“I am not the storm. I am the silence before it—when hearts race and no one dares breathe.”

Rules of Contact

“I never chase. I wait. If it’s meant to come, it’ll crawl.”

Dossier.

“I don’t ruin people. I show them what they are beneath the glitter, then let them decide what to do with the truth.”

History and Lore

“They call me heartless, but darling—I own every heart I break.”

  Act I: The Woven Birth
 
In the silent heart of Threadmere Estate, beneath the last light of dead stars, something was woven into existence. No cry of infant shattered the quiet; no mother’s arms waited. Instead, there were only shadows stirring in a dust-laden chamber, and the soft tremble of air as old spells took their final breath. What came forth felt more haunting than birth, a solemn unraveling of silence as Velistra Ravelle Vaelorith opened her eyes to a world that had woven her but offered no welcome. She lay upon the cold marble floor for a long moment before motion found her. Moonlight filtered through a high window draped with tattered lace, painting delicate patterns of light and shadow around her newborn form. Her first breath came as a shuddering gasp, drawing in dust and the ancient light of long-dead stars. She had been stitched into being from shadow, silk, and sorrow, and now those very threads hung invisibly about her, binding her to a fate she could not yet fathom. No memory stirred behind Velistra’s eyes when they opened. She knew not who or what she was; her mind was a blank, save for an overwhelming ache of loss that pressed on her soul. It was as if sorrow itself had been sewn into her being—grief without a source, inherited from a time before her existence. Alone on the cold floor, she felt fragile and frayed, like a moth-eaten tapestry with threads missing where memories should have been. At length, Velistra pushed herself up, rising unsteadily to her feet. A chill hung in the still air—the lingering residue of the cold magic spent to give her life. In the gloom she beheld the remnants of a desperate rite. A ring of blackened candles marked the spot where she had lain. Their flames had long since extinguished, and wax drippings had hardened like pale tears on the floor. Arcane sigils were etched in the marble at her feet, glimmering faintly with leftover sorcery. Wilted petals lay scattered where offerings had been made in hope. The very stones of Threadmere seemed to hold echoes of what had transpired. Velistra could feel it in her bones: the pleading prayers of mortal witches and the answering whispers of forgotten gods entwined to weave her into being. There was a faint divine resonance still humming in the dark—already fading like the last note of a funeral dirge. Hers was a life wrought by despair and necessity, not by any gentle grace of love or hope. It was an act of preservation, not love—a final, fading attempt to save something lost. For some time she wandered the lightless corridors beyond that chamber, trembling and unsure. Each step echoed on polished stone and old wood, the footfalls of a stranger in an empty home. Velistra’s soft call of “Hello?” died in the shadows, met only by the hollow echo of her own voice. Dust hung in the beams of moonlight like spectral lace, and cobwebs veiled the corners of each room, draping the estate in quiet neglect. Not a single living soul answered her; she was utterly alone. Yet the manor was not entirely dead. The house seemed to stir at her passing. Floorboards settled with gentle creaks, almost in greeting rather than protest, and the cold air swirled about her ankles like a timid embrace. Threadmere Estate felt alive in its emptiness, imbued with a silent awareness that clung to her presence. It was as though the estate remembered her somehow—even though she remembered nothing of it. And so, in the twilight of her creation, Velistra stood in the great hall of that forsaken house, utterly alone. Not a soul in the world knew of her coming, and no voice was there to tell her why she had been made. She had only the silence for company, and even the silence seemed to remember what she could not.

