Vinnedikta Renasscentia, first year, Slytherin
VINNEDIKTA RENASSCENTIA
basics | trunk | appearance | personality | history, fiom | collection | relationships | threads | ooc
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
Full name: Vinnedikta Renasscentia.
Age: 11 years old.
Gender: Female.
Function: Student.
House: Slytherin. First year.
Residence: Gloucestershire, England.
Blood status: Muggle-born.
Race: Werewolf.
Age: 11 years old.
Gender: Female.
Function: Student.
House: Slytherin. First year.
Residence: Gloucestershire, England.
Blood status: Muggle-born.
Race: Werewolf.
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Last edited by Vinnedikta Renasscentia on 22 Jul 2026, 20:07, edited 27 times in total.
| xxx | [ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7 |
xxxxx | Werewolf. |
Vinnedikta Renasscentia, first year, Slytherin
[ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7
❦
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Vinnedikta Renasscentia, first year, Slytherin
VINNEDIKTA RENASSCENTIA
basics | trunk | appearance | personality | history, fiom | collection | relationships | threads | ooc
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
appearance. Like an ornate porcelain cup, each of her features is an adornment, carefully crafted, painted with gentle, thin brushstrokes, colored in a mix of watercolor hues. The canvas – her skin – is pale, somewhere between vanilla and white chocolate. It’s soft, with little moles, like dark stars in light night skies scattered across the surface of her whole body. She is average height, not standoffishly tall, and even though she’s not short, it is sometimes easy to miss her – she has so little presence and vicinity over her surroundings.
Her eyes, the shade of ocean blue, hidden under long, lush eyelashes, are often pointed down or wandering – wandering around the wonders of the world instead of staying in one place. Her nose is small and pointy, turned slightly upward. Below it, her lips are small and thin, often colored in a soft reddish tint that makes her seem even more like an antique porcelain doll, but also brings out her lips in a sophisticated, elegant way. Her cheeks are full and rosy, often described as unripe strawberries: still white, but along the very edges there’s a noticeable tint of pink.
Moving down, her pale, soft neck is often hidden under a lace ribbon or an ornate choker, because beneath it lies the dark truth of what’s hidden behind her facade. Her neck has withstood many crusades in her life; beneath soft fabrics and pearly jewelry, it is covered in scars – deep, impossible to miss when an eye lands on them.
Covered in silk and cotton, lace and ribbons, she walks like a silly toy-sized handbag pup, spoiled and effete, in hindsight oblivious to the real world. Her preferred fashion choices are elegant dresses, sewn to the silhouette of her figure to fall in a complimentary manner. Corsets, when fitted for her, bring a divine and delicate ambience to her attire. With her shoes, each time, she seeks for the equivalents of Cinderella’s slippers, so carefully crafted, so perfectly fitting, and terribly delicate, with the threat of breaking at any moment. Although, perhaps, that’s precisely what makes them so special. To top it all off with whipped cream and a cherry on top, she wraps her neck in a ribbon to hide the cracks in the otherwise perfect porcelain, puts on fitting earrings and a necklace, perhaps, when feeling rather capricious, also putting on a bracelet or ring, or even gloves if she is traveling somewhere that frightens her, for fear of getting very much dirty.
Observed from afar, like a painting is meant to be, she appears borderline perfect. Otherworldly grace cradles her whole appearance, from top to bottom; each movement is easy and delightful, like watching someone paint over a porcelain cup, so careful and precise, yet so beautiful to watch. But do not get too close, for when you do, it is much easier to notice all the mess-ups and imperfections that lie beneath the paint and pearls. A layered cake of sorts she is, incredibly sweet on the outside, but as you bite deeper, it becomes strangely bitter, and before you can even stop to think, you realize it is poison that you are eating.
Her eyes, the shade of ocean blue, hidden under long, lush eyelashes, are often pointed down or wandering – wandering around the wonders of the world instead of staying in one place. Her nose is small and pointy, turned slightly upward. Below it, her lips are small and thin, often colored in a soft reddish tint that makes her seem even more like an antique porcelain doll, but also brings out her lips in a sophisticated, elegant way. Her cheeks are full and rosy, often described as unripe strawberries: still white, but along the very edges there’s a noticeable tint of pink.
Moving down, her pale, soft neck is often hidden under a lace ribbon or an ornate choker, because beneath it lies the dark truth of what’s hidden behind her facade. Her neck has withstood many crusades in her life; beneath soft fabrics and pearly jewelry, it is covered in scars – deep, impossible to miss when an eye lands on them.
Covered in silk and cotton, lace and ribbons, she walks like a silly toy-sized handbag pup, spoiled and effete, in hindsight oblivious to the real world. Her preferred fashion choices are elegant dresses, sewn to the silhouette of her figure to fall in a complimentary manner. Corsets, when fitted for her, bring a divine and delicate ambience to her attire. With her shoes, each time, she seeks for the equivalents of Cinderella’s slippers, so carefully crafted, so perfectly fitting, and terribly delicate, with the threat of breaking at any moment. Although, perhaps, that’s precisely what makes them so special. To top it all off with whipped cream and a cherry on top, she wraps her neck in a ribbon to hide the cracks in the otherwise perfect porcelain, puts on fitting earrings and a necklace, perhaps, when feeling rather capricious, also putting on a bracelet or ring, or even gloves if she is traveling somewhere that frightens her, for fear of getting very much dirty.
Observed from afar, like a painting is meant to be, she appears borderline perfect. Otherworldly grace cradles her whole appearance, from top to bottom; each movement is easy and delightful, like watching someone paint over a porcelain cup, so careful and precise, yet so beautiful to watch. But do not get too close, for when you do, it is much easier to notice all the mess-ups and imperfections that lie beneath the paint and pearls. A layered cake of sorts she is, incredibly sweet on the outside, but as you bite deeper, it becomes strangely bitter, and before you can even stop to think, you realize it is poison that you are eating.
