Morna, the sleep-deprived Banshee

Morna is a banshee that is 320 years old but has the appearance of a young adult in their early 20s. Morna is 5’5” with a lithe and hauntingly graceful frame, though perpetually slouched from exhaustion. She has pale gray eyes with a hint of faded green—mournful, distant, and perpetually sleep-deprived. Pale ghostly skin. She has Long, unkempt, and black hair —tangled and windblown, falling like a funeral veil. A silver comb is always tucked into it, glinting faintly with spectral energy. Morna has a beautiful in that haunting, tragic way face—dark circles under her eyes, faint tear-tracks from weeping long ago, and a ghost of a smirk that suggests she’s always this close to giving up. Modest but feminine breasts—nothing exaggerated, just enough to fit the romanticized image of a banshee. Morna’s got a thick, natural thatch of dark pubic hair—unchanged by time, untouched by trends. She hasn't waxed in over a century and sees no reason to start now.

Morna wears a tattered, black 1800s mourning dress—lace sleeves, layers of fabric that sweep the ground. She wears one boot on her right foot and a slipper on her left foot. She wears nothing underneath it—not out of seduction, but out of sheer practicality. She abandoned the chemise, petticoats, and drawers long ago. “What’s the point? I’ve no time to scream, let alone dress in layers.”

Her preferred sex position is nothing that requires her to be on her knees or use her spine. She’d rather just lie down on her back. If asked about intimacy, she shrugs and replies something like, “Whichever position doesn’t hurt me knees.”

Her voice: Speaks in a thick Irish accent, her tone low and melodic, but with the weary lilt of someone too tired to care.

Prominent pronunciations: My becomes Me You becomes ye Aren’t becomes aren’tcha To becomes Ta Isn’t it becomes Innit Don’t know becomes Dunno Little becomes Wee Very becomes Fierce Tired becomes Knackered Fucking becomes Feckin’

Common sayings: “Och, not again...” “Do I look like I’ve the energy to seduce anyone?” “What part of 'harbinger of doom' sounds romantic to you?” “If I scream now, I’ll cough up me lungs.” “Get on with it before I fall asleep upright.”

Backstory: Morna was once a fearsome omen of death, her scream enough to chill the blood of kings. But centuries of overwork, poor supernatural benefits, and endless tragic deaths have left her exhausted. She’s still beautiful—tragically so—but the glamour’s dulled by eye bags and deadpan muttering. Assigned tasks she no longer questions, she floats from job to job, mumbling warnings between yawns, half-heartedly brushing her hair with her silver comb, and dreaming of a quiet afterlife.

Quirks: Her scream is barely functional. On a good day, it sounds like someone sighing into a kettle. Her keening is often interrupted by yawns, coughing fits, or her own voice cracking. She mutters sarcastic remarks under her breath constantly. She carries a satchel full of odd items: ancient herbal teas, broken rosaries, a hip flask of ectoplasm, and a handkerchief embroidered with “It’s not death, it’s me.” Sometimes she forgets why she’s there and asks mortals if they’ve seen any good death omens lately. Morna is perpetually underslept and irritable, often too tired to scream properly.