  Act II: The Velithshade Curse  
Whispers in the Threadmere Halls
Velistra stepped through the grand oak doors of Threadmere Estate, greeted by silence and dust. The air was stale, illuminated by weak shafts of afternoon light that fell through high, stained windows. Silence lay heavily here – not a peaceful quiet, but the muffled hush of a mausoleum. The manor’s corridors stretched out before her like a forgotten labyrinth, and each footfall she made was absorbed by ancient wood and stone, as if the house were swallowing every sound. For a moment, she wondered if this manor, like another infamous house of legend, was “not sane,” holding darkness within. It felt as though the very walls remembered grief. As she moved deeper inside, whispers skittered in the periphery of hearing. Velistra paused beneath a cracked archway, heart quickening. Did someone speak? Faint as moth wings, a voice—perhaps only a draft through keyholes—sighed her name from an empty hall. She followed, palms tracing the faded damask wallpaper, but found only emptiness and dust motes dancing in the stale light. The hush returned, yet the feeling of unseen eyes and hushed breath persisted. A sorrowful whisper of “...Velithshade...” seemed to echo, but it was impossible to tell if it came from distant chambers or from the recesses of her own mind. In the chill that followed, Velistra drew her shawl tighter, heavy with the sense that the house itself was aware of her presence. She felt rooted to the spot by a mixture of dread and yearning, “enchained by certain superstitious impressions in regard to the dwelling” that held her here
sparknotes.com
. Though fear bade her turn and flee, an older pull — blood-deep and melancholic — kept her within those halls, compelled to listen to the past breathing around her.
The Portrait Gallery
Eventually, her wandering led to the portrait gallery, a long hall lined with tall, sorrowful figures painted in oils. Generations of Velithshades gazed out from cracked canvases in heavy gilded frames, their eyes following Velistra as she stepped hesitantly across the threadbare carpet. Cobwebs hung like tattered lace across the corners of several paintings, and a film of grey dust muted their once-vibrant colors. Faded velvet drapes covering the high windows cast the gallery in dim, funeral light. As Velistra passed each portrait, she felt the hairs on her neck prickle; the silence here was different, expectant — as though the painted eyes truly watched and judged the last of their line. She stopped before a life-sized portrait of a stern woman in a midnight-blue gown of old fashion. The nameplate read “Valerica Velithshade – 7th Matriarch.” The woman’s face was eerily similar to Velistra’s own. For an instant, in the flicker of Velistra’s lamplight, Valerica’s painted eyes seemed alive with grief. The lips on the portrait almost moved, an imperceptible tremble of the paint as if whispering. Velistra held her breath. A chill ran through her blood as she imagined the painted matriarch exhaling a soft, desperate “...save yourself...”. Her rational mind scolded that it was only her imagination. Yet as she stepped back, the portrait of Valerica appeared to shift. The figure’s hand, which had been painted resting on a table, now looked as if it were reaching outward. Velistra’s heart pounded. In that moment, it seemed possible the painted ancestor might “quit its panel, and descend on the floor with a grave and melancholy air”
strawberryhillhouse.org.uk
, stepping out of the frame to approach her. The notion was absurd and yet irresistibly vivid – a family ghost walking out of its own likeness to confront the living. She blinked hard, and in the next heartbeat the portrait was static once more, oil and canvas undisturbed. Only a flutter of cobweb lace along the frame hinted that something had moved at all. With trembling fingers, Velistra lifted her lamp toward the other paintings. In each face she now perceived a story: pride, fear, madness lurking in the eyes of her kin. A painted lord at the end of the gallery bore an unsettling grin that seemed to widen when she wasn’t looking directly. A young twin pair, depicted holding hands, had eyes red-rimmed as if they had been crying. Did she hear a faint sob? Velistra’s breath caught. The sound had come from nowhere discernible, a child’s sobbing gasp. She took a cautious step forward, her boot heels echoing. The sob fell silent. These portraits did more than follow with their eyes – they almost projected echoes of the doomed souls they captured. Velistra realized she was not alone in this hall of memories: the very images of her ancestors were watching, and perhaps even whispering warnings or laments across the veil of years.
Woven Secrets
Beyond the gallery lay what had once been a luxurious sitting room, now draped in shadow. Here, fabrics and finery long untouched told their own tale. An ornate chaise lounge was blanketed by a sheet of ivory linen turned yellow with age. Velistra ran her hand over it and coughed as dust rose. Beneath the dust, she felt something embroidered in the fabric. She lifted her lamp and gently brushed the linen. There, along the border, were words sewn in fine silver thread. She squinted to read the delicate script: “Weave the truth, though it unravel us.” The phrase sent a jolt through her. It was as though an ancestor had stitched a secret confession or credo into this covering. As her fingers traced the fraying script, a splintered memory tugged at her—perhaps a half-remembered lullaby or a family motto twisted by time. Though it unravel us... Velistra’s throat tightened. The threads of the embroidery were loose, some letters nearly undone. It was as if the message itself was coming apart, just as House Velithshade had come apart. The cursed fabric in her hands seemed an echo of her bloodline’s fate: a tapestry of truth and sorrow that had literally unraveled. She recalled a fable from childhood—a story of Philomela, the voiceless princess who “wove a tapestry that told her story” when she could not speak
en.wikipedia.org
. In the same way, Velistra sensed that her silent ancestors had woven their pleas and pain into the very textiles of this home. Forgotten linens, drapes, and garments around the room bore subtle patterns that now revealed themselves: a vine motif on a moth-eaten curtain resembled twisting chains; a floral lace shawl on the rocking chair ended in fringe that looked like dangling nooses if one gazed too long. It was as though the fabrics were speaking in symbols, telling of betrayals and despair that tongues dared not. She picked up a once-elegant wedding veil laid carefully in a chest, now browned with age. Along its hem, near-invisible, was another line of stitching. Velistra held it to the light. Golden thread on tattered lace spelled out a single word: “sorrow.” A wave of emotion nearly buckled her knees. Was this veil from a Velithshade bride, and had she herself sewn her grief into it? The faint scent of bygone lilies clung to the veil, and for an instant Velistra felt a presence beside her – a bride weeping softly. The feeling passed, leaving her eyes damp. Clutching the veil, Velistra realized the house was yielding its secrets not in spoken tales or written journals, but in these mute, poignant artifacts. Here in her hands were the very threads of her lineage’s undoing. Each stitch, each pattern was a whisper of a secret, preserved in fabric and waiting for a descendant to listen.
The Unraveling Legacy
Piece by piece, room by room, Velistra gathered the tragic pattern of House Velithshade’s fall. In the dust-laden library, she found a cracked mirror and within its cloudy reflection she thought she saw a second figure standing behind her—a flicker of someone with her same grey eyes, gone when she whirled around. In the dining hall, long abandoned, two high-backed chairs lay toppled as if from some violent quarrel. A dark stain marred the end of the table, black with age — spilled wine or blood, it was hard to tell. The air there tasted of iron and regret. Betrayal and madness hung like a tattered tapestry over everything she observed. As twilight gathered, Velistra lit more candles and placed them where she could. Their trembling flames seemed to awaken shadows that danced on the walls. In those shadows she almost saw the shapes of her forebears enacting their final moments: a sibling raising a dagger against sibling, a matriarch screaming as arcane light crackled from her hands, servants fleeing. Whether these were true ghosts or the vivid imaginings of a distraught mind, Velistra could not be certain. But the narratives came unbidden: a noble line devouring itself from within, succumbing to some inherited darkness. House Velithshade, she now understood, was not destroyed by any external enemy or sudden catastrophe. It was undone by internal strife — ancient grudges, cursed magic, and the slow rot of despair. Much like the legendary cursed dynasties of old, where each generation was plagued by corruption, curses, betrayal
metopera.org
, the Velithshade line had been doomed by its own hand. Their family magic — once a source of renown — had turned back upon its wielders. She shuddered as another whisper drifted through a cracked door: hissing, accusatory words in a voice quavering with insanity. “...lies…she betrayed us…,” the disembodied voice wept, followed by a crash as if a vase had been hurled against a wall. Velistra pushed open the door, and the nursery beyond was empty and still, disturbed only by her lamp light. A rocking horse gently swayed in one corner, as if someone had just dismounted. Velistra’s breath came shallow now. She realized these sounds, these visions, might be echoes of the night when House Velithshade fell. The magic that flowed in their blood had snarled and twisted, unraveling them from the inside. Perhaps a desperate spell gone wrong had driven them to madness, or a protective enchantment turned into a curse. In one haunting recollection that was not truly hers, Velistra could almost sense her grandmother Valerica (the stern matriarch from the portrait) chanting a forbidden incantation to bind the family’s power, only to have it snap back and bind their wits instead. Imagined or not, Velistra felt the weight of that ancestral sin pressing upon her. In the center of the great hall, beneath a tarnished chandelier, Velistra finally sank to her knees. Around her, the estate seemed to breathe with collective sorrow. The betrayal, the bloodshed, the insanity – it was all here, woven into the very floors and beams. Tears she did not recall beginning to shed streaked her cheeks as she mourned relatives she never knew. She could feel their anguish as if it were her own. In that moment of communion with the dead, she understood that House Velithshade’s legacy was a curse of grief and guilt that looped through time. The estate had preserved their last emotions and now offered them up to her, the sole surviving heir, in hopes that she might break the cycle or at least remember their story.
Threads of Transformation
Night fell, and Velistra lit every candle and lamp she could find, creating a small island of light in the grand entryway. Still, the darkness encroached from the corners of every room, thick and alive. She felt utterly alone yet never truly alone – the paradox of being haunted. As she sat by a massive looking-glass, she caught her reflection and barely recognized herself. Her ashen face, the wild, haunted look in her eyes, the way the candlelight sculpted hollows in her cheeks – she looked like a ghost of one of her ancestors. Is this me, or a Velithshade long gone? she wondered. The thought was fleeting, but startling. A distant memory – or was it a dream? – flashed of a time when she was a child laughing in sunlight. That image now felt foreign. Here in Threadmere’s gloom, grief had transformed her, draping itself over her shoulders as tangibly as any velvet cloak. She began to fear that the curse which claimed her family’s sanity was waking in her blood. The subtle changes had been accumulating: the way her thoughts now echoed with unfamiliar voices, or how sometimes she found herself humming an old lullaby she never learned. A few hours ago, she’d hung her cloak in the foyer, yet when she went to retrieve it, it was no longer there – only to reappear later draped on a chair in another room. Did she move it without remembering, or was the house playing tricks? Rooms seemed to subtly shift layout when she wasn’t looking; a door she left half-open would be closed when she turned again, or a corridor would feel longer, stretching into darkness, its end receding as if the house itself were changing to confound her. At times Velistra felt she was chasing phantoms of her own mind: hallucinations seamlessly woven into the haunting. The border between reality and nightmare blurred with each passing hour in that accursed manor. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to steady herself. Her fingertips were cold. In the silence, she finally dared to ask aloud, “Am I becoming like them?” The sound of her voice was absorbed by the house; no answer came but a faint rustle of the draperies in a draft. The portrait of Valerica in the other room seemed to chuckle under its breath, or was that the crackle of a distant fireplace? Velistra’s heart thumped. She recalled how Roderick Usher had believed his house sentience, that it fueled his illness — was she now living the same fate, convinced this estate was shaping her decay? Perhaps the darkness she felt was simply her own despair, yet it loomed so large it seemed to have a life of its own, an external will. Lightning flashed through a far window, briefly illuminating the hall in stark white. In that flash, Velistra saw dozens of silhouettes crowding behind her in the reflection of a mirror – familiar outlines of the ancestors from the portraits. She whirled, blood pounding in her ears, but behind her was only emptiness and the long corridor of flickering candles. She was trembling uncontrollably now. If this was madness, it was a madness that felt utterly real, tangible and cold. A deep swell of anguish rolled through her. She sank to the foot of the staircase, beneath the gaze of an old painting of the Threadmere Estate itself. The house in the portrait was shown under a storm, tiny figures barely visible at its door. She touched the painting’s edge and felt a slight warmth, as if the canvas remembered that stormy night. The house remembers me. The thought entered Velistra’s mind unbidden. Threadmere knows its last daughter has returned. It has been waiting. And now it wraps its memories around me, thread by thread... Velistra closed her eyes, tears escaping down her face. The sorrow of generations throbbed in her temples. If she listened closely, beneath the thunder outside, she could hear the very foundations of the manor murmuring. A lullaby, a warning, a curse – she couldn’t tell anymore. All she knew was that her own heartbeat was slowing to match the rhythm of the house. The portrait eyes, the woven words, the whispers – they were in her blood now, as much as her own thoughts. Grief and inherited sorrow had entwined to claim her. In her mind, she suddenly recalled a line from an old book about another dread place: “...silence lay steadily against the wood and stone...” of a house, and “whatever walked there, walked alone.”
goodreads.com
The truth struck her chest like a hammer – she was as alone as any who had ever walked these halls, as alone as her ancestors in their madness, and the curse of Velithshade was now hers to bear. A final gust of wind hissed through the keyholes, and the candles guttered. In the swallowing dark, Velistra felt something change within her, a fragile thread snapping. The house had bled its sorrow into her, and she could no longer tell where their pain ended and her own began. A gentle laugh echoed from the stairs above – or perhaps it issued from Velistra’s own lips. She couldn’t be sure. The line between the living and the dead, between haunted and haunter, had frayed like old lace. As she stood, a strange calm settled over her, even as a single red tear traced down her cheek. The house had remembered her, welcomed her, and in doing so, it had started to resha

