VAELMONT, a story of poison, prayer, and reclamation.
Altani
Vaelmont
content warning
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This story contains themes of trauma, abuse, sexual violence, emotional manipulation.
Reader discretion is advised.
Rules
important please read the following before attemping to interact!
out of character
I am not my muse. Izenelle’s voice is sharp, cold, and shaped by things she endured to survive—I am not. Please keep IC and OOC separate at all times. While I enjoy deep, immersive roleplay and complex storytelling, I’m also here to have a safe, respectful, and clear creative space.Roleplays are highly selective, and written with long-form, character-driven plotting in mind. I prioritize quality over quantity, and emotional depth.I am also taken out of character, and will not write romantic or intimate content with anyone but my partner. Period.
dark themes & warnings
This character deals with mature themes reflective of her background and the darker corners of FFXIV’s world: religious trauma, abuse (emotional, physical, and systemic), identity erasure, manipulation, and non-explicit references to sexual violence. These elements are integral to her story and are written with care, weight, and nuance—never for shock or aesthetic suffering.This Carrd is pre-tagged and exists as a content warning in itself. If you choose to read, you acknowledge the tone and the subject matter. I do not take responsibility for discomfort if you've chosen to proceed.Any form of intimacy—flirtation, closeness, or trust—is strictly reserved for my real-life partner, my husband.
Izenelle does not open herself to anyone else, and neither do I.Respect that boundary please!
interactions
This is a story-heavy, canon-rooted, muse. Izenelle is not a “nice” character. She is not meant to be liked. If you're here for soft, low-stakes or meme-based roleplay, this probably isn't the place.That said — I deeply value character chemistry, poetic tension, and writing that has teeth. I’m especially interested in interactions with:- Ishgardians / Elezen- Knights, noble houses, or inquisitors- Outcasts, and magic users- Those connected to the VoidIzenelle works best when she’s either intrigued by you or plotting around you. Please do not force ships or one-sided affection—she’s not written to be conquered.
dynamics
Izenelle is not a romantic muse in the traditional sense. She has no interest in casual intimacy, and any form of affection is rooted in power, trust, or something deeply earned. I will never write romance, and if so, only with my partner.ERP is never on the table. Sensuality may appear — especially in plots involving manipulation or seduction as survival — but it will never be for erotic content. She knows how to fake closeness. She rarely feels it.Her strongest bonds are forged in shared violence, quiet understanding, and unspoken loyalty.
miscellaneous
I am a longform writer by heart. I enjoy emotionally detailed prose, introspection, and narrative flow. That said, I’m not picky — short replies are absolutely welcome if they keep the story moving or suit the tone of the scene. Quality always over quantity.I use D&D stat sheets for combat-based plotting or PvP moments. If you’re interested in writing fight scenes or duels, I’m more than happy to share mechanics or roll-based outcomes for fairness.Izenelle’s lore is heavy, but that doesn’t mean every thread has to be tragic. If your muse offers tension, rivalry, politics, or even reluctant trust—I’m all in.Muse and mun are both 25+. This blog is not for minors.
Bonds
those who are precious and those of whom we hold dear.
Biography
notes on a woman once known asEvarisse
The Basics
full name Izenelle Vaelmont
years old 32 (62 Elezen years)
birthday 16th Sun , 5th U. Moon
pronouns she / her
gender female
orientation pansexual
nationality Ishgardian
species Elezen
residence Currently Gridania
languages Common Eorzean
They prayed to Halone. I became my own answer.
Touch is not kindness. I remember what it used to mean.
positive trait calculating.
positive trait composed.
positive trait graceful.
positive trait self-possessed.
negative trait emotionally distant.
negative trait vengeful.
negative trait secretive.
negative trait distrustful.
The Looks
skin tone pale; bruises easily
hair color violet-lavender
hair style Braided, twisted, bound. Never worn loose unless she’s safe
eye color Deep garnet
scent Foxglove and cold iron
height 5'6" (168 cm)
weight light, but enduring.
physique Lithe and lean
complexion Pale, cool-toned
mental Touch aversion. Sensory memory triggers.
notable features Burn scars bloom across her ribs and back like roots in frost. A small mole rests beneath her left eye. She has no fingerprints — burned away, therefore no sense of touch. wardrobe Tailored silks over alchemist's linen. High collars, dark velvets, corsets made to silence breath. Fur-lined coats in winter, enchanted rings at her fingers. Always overdressed—always deliberate. miscellaneous Every piece of clothing she wears was altered by her own hands.
She never wears house crests.
# The Fire Beneath Frost.
backstory
I. The Name given
Her name, once, was Evarisse Vaelmont.
A name meant for ballrooms, for embroidered seals and silver-plated invitations. A name spoken softly over prayers to Halone, echoing across Ishgard’s cold cathedral halls. It was a noble name, born of marble estates and blood-stained ledgers, spoken with reverence and shaped by expectation.It is not the name she answers to now.
Now, they call her Izenelle.
