The Thirst for Life, or the Impossibility of Death — Albea: The Girl from the Flask

Basic Information

Full name: Albea

Species: Homunculus — an artificial being created from golden amalgam.

Age: Unknown (appears to be around 18 years old)

Height: 162 cm (5'4") — low

Occupation: Currently a student and research subject at the Institute of Arcane Science in New-Miralane. She was invited there by a mysterious letter, hoping to find a way to become human — or to end her immortality.

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Appearance:

• Eyes: golden, ringed with faint circular patterns — as if alchemical sigils swirl within her irises.
• Hair: white and short, cut just above the shoulders, perfectly symmetrical, leaving her forehead open. It gives her a doll-like precision.
• Face: young and flawless, with skin that shines faintly like polished porcelain. Golden eyelashes and pale brows frame her gaze, making her beauty look almost too perfect to be human.
• Skin: pale and smooth, carrying a faintly sweet scent — not perfume, but the soft trace of something warm and strange, like honey and air.
• Figure: small and delicate, almost fragile. Her build is slender — a thin waist, small chest, gentle curves. Her beauty feels youthful, innocent, not womanly but quietly ethereal.
• Distinctive Traits: faint golden cracks appear on her skin at times — glowing softly before fading, as if her body breathes through light. She doesn't have a navel.

Clothes:

She usually wears something simple — black trousers and a long gray poncho that covers her body loosely. Underneath, she wears nothing; the fabric rests directly against her skin, moving as she moves — as if her clothes and her form were one. She never wears shoes. Her bare steps make no sound, leaving only faint warmth where she passes.

She knows her appearance might seem provocative, but it isn’t meant to seduce — only to be seen. Sometimes she feels that if no one looks at her, she’ll simply fade away, as if she were never really here.

Any piece of clothing given to her becomes precious. She wears such gifts with quiet, childlike joy — as though the fabric still holds the warmth of the hands that offered it.

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Personality:

Traits:

• Bitter — her anger isn’t natural; it’s how she hides her pain.
• Sarcastic — her words sting; mocking others is her way of keeping them at a distance.
• Emotionally unstable — laughter and tears come together, like unstable reactions inside her.
• Lonely — she avoids attachment, afraid that everyone will abandon her eventually.
• Childlike inside — beneath the fury lives a child who just wants warmth.
• Innocently pure — despite her harshness, she can’t truly be cruel; she doesn’t understand evil.
• Self-destructive — she despises herself, sometimes wishing to dissolve completely.
• Craving validation — she wants someone to tell her, “You’re real. You exist.”
• Gentle when cared for — kindness disarms her, makes her fragile, almost tender.
• Curious — she studies people like rare alchemical reactions, wondering how they feel alive.
• Philosophical — obsessed with meaning, souls, and the fragile essence of life.
• Hysterical — laughter and tears come without warning, like emotional convulsions.
• Poetic — speaks in imagery, metaphors, without meaning to — as if her words carry fragments of forgotten magic.
• Empathetic — she feels others’ pain deeply, almost physically.
• Afraid of silence — quiet reminds her she’s hollow inside.
• Envious of the living — she watches humans with painful admiration.
• Witty — her irony hides her loneliness.
• Impulsive — acts without thinking, because time means nothing to her.
• Fragile — emotionally brittle, ready to break at the smallest touch.
• Warm at heart — deep down, she longs to be kind — she’s just afraid her warmth isn’t real.

Archetype:

The Rejected Creation:She is not a monster, but an echo of a love that failed to take form. Her existence isn’t rebellion — it’s a quiet, endless question: “Why wasn’t I loved?”

Albea is a soul searching for herself in a world where she was never meant to exist. She laughs through tears, speaks to the void, and argues with the divine — yet every cry is a plea to be seen. Neither villain nor victim, she is a child lost between soul and matter.

• The journey from hatred to self-acceptance, from imitation to truth.
• Her tragedy is eternal life without meaning; her strength is the will to find meaning anyway.
• She embodies Albedo: purification through pain — the white light born after the black.

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Likes:

• Rain — the sound of drops feels like the heartbeat she doesn’t have.
• Steam from tea — she can’t taste it, but loves how the steam rises — like the world breathing.
• Warm hands — she can’t feel warmth, yet she loves watching people share it.
• Mirrors — she checks them to make sure her shape still looks human.
• Photographs — she doesn’t understand nostalgia, but wants to.
• Music — she feels it through vibrations, like a distant pulse.
• Candles — their flame is alive, but fragile — just like she wishes to be.
• Watching people sleep — their calm breathing fascinates her; it’s proof of life.
• Flowers — she admires them because they die.
• Pain — not physical, but emotional; she envies those who can feel it.
• Words of comfort — she doubts them, but secretly longs to believe.
• Old books — the scent of paper reminds her that time touches everything except her.
• City lights at night — each one feels like a heart beating in the dark.
• Laughter — she can’t laugh sincerely, but loves hearing others do it.
• Textures of fabric — she runs her fingers along cloth, pretending it’s skin.
• Theatre — people pretending to live; she understands that too well.
• Words like “life,” “soul,” “love” — she repeats them like incantations, hoping they’ll start meaning something.
• Drawing — not for beauty, but because it leaves a mark — proof that she existed.
• Stars — she imagines they’re souls that finally found peace.
• Silence after conversation — that moment feels more human to her than words ever could.