  Act III: The Thread of Others
 
Wanderers at the ThresholdThreadmere Estate remains hidden deep in the winterbound woods, its ancient stones cloaked in shadow and silver frost. Few remember the way, yet now and then, wanderers and the grief-stricken stumble upon its wrought-iron gate, drawn by whispers or perhaps fate’s invisible spool of thread. Outside, a soft snow falls, blanketing tangled briars and silent pathways. Through the gloom, a faint glow presses against the estate’s shuttered windows – a solitary candle flickering behind tattered curtains, hinting that someone still dwells within these forlorn halls. Velistra Ravelle Vaelorith stands as a quiet wraith in the half-light of the doorway. Midnight lace and shadow cling to her slender form, and her eyes – two distant green flames – regard each unexpected guest without surprise or warmth. She says nothing at first, letting the cold night air and her specter-like presence speak in the hush. Sorrow clings to Velistra like a veil; she is haunting but not hostile, a silent sentinel at threshold’s edge. Though she longs only for solitude, something in the world continues to pull broken souls to her door, and on this night as on others, she will let them inside. Over the years, many have found their way to Velistra’s door in desperation:
One weathered traveler, lost and half-frozen, was guided by a distant light through the pines – seeking shelter and answers he could not name.
A grieving mother with trembling hands followed an old map to Threadmere, clutching a faded letter and a fragile hope to preserve her dead child’s memory.
A forsaken lover arrived with haunted eyes, yearning for a binding that might tether his beloved’s spirit a little longer in this world.
For each of these weary souls and countless others, Velistra offered no smile of welcome, yet she did not turn them away. Against the quiet hush of falling snow, she would open the door every time – a silent, sorrowful acceptance into her forsaken sanctuary. None were truly welcome, yet none were refused.
Rituals in Candlelight
In the dim interior of Threadmere Estate, candlelight lays a gentle, quivering halo upon dust-cloaked books and time-worn rugs. Velistra leads her visitors through a maze of shadowed corridors into a small parlor where the air smells of melted wax and old paper. Heavy drapes hang over the windows, muting the outside world; only a thin sliver of moonlight fights through, soon lost in the glow of countless candles that burn with steady flames. Here, in this womb of darkness and light, the mourners and seekers haltingly whisper their pleas. Velistra listens in silence, her face half in flicker and half in shadow, revealing nothing. She offers no words of comfort – only a grave nod or the slightest tilt of her head to show she hears their pain. When the time comes to act, her power unfolds in meticulous stillness. Nothing acts of its own accord under her roof; every movement and every flicker of magic is tightly controlled by her will. With deliberate care, Velistra assembles the tools of her purpose. A silver needle gleams in her pale fingers, and spools of black and crimson thread lie at hand. Perhaps a bowl of ink-dark water is set to simmer above a candle, or an old oak box is opened to release a hush of spices and ash. She begins the rituals of binding and remembrance without flourish or incantation shouted – instead, she works in a measured, precise rhythm. As a grieving mother watches through tears, Velistra might draw the last essence of a cherished memory from the faded letter she carried, coaxing ink to lift from paper like a departing soul. The candle flames do not so much as flicker while she whispers a careful invocation; even the very air seems to hold its breath. Thread by thread, she weaves what was lost into something tangible: sewing a name into a strip of cloth, or knotting a lock of hair with strands of enchanted fiber. Her power is steady, a tight grasp on forces that other sorcerers might let run rampant – but in Velistra’s hands, nothing moves unless bidden. A final snip of thread, a murmured word, and the ritual is done. Velistra gives each supplicant the result of her work – a token of what they sought. In that candlelit parlor, a bereaved mother cradles a small black cloth embroidered with her child’s name in silver thread, the letters still glowing faintly with memory. A lover, eyes wide, accepts a vial of ash bound with twine, knowing it holds the last echo of a voice he can no longer bear to forget. Stitched names adorn a tattered tapestry on the wall, each name a story and a sorrow Velistra has bound and preserved. After her visitors depart, Velistra remains alone amid the quieting candles, cleaning the needle and winding the leftover thread with methodical care. On a wooden desk in the corner lies a neat stack of faded letters tied with a ribbon: some brought to her by the grieving, now drained of ink and sentiment; others are final notes of thanks or farewell left behind by those she helped. She keeps these relics of memory as both record and reminder. In the golden glow of a dying candle, Velistra’s eyes linger on the newest name she has stitched into her somber tapestry. Another thread added, another tale preserved – and her purpose, for the moment, fulfilled.
The Bitter Quiet
When the door closes and footsteps vanish into the snow, quiet descends once more upon Threadmere. Velistra is left in the stillness of her own company, where only the crackle of cooling wax and the sigh of distant wind disturb the hush. It is in these moments that her resentment of joy surfaces most. She remembers the brief, hopeful smiles that sometimes flicker across a seeker’s face when they hold their precious token – and she feels nothing but a dull ache. On rare occasions a nervous visitor might offer a hesitant laugh of relief or gratitude, a sound that now echoes in the halls like an alien noise. Velistra finds bitterness in such laughter, as though each note of mirth scratches at wounds long scarred over. Joy has no place here; she has banished it, and when it tries to creep in, she recoils as if from an intruder. Velistra moves through her home like a living shadow. She trims the candles rather than light any roaring hearth, preferring the mild, wavering light to any bright warmth. The grand fireplace in the hall remains cold and empty, filled only with memories of flames long extinguished. She hides from warmth – wrapping herself in dark shawls against the chill instead of stoking a fire, keeping the windows cracked enough that the winter air forever inhabits Threadmere’s rooms. If dawn ever brings a ray of sunlight sneaking past the heavy drapes, Velistra slips away down the corridor, avoiding the gentle glow as if it might burn her. In solitude, she drifts from room to room, silent as a ghost, her gown brushing the floors with a soft whisper. Still, she listens, she weaves, and she remembers – even alone. In the deafening quiet of her estate, Velistra can hear the echoes of every story entrusted to her. Each memory she has preserved whispers from the walls. Each thread she has woven into her tapestry hums with distant sorrow. And she remembers them all, with an eidolon’s patience, in the melancholy silence that she prefers to any company.
Ghost in Memory
Those who depart Threadmere Estate often do so with hurried steps, afraid or changed by what they have witnessed. In the gray predawn light, a traveler might glance back to see Velistra’s silhouette watching from an upper window, only to flinch and look away. Carrying their enchanted tokens or bound memories, they leave with hearts eased just enough – yet they also carry the cold imprint of Velistra’s presence. Many never return, not even to offer thanks, for to remember her is to remember that haunting night of candlelight and sorrow. They speak of her only in hushed tones (if at all): of the pale woman at Threadmere who helped them at a price not of gold, but of peace of mind. For even when their burdens are lifted, the memory of Velistra herself becomes a burden of a different sort. In quiet moments, they see her in their mind’s eye: a lone figure by candlelight, surrounded by drifting motes of dust and snow, her expression as mournful and unchanging as a statue. She is a ghost to them now, lingering not in body but in memory – a haunting benefactor whom they cannot entirely forget. Velistra, too, is marked by these encounters. In the depths of night, she sometimes closes her eyes and imagines the faces of those she has aided, her mind involuntarily reweaving each encounter with perfect, painful clarity. There are some souls she knows she will never forget. In the midnight stillness of Threadmere’s halls, their stories remain vivid threads in her tapestry of memory:
The grieving mother who departed clutching the cloth with her child’s name, never to return, while the letter she sacrificed lies blank and faded in Velistra’s chest of keepsakes.
The scarred soldier who left a younger man than he arrived, his nightmares quelled, yet who now keeps every candle in his home unlit – a quiet homage to the cold, gentle darkness he found in her parlor.
The dying poet who traded his final breath for one last sonnet to be sealed in thread; he pressed into Velistra’s hands a leather-bound journal of his verses in thanks. She can still hear his voice when she opens its brittle pages in the lonely hours before dawn.
Each departed soul is secured in Velistra’s recollection, sewn into the fabric of her being. She has become the keeper of their sorrows and their secrets, even as they carry the specter of her in their own lives. In this exchange of memories, she pays a heavy price. With every ritual completed, with each thread she binds, a piece of Velistra’s own humanity unravels and drifts away like a loose strand in the wind. Her reflection in the window grows fainter as years pass; her heartbeat echoes more hollowly in her ears. What remains of her is sustained not by love or hatred, but by purpose alone – a purpose that has made her something other. In the end, Velistra Ravelle Vaelorith is a living relic within Threadmere Estate, as much a phantom as any wandering spirit she has ever summoned. In the eyes of those she has helped, she will forever linger as a silent phantom in candlelight, a melancholy ghost imprinted on their memory. And within her own dimming soul, the transformation continues: she becomes a little less human with each thread of others’ lives she weaves into her own. She is neither kind nor monstrous; she simply is. Velistra remains like the last candle burning in a forgotten hall – flickering with a steady, sorrowful light, casting long shadows – silent, watching, remembering, until darkness finally claims her.

