, leading to an uncontrollable output of necrotic energies; in essence, her body now overproduces dark magic. It forms as an aura. Though invisible to the naked eye, if visualized, one would observe thick black tendrils of tarlike smoke coming off of her skin, encircling her protectively. One could claim that her presence acts as a subconscious defense mechanism, a desire to live; they wouldn’t be wrong.

Over time, Genevieve has learned how to control this aura like a limb of her own and incorporate it in her craft. This makes her a bit off-kilter compared to her fellow necromancers for a variety of reasons.


  • She can perform spells almost instantaneously; while others may have to channel their magic or perform a ritual, her magic is always on tap. A few quick words or a wave of her hand does the job.
  • Along with this, her mana reserves are much higher than usual, meaning she can cast more risky spells without losing as much energy.
  • Her spells tend to be more potent. The effects of curses are more severe and last longer, resurrections are more fluid and lifelike, and so on.
  • Her presence makes cursing and resurrecting (or any spells that involve a target) an easy job. Because her aura is controllable — like a limb, as stated above — she can use it to link herself and a subject, sometimes targeting them with her gaze alone. A working knowledge of a subject’s anatomy and abilities means she can target something and act on it without thought or intention.
  • She can detect nearby dead or undead up to 20 meters away. Her aura is like a metal detector for dark, rotting, dead things.


  • It is incredibly easy to detect Genevieve whether or not one has a magical disposition. As a result, most people distrust her on instinct. She can be sensed from up to 100 meters away, behind walls or other obstacles, in large crowds, et cetera, making her an easy target.
  • Healing magic has little to no effect on her. Potions and herbs work fine, but any healing spells (whether holy, arcane, natural in nature) will be absorbed by her aura.
  • Plants shrivel in her hands and creatures draw away from her. The only way to prevent this is by suppressing her presence, which takes a great deal of concentration. In some cases, if something is of a good or holy alignment, it will attempt to kill her. Conversely, undead and unholy creatures are drawn to her.
  • Any spells that aren’t necromantic are incredibly ineffective in her hands. They'll often backfire or, more rarely, turn dark in nature. If it doesn’t sputter out, a basic flame spell will turn a conjured flame unholy — though it can burn away at anything sanctified, it can’t start an actual fire.
  • Her spells tend to be more chaotic and with unintended side effects. An unsteady mind has disastrous effects; a resurrected beast might grow too powerful and be broken from her binds, or a curse performed on someone will also curse her.
  • If she doesn’t routinely perform and practice her magic, her mana will build up and give her intense migraines. The only way to assuage this is by siphoning mana into destructive, incredibly draining spells.
  • To go with the above, a lack of discipline and failing to routinely practice also turns her a bit stir-crazy. Her dark magic, for better or worse, has a strong influence on her psyche.


Not something she’s inclined to discuss right off the bat. Born into a cult.


Tucked away in a forgotten corner of the Sage countryside — a dilapidated cabin surrounded by fields, then thick arbor — resides a cult of thirteen, consisting of a revered grandfather, his children and grandchildren. The grandfather, Genevieve’s very own, claimed himself a prophet of Xalious after his expulsion from the Mage’s Guild, gathering his clan and settling them far away from the “depravities of modern society”. Most of his kin acquiesced to the sudden change in scenery, as Casimir Crane was known for two things: first, for being the most skilled mage in the family’s history; second, for the occasional bout of maniacal rage.

It was decided that they would live out their days in that log cabin, two stories high with a few acres of land and some livestock. They would spend the mornings laboring and praying, the evenings attending Casimir’s sermons, who began writing down all his visions and proclamations. He first delineated the laws of the land: nobody was allowed to leave, modern medicine and amenities were banned (including magic, sans his own), and all outsiders discovered trespassing were subject to sacrifice in order to please Casimir. The unspoken rule was that any child found to be disposed towards dark magic would also be seen as an outsider and, thus, sacrificed.

This was because Casimir’s own late wife was a necromancer. Rhianon Angharad Gravenor, perhaps even more powerful of a mage than he, labeled his supposed ascension to prophet status as “absolute idiocy”.

the eldest

Genevieve was the first of five children (nine total, counting her cousins), born only two years after Casimir’s declaration as the Prophet of Xalious. By then, the family has established its security in the isolated Sage glens near Cenril. Her mother, Ernestine, was jittery and a vehement believer in her father’s will, pallid and prone to fainting spells; her father, Nolan, was quietly skeptical but had little way of escaping the cult and Casimir’s alleged power, being nothing but a simple farmer from Kelay. Thus, Genevieve was raised to be the pinnacle of the family’s might, the heir of the clan and the one to see them through the dreaded apocalypse. What would separate her from the rest of the clan was that cursed black eye, the eye of her grandmother. The rest of the children had both of Casimir’s sanctified ruby reds. Genevieve knew from the start that there was something wrong with her.

She remembers little of her time there — or perhaps simply speaks little of it — but she does remember the laws all too well. Rise before the sun, sleep before it sets. Neatness is a priority: brush your hair, keep your clothes clean, dress as though you’re about to meet Xalious himself. Water the crops, feed the animals, cook all the meals. Do the laundry, take to the loom, prepare new sets of clothes for the coming children. Never speak unless spoken to and tell the truth when you do. Keep your voice low. Listen to your parents. Don’t cry when you’re punished. Don’t set foot in the woods or you’ll surely die. Casimir’s word is law. Casimir’s word is law.

Genevieve was not initially sure if she would have any magical talent, her father being completely devoid of it, her mother never daring to practice with it. She discovered at age ten she had a strange ability — if she concentrated hard enough, she could make the chicken carcasses dance. The head of a cow would whine as she skinned its corpse. If she was particularly frustrated one day, the crops she handled would wilt in her fingers. She knew for a fact that this was the evil ‘necromancy’ that her grandfather spoke of, and, terrified of being a failure, of being bad, kept it to herself.

The corpses that she toyed with were buried on the plot. She wasn’t sure if they could give off residual necromantic energies, but she did not want to risk it. This ruse would not last forever — Genevieve was all too aware that her grandfather was perceptive, irrespective of his madness, but she wished in vain that her dedication and toil would at least spare her from death. Her life began and ended with this little family, and as much as she was punished, isolated, and put to work (all because of that eye!), she knew nothing else. Yet bottling up her magical potency became difficult. Her family did not feel comfortable being in the same room as her, a ghastly chill coming down on them whenever she entered. She was punished more severely for what seemed like minor faults. Casimir knew from the beginning that she was foul, just like her grandmother, but had hoped the labor and prayer would purify her; it did not. She had outlived her usefulness as the other children took to work. It was time.


Genevieve woke up one early morning to her father dragging her by the arm to the fields. The scent of incense and ash was heavy even in the open air, coming from a bonfire with smoke that made her lungs shrivel. She could see her family in the distance, decked in pale sunlight, ethereal and lit from behind by the fire. Casimir was there, too, preparing for ceremony. It felt as though the end was coming. Yes, she knew what this was. She was supposed to die. But Genevieve also knew that her calling was to transcend death, not succumb to it, and in that moment she discovered she did not like her family very much. This was the first time in her life that she had felt hatred.

The rest, as they say, was a blur. She remembers wailing something unearthly and her father releasing her. She takes a step back, sweating and shaking, unsure of her own footing. The wind howls. The ground falters; all is quiet; the corpses of livestock rise from far below the ground, encircling her almost protectively. Some are long dead, only bone, but others are draped loosely in necrotic flesh and muscle. They make no sound besides the stamping of their gait. She continues towards the cabin and hastily packs her belongings, feeling unreal, like she’s controlling a body that isn’t hers. What does she need? She isn’t sure, stuffing as much in her bag as she can. Her risen circle the lodge slowly. They wait for her. The Cranes watch in horror yet Casimir is unperturbed. He deliberates. He wonders if killing her will not just release a curse upon the home and the family. He wonders if his eldest grandchild can’t already match him in power.

Genevieve leaves soon after. Her steps are erratic, as if possessed, and her resurrected follow dutifully. She takes one last glance at her family before vanishing into the woods. The undead fall apart as soon as she steps between the trees, heaping piles of carcass demarcating the Cranes’s property from the outside world. She runs until her legs falter and she sleeps for what feels like ages. When she awakens, she is astonished: far from home, tired, frail, starving, but alive and well. She rises. She walks without aim, but that is perhaps what invigorates her so.

the mun

hello! :+) i've been around the block here before, just back with a new face! hit me up on hmail if you ever want to rp/plan out some good plotting. my schedule is a little turbulent as a current student, but i'm free most weekends.

sagittarius, infp/j, ravenpuff. i enjoy art, writing, music, takeout, occultism, esoteric religions, psychological/cosmic horror, and a good nap once in a while. i'm working on my degree in english and roleplaying is a great way for me to get into a creative mindset. currently trying to re-remember html so i can make vivi's profile pretty.

i'm more than happy to give out my discord to players i have a rapport with! for now, hmail is generally the easiest way to reach me.