And when they say it, they speak carefully—as if the name itself carries teeth.
II. Raised in Silence
She was born in winter. Not the gentle kind that dusts rooftops and quiets the streets, but a storm—a blizzard so fierce it silenced the cathedral bells and cracked the gargoyles along the vaulted halls of the Vault. The midwives whispered that Halone must be watching. Lady Aimelisse Vaelmont, high matron of a fading house, gave no reply. She handed her newborn daughter off to a wet nurse and returned to her ledgers.House Vaelmont, for all its age, had long since fallen out of favor. They had no dragonslayer sons, no celebrated commanders, no fortunes won on the battlefield. Their power came in whispers and ink: a family of archivists, poisoners, alchemists, and secret-keepers, trusted with things not meant to be spoken aloud. They were noble in name, if not in wealth. Respected, if not loved. Useful, if not holy.Her father, Ser Armathan Vaelmont, had died when she was still in swaddling cloth—abandoned by his own men during a campaign in the Dravanian Forelands, left to freeze after refusing to torch a village rumored to harbor heretics. His name was recorded among the honored dead, but behind closed doors, he was considered weak. His widow never spoke of him again. Evarisse grew up in a home where warmth was rationed and obedience expected. Her mother’s love was conditional. Mostly, it was withheld.She learned how to bow before she learned how to read. She learned how to remain still when punished, how to pray without asking for anything. Halone was the goddess of fury, of war, of ice—there was no room for soft faith. Only silence and scars.
III. The Daughter forged
By ten, she could distill minor elixirs. By thirteen, she was assisting senior alchemists on restricted formulas. By fifteen, she had been trained in etiquette, history, and poisons—how to brew them, mask them, and more importantly, how to use them without being caught. One of the first poisons she ever mastered was foxglove—a beautiful, violet bloom native to the Coerthas highlands. Elegant, noble, and utterly deadly. The scent of it became her signature: faintly floral, tinged with the metallic whisper of something not meant to be consumed.Her mind was sharp. Her posture, perfect. Her touch, cold.She startled easily at sudden gestures, flinched when the governess adjusted her collar, and froze when anyone placed a hand on her shoulder. No one asked why. No one looked closely enough to see the bruises that once bloomed like spilled ink beneath her gowns, or the way she avoided certain rooms in the estate. There had been a tutor, once. A kind man, at first. Too kind. He praised her too much. Brushed her hair too gently. She began sleepwalking, waking up curled in unfamiliar corners of the estate, trembling with no memory, only with her cloth unbuttoned. When the man disappeared, no one asked why.Lady Aimelisse replaced him with a tutor who never smiled and hit harder.
“You are not to be coddled,”
she told her.
“You are to be formed.”
IV. A Poisoned Promise
At seventeen, Evarisse was promised to a knight. Sir Alvier de Chalons. Well-groomed, well-placed. His smile never quite touched his eyes. He brought her gifts: a ribbon from a Coerthan stag, an imported perfume from the East, a ring that dug into her finger like a cuff. He called her his treasure. His prize. His.The first time he touched her, she froze. The second time, she flinched.The third time, he struck her for it.She told her mother.
“You will do your duty,”
Aimelisse replied.
“You will not shame this house.”So Evarisse did what she had always been taught to do. She studied. She waited. She brewed.The toxin she crafted was not a killer—not immediately. It was a paralytic, slow and exquisite, tailored to still the body while leaving the mind awake and aware. The kind of poison reserved for traitors. Or, in her case, for future husbands.She poured it into his wine on the night of their engagement dinner. He drank. He laughed. Then he began to choke.The spasms started in his fingers, crawled up his arms. His throat tightened. His breath came in jagged gasps. He reached for her. She didn’t move. When he fell to the marble floor, twitching and moaning, she did not scream. She did not run. She stood beside his crumpled body, watching him die.“He touched what was not his,” she said when the guards arrived.There was no trial. No public scandal. The Holy See called it illness. Her mother called it madness.A week later, a death certificate was filed. Evarisse Vaelmont was declared deceased. A funeral was held. The casket was empty.She was not sent to prison. She was sold.
V. Ashpetal
They took her in the middle of the night. No guards, no shackles. Just two men in robes who smelled of incense and rot. They didn’t speak to her, not directly. She was dressed in gray, veiled like a widow, and led through secret paths beneath the Vault—tunnels even her family had no maps for. She didn’t cry. She didn’t resist. What would have been the point?The manor she was taken to did not bear a sigil. It was hidden behind pillars and prayer. The kind of place noblemen visited when they needed to forget. It masqueraded as a sanitarium, a “retreat” for young women suffering from spiritual ailments.It was a brothel.She was renamed Ashpetal. She was told to smile. To obey.They dressed her in gowns of soft silk, powdered her face to hide the bruising, drugged her with tinctures to loosen her will. She learned quickly not to resist.The clients liked her. Some of them recognized her. One asked if she still brewed poisons. Another liked to pull her hair and make her kneel. When she screamed, she was gagged. When she bit, she was beaten. The third time she tried to flee, they broke her legs and forced aether into her veins to hasten the healing.Her body became a thing worn thin by others’ hunger. But somewhere inside, she kept a flame.One night, a client was rougher than the rest. He pinned her. Ripped the laces from her dress. Called her beautiful in the same tone one uses to claim land. She begged. He laughed. Her hands burned.And then the room caught fire.She didn’t speak. It simply happened.The fire spread fast. It licked at the curtains, bloomed along the floorboards, climbed the silks like vines. She walked through it, barefoot and blistering, the hem of her shift already smoldering. Her arms glowed. She did not scream.The manor burned behind her. Screams echoed through its hidden halls. She did not look back.