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Last edited by Vinnedikta Renasscentia on 9 Aug 2026, 23:03, edited 17 times in total.
| xxx | [ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7 |
xxxxx | Werewolf. |
Vinnedikta Renasscentia, first year, Slytherin
VINNEDIKTA RENASSCENTIA
basics | trunk | appearance | personality | history, fiom | collection | relationships | threads | ooc
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
personality. In the soft downcast light of a gentle morning, Vinnedikta is a true doll. She is soft-spoken; her words spill out like a ballad of the nymphs, slow and quiet, telling great stories from her imagination more than from the real world. In that melodic mise-en-scène, as she speaks honest and transparent, like a standing flask of clear, pure water, the colors of her persona emerge – layers of cake flavors hidden beneath the glaze that not many notice or manage to read, but that reveal depths in her one might not expect from such a naive, diminutive creature.
A deep, honest thulian pink washes onto the canvas and paints the background of the picture; it is idealism we see tinting the page. The little maiden’s beliefs and principles have always been lofty and visionary. Her childhood, laced with knowledge acquired from history books, has made her, although only partially, accustomed to the trivial knowledge of what a dark place the world has become through the actions of us as a race. This has caused the intuitive, deeply rooted kindness in her heart to shatter into a million pieces, yet not lose hope. Grand ideas, which might seem too unbelievable, too optimistic in the overall nature of our world, have always captured her interest and affection. She shows deep care and benevolence for causes that have been abandoned because of our bestial nature or simply forgotten, long tucked away in towers of parchment devoted to new causes meant to satisfy our worldly needs and wishes, to provide material goods rather than spiritual resolutions.
The pink vines travel through our portrait, but it begins to morph and mutilate right before one’s eyes into a color that is hard to distinguish. It seems almost one with the thulian pink, yet it differs, turning darker, dirtier. A particle of dust might have landed on the parchment and turned the true, vast pink into a muted slate gray. It paints impracticality. Visionary when mixed with a poison, easily transmutes into something somewhat negative. Not decorative, but utilitarian. Perhaps part of this futility can be explained by the way she was brought up – in a house of wealth and luxury, where everything she needed was done for her, every action she took was accounted for by others, with no consequences and no cloud to vaporize her conscience. Because of these circumstances, more often than not she can appear quite impractical. Whether it is her actions, which can hold up well enough within a castle of her size but crumble and break down in the real world like a doomed house of cards, or her beliefs, which, like her actions but quieter, seem to dissipate in the harsh reality outside. Her softness and the practicality she abandons for beauty and aesthetics often become the downfall, sending her ship of triumph down in misery.
As a translucent drop of water nears and hits the parchment, it brings light blue to the deep pink and gray mixing and dancing on the page, and a shade of purple appears. With astonishing speed, the detail becomes essential to the painting, traveling across the page in swift, elegant turns and spirals, illustrating something akin to harmony. An internal instinct that rises from deep within her lungs, in the air she needs to breathe, rushes through her veins with the blood she pulses and runs along her royal heart, making her seek it like a second home, for it brings her comfort in a storm. With each step and the clink of her heel against marble, she seeks harmony. She values it as an adventurer values treasure; it is an essential part of her calm existence, which she insists upon in all instances of life. Harmony ensures she knows what is going to happen, that her next step is clear. There are no errors or misjudgments, and she is content with the path she walks, even in the darkest forests, with the scariest creatures behind her. As long as there is light at the end of the tunnel, as long as there is harmony on earth.
In coexistence with the periwinkle, from the corners of the piece, the view is wrapped in an overlooming brown. In one lighting it seems almost essential, a detail without which the painting would not be complete. And it is true, it wouldn’t be, but the question is not there; the question lies in whether the detail is sanguine or not. Altruism, it appears, but it’s loud – too loud for the soft, muted colors all around it. Like a burning fire in a rose garden, it seems too red, too vibrant. At first glance, the youngling is far too altruistic. In contrast to her family, it seems the rot has not yet reached the ripening apple, and let us hope it never will. The kin only devoured and never abstained. In turn, in a quiet rebellion of sorts – the most blatant act that could be carried out by the meek young royal – she abstained; she gave. Perhaps in this world it can seem too kind; whispers along the way can murmur that one is naive, one fails to think about the future, or one, in the most pathetic manner, can believe they lack any future at all. But in the fairytale world that one inhabited, the mutters of those dissolved into dust that settled onto tree bark, lacking any autonomy, simply there, simply present. To her, kindness was more than naivety or weakness; it was standing up for the pure creatures that those in fury harm with their thoughtless actions. It was the protection of the weak and weaker, a solitude shared with those who were subordinates. In her world, she felt it – a looming horror over her shoulder that pushed her toward madness and corruption. She only prayed and hoped that kindness would remain in her heart and carry her through hardship and struggle.
Once again, a sliver of another shade appeared – a custom, at this point, of creation instead of devourment. It brought a warm yellow hue, a shade of constellations, newness, and hope. Perhaps it symbolized the never-ending open-mindedness that led our humble hero through a world which, above all, prioritized control and order. As previously observed, one might not have been so keen on change, preferring when things followed the tracks of how they should have, when phenomena were predictable. However, new ideas and wonders always fascinated her. The world she saw was so gloomy and dull that she pondered the idea of a new generation bringing light and hope, kindling a fire so desperately in need of dampening. She was not particularly innovative; that side of her was buried deep beneath layers and layers of the sculpted, perfect daughter of a political family. Yet she deeply appreciated those who were, and the people who had the courage to bring a much-needed change of decor to the present day.
As this visual image of an angel-like figure is observed, it may appear beautiful and awe-inspiring, or perhaps dull and boring to the average adventurer. But one thing it undeniably is: complex and intricate, difficult to understand. It is a painting worn on a sleeve by our angel, a painting of her very essence, her soul that she does not hide. A soul is not a simple thing, so it is not easy to scrutinize such an allegory, such a storyline of honesty and contradictions. It is a complicated portrait of a human being laid open, torn open and explored, every part unraveled. In fact, she desires to be understood, because so few people could understand someone like her; so few could see her and accept every part of who she is – a contradiction of colors and patterns in herself. A mediator between two mirror-opposite worlds, between the timeline of the past, the present, and the future, a mixture of birth, life, and death itself. A true representative of them all, and of none at all. An individual unlike any other, she is so genuinely honest that she reveals everything that might be in her psyche, because she does not have the chance to live if she reveals the full truth of her physical sufferings, and she is forbidden to do so. Her heart is the only thing she will not be scrutinized for giving, and the only thing that will hurt solely her if she loses it.
