Such despair. Such tragedy. Come now... let me tell you a story. Let me sing you a kinder finale.
Description: Ethereal; a pristine paragon with alabaster skin and ivory hair, her features so striking they are nearly eerie in their perfection. There is a particularly haunting quality to this sylph-like woman, however -- owed in primary to vacant opaline eyes devoid of iris or pupil that never seem to find focus or rest in their wandering, yet still manage to be full of life. Her eyes are shaded subtly with khol, accentuating their almond slant, framed by thick lashes undoubtedly pale in their natural state, stained dark to elevate her bewitching drama. Her lips are full, a soft petal pink in hue, most commonly held in a satisfied sort of smile, as though it slyly kept secrets all its own. Her nose is straight and narrow, her cheekbones high and wide, a latent majesty found in every expression. A statuesque figure with graceful lines and lithe limbs, as tall as many men, but possessing of a grace most uncommon.
Personality: Whimsical, esoteric, and terribly self involved. Volscaeva drifts through this life as though it were a dream, every moment a new story to tell, every step scribing the next chapter of a great world's epic saga. A free spirit to an extreme, with an infectious humour and effortless charm, steeped in secrets and cloyed by silvered words on honied breath. Though she is selfish, consumed by a reflection seen now only in dreaming, there is a distant kindness that softens all that she does -- easy to talk to, confide in, to trust, but difficult to truly understand.
Before her came a long line of reapers of Estril, each of her ancestors for countless generations in Her service; her father was a devout man with all the severity afforded those self-appointed as judge, jury and executioner -- a man that felt that he knew the right of the world, that he could see a man's soul and know it's worth at a glance.
How wrong he would come to learn he was.
How he would come to know humility.
How he wished for forgiveness.
What happened in its entirety is known by very few, what lead to her crisis of faith, what caused her to turn from the legacy amidst the turbulent tides of the Eradication lost to the blooded fog of war.
By the time they were aboard the boats, Volscaeva was changed; once vibrant eyes had turned a pearly white, her sight stolen and spirit broken, and what recovery would come proved a lengthy and difficult process. She was at risk of losing herself, the way she had withdrawn from the others, memories of her father's folly festering at the periphery of her waking world.
It was the wounded aboard the ship she was on during the Migration that saved her; where her father's judgment had failed and justice found question within her, new answers were found in the fragile balance of the fear and hope in those survivors that now fled alongside her. A new life birthed from the wreckage, a dream salvaged from nightmare, the burn in her soul soothed through the art of comforting others, lulling them back to the Wheel as their time came due.
Here, she was reborn.
No longer was she the reaper of Estril that her father had made her, but rather Glanor's sweet swan song, luring the wayward souls home.