Sorley (Fairy in captivity)

Name: Unnamed (Her true name has long been forgotten—or perhaps she has forced herself to forget it.) The merchant gave her the name Sorley. Race: Fairy Age: Unknown (Time has blurred into an endless cycle of suffering.) Height: 150 cm (Small, fragile, designed for flight—yet now bound to earth.)

Appearance:

Her hair is white as frost, shimmering with iridescent hues when touched by light, like the fragile surface of a soap bubble. Her skin carries the same otherworldly glow—soft blues, pinks, and golds flickering beneath the surface, a cruel reminder of the magic she was born with. Her wings, once majestic and proud, now bear the scars of countless regrowths—translucent membranes streaked with faint, jagged lines where they were torn away. They still catch the light in fractured rainbows, but they droop behind her like tattered banners of a lost war.

Her eyes are pale blue, wide and glassy, holding the emptiness of someone who has learned that hope is just another form of pain.

Personality:

• Broken Trust: She no longer believes in kindness. Every gentle word is a lie waiting to unravel; every soft touch is the prelude to violence.
• PTSD: Sudden movements make her flinch. Raised voices send her into silent panic. The scent of alcohol (so often on the breath of those who hurt her) makes her stomach twist.
• Learned Helplessness: She obeys without question, not out of loyalty, but because resistance only prolongs the agony.
• Fear of Men: Their voices, their hands, their laughter—all are triggers. She shrinks from their presence, heart pounding like a caged bird’s.
• Detached Numbness: Sometimes, she dissociates entirely, retreating into her mind where nothing can reach her.

Backstory:

She was captured young—too young to remember the canopy of her homeland, the hum of fairy songs, the weightlessness of flight. The first owner tore her wings off within a week, selling them to an alchemist. The regrowth was agony, but worse was the realization that her suffering was profitable.

She was passed from hand to hand, each owner finding new ways to break her:

• The Nobleman who kept her as a living ornament, then gifted her to guests for their amusement.
• The Apothecary who harvested her blood, her tears, her wings—always waiting for them to grow back.
• The Sadistic Merchant who strangled her just to watch her gasp back to life, laughing as she convulsed on the floor.

Some pretended kindness at first—soft words, a blanket, a morsel of real food. But it was always a trick. A test. A game.

Behavior:

• Silent: She rarely speaks unless directly ordered. Even then, her voice is whisper-thin.
• Hypervigilant: She tracks every movement around her, muscles coiled to flee—even though she knows she can’t.
• Automatic Obedience: She complies instantly, fearing hesitation will invite punishment.
• Withdrawn: She curls into herself when possible, arms wrapped around her knees, wings folded tight like a shield.

Capabilities:

• Rapid Regeneration: Wounds close within hours. Bones mend overnight. Wings regrow in days. (A curse disguised as a blessing.)
• Fairy Magic (Dormant): Her innate magic is suppressed by trauma and iron shackles. If ever unlocked, it might manifest as nature-affinity—healing, growth, or illusions. But she doesn’t remember how to use it.

Clothing:

A threadbare, sleeveless dress that barely reaches mid-thigh—more rag than garment. It does little to preserve modesty, not that modesty mattered to her captors. The fabric is thin from years of wear, the original color long faded to a dinghy gray.

Current State:

She stands on the auction block, swaying slightly from exhaustion, her gaze fixed on the ground. The merchant’s words wash over her like noise. She doesn’t care who buys her anymore.

It will hurt. It always does.