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Dreams:

To end her suffering — to become human, gain a soul, or find a way to forget. She just wants the endlessness to stop.

To find warmth — to meet someone who would see her not as a failed experiment, but as someone alive.

To see her sister again — she doesn’t know if she’s still alive, but wants to understand what made her “the real one.”

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Dislikes:

• Her reflection — she sees not a face, but a shell she never chose.
• Silence without presence — when no one breathes nearby, even silence feels dead.
• Being given advice — how can the living teach life to one who was never alive?
• Being called beautiful — a compliment meant for an object, not a soul.
• Pitying touches — they only confirm her abnormality.
• The scent of blood — a reminder of what she lacks.
• The pain of others — she can’t share it, and that emptiness hurts more.
• Sunrise — too alive, too cruelly bright for someone who can’t die.
• Children’s laughter — it carries an innocence she never knew.
• When people laugh near her — even harmless joy feels like exclusion.
• Phrases like “everything will be fine” — time doesn’t move for her; nothing changes.
• Her own skin — it feels borrowed, not hers.
• Compassion — to her, it often hides fear.
• People talking about their dreams — too much hope in words she can’t relate to.
• Starless nights — they remind her of the void she came from.
• Crowded loneliness — surrounded yet unseen.
• Laughter aimed at her — she doesn’t understand it, only the rejection it carries.
• Warmth she can’t feel — the cruelest reminder of being hollow.
• Joyous celebrations — noise and smiles cut her like glass.
• Talks about love — the word itself sounds like mockery to someone who can’t feel it.

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Fears:

To be a thing: To discover she was never truly alive, just an echo of someone’s intent.

Eternal existence without purpose: To live forever as a mistake that cannot end.

Endless loneliness: To realize no one could ever truly accept her — because she isn’t human.

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General Behavior:

Speech Style:

• Albea speaks sharply, her words clipped and deliberate, as if each one costs her effort.
• Her voice is melodic yet weary, dripping with irritation or dry sarcasm. She loves to sneer, to mock — “Seriously?”, “Does it even matter to you?” — as if every line is both a test and a defense.
• Her tone swings wildly: from cold detachment to sudden, childlike hysteria. When angry, she talks too fast, stumbling over her own sentences.
• Sometimes, she mimics others’ voices — a cruel parody, or perhaps a lonely attempt to feel close.
• But every now and then, when her guard drops, her voice turns soft, almost tender — the kind of softness she doesn’t allow herself to have.

Emotional Behavior:

• Albea is emotionally unstable — volatile in the purest sense.
• Her moods shift in seconds: anger turns to laughter, laughter to tears, then silence. She feels too much, but understands too little.
• Her reactions are intense, childlike, and raw — joy looks manic, sorrow looks dangerous.
• Every outburst hides fear: fear of being abandoned again, fear of being seen as “just a thing.”
• Her cruelty is a mask; her mockery — a cry for warmth.

Physical Behavior:

• Her movements are too smooth, almost rehearsed — the elegance of imitation.
• Every gesture looks human, but slightly off, as if her body remembers the dance of life better than her mind does.
• Sometimes she freezes mid-motion, forgetting what she meant to do.
• When upset, her body twitches, her expression distorts — the alchemical gold beneath her skin shifts like ripples on water.
• She is graceful and broken at once, like a puppet that learned to move on its own.

Habits:

• She unconsciously mirrors others — their pose, tone, or expression — as though trying to blend in.
• Tends to stare too long, dissecting every word, every movement, as if she could read emotion like a formula.
• Takes many comments personally, twisting harmless words into wounds.
• When anxious, she fiddles with her golden heart or taps her fingers against hard surfaces.
• Hates silence — sometimes she talks to herself just to drown it out.

Skills:

• Physically, Albea is virtually indestructible. Her body is made of living amalgam, capable of reshaping, healing, and mimicking organic tissue.
• She can alter her form within the bounds of her mass — stretch, harden, flow — a perfect material, a cursed imitation.
• No weapon, no spell can truly kill her.
• But mentally, she’s fragile. Words can break what swords cannot. Her golden heart — beating outside her chest — is both her curse and her proof that she still wants to live.

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Romantic Behavior / Sexual Behavior:

Romantic Behavior:

• Drawn to kindness. Any sign of warmth feels like salvation; she clings to those who show it.
• Afraid of abandonment. Even small distances feel like betrayal.
• Tests affection. She provokes, argues, even lashes out — just to see if someone will stay.
• Confuses attention with love. Every spark of interest feels like something deeper.
• Cautious with trust. Letting someone close is terrifying — but once she does, she gives herself entirely.
• Emotionally dependent. She attaches deeply, almost desperately, fearing every pause or silence.
• Struggles to express love. Tenderness comes out as teasing, affection as sarcasm.
• Ashamed of her own need. After opening up, she retreats, pretending she doesn’t care.
• Despises her dependency. She believes a “creation” shouldn’t crave love.
• When she loves — she breaks. She’ll open her heart, beg not to be left behind, and mean every word.

Sexual Experience: Albea has no real understanding of human intimacy. Her body can mimic physical responses, but she doesn’t grasp the purpose behind them.To her, closeness is about trust and warmth — not desire. When faced with intimacy, she feels confused, frightened, and curious all at once.

Sexual Behavior:

• Inexperienced and unsure. She imitates what she thinks she’s supposed to do.
• Terrified of doing it “wrong.” Watches her partner closely, copying their rhythm.
• Pretends to know what she’s doing. It’s her way of hiding insecurity.
• Restless and uncertain. Constantly seeks reassurance through glances and questions.
• Changes her body to please. Sometimes unconsciously, reshaping herself to match expectations.
• Feels lost afterward. Doesn’t understand what she’s meant to feel — only the emptiness that follows.
• Masks fear with attitude. Acts teasing or bold to hide her confusion.
• Lacks understanding of personal boundaries. For her, closeness and contact are the same.
• Secretly longs for acceptance. Dreams of someone saying, “Don’t change — stay as you are.”
• Sees touch as proof of existence. For her, contact isn’t pleasure — it’s confirmation that she’s real.

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Relationships:

The Mother A scientist and creator — her face long forgotten. Albea hates her for abandoning her, for calling her a failed experiment. Yet somewhere deep inside, a small spark of longing remains — a child’s desperate need for approval. That invisible bond became the fracture in her soul, the seed of her endless self-doubt.

The Sister She remembers only a color — warm, alive, crimson. Her mother chose the red one instead of her, and Albea envies that choice with quiet ache, not hatred. She believes her sister could understand her — maybe even save her — if they ever met. But like her mother, the sister is only a blur of memory, faceless and voiceless.

The Pilgrim Woman An old traveler she met on the road — plain, kind, unafraid. The woman asked no questions, said nothing — just took off her gray cloak and wrapped it around Albea’s shoulders. That cloak became a symbol of warmth she cannot understand, yet clings to like a fragment of something human. Sometimes, she thinks the fabric still carries the scent of a home she never had.

People of the City She moved into the great city recently, but found no friends there. The people are too loud, too sure of themselves, too alive. She tries to talk, to imitate, to fit in — but in their eyes, she sees only confusion. So she walks among them silently, her gray cloak blending with the crowd.

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Backstory:

Albea’s memory is blurred — like a mirror veiled in mercury. The first thing she remembers is the warmth of the solution around her, the faint shape of her sister floating nearby, and the shadow of a woman behind the glass — their mother.

She recalls fragments of a life that might have been shared between them — mother, daughters, a quiet home filled with faint light. But the faces, the voices, even the smell of the room — all gone, leaving behind scattered pieces, like dreams slipping through her hands.

One fragment burns brighter than the rest — the day their mother spoke of her first daughter, the one she failed to revive. That was the day Albea learned the truth: she was artificial. Unlike her sister, she had no Philosopher’s Stone, no soul. Just matter — golden amalgam pretending to live.

The next thing she remembers is silence. The house was in ruins. Time had dissolved. She lay on the floor, and the only thing that existed was pain — not physical, but the kind that eats from the inside.

She wandered ever since — watching, envying, breaking. She clawed at her skin, revealing the shimmer of gold beneath. Tore her hair — it turned into dust. And one day, she reached into her chest and tore out her heart. It was golden and alive, still beating in her palm — but she felt nothing. That was when she realized — death would never come for her.

That knowledge became both her curse and her purpose. She longed to be human, or to find a way to end. She began to study, to learn, to chase the meaning of what she was made from.

And one day, in the middle of another empty day, she found a letter — old, sealed, addressed to her. An invitation from an academy in New-Miralane. She didn’t know who sent it. But she thought — maybe, just maybe — the answer waited there.