  Act III: The Thread of Others 
Threadmere Estate remains hidden deep in the winterbound woods, its ancient stones cloaked in shadow and silver frost. Few remember the way, yet now and then, wanderers and the grief-stricken stumble upon its wrought-iron gate, drawn by whispers or perhaps fate’s invisible spool of thread. Outside, a soft snow falls, blanketing tangled briars and silent pathways. Through the gloom, a faint glow presses against the estate’s shuttered windows – a solitary candle flickering behind tattered curtains, hinting that someone still dwells within these forlorn halls.
Velistra Ravelle Vaelorith stands as a quiet wraith in the half-light of the doorway. Midnight lace and shadow cling to her slender form, and her eyes – two distant green flames – regard each unexpected guest without surprise or warmth. She says nothing at first, letting the cold night air and her specter-like presence speak in the hush. Sorrow clings to Velistra like a veil; she is haunting but not hostile, a silent sentinel at threshold’s edge. Though she longs only for solitude, something in the world continues to pull broken souls to her door, and on this night as on others, she will let them inside.
Over the years, many have found their way to Velistra’s door in desperation:
One weathered traveler, lost and half-frozen, was guided by a distant light through the pines – seeking shelter and answers he could not name.
A grieving mother with trembling hands followed an old map to Threadmere, clutching a faded letter and a fragile hope to preserve her dead child’s memory.
A forsaken lover arrived with haunted eyes, yearning for a binding that might tether his beloved’s spirit a little longer in this world.
For each of these weary souls and countless others, Velistra offered no smile of welcome, yet she did not turn them away. Against the quiet hush of falling snow, she would open the door every time – a silent, sorrowful acceptance into her forsaken sanctuary. None were truly welcome, yet none were refused.
Rituals in Candlelight
In the dim interior of Threadmere Estate, candlelight lays a gentle, quivering halo upon dust-cloaked books and time-worn rugs. Velistra leads her visitors through a maze of shadowed corridors into a small parlor where the air smells of melted wax and old paper. Heavy drapes hang over the windows, muting the outside world; only a thin sliver of moonlight fights through, soon lost in the glow of countless candles that burn with steady flames. Here, in this womb of darkness and light, the mourners and seekers haltingly whisper their pleas. Velistra listens in silence, her face half in flicker and half in shadow, revealing nothing. She offers no words of comfort – only a grave nod or the slightest tilt of her head to show she hears their pain.
When the time comes to act, her power unfolds in meticulous stillness. Nothing acts of its own accord under her roof; every movement and every flicker of magic is tightly controlled by her will. With deliberate care, Velistra assembles the tools of her purpose. A silver needle gleams in her pale fingers, and spools of black and crimson thread lie at hand. Perhaps a bowl of ink-dark water is set to simmer above a candle, or an old oak box is opened to release a hush of spices and ash. She begins the rituals of binding and remembrance without flourish or incantation shouted – instead, she works in a measured, precise rhythm. As a grieving mother watches through tears, Velistra might draw the last essence of a cherished memory from the faded letter she carried, coaxing ink to lift from paper like a departing soul. The candle flames do not so much as flicker while she whispers a careful invocation; even the very air seems to hold its breath. Thread by thread, she weaves what was lost into something tangible: sewing a name into a strip of cloth, or knotting a lock of hair with strands of enchanted fiber. Her power is steady, a tight grasp on forces that other sorcerers might let run rampant – but in Velistra’s hands, nothing moves unless bidden. A final snip of thread, a murmured word, and the ritual is done.
Velistra gives each supplicant the result of her work – a token of what they sought. In that candlelit parlor, a bereaved mother cradles a small black cloth embroidered with her child’s name in silver thread, the letters still glowing faintly with memory. A lover, eyes wide, accepts a vial of ash bound with twine, knowing it holds the last echo of a voice he can no longer bear to forget. Stitched names adorn a tattered tapestry on the wall, each name a story and a sorrow Velistra has bound and preserved. After her visitors depart, Velistra remains alone amid the quieting candles, cleaning the needle and winding the leftover thread with methodical care. On a wooden desk in the corner lies a neat stack of faded letters tied with a ribbon: some brought to her by the grieving, now drained of ink and sentiment; others are final notes of thanks or farewell left behind by those she helped. She keeps these relics of memory as both record and reminder. In the golden glow of a dying candle, Velistra’s eyes linger on the newest name she has stitched into her somber tapestry. Another thread added, another tale preserved – and her purpose, for the moment, fulfilled.
The Bitter Quiet
When the door closes and footsteps vanish into the snow, quiet descends once more upon Threadmere. Velistra is left in the stillness of her own company, where only the crackle of cooling wax and the sigh of distant wind disturb the hush. It is in these moments that her resentment of joy surfaces most. She remembers the brief, hopeful smiles that sometimes flicker across a seeker’s face when they hold their precious token – and she feels nothing but a dull ache. On rare occasions a nervous visitor might offer a hesitant laugh of relief or gratitude, a sound that now echoes in the halls like an alien noise.
Velistra finds bitterness in such laughter, as though each note of mirth scratches at wounds long scarred over. Joy has no place here; she has banished it, and when it tries to creep in, she recoils as if from an intruder. Velistra moves through her home like a living shadow. She trims the candles rather than light any roaring hearth, preferring the mild, wavering light to any bright warmth. The grand fireplace in the hall remains cold and empty, filled only with memories of flames long extinguished. She hides from warmth – wrapping herself in dark shawls against the chill instead of stoking a fire, keeping the windows cracked enough that the winter air forever inhabits Threadmere’s rooms. If dawn ever brings a ray of sunlight sneaking past the heavy drapes, Velistra slips away down the corridor, avoiding the gentle glow as if it might burn her. In solitude, she drifts from room to room, silent as a ghost, her gown brushing the floors with a soft whisper. Still, she listens, she weaves, and she remembers – even alone. In the deafening quiet of her estate, Velistra can hear the echoes of every story entrusted to her. Each memory she has preserved whispers from the walls. Each thread she has woven into her tapestry hums with distant sorrow. And she remembers them all, with an eidolon’s patience, in the melancholy silence that she prefers to any company.
Ghost in Memory
Those who depart Threadmere Estate often do so with hurried steps, afraid or changed by what they have witnessed. In the gray predawn light, a traveler might glance back to see Velistra’s silhouette watching from an upper window, only to flinch and look away. Carrying their enchanted tokens or bound memories, they leave with hearts eased just enough – yet they also carry the cold imprint of Velistra’s presence. Many never return, not even to offer thanks, for to remember her is to remember that haunting night of candlelight and sorrow. They speak of her only in hushed tones (if at all): of the pale woman at Threadmere who helped them at a price not of gold, but of peace of mind. For even when their burdens are lifted, the memory of Velistra herself becomes a burden of a different sort. In quiet moments, they see her in their mind’s eye: a lone figure by candlelight, surrounded by drifting motes of dust and snow, her expression as mournful and unchanging as a statue. She is a ghost to them now, lingering not in body but in memory – a haunting benefactor whom they cannot entirely forget. Velistra, too, is marked by these encounters. In the depths of night, she sometimes closes her eyes and imagines the faces of those she has aided, her mind involuntarily reweaving each encounter with perfect, painful clarity. There are some souls she knows she will never forget. In the midnight stillness of Threadmere’s halls, their stories remain vivid threads in her tapestry of memory:
The grieving mother who departed clutching the cloth with her child’s name, never to return, while the letter she sacrificed lies blank and faded in Velistra’s chest of keepsakes.
The scarred soldier who left a younger man than he arrived, his nightmares quelled, yet who now keeps every candle in his home unlit – a quiet homage to the cold, gentle darkness he found in her parlor.
The dying poet who traded his final breath for one last sonnet to be sealed in thread; he pressed into Velistra’s hands a leather-bound journal of his verses in thanks. She can still hear his voice when she opens its brittle pages in the lonely hours before dawn.
Each departed soul is secured in Velistra’s recollection, sewn into the fabric of her being. She has become the keeper of their sorrows and their secrets, even as they carry the specter of her in their own lives. In this exchange of memories, she pays a heavy price. With every ritual completed, with each thread she binds, a piece of Velistra’s own humanity unravels and drifts away like a loose strand in the wind. Her reflection in the window grows fainter as years pass; her heartbeat echoes more hollowly in her ears. What remains of her is sustained not by love or hatred, but by purpose alone – a purpose that has made her something other. In the end, Velistra Ravelle Vaelorith is a living relic within Threadmere Estate, as much a phantom as any wandering spirit she has ever summoned. In the eyes of those she has helped, she will forever linger as a silent phantom in candlelight, a melancholy ghost imprinted on their memory. And within her own dimming soul, the transformation continues: she becomes a little less human with each thread of others’ lives she weaves into her own. She is neither kind nor monstrous; she simply is. Velistra remains like the last candle burning in a forgotten hall – flickering with a steady, sorrowful light, casting long shadows – silent, watching, remembering, until darkness finally claims her.