A deep, honest thulian pink washes onto the canvas and paints the background of the picture; it is idealism we see tinting the page. The little maiden’s beliefs and principles have always been lofty and visionary. Her childhood, laced with knowledge acquired from history books, has made her, although only partially, accustomed to the trivial knowledge of what a dark place the world has become through the actions of us as a race. This has caused the intuitive, deeply rooted kindness in her heart to shatter into a million pieces, yet not lose hope. Grand ideas, which might seem too unbelievable, too optimistic in the overall nature of our world, have always captured her interest and affection. She shows deep care and benevolence for causes that have been abandoned because of our bestial nature or simply forgotten, long tucked away in towers of parchment devoted to new causes meant to satisfy our worldly needs and wishes, to provide material goods rather than spiritual resolutions.
The pink vines travel through our portrait, but it begins to morph and mutilate right before one’s eyes into a color that is hard to distinguish. It seems almost one with the thulian pink, yet it differs, turning darker, dirtier. A particle of dust might have landed on the parchment and turned the true, vast pink into a muted slate gray. It paints impracticality. Visionary when mixed with a poison, easily transmutes into something somewhat negative. Not decorative, but utilitarian. Perhaps part of this futility can be explained by the way she was brought up – in a house of wealth and luxury, where everything she needed was done for her, every action she took was accounted for by others, with no consequences and no cloud to vaporize her conscience. Because of these circumstances, more often than not she can appear quite impractical. Whether it is her actions, which can hold up well enough within a castle of her size but crumble and break down in the real world like a doomed house of cards, or her beliefs, which, like her actions but quieter, seem to dissipate in the harsh reality outside. Her softness and the practicality she abandons for beauty and aesthetics often become the downfall, sending her ship of triumph down in misery.
As a translucent drop of water nears and hits the parchment, it brings light blue to the deep pink and gray mixing and dancing on the page, and a shade of purple appears. With astonishing speed, the detail becomes essential to the painting, traveling across the page in swift, elegant turns and spirals, illustrating something akin to harmony. An internal instinct that rises from deep within her lungs, in the air she needs to breathe, rushes through her veins with the blood she pulses and runs along her royal heart, making her seek it like a second home, for it brings her comfort in a storm. With each step and the clink of her heel against marble, she seeks harmony. She values it as an adventurer values treasure; it is an essential part of her calm existence, which she insists upon in all instances of life. Harmony ensures she knows what is going to happen, that her next step is clear. There are no errors or misjudgments, and she is content with the path she walks, even in the darkest forests, with the scariest creatures behind her. As long as there is light at the end of the tunnel, as long as there is harmony on earth.
In coexistence with the periwinkle, from the corners of the piece, the view is wrapped in an overlooming brown. In one lighting it seems almost essential, a detail without which the painting would not be complete. And it is true, it wouldn’t be, but the question is not there; the question lies in whether the detail is sanguine or not. Altruism, it appears, but it’s loud – too loud for the soft, muted colors all around it. Like a burning fire in a rose garden, it seems too red, too vibrant. At first glance, the youngling is far too altruistic. In contrast to her family, it seems the rot has not yet reached the ripening apple, and let us hope it never will. The kin only devoured and never abstained. In turn, in a quiet rebellion of sorts – the most blatant act that could be carried out by the meek young royal – she abstained; she gave. Perhaps in this world it can seem too kind; whispers along the way can murmur that one is naive, one fails to think about the future, or one, in the most pathetic manner, can believe they lack any future at all. But in the fairytale world that one inhabited, the mutters of those dissolved into dust that settled onto tree bark, lacking any autonomy, simply there, simply present. To her, kindness was more than naivety or weakness; it was standing up for the pure creatures that those in fury harm with their thoughtless actions. It was the protection of the weak and weaker, a solitude shared with those who were subordinates. In her world, she felt it – a looming horror over her shoulder that pushed her toward madness and corruption. She only prayed and hoped that kindness would remain in her heart and carry her through hardship and struggle.
Once again, a sliver of another shade appeared – a custom, at this point, of creation instead of devourment. It brought a warm yellow hue, a shade of constellations, newness, and hope. Perhaps it symbolized the never-ending open-mindedness that led our humble hero through a world which, above all, prioritized control and order. As previously observed, one might not have been so keen on change, preferring when things followed the tracks of how they should have, when phenomena were predictable. However, new ideas and wonders always fascinated her. The world she saw was so gloomy and dull that she pondered the idea of a new generation bringing light and hope, kindling a fire so desperately in need of dampening. She was not particularly innovative; that side of her was buried deep beneath layers and layers of the sculpted, perfect daughter of a political family. Yet she deeply appreciated those who were, and the people who had the courage to bring a much-needed change of decor to the present day.
As this visual image of an angel-like figure is observed, it may appear beautiful and awe-inspiring, or perhaps dull and boring to the average adventurer. But one thing it undeniably is: complex and intricate, difficult to understand. It is a painting worn on a sleeve by our angel, a painting of her very essence, her soul that she does not hide. A soul is not a simple thing, so it is not easy to scrutinize such an allegory, such a storyline of honesty and contradictions. It is a complicated portrait of a human being laid open, torn open and explored, every part unraveled. In fact, she desires to be understood, because so few people could understand someone like her; so few could see her and accept every part of who she is – a contradiction of colors and patterns in herself. A mediator between two mirror-opposite worlds, between the timeline of the past, the present, and the future, a mixture of birth, life, and death itself. A true representative of them all, and of none at all. An individual unlike any other, she is so genuinely honest that she reveals everything that might be in her psyche, because she does not have the chance to live if she reveals the full truth of her physical sufferings, and she is forbidden to do so. Her heart is the only thing she will not be scrutinized for giving, and the only thing that will hurt solely her if she loses it.
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Last edited by Vinnedikta Renasscentia on 9 Aug 2026, 23:03, edited 13 times in total.
| xxx | [ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7 |
xxxxx | Werewolf. |
Vinnedikta Renasscentia, first year, Slytherin
VINNEDIKTA RENASSCENTIA
basics | trunk | appearance | personality | history, fiom | collection | relationships | threads | ooc
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
history. Long ago, in a grand and bountiful town, there lived a happy couple. Their days were filled with smiles and giggles, and their nights with warmth and comfort. They lived in a loving castle, surrounded by trees and families who passed by and waved hello through the open windows on the first floor. The home was filled with music, the smell of freshly baked bread and hand-picked herbal tea, and sunbeams slipping past the day curtains, highlighting the shiny marble floors.
One day, the couple received the news they had been waiting for: they were expecting a child. They were overjoyed. And when nine months passed, a little angel came into their household, a little angel they called Vinnedikta. As soon as she saw the light, she was embraced in softness and care. She was wrapped in silk scarves when she came out of the womb; though other babies were dirty and raw the moment they entered the world, she was almost spotless. How could such a thing come about? Soft skin, loving in a way hardly imaginable, wrapped around her and held her tight. Oh, how much trust she had, not to be let go of, not to be dropped or abandoned, simply held forever, supported forever, and most of all loved. A miracle came to the Renasscentia family that early December day, and they had not forgotten it since.
The Renasscentia were a highly regarded family, a well-known name in the political world of England, and steady pillars of their community. On the outside, they appeared perfect, flawless even. The high towers of their castle, decorated with flags on gilded masts, shone brightly and promisingly, as if the people carried so much hope from as little as their presence. But, as history has told us many times, the brightest, most respected names carry the most blood on their hands and hide the most bodies in the cramped closets of their safe abodes, hidden from the outside world beyond the gate.
One day, the couple received the news they had been waiting for: they were expecting a child. They were overjoyed. And when nine months passed, a little angel came into their household, a little angel they called Vinnedikta. As soon as she saw the light, she was embraced in softness and care. She was wrapped in silk scarves when she came out of the womb; though other babies were dirty and raw the moment they entered the world, she was almost spotless. How could such a thing come about? Soft skin, loving in a way hardly imaginable, wrapped around her and held her tight. Oh, how much trust she had, not to be let go of, not to be dropped or abandoned, simply held forever, supported forever, and most of all loved. A miracle came to the Renasscentia family that early December day, and they had not forgotten it since.
The Renasscentia were a highly regarded family, a well-known name in the political world of England, and steady pillars of their community. On the outside, they appeared perfect, flawless even. The high towers of their castle, decorated with flags on gilded masts, shone brightly and promisingly, as if the people carried so much hope from as little as their presence. But, as history has told us many times, the brightest, most respected names carry the most blood on their hands and hide the most bodies in the cramped closets of their safe abodes, hidden from the outside world beyond the gate.
werewolf.
Reducio
The story I am about to tell has never been told honestly. Its tracks and marks have been carefully covered and glazed over with a layer of sweetness to match the Renasscentia family’s reputation. It is a story so grotesque, such an annihilation of a pure creature, that many avert their gaze and fall silent when they hear it. That night, that night of unforgettable pain and agony, is imprinted not only in one’s mind, but in one's skin and blood cells as well. An evening like any other soon turned into one of despair and destruction. The dusk through which one metamorphosed.
19 April 2020. Our angel, whom this story unfortunately concerns, was merely five years old. It was a warm evening; the sun, already setting, grazed the sky with warm, captivating colors, birds sang their humble melodies, and made the day, now ending, seem as if it were straight out of a picture book – so beautiful it was. No one could have suspected it would be soon outlined by blood…
Dear Vinnedikta and her beloved father decided to go for a stroll in the woods. It was such a delightful evening; how could one not take advantage of it? In a spring day dress, wrapped in a scarf for comfort, and wearing her flat ballet shoes, she left their castle a little past ten in the evening, her gaze fixed forward toward the forest they approached. Her imaginative mind traveled to the fairy tales she’d been read before bed: how the oaks and beeches aligned so perfectly overhead, creating a gated entry to the forest, enveloping and embracing the people who walked its paths, their gentle branches swooning over them to ensure they spent an eternity in the shadows of the leaves, detached from the sun, in a world of bark and mud, yet loveliness at its best.
The pair walked together, hand in hand, not a single word leaving either of their lips, as both were quiet people, appreciative of the calm the forest offered in a fast-paced modern world.
Suddenly, out of the darkness of the forest, a deer leaped into view. In its full grace and purity, it ran from something – something bad. The pair walking through the forest should have taken it as a sign, for such a heavenly creature’s eyes would only gain that hint of insanity when confronted with something otherworldly, something evil. At its fright, the flashlight that dear father held to illuminate the path they walked that night dropped to the forest floor and shattered in an instant. Her father leaned down to examine it and fix it so they could reach their home by dawn and not spend a night in darkness and the unknown.
But as he worked, curious Vinnedikta began to wander, guided only by the pale cheese of the full moon, whose stray beams of light slipped past the looming trees to illuminate where she walked. With no directions and no guiding light to return to, the girl wandered farther into the forest, blind to the horrors that loomed there that very night. To her father, alone and chafed, his daughter went unnoticed and, without his knowledge, disappeared into the tangled jungle.
When walking, she did not feel the presence that followed her, did not sense the aura of a thing that stalked her hungrily. It did not take long before the creature struck, unearthly and inhuman, its claws and grip merciless. Unseen, unheard of, it existed only, perhaps, in the tales that the little girl was read before nightfall.
Its claws of massacre tore into her neck, a vital part of her livelihood and wellness. An agonizing scream ripped through the night from the girl’s throat; it seemed to scare even the evil that attacked her. With its bloody claws, which now knew the taste of pureness and delight, it ran back into the forest’s refuge and disappeared among the trees as suddenly as it had appeared.
As for the girl, she lay in the mud, her hands pressed desperately to her neck, but time was running out. Her father, the dear man, who had heard her scream and come to his senses, rushed to her. Whether it was a minute or a day was hard to tell, as misery enveloped all of the girl’s being. He scooped her up in his arms, desperation and tears of hopelessness pouring out of him, unanswered. He tore at the trees that stood in the way of his and his daughter’s safety. After the attack, Vinnedikta remained conscious for only a minute, and after that, a deep sleep shielded her from reality.