VI. The Name taken
By the time she reached the steps of a ruined shrine, the snow had begun to fall. Her hands were scorched. Her body fever-hot. Her dress torn and soaked through. She collapsed on the threshold of the altar and thought, not of Halone, not of her mother, but of a line from an old lullaby: Izenelle, Izenelle, girl of the frost, the fire forgot thee and the forest lost.She took it as her name. A rebirth. A refusal. A curse, perhaps. But it was hers.The scars on her torso took weeks to stop peeling. Skin turned strange, drawn tight across her ribs. She found shelter in the ruins of a forgotten village near the Shroud’s edge. There, she stole fabric, bandages, ink, and reagents. She built herself again in layers: gloves, high collars, red lips. Beautiful in a way that said "look, but do not touch." She smelled faintly of foxglove, a scent both sweet and deadly, carried always on her skin like a warning.She taught herself to speak with stillness. And when she spoke, she called herself Izenelle. She never said her old name again.
VII. To be remembered
She became something of a ghost in the months that followed. A shadow that moved between places. She sold tinctures in backrooms. Alchemical drafts that eased pain or caused it, depending on the bottle. She dealt with relic hunters, scholars, smuggler-priests, desperate nobles with secrets to bury.Her black magic was narrow but potent. She knew only fire—destructive, uncontrollable, hungry. And it knew her. Some claimed she heard whispers—faint and wrong, like the echo of something voidsent—and that she sometimes turned her head toward them, but never answered.She carried vials. Rings. Words. They called her Ashpetal now. The ghost in bloom.They told stories about a woman with silver armor and poison in her smile. A woman who left no ashes, only memory. Some said she was voidtouched. Others, divine. She encouraged neither. Corrected none. She allowed the myth to grow, because myths were safer than truth.And through it all, she still prayed. Not with hope. Not with warmth. She whispered to Halone in the dark, her voice hoarse, her hands shaking.
-
“You let it happen.
You turned your face.
You gave me silence when I needed a scream.”
“I will not kneel again.”She does not love. She does not trust. She does not allow touch—not because she is fragile, but because she remembers what it cost her.Her body is her own now. Her name, too.And if the world dares to reach for her again, it will learn—Izenelle Vaelmont was not made to be held. She was made to endure.
Headcanons
♡ doesn’t sleep without a locked door♡ keeps a journal of petty insults♡ laughs when she’s afraid♡ has scars on her back she’s never seen♡ cannot bear the sound of bells♡ never forgiven Halone. Still prays.♡ has names for her poisons♡ judges people by their handwriting♡ doesn’t eat sweet things♡ fears softness more than death♡ afraid of being loved back
Whispers
Snatches of truth.
Half-lies. What the city says when her name brushes the wind.
She never begged.
That’s what haunts me.
| said by former client, noble born | location private booth, The Forgotten Knight
I was young. Drunk on coin and privilege. The kind of man who believed suffering was poetic, so long as it wasn’t mine. They called her Ashpetal. Said she was new. Said she didn’t fight back. That was a lie. She didn’t scream. Didn’t plead. But gods, she looked at me like I was nothing. That look—cold, sharp, like the edge of a glass vial—is what I remember. Not the silk. Not the wine. Just the way she refused to be broken. I heard she burned the place down not long after. And I hope she remembers me. I hope she does.
They buried a name.
Not a body.
| said by: former monk, now archivist | location the Vault, restricted section
The death was certified by the Holy See, signed with the sigil of Vaelmont. But no one saw the body. No rites. No vigil. Only an empty casket lowered into frozen earth while her mother stood silent. A week later, I saw two hooded figures bring a girl through the catacombs—veiled, drugged, her wrists bruised. They took her deeper, past even the map chambers. I knew then: it was not a burial. It was an erasure.
She came from ash.That much is true.
| said by retired temple knight | location The Forgotten Knight
I was there. That manor burned hotter than it had any right to. Girls screaming inside, men too. We found bodies melted into the frame. But no sign of her. Just a trail of soot and blood leading north. She should’ve died from the burns—every book says so. But weeks later, there were rumors in the Shroud. A woman with hair like cinder, hands always bandaged, dealing poisons like they were prayer. If that wasn’t her... then Ishgard’s ghosts grow bold indeed.