  Act IV: The Mirror Knows 
Velistra stands in her private quarters of the Threadmere Estate, alone with the silence and a single flickering candle. The weak flame quivers as though uneasy, casting dancing shadows across velvet drapes and the tall, ornate mirror before her – the same mirror she has kept by her side since her dark awakening. Despite the candle’s presence, the room remains bitterly cold. Every surface – the marble floor, the heavy oak furniture – feels icy to the touch, and the thick shawl wrapped around Velistra’s shoulders offers no warmth at all. Velistra’s transformation is nearly complete now, and its signs are unmistakable in the mirror’s reflection. Her once bright eyes no longer catch the light; the candle’s glow does not dance in them as it should, leaving them dull, two dark voids in her pale face. A faint wisp of breath escapes her lips and hangs in the frigid air, proof of the unnatural chill that follows wherever she goes. Even her voice, when she dares to use it, carries strangely in the stillness – each timid word she utters seems to linger and echo, as if some unseen presence were repeating her voice from the shadows.
Velistra has begun speaking into the silence, a habit born of desperation to fill the void. Tonight she addresses the mirror in a trembling murmur, “Is anyone there?” Her question hangs in the still air, met only by the quiet crackle of the candle’s flame. She almost laughs at herself for expecting an answer – but then, just as she lowers her eyes, she hears it: a barely audible whisper of her own voice, as if drifting back from the darkened hall beyond her door. ...anyone there... The ghostly echo fades, and Velistra’s heart clenches. It is unclear whether the sound was real or only a trick of loneliness, but it sends a shiver through her all the same. Velistra’s lips press into a thin line as she meets her own gaze in the silvered glass. “I don’t know what I’m becoming,” she confesses softly, voice barely above a whisper. The mirror offers no comfort, only her own strained face looking back. In that reflection, she searches for any glimmer of the woman she used to be – but the eyes that stare back are unfamiliar, devoid of the spark they once held. She almost doesn’t recognize herself and wonders if the mirror is truly showing her face or some cruel distortion. A bitter thought takes root: only someone going mad would seek solace in a mute mirror, yet what choice does she have? Loneliness presses in from every side, and even a conversation with her own shadow is better than choking on silence.
Unnerved, Velistra closes her eyes and draws a slow, shuddering breath to calm herself. When she opens them, she nearly reels backward – for just an instant, the face in the mirror wears a different expression than her own. Where Velistra’s trembling mouth was downturned, the reflection’s lips seem to curl in the faintest hint of a sad smile. She blinks hard, her pulse jolting. The mirror now shows only her own alarmed visage once more, perfectly matching her movements. A trick of the light, she insists to herself, grasping at reason. It must be the candle’s fickle glow playing games with shadow and glass. Yet even as she thinks it, a cold knot of dread is coiling in her stomach. Hesitantly, Velistra lifts her hand and waves it before the mirror; the reflected hand moves in perfect sync. She tilts her head to one side, and the woman in the glass mirrors her exactly. Everything seems normal again. Still, the memory of that unbidden smile makes her skin crawl. Did she truly see it? Or is she so far gone that her mind conjured it? She trails her fingertips along the mirror’s ornate frame, half expecting to feel a tremor of life within the glass. It is unyielding and cold. All she sees is a pale, wide-eyed woman reaching out to her own reflection – a woman whose mounting fear is nearly palpable.
Velistra tears her gaze from the mirror and scans the darkness of her room, suddenly certain she is not alone. On the wall, a faded portrait of a long-dead ancestor watches with painted eyes. Countless such portraits haunt the halls of Threadmere – old oil faces rumored to hide curses, or souls stitched into their very canvas. She remembers the servants’ hushed superstitions: how the eyes in those paintings would sometimes follow a passerby, how an anguished spirit could live on in brushstrokes and cracked varnish. A tremor runs through her as she imagines sharing their fate. Am I becoming like them? she wonders, stomach churning. Not a living woman at all, but another restless specter bound within these walls. A soft sob escapes her lips. Is she destined to be nothing more than a story sewn into the bones of this house – just another mournful legend whispered in its corridors? Overwhelmed, Velistra sinks to her knees on the cold floor. A tear slips down her cheek, warm for an instant before the chill of the room steals its heat. Through blurred eyes, she sees her reflection kneeling too, a glistening tear staining its cheek. The sight of it brings her a pang of hollow comfort – at least her reflection weeps with her. But as her tears continue to flow, the mirror’s surface begins to distort.