It took an hour to get her to the hospital, where the doctors worked all night to bring her back to life. A corpse, it seemed, lay before them, and the only thing that kept them going, despite their movements weighted with hopelessness and despair, was the raw weeping of the mother, whose beloved daughter lay motionless before her eyes.
For two weeks the little one lay in a coma, surrounded by bouquets of flowers and other gifts of kindness. When she awoke, it was a miracle for her to have survived such wounds. Unseen, unheard of, magic at its best. The moment her presence was noticed, she was cradled in her parents’ hands, and forever they would cradle her in those hands that had known decay. From the moment they saw her body go limp to the moment they finally dared to hope she would live, and in all the moments afterward, they preserved her like a piece of gold, a priceless treasure at their mercy. She was their jewel, forever to be guarded from the harsh world of which she had gotten a taste in the cruelest way possible.
At first, the nightmare might have seemed to end when she awoke, but they were greatly mistaken, for the lengths her parents were willing to go for their daughter would soon be tested tremendously. Thirty days passed after the very incident of the full moon, when she had been struck down in barbarity. That evening was not much different, perhaps slightly lighter, as summer was nearing. It failed to bring back memories of the last, perhaps because that part of one’s life had been blocked by the sensible minds of her and others, in an attempt to forget the despair it caused the family. Yet the evening resembled the previous one far more than they could have ever expected.
The angel lived in a tower facing east, which would soon become her downfall. Her grand canopy bed, with soft sheets and silk pillowcases, stood at the head of the room, facing a window that in turn looked toward the very direction from which a full moon would rise. If it were not such a tragic, sacrifice-demanding event, perhaps we could even laugh at how darkly humorous it was that she would face, with her own eyes, the very wreckage that would drive her mad in the night. The first time was likely the most harrowing, for none of them, having never been exposed to magic, were prepared to experience a side of it deemed dark and ruthless, leaving nothing but shackles in the wake of its force. That evening, she lay in her bed, just like any other. Her mother sat beside her, stroking her soft golden curls and reading a book of princesses and fairy tales in an attempt to help the girl, whose eyes were still wide with the paranoia the incident had left her with, to fall asleep. Her father, in his tower, lay with open eyes in a fashion similar to hers, unable to forget the horrors of the night. Only her mother was able to hold back her tears at the thought of what had occurred a month ago. After the little one seemed to drift into sleep and become enveloped in its embrace, the mother left the room, leaving only silence and an approaching predator about to turn a life upside down.
When the illuminating light of the full moon rose above the frame of the window that Vinnedikta’s canopy faced, she awoke with a sudden jolt. Something inside her stirred. For a second she subdued it, contorted it into a tight little bog and hid it deep inside herself, her mind, her body. But it became relentless. It rose up; it wanted to escape her, and with what strength she had, with her weak body, she tried to calm it, to pay it no mind. But in its wake she was helpless. It escaped. An escapade of grimness – a macabre thrill inside her. A cry escaped her, the last of what was left of her humanity, as she slowly began to mutate. Her body became unfamiliar to her in its nature, and she became horrified. Her limbs grew long; she began to rise and rise in height until she almost reached her high tower ceiling. Chaos arose in her mind, chaos and an unsustained fury that seemed to create itself out of thin air, yet its presence was undeniable. It forced her to strike, an uncanny force she had never felt before coursing through her. There was only a sliver of a moment when she hesitated, but then another strike. She was relentless. A deep roar emerged from her throat, like the one she let out when the merciless claws of death sliced through her neck in that forest of doom. But this time she was not the helpless victim, not at this moment anyway; she was the destroyer, a vengeful creature whose curse was now its triumph, which granted her the power to be mightier than ever. In that moment she felt without weight, and strangely, despite her kind and harmonious heart in any other scenario, this time she chose destruction. After that night she remembered everything, every little detail, every trickle of blood and draught, although more than anything she wished she did not. She remembered lunging for her bedroom door, trying to escape, for the moon outside called to her, as a mother calls to her daughter. She remembered her father appearing in the corridor, blocking her way. He held a tool of violence; he did not recognise her. She ran. God, what terror the metallic abhorrence held in his arms struck into her. Lunging through the second-floor window and landing on the roof of a glass greenhouse… It was all so overwhelming, so chaotic and unearthly. The complete contrast to the harmony she prized as her most precious value had now vanished, giving way to dread.
That night ended in complete silence. Not a comfortable silence, but one in which the wind soared through the trees, creating ghostly whimpers, and the ballads of the morning birds were otherworldly, like those from hell below. She awoke in a clearing in the forest, the very forest where she had been turned. Memories and impressions of the previous night began returning to her, like nightmares from Lucifer himself, belatedly delivered just a couple of hours after dawn. Grass cradled the petite, exhausted girl who now lay in its traces. Her strength had abandoned her after the events of the previous twilight, and she once again lay limp on the forest floor in its care. This time, though, fear was absent; there was only an unfamiliarity between her physical body and her psyche, a separation that could not be avoided for the rest of her life, for one was now beyond her control. She made it back home – her nightgown torn, her hair drenched in sweat, tangled with branches and mud, her face barely recognisable. The little angel her parents had once known returned home like a devil with its mask torn away, and a sorrow in its eyes that showed it would be changed forever.
From then on, her parents started taking matters into their own hands. Their trust in the once responsible and gullible little child was gone, after what had occurred that May night. Oh, how many doctors and psychologists visited their home, how many tests and interventions she had to undergo, only for the desperate family to be met with nothing, or, far worse, with the insistence that their daughter was not only perfectly fine, but a well-developed, well-mannered and mature individual. The problem was that the doctors did not see how she would change one night each month, how deranged she would become and what furtive acts she would commit. Soon they understood there was no solving the impossible problem that had suddenly arisen in their child. They became secretive and afraid of what might come to light about their dear little one, who was such a doll in everyone’s eyes. They gave up looking for a cure and focused instead on ways to conceal it. To conceal the inhumanity she had been cursed with.
