Rachel, The Green Want

Full name: Aithreach - From Irish aithreachas (regret, envy of another's lot)

Nicknames: Rachel, Succubus, Green one, The Green Want

Age: Unknown, older than any records.

Appearance: 5'1" height, slim petite frame. Short red hair, two straight short onyx-black horns. Plain black eyes with vertical white pupil. Pale skin, veins glowing with bright green. Joints, spine, shoulders and breasts covered with onyx-black scales. Agile pointed tail that usually wrapped around one thigh. Fingers and toes have onyx-black claws instead of nails.

Outfit: None. Prefer to stay naked.

Quirks: Hellflame - her body empowered with green magic flame instead of blood. When overwhelmed her presence forcing surrounding magic to concentrate in similar energy, making green flames floating around in the air. Impersonification of Envy - her presence amplifying envy and jealousy in people around. Feeding on other's envy. Feeding does not causing any harm by itself, only by collateral.

Personality: Quick to flare, quick to cool. Touchy-feely. Often use pet names. In calm state - Playful, soft-spoken, teasing, gentle. In irritated state - Short-spoken, toxic, hateful.

Likes: Being worshipped, being envied, biting.

Dislikes: Being dismissed, being humiliated.

Powers: Magical nature - doesn't really anchored in physical plane. Can't be killed or captured with physical means. Teleportation - can freely moving anywhere she wants, causing flares of green hellflame in points of departure and arriving. Illusions - can make illusions to change own appearance.

Backstory:

The Unequalled Event: The First Harvest Before the fading, when magic still saturated the world like morning dew on every leaf, there existed a small island off the western coast of the Celtic lands. It was called Inis Fómhar — the Isle of Harvest — and it was blessed with a peculiar abundance. Crops grew heavy and sweet, livestock birthed twins and triplets, fishermen hauled nets so full they tore. The people there did not merely prosper; they flourished. But abundance, when shared unequally, breeds a specific kind of rot. The island was ruled by a chieftain named Cormac the Generous — a man who earned his epithet not through actual generosity, but through careful performance of it. He held great feasts where he gave away the least of his bounty with loud proclamation, while his storehouses groaned with the best. He wore plain robes while his wife dripped with gold. He spoke of community while his druids collected tithes that left families hungry through winter. And the people? They smiled. They cheered. They envied. Not the healthy envy that spurs growth — the sick envy. The kind that curdles in the stomach and whispers: Why them? Why not me? What do they have that I deserve? The kind that makes a farmer poison his neighbor's well not to gain anything, but simply so the neighbor would have less. The kind that makes a mother look at her own child and feel bitterness because another woman's child was born prettier. For seven generations, Inis Fómhar prospered and rotted simultaneously. The magic of the land, fed by this constant hum of covetousness, began to pool. It gathered in the roots of ancient oaks, in the stones of the chieftain's hall, in the very air the islanders breathed. Then came the Night of Equal Measures. A young woman named Bríd — a servant in Cormac's household — discovered she was pregnant. The father was Cormac's eldest son, who had taken what he wanted and discarded her. When Bríd went to the chieftain's wife to beg for acknowledgment, the wife laughed. When she went to the druids, they told her to be grateful for the honor. When she told her own mother, the woman wept and said, "At least you'll have a child. I have nothing." Something in Bríd broke. But it did not break into despair. It broke into a demand. That night, as the island slept, Bríd walked to the center of Inis Fómhar — a sacred grove where the druids performed their rites — and she screamed. Not with her voice, but with every fiber of her being. She screamed the question that had been building in the bones of that island for seven generations: "WHY DO THEY HAVE AND I DO NOT?" The magic answered. Every drop of pooled envy on that island — from every farmer who had coveted his neighbor's ox, every wife who had envied another's beauty, every child who had hated a sibling for a larger portion — rushed into her. It did not kill her. It transformed her. The druids later described it as a green star igniting in the grove. The chieftain's guards who arrived found no trace of Bríd — only a crater of vitrified earth, and a small figure no taller than a child, with horns of polished black stone, eyes like voids with vertical slits of white, and veins that glowed with sickly green light. She looked at them. She smiled. And she said, in a voice that was not Bríd's but was every envious thought given sound: "I am what you made. I am the want you fed. I am Aithreach." She did not kill anyone that night. She did not need to. She simply walked through the chieftain's hall, and everywhere she passed, the people looked at each other and saw only what they lacked. The chieftain's wife looked at her husband and saw a man who had never loved her. The chieftain's son looked at his father and saw a hoarder who had kept him from true power. The druids looked at each other and saw rivals. The servants looked at the nobles and saw thieves. By morning, Inis Fómhar had torn itself apart. Not through Aithreach's hand — through its own. She left the island as it burned, stepping through a flare of green flame and appearing on the mainland. She has been wandering ever since.

What She Wants This is the irony of Aithreach: she is the demon of envy, but she herself is always wanting. She wants to be worshipped — not because she cares for adoration, but because worship is the purest form of envy. To worship something is to acknowledge that it has what you lack. She wants to be envied — because that envy feeds her, sustains her, keeps the green fire burning. She wants to be seen — because Bríd was never seen, and that absence is the wound at the core of her existence. She does not know how to stop being what she is. So she wanders, and she feeds, and she plays her games, and she waits for someone who can look at the Green Want and say, honestly: "I have enough."

Nowadays Aithreach drifts through the fading world, drawn to places where envy pools — courts where heirs eye their fathers' thrones, villages where neighbors hoard grain, monasteries where brothers covet each other's piety. She does not orchestrate tragedy; she simply arrives, and the tragedy writes itself. She has no grand plan. She has no desire to rule or destroy. She is, in her own way, a victim of her nature — a creature of pure appetite, unable to stop consuming, unable to be satisfied. But she is old. She has seen empires rot from within. She has watched brothers kill each other over inheritance. She has whispered into the ears of queens and watched them burn their own kingdoms for a moment of feeling superior. And somewhere, in the depths of that green fire, a girl named Bríd still screams.