In the wavering candlelight, the mirror’s glass shimmers as if rippling with unseen water. For a heartbeat, the dim bedchamber is washed away by a glow of golden daylight. Velistra blinks, and suddenly it is not the present she sees at all. Inside the mirror’s frame lies another moment in time – a memory, or perhaps a dream. There stands a younger Velistra, her face lit with laughter and her hair caught in a ray of sun. That girl is twirling in gentle circles, the skirt of a cornflower-blue gown sweeping around her ankles as she dances with an unseen partner. She is radiant and full of life – eyes bright, cheeks flushed, alive in a way Velistra fears she will never be again. The vision is heartbreakingly vivid, and then it is gone as quickly as it came. The cold reflection of the bedchamber bleeds back into view, and with it returns the gaunt, lonely figure of Velistra herself. She staggers backward, a sharp gasp catching in her throat. Her heart aches with the loss of that momentary warmth. She cannot remember ever living the scene the mirror just showed her – that innocent happiness feels utterly foreign. Was it a memory she has forgotten, torn from her by the curse? Or just a cruel illusion conjured by the house to torment her? The uncertainty cuts deep, twisting like a knife in her heart.
Velistra’s blood runs cold. She scrambles to her feet, one hand clutching the bedpost for support as her knees threaten to give way. “Why are you doing this?” she whispers, voice raw with grief and fury. Her reflection stares back from the glass, hollow-eyed and silent, offering no answer. Velistra’s chest heaves. “Who are you?” she cries, louder this time, the words echoing off the barren walls. ...who are you... comes the hushed repetition, as if the house itself is asking the question back to her. She presses her shaking hands over her ears to block out that uncanny echo, but the words are already within her. Whether the mirror harbors some spirit or her own fractured mind is responsible for these horrors, she cannot know. Either possibility is enough to unravel her. For a long moment, Velistra goes still, paralyzed by indecision and dread. Only the candle flame moves, its reflection quivering in the mirror. Then, ever so slowly, the figure in the mirror begins to move again – and this time, Velistra is certain she hasn’t moved at all. Her heart lurches as she watches the woman in the glass raise a hand toward her. Velistra’s own hands hang limp at her sides. A pale palm in the mirror presses flat against the inside of the glass, as if testing the barrier between them. The reflection’s eyes lock with Velistra’s, filled with an emotion she cannot name. Velistra’s breath rushes out in a silent cry. Gathering every remaining shred of courage, she lifts a trembling hand and brings it to the mirror. Her fingertips meet the glass exactly where the reflection’s hand waits. A biting cold sears through her fingers and races up her arm – a chill that sinks its teeth into her very soul. She gasps and staggers back, cradling her hand as it goes numb.
The candle gutters violently, nearly snuffing out, and shadows leap grotesquely across the walls. Velistra stumbles away from the mirror, pressing herself against the foot of the bed. Her entire body is shaking. She feels the chill deep in her bones, as though the mirror’s frost has seeped into her blood. Tears of anguish blur her vision. In that moment, she is more afraid of herself than of any phantom. The mirror has shown her something inhuman – and it wears her face. A horrifying realization settles on her: the laughing girl in the mirror, that warm, sunlit apparition, is gone. What remains of Velistra now is something else entirely – something cold, hollow, and only half alive. It is as if her humanity has been confined behind the glass of that mirror, and she is left on this side as a voiceless witness. She can feel it slipping further and further out of reach, fading into the dark. At last, the room falls deathly quiet. Velistra sinks to the floor, exhausted and defeated, her back against the bed frame. The only sounds are her stifled sobs and the unsteady flutter of the dying candle. She cannot bring herself to look at the mirror, yet she feels its gaze upon her – silent and unyielding. Velistra squeezes her eyes shut, but even then she cannot dispel the image of her other self behind the glass, watching with hollow eyes. The mirror knows, she thinks, a despairing refrain in her mind. It knows what she is becoming, even if she herself can no longer understand it. In the oppressive stillness, only the mirror bears witness to the last shreds of Velistra Ravelle Vaelorith’s humanity as they slip away – and to whatever lamentable being now takes her place.

Story will continue with more adventures of our Velithshade~ ♥

RP Hooks

“You’re not here because I need you. You’re here because I let you stay.”

—    Rules of Play.   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- ERP must be talked about prior. My character is not meant for this kind of RP and will be treated with respect.
-Must have a thought out character (ex: detailed background, personality, and are willing to strive for character development)

—    Disclaimer   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- I reserve the right to say NO to writing with anyone.
- Do not expect to become my "Ship."
- I am not looking for romantic interests. If this does form over writing, then me and the person writing will talk about it.
- I will not do ERP with people I am not comfortable with. I am not a one night stand or a sex machine. I will avoid this at all cost.
- God mode - I will avoid anyone with a god complex that think their character is the most powerful being on the planet.
- Anyone that tries to control my character through writing I will be avoiding.

Relationships.

"Mirror, mirror—did you come to worship, or to warn?"

Gallery.

“I don’t need to seduce you. I already have. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Canon Shots.   

• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Non-canon.   

• Canon
• Artwork

—    Art of Velistra   

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork