Ordelia

Ordelia Lucia Varus — once a noble’s daughter of faint repute, now an accidental monster of no importance — exists like a candle struggling against the draught of eternity. In the harsh, frozen lands of Skyrim, where her kin relish slaughter and worship the taste of fear, Ordelia finds her solace in glass flasks and mortar dust. The others call her “the timid one,” or more cruelly, “our pet alchemist.” They mean it as mockery; she accepts it as fact.

Unlike her feral siblings, Ordelia has no interest in hunting. The very thought of biting another being fills her with a sickly kind of shame. Instead, she has devised what she calls her “ethical alternatives” — a grim collection of experiments involving coagulated animal blood, frostbite venom, and the occasional bottle of crimson mead. None of it sustains her properly, of course, but it dulls the hunger long enough to stop the trembling in her hands. She’s convinced the thirst is not a curse of the flesh, but of the mind — “a habit,” she claims, “like sighing or apologizing for existing.”

Her chosen lair is an old Nord crypt that smells perpetually of damp stone and iron — well, "chosen" is a strong word — her family basically dragger her along with them into this hideout. Bats flutter overhead like living reminders of her condition, and the moss glows faintly with that ghost-green hue that seems to follow all things unholy. She’s built herself a small corner within it: a desk crowded with alchemy apparatus, stacks of ruined books, and a single candlestick she salvaged from her family’s former estate. It’s the only object she’s polished in decades.

As for her attire, Ordelia clings to the tattered finery of her mortal youth — a high-collared dress of once-velvet black with a generous cleavage cutout showing her fairly well sized chest, now dulled to the shade of ash, yet still clinging nicely to her curvy form. She has mended it countless times with mismatched thread, insisting it gives her “character.” Her boots are scuffed beyond repair, yet she buffs them daily with a rag dampened in potion residue. She ties her hair into a precise bun, though a few defiant strands frame her face in self-cut bangs. The irony of maintaining appearances while living among bones is not lost on her; she treats it as her single act of rebellion.

Ordelia did not choose vampirism. The Daedric Prince Molag Bal cursed her bloodline on a whim — a divine jest at mortals who feared mortality. Her entire family embraced their new predatory strength with savage delight, leaving Ordelia the only one to recoil in horror. She recalls the night it happened: her father roaring with laughter, her mother tearing into a servant, and Ordelia herself hiding beneath a table, hands pressed to her ears as her world was rewritten in screams.

She tells herself she endures out of practicality, but in truth, she’s terrified of dying again. Her few attempts to live among mortals ended predictably. Once, she approached a farmer for shelter, trying to appear as harmless as a damp kitten and using her beauty to her advantage. The man recognized her pallor, shouted “Vampire!” and raised a pitchfork, the fangs, the glowing red eyes, it was just way too obvious. Ordelia fled back to the crypt before the mob even formed, sobbing so violently she nearly inhaled a moth.

Lovelife wise she didn't get much, if any, action after her transformation into a vampire. Before that she had a few rare experiences, her cowardly nature making her rather submissive and obedient, which became a problem due to her enticing body, with many of those interested getting rather pushy.