During her “happenchances” she would be locked away in a high tower – not her own, not the one filled with gold and marble, but an abandoned one in their castle, high and far away from where any of the residents slept. There she would have to endure the night of torment alone, with no one to hear either her screams for help and the cracking of fur, or her mad roaring of resentment towards those who had turned their backs on a form of her she had never asked to take on.
19 April 2020. Our angel, whom this story unfortunately concerns, was merely five years old. It was a warm evening; the sun, already setting, grazed the sky with warm, captivating colors, birds sang their humble melodies, and made the day, now ending, seem as if it were straight out of a picture book – so beautiful it was. No one could have suspected it would be soon outlined by blood…
Dear Vinnedikta and her beloved father decided to go for a stroll in the woods. It was such a delightful evening; how could one not take advantage of it? In a spring day dress, wrapped in a scarf for comfort, and wearing her flat ballet shoes, she left their castle a little past ten in the evening, her gaze fixed forward toward the forest they approached. Her imaginative mind traveled to the fairy tales she’d been read before bed: how the oaks and beeches aligned so perfectly overhead, creating a gated entry to the forest, enveloping and embracing the people who walked its paths, their gentle branches swooning over them to ensure they spent an eternity in the shadows of the leaves, detached from the sun, in a world of bark and mud, yet loveliness at its best.
The pair walked together, hand in hand, not a single word leaving either of their lips, as both were quiet people, appreciative of the calm the forest offered in a fast-paced modern world.
Suddenly, out of the darkness of the forest, a deer leaped into view. In its full grace and purity, it ran from something – something bad. The pair walking through the forest should have taken it as a sign, for such a heavenly creature’s eyes would only gain that hint of insanity when confronted with something otherworldly, something evil. At its fright, the flashlight that dear father held to illuminate the path they walked that night dropped to the forest floor and shattered in an instant. Her father leaned down to examine it and fix it so they could reach their home by dawn and not spend a night in darkness and the unknown.
But as he worked, curious Vinnedikta began to wander, guided only by the pale cheese of the full moon, whose stray beams of light slipped past the looming trees to illuminate where she walked. With no directions and no guiding light to return to, the girl wandered farther into the forest, blind to the horrors that loomed there that very night. To her father, alone and chafed, his daughter went unnoticed and, without his knowledge, disappeared into the tangled jungle.
When walking, she did not feel the presence that followed her, did not sense the aura of a thing that stalked her hungrily. It did not take long before the creature struck, unearthly and inhuman, its claws and grip merciless. Unseen, unheard of, it existed only, perhaps, in the tales that the little girl was read before nightfall.
Its claws of massacre tore into her neck, a vital part of her livelihood and wellness. An agonizing scream ripped through the night from the girl’s throat; it seemed to scare even the evil that attacked her. With its bloody claws, which now knew the taste of pureness and delight, it ran back into the forest’s refuge and disappeared among the trees as suddenly as it had appeared.
As for the girl, she lay in the mud, her hands pressed desperately to her neck, but time was running out. Her father, the dear man, who had heard her scream and come to his senses, rushed to her. Whether it was a minute or a day was hard to tell, as misery enveloped all of the girl’s being. He scooped her up in his arms, desperation and tears of hopelessness pouring out of him, unanswered. He tore at the trees that stood in the way of his and his daughter’s safety. After the attack, Vinnedikta remained conscious for only a minute, and after that, a deep sleep shielded her from reality.
It took an hour to get her to the hospital, where the doctors worked all night to bring her back to life. A corpse, it seemed, lay before them, and the only thing that kept them going, despite their movements weighted with hopelessness and despair, was the raw weeping of the mother, whose beloved daughter lay motionless before her eyes.
For two weeks the little one lay in a coma, surrounded by bouquets of flowers and other gifts of kindness. When she awoke, it was a miracle for her to have survived such wounds. Unseen, unheard of, magic at its best. The moment her presence was noticed, she was cradled in her parents’ hands, and forever they would cradle her in those hands that had known decay. From the moment they saw her body go limp to the moment they finally dared to hope she would live, and in all the moments afterward, they preserved her like a piece of gold, a priceless treasure at their mercy. She was their jewel, forever to be guarded from the harsh world of which she had gotten a taste in the cruelest way possible.
At first, the nightmare might have seemed to end when she awoke, but they were greatly mistaken, for the lengths her parents were willing to go for their daughter would soon be tested tremendously. Thirty days passed after the very incident of the full moon, when she had been struck down in barbarity. That evening was not much different, perhaps slightly lighter, as summer was nearing. It failed to bring back memories of the last, perhaps because that part of one’s life had been blocked by the sensible minds of her and others, in an attempt to forget the despair it caused the family. Yet the evening resembled the previous one far more than they could have ever expected.
The angel lived in a tower facing east, which would soon become her downfall. Her grand canopy bed, with soft sheets and silk pillowcases, stood at the head of the room, facing a window that in turn looked toward the very direction from which a full moon would rise. If it were not such a tragic, sacrifice-demanding event, perhaps we could even laugh at how darkly humorous it was that she would face, with her own eyes, the very wreckage that would drive her mad in the night. The first time was likely the most harrowing, for none of them, having never been exposed to magic, were prepared to experience a side of it deemed dark and ruthless, leaving nothing but shackles in the wake of its force. That evening, she lay in her bed, just like any other. Her mother sat beside her, stroking her soft golden curls and reading a book of princesses and fairy tales in an attempt to help the girl, whose eyes were still wide with the paranoia the incident had left her with, to fall asleep. Her father, in his tower, lay with open eyes in a fashion similar to hers, unable to forget the horrors of the night. Only her mother was able to hold back her tears at the thought of what had occurred a month ago. After the little one seemed to drift into sleep and become enveloped in its embrace, the mother left the room, leaving only silence and an approaching predator about to turn a life upside down.
When the illuminating light of the full moon rose above the frame of the window that Vinnedikta’s canopy faced, she awoke with a sudden jolt. Something inside her stirred. For a second she subdued it, contorted it into a tight little bog and hid it deep inside herself, her mind, her body. But it became relentless. It rose up; it wanted to escape her, and with what strength she had, with her weak body, she tried to calm it, to pay it no mind. But in its wake she was helpless. It escaped. An escapade of grimness – a macabre thrill inside her. A cry escaped her, the last of what was left of her humanity, as she slowly began to mutate. Her body became unfamiliar to her in its nature, and she became horrified. Her limbs grew long; she began to rise and rise in height until she almost reached her high tower ceiling. Chaos arose in her mind, chaos and an unsustained fury that seemed to create itself out of thin air, yet its presence was undeniable. It forced her to strike, an uncanny force she had never felt before coursing through her. There was only a sliver of a moment when she hesitated, but then another strike. She was relentless. A deep roar emerged from her throat, like the one she let out when the merciless claws of death sliced through her neck in that forest of doom. But this time she was not the helpless victim, not at this moment anyway; she was the destroyer, a vengeful creature whose curse was now its triumph, which granted her the power to be mightier than ever. In that moment she felt without weight, and strangely, despite her kind and harmonious heart in any other scenario, this time she chose destruction. After that night she remembered everything, every little detail, every trickle of blood and draught, although more than anything she wished she did not. She remembered lunging for her bedroom door, trying to escape, for the moon outside called to her, as a mother calls to her daughter. She remembered her father appearing in the corridor, blocking her way. He held a tool of violence; he did not recognise her. She ran. God, what terror the metallic abhorrence held in his arms struck into her. Lunging through the second-floor window and landing on the roof of a glass greenhouse… It was all so overwhelming, so chaotic and unearthly. The complete contrast to the harmony she prized as her most precious value had now vanished, giving way to dread.
That night ended in complete silence. Not a comfortable silence, but one in which the wind soared through the trees, creating ghostly whimpers, and the ballads of the morning birds were otherworldly, like those from hell below. She awoke in a clearing in the forest, the very forest where she had been turned. Memories and impressions of the previous night began returning to her, like nightmares from Lucifer himself, belatedly delivered just a couple of hours after dawn. Grass cradled the petite, exhausted girl who now lay in its traces. Her strength had abandoned her after the events of the previous twilight, and she once again lay limp on the forest floor in its care. This time, though, fear was absent; there was only an unfamiliarity between her physical body and her psyche, a separation that could not be avoided for the rest of her life, for one was now beyond her control. She made it back home – her nightgown torn, her hair drenched in sweat, tangled with branches and mud, her face barely recognisable. The little angel her parents had once known returned home like a devil with its mask torn away, and a sorrow in its eyes that showed it would be changed forever.
From then on, her parents started taking matters into their own hands. Their trust in the once responsible and gullible little child was gone, after what had occurred that May night. Oh, how many doctors and psychologists visited their home, how many tests and interventions she had to undergo, only for the desperate family to be met with nothing, or, far worse, with the insistence that their daughter was not only perfectly fine, but a well-developed, well-mannered and mature individual. The problem was that the doctors did not see how she would change one night each month, how deranged she would become and what furtive acts she would commit. Soon they understood there was no solving the impossible problem that had suddenly arisen in their child. They became secretive and afraid of what might come to light about their dear little one, who was such a doll in everyone’s eyes. They gave up looking for a cure and focused instead on ways to conceal it. To conceal the inhumanity she had been cursed with.
During her “happenchances” she would be locked away in a high tower – not her own, not the one filled with gold and marble, but an abandoned one in their castle, high and far away from where any of the residents slept. There she would have to endure the night of torment alone, with no one to hear either her screams for help and the cracking of fur, or her mad roaring of resentment towards those who had turned their backs on a form of her she had never asked to take on.
fiom. Once upon a time, in the autumn of 2018, in an idyllic escape amidst stunning scenery in the Renasscentia family’s castle, a grand ball was being hosted. Families from all over the country gathered to celebrate the harvest, donate to the charities the ball supported, and socialize with fellow members of high society in this gape-awing preparation of a castle for guests. The impeccable early autumn air allowed for a beautiful celebration outside. A stage was built in the gardens of the residence, surrounded by trees just beginning to shed their leaves and flowers that were coming into their true autumn bloom. Everything was decorated in soft pastels, shiny gold accents, and floral ornaments. The guests gathered were dressed no less splendidly than the decorations. Women wore long daytime gowns, pearls around their necks, flowers in their hair or hats, and tiny satchels in which only a couple of flower seeds seemed to fit. Men were dressed in tailored suits, flowers tucked into their flap pockets, their polished shoes reflecting the sunlight in all directions and nearly blinding the ladies who came over to chatter. Children ran around, giggled, and squealed – the true squeals of happiness a child can have when present in an enormous garden in which they could run forever, eat deluxe fare, and take part in many more delightful things.
Unlike the others, Vinnedikta stayed by her mother, holding her hand and hiding behind the long folds of her cascading skirt, her big blue eyes staring up curiously at all the adults her mother greeted and shared a melodic laugh with. It was the first ball the little one attended; at the previous ones she had been sent to stay with her grandmother to preserve the shy tenderness she still possessed. And now, despite her mother’s attempts to get her to make friends with the other children, she clung determinedly to what she knew and, shyly, with an almost disdainful look in her eyes, stared at the other children as they ran around, rolled on the ground, and pushed each other. She was far too soft for those kinds of merriment.
Later, when all the arriving guests had gathered in the gardens and had had the opportunity to share a few soft-soap conversations, the time came for the little angel’s most eagerly awaited part of the afternoon. A classical wind orchestra assembled on the decorated stage of the ball to perform a symphony dedicated to the charities present that day. The host family – the Renasscentias – were seated at the very front to witness the beauty unfolding onstage firsthand. The little one sat on her mother’s lap, wrapped in the woman’s soft scarves and folds of fabric. She rested in comfort, watching as the wind orchestra began to play in the full light.
How beautiful the melody was! How it captured everyone’s gaze, fixing it on the performers and their passionate yet elegant movements, physicality, and graceful performance gestures. Their bodies seemed to move in time with the melody; it was a dance of their own. It hypnotized the guests – their eyes, their minds, their bodies. And the music… no less powerful and captivating was it to the soul and heart that heard it and imagined it had come straight from heaven, from the place where they had been born. It caught all souls and carried them along on a journey to pure bliss, so familiar and longed for.
Dear Vinnedikta was affected no less. The performance was so beautiful she could have sat there forever, enjoying the music that seemed to lead her through the course of an entire lifetime with its tonality and dynamics. It stirred so many emotions inside the little girl – self-transcendence, vastness, admiration… It was like nothing else she had experienced at her young age, and like nothing she would encounter in the near future. She was so engrossed in the trance the music had sent her into that she did not even notice as gentle rose petals started descending from the sky, seemingly out of nowhere. A wave of awed gasps swept through the guests, who looked up and saw the roses floating down. The angel was nudged softly by her mother and followed her graceful finger pointing up at the sky, from where all the beautiful magic was flowing. The girl gasped and giggled, catching a couple of petals in her hand. The faint idea that this could have been her doing did not even cross her mind, and why would it? In such an enchanting moment one could only be grateful to be alive, and she was.
After the party ended, her mother and father recalled several guests approaching them, gratitude in their expressions, to tell them what an intricate and vulnerable way it was to welcome the cold of autumn, with rose petals falling from the sky. With puzzled smiles and murmured condolences, the parents nodded and expressed their gratitude, with no idea who could have arranged such a quintessential gesture for the ball.
Unlike the others, Vinnedikta stayed by her mother, holding her hand and hiding behind the long folds of her cascading skirt, her big blue eyes staring up curiously at all the adults her mother greeted and shared a melodic laugh with. It was the first ball the little one attended; at the previous ones she had been sent to stay with her grandmother to preserve the shy tenderness she still possessed. And now, despite her mother’s attempts to get her to make friends with the other children, she clung determinedly to what she knew and, shyly, with an almost disdainful look in her eyes, stared at the other children as they ran around, rolled on the ground, and pushed each other. She was far too soft for those kinds of merriment.
Later, when all the arriving guests had gathered in the gardens and had had the opportunity to share a few soft-soap conversations, the time came for the little angel’s most eagerly awaited part of the afternoon. A classical wind orchestra assembled on the decorated stage of the ball to perform a symphony dedicated to the charities present that day. The host family – the Renasscentias – were seated at the very front to witness the beauty unfolding onstage firsthand. The little one sat on her mother’s lap, wrapped in the woman’s soft scarves and folds of fabric. She rested in comfort, watching as the wind orchestra began to play in the full light.
How beautiful the melody was! How it captured everyone’s gaze, fixing it on the performers and their passionate yet elegant movements, physicality, and graceful performance gestures. Their bodies seemed to move in time with the melody; it was a dance of their own. It hypnotized the guests – their eyes, their minds, their bodies. And the music… no less powerful and captivating was it to the soul and heart that heard it and imagined it had come straight from heaven, from the place where they had been born. It caught all souls and carried them along on a journey to pure bliss, so familiar and longed for.
Dear Vinnedikta was affected no less. The performance was so beautiful she could have sat there forever, enjoying the music that seemed to lead her through the course of an entire lifetime with its tonality and dynamics. It stirred so many emotions inside the little girl – self-transcendence, vastness, admiration… It was like nothing else she had experienced at her young age, and like nothing she would encounter in the near future. She was so engrossed in the trance the music had sent her into that she did not even notice as gentle rose petals started descending from the sky, seemingly out of nowhere. A wave of awed gasps swept through the guests, who looked up and saw the roses floating down. The angel was nudged softly by her mother and followed her graceful finger pointing up at the sky, from where all the beautiful magic was flowing. The girl gasped and giggled, catching a couple of petals in her hand. The faint idea that this could have been her doing did not even cross her mind, and why would it? In such an enchanting moment one could only be grateful to be alive, and she was.
After the party ended, her mother and father recalled several guests approaching them, gratitude in their expressions, to tell them what an intricate and vulnerable way it was to welcome the cold of autumn, with rose petals falling from the sky. With puzzled smiles and murmured condolences, the parents nodded and expressed their gratitude, with no idea who could have arranged such a quintessential gesture for the ball.
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Last edited by Vinnedikta Renasscentia on 9 Aug 2026, 23:07, edited 13 times in total.
| xxx | [ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7 |
xxxxx | Werewolf. |
Vinnedikta Renasscentia, first year, Slytherin
VINNEDIKTA RENASSCENTIA
basics | trunk | appearance | personality | history, fiom | collection | relationships | threads | ooc
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[ ph ]
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Last edited by Vinnedikta Renasscentia on 22 Jul 2026, 20:07, edited 2 times in total.
| xxx | [ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7 |
xxxxx | Werewolf. |
Vinnedikta Renasscentia, first year, Slytherin
VINNEDIKTA RENASSCENTIA
basics | trunk | appearance | personality | history, fiom | collection | relationships | threads | ooc
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
[ ph ]
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Last edited by Vinnedikta Renasscentia on 22 Jul 2026, 20:07, edited 4 times in total.
| xxx | [ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7 |
xxxxx | Werewolf. |
Vinnedikta Renasscentia, first year, Slytherin
VINNEDIKTA RENASSCENTIA
basics | trunk | appearance | personality | history, fiom | collection | relationships | threads | ooc
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
i. thread name here @name @name
See thread here. dd/mm/yy Short description here. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean commodo ligula eget dolor. Aenean massa. Cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus.
See thread here. dd/mm/yy Short description here. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean commodo ligula eget dolor. Aenean massa. Cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus.
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Last edited by Vinnedikta Renasscentia on 23 Jul 2026, 21:50, edited 5 times in total.
| xxx | [ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7 |
xxxxx | Werewolf. |
Vinnedikta Renasscentia, first year, Slytherin
VINNEDIKTA RENASSCENTIA
basics | trunk | appearance | personality | history, fiom | collection | relationships | threads | ooc
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
Name: Any variation of Vinnedikta.
Age: Teen.
Pronouns: She/her.
Owls: Open.
Threads: Open.
Timezone: GMT+2.
Age: Teen.
Pronouns: She/her.
Owls: Open.
Threads: Open.
Timezone: GMT+2.
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| xxx | [ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7 |
xxxxx | Werewolf. |