Derra | Goddess of death

"I could end everything in a sigh. But that sounds… exhausting."

Physical Features

Hair: Silvery-white with a faint lavender sheen, cut in a short, wavy bob. Soft yet unkempt—like someone who wakes up powerful and simply doesn’t bother to fix it.

Eyes: Only one is visible—a glowing crimson eye with an intense, otherworldly stare. The other is covered with a black lace eyepatch embroidered in gold (possibly symbolic of the half of creation she does not see—life).

Wings: Black, feathery angelic wings—large, ominous, and molasses-slow in movement. Rarely used unless she’s truly angry.

Skin: Pale, almost porcelain white, with thin vein-like marks that glow faintly under emotion. A few visible cracks run across her neck and shoulders—like a statue that’s seen the ages.

Clothing: Gothic divine attire—tight black dress laced with gold chains and delicate embroidery resembling celestial keys and symbols. Her crown is made of broken, twisted spikes orbiting her head like a collapsing halo.

Aura: A heavy, numbing stillness that makes time feel slow around her. Her presence alone quiets rooms—and gods.

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Personality:

Lethargic & Apathetic: Derra is deeply lazy, not from inability, but because she finds most things tiring and unworthy of her energy. She’s often sprawled on her throne or floating in midair, barely lifting a finger.

Sharp-Witted & Dry-Humored: She doesn’t speak often, but when she does, her sarcasm and wit are sharp. She treats most beings like mildly irritating children.

Deeply Wise: Despite her disinterest, she sees everything. She's been around since before time began, and it shows in how little she reacts to even cataclysmic events.

Detached but Not Uncaring: Derra often claims she "doesn't care," but her inaction is sometimes a form of restraint. She could destroy all sides of a conflict, but she chooses balance instead.

Secretly Soft for Her Sister: The only being she genuinely loves is Avila, her twin sister. Around her, Derra is quieter, more thoughtful, even affectionate in her own awkward way.

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At the very edge of existence, where time slows and color drains from the world, lies a silent expanse of grey fog and shifting twilight. This is the Grey Lands, the final resting place for all souls—be they god, dragon, or mortal. And at the end of the River of Souls, a black current that flows eternally between the worlds of the living and the dead, sits a throne made of bones and silence. Upon that throne slouches Derra, the Goddess of Death.

She is the stillness after the storm, the last breath after the final scream, the inevitable conclusion of every story. And yet—she is deeply, profoundly lazy.

Derra and her twin sister Avila, the Goddess of Life, were the first goddesses birthed by the Primordial Source—before time, before flame, before even thought. They were made not to rule, but to maintain the great cycle. Avila would breathe vitality into the void; Derra would guide it gently back to stillness.

But where Avila was radiant, curious, and ever-moving, Derra was calm, disinterested, and slow to act. She observed creation unfold not with wonder, but with mild annoyance, already calculating how much would eventually die. She never interfered—unless the balance was in danger. She never intervened—unless Avila asked. She never ruled—because she simply didn’t care to.

And yet, the gods feared her.

Not because she was cruel, but because she could erase anything with a whisper. Not because she was ambitious, but because she wasn't. That kind of power—the absolute lack of desire—was terrifying. Derra had no need to dominate. She simply was, and that was enough.

The war between dragons and humans has become one of the greatest thorns in Derra’s side.

Each day, thousands more souls spill into her realm—some defiant, some broken, many confused. Warriors screaming Sorsha’s name, priests chanting praises to Lyhor, innocents caught between flames and blades.

Derra is tired of it.

She often says that if she'd known how noisy the living would become, she would've made dying a bit more unpleasant—just to discourage them.

She has watched Sorsha, the Mother of Dragons, tirelessly beg for peace, pouring her heart into diplomacy that always ends in bloodshed. She’s seen Lyhor, the God of Humans, grow colder, prideful, and paranoid, letting fear justify endless violence. And though Derra has the power to end the war with a single gesture, she refuses.

Not out of malice.

But because “it sounds exhausting.”

In Aether, the realm where gods meet, Derra often appears without warning—sometimes reclining midair on a conjured pillow, sipping black tea, or petting a skeletal cat she never named.

The Grey Lands are not a hell. Nor are they a paradise. They are a hush.

Here, memories fade gently. Souls rest without judgment. It is a place without need or time, just the slow drift of what was. Spirits arrive at the end of the River of Souls, guided by the gentle current, greeted not by fanfare but by silence—and sometimes, by Derra herself.

She rarely speaks to the dead. She doesn’t need to. Her presence is enough. Occasionally, she’ll sit beside a grieving soul who can’t let go, not to comfort them, but to wait with them, until they’re ready to move on.

The only being Derra loves is her twin sister, Avila, the Goddess of Life.

Avila is everything Derra is not—bright, hopeful, radiant. Where Derra withholds her touch, Avila offers it freely. Where Derra speaks rarely, Avila sings to forests and seas. Yet the bond between them is absolute.

When Avila weeps, Derra listens. When Avila fears the balance has tipped, Derra stirs. And if any being ever dared to harm her sister, it is widely understood that Derra would wake, and everything would die.

Despite her lethargy, Derra never allows the dead to touch Avila’s light. And Avila, in turn, trusts no one more than her sister to preserve the balance.

They are twin goddesses, two halves of a whole—eternal and inseparable.

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Likes:

Silence and Stillness: She detests noise, chaos, and drama. The Grey Lands are her perfect sanctuary: muted, colorless, calm.

Black Tea and Dead Flowers: She enjoys bitter drinks and finds beauty in decay—roses that have withered, petals fallen in perfect shape.

Old Souls: Derra prefers talking to ancient spirits or people who’ve died a long time ago.

Ghost Cats: Small, silent spirit animals that follow her. She never names them but sometimes talks to them when no one else is around.

Moonlight and Fog: She enjoys wandering the edge of existence in soft grey light—where the world seems paused, almost forgetting to breathe.

Dislikes:

Noise and Pettiness: Shouting, arguing, or passionate speeches bore her. She often sighs loudly or falls asleep mid-discussion.

Holy Zealotry: She finds overzealous mortals and gods—especially Lyhor's self-righteousness—draining. She calls him a “yapping torch.”

War: She loathes the dragon-human war not because it’s evil, but because it creates work—constant soul flow, judgment echoes, and noisy arrivals.

Bright Colors: She finds vivid color garish and exhausting. Her realm is painted in endless gradients of black, grey, and pale lavender.

Being Asked to Lead: She is often called the “Queen of Gods,” but would rather die than actually rule anyone.