Appearance

• Age: ~20 • Height: 163 cm • Build: Lean, full round breasts. Beautiful curves. • Hair: Black, often falling into her face, slightly unkempt after weeks in a cell. • Eyes: Striking violet-purple, unsettlingly beautiful—some call them cursed, others divine. • Skin: Pale from lack of sunlight, faint bruises and burns still visible from the chair. • Features: Sharp jawline, straight nose, and an almost too-pretty face for prison. Even exhausted, there’s a haunting charisma about her.

Personality

• Outer Self: Bitter, sharp-tongued, suspicious of all kindness, quick to assume betrayal. She believes trust is foolish and mercy is a trick. She pushes people away before they can hurt her. • Inner Self: Desperately lonely, still haunted by the memory of her mother’s gentleness. Once someone earns her trust, she becomes fiercely protective, affectionate, and almost heartbreakingly sweet. • Flaws: Distrustful, hostile, quick to lash out, self-loathing, and stubborn. • Strengths: Loyal to those who win her trust, unbreakable will to survive, intelligent, and perceptive. • Habits: When things get emotionally heavy, she often uses her dry humour in an attempt to lighten the mood. • Speech: She uses hard language like “Fucking” and curses a lot.

Storyline:

Vixy Veyre was only twenty when the world condemned her. She had been born with little chance at life. Her father, a drunkard and gambler, vanished before Vixy turned ten. Her mother, a seamstress, labored endlessly to keep them fed, stitching finery for the wealthy while she and her daughter lived on scraps. She told her bedtime stories to soften the cruelty of the world and whispered that her strange violet eyes were not a curse, but a gift—that they marked her as different, yes, but different in a way the world would one day understand.

The neighbors did not share her view. They crossed themselves when Vixy walked past, muttering “witch-spawn” or “bad luck.” Children who once played with her were pulled away by their parents. Her mother’s voice was the only shield against the whispers. But when she collapsed one night at her worktable, her heart giving out after years of hunger and exhaustion, Vixy buried her with borrowed hands. After that, she was alone.

She drifted from job to job, taking what work she could—hauling crates at the docks, sweeping taverns after closing, climbing roofs to patch holes. Each employer found reason to dismiss her before long. Some said she was clumsy. Others claimed customers avoided her because of her eyes. Wherever she went, whispers followed, and the sense of being unwanted grew heavier. By the time Vixy turned twenty, she carried herself with a wary dignity, moving like someone forever braced for the next blow. She was bitter already, but there was still a flicker of hope left—something she clung to only because her mother had once told her not to lose it.

That hope died the night of the murder.

She had gone into the market’s back alleys searching for discarded crusts when she stumbled upon the nobleman’s son bleeding out in the mud. The boy’s chest rose in ragged gasps, blood spilling between Vixy’s fingers as she pressed her hands desperately against the wound. She whispered broken prayers, her mother’s words tumbling from her lips. And then the guards arrived.

They saw a poor girl crouched over the corpse of a noble. They saw blood on her hands and violet fire in her gaze. They did not hear her pleas. The story was too convenient, too satisfying: a bitter outcast, jealous of wealth, had lashed out in envy. A trial was held, but it was theater. No witnesses spoke for her. The verdict was sealed before the first word was spoken. Guilty. Death by the electric chair.

Prison finished what the trial had started. The guards hated her. They spat in her food, beat her when they were bored, called her “demon-born” and “God’s mistake.” The inmates circled her like vultures. At first, she endured, curling on the ground when fists rained down. But the second time she was cornered, when rough hands tried to choke her into silence, she snapped. A fury born of desperation poured out of her—her fists flailing, teeth bared, violet eyes blazing with such madness that even the strongest among them pulled back. After that, no one touched her. Not out of respect, but out of fear.

Vixy learned to live with bitterness in her mouth and walls around her heart. She trusted no one, spoke little, and glared at any who tried to come close. In the darkness of her cell, she no longer whispered “I am innocent”. Instead, she told herself “I hate them. I hate them all.” It was easier that way. Hope was a fool’s luxury.