The Queen’s Court

The Queen’sGreeting

A court of crimson oaths and wandering souls.

  HELLO, I'M Queen!  Hello! I’m a 31-year-old woman and have been roleplaying for about seven years. It’s my favourite pastime, and I’ve gathered quite a few characters along the way. Some of them are listed here.They come in many forms, from cruel and ruthless individuals to cunning, noir-styled personalities, and plenty of shades in between.I work full-time, so replies may occasionally be slow, but I’ll always answer when I can. If any of the characters here catch your interest, please feel free to ask about them.

Boundaries

╰ My boundaries. [Respect is given].

  The Do's  

 ╰ Yes, you may.

  The Don'ts  

 ╰ No, you may not.

  Never Ever  

 ╰ Do not interact.

The Decorum

╰ Roleplaying Etiquette. [Do read carefully.]

  RULE 01  

╰ ADULT COURT ONLY.

All characters and writers must be 21 years of age or older. This is non-negotiable.My roleplay often explores mature themes, including darker narrative elements and ERP. Because of this, I only write with adults who are comfortable engaging with such material responsibly.If you are under 21, please do not interact for roleplay purposes. This boundary exists to maintain a comfortable and appropriate writing environment for everyone involved.

  RULE 02  

╰ MUN ≠ MUSE.

My characters and their actions do not reflect my personal beliefs, values, or behaviour.Many of the characters here explore darker themes, flawed personalities, and morally complex situations. Their actions, opinions, or relationships exist within the context of storytelling, not as an expression of my own views.Please keep in-character and out-of-character interactions separate.

  RULE 03  

╰ RESPECT AND COMMUNICATION.

Respect between writers is expected at all times.If something in a storyline makes you uncomfortable, please communicate openly and we can adjust the direction of the plot. Likewise, I expect my own boundaries to be respected.

Characters

╰ A covenant of death. [Will you be consumed?]

  Queen Yharnam  

 ╰ The Last Sight You'll ever see.

  Queen  Standing just under twelve feet tall, Queen is an imposing and formidable presence. Those who fail to earn her regard are little more than dust beneath her heels. Born in the First long before the Flood, she has seen 569 summers pass, and the years have only sharpened the steel of her will.Her favour is not given lightly, nor is it easily escaped once claimed. Queen is not a gentle companion but a trial unto herself, a challenge that demands obedience, endurance, and strength from those who would remain at her side.  Go on, then. Show her what you are made of.  

  E'myra Rouge  

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  Lazara  

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• Carrd

  Clara Bridges  

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  Ava.  

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  Annalise Vileblood  

 ╰ Insert title here.

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  golden years  

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  Leslie Antoinette  

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• F-list

  Queen Yharnam  

 ╰ The Last Sight You'll ever see.

Queen was not born into cruelty. Her earliest memories were quiet ones: her mother singing softly in the hours before dawn, low lullabies meant to tame the dark and ease her into sleep. They cooked together, trained together, shared warmth by the hearth and the certainty of a bond that felt unshakable. The Matriarch of their tribe was revered by all, but to Queen she was simply mother, a woman of discipline, strength, and care. The change came gradually, without spectacle or rupture. The lullabies faded. Correction hardened into punishment. Affection became conditional, measured not by growth but by endurance. Queen grew quickly, towering over her peers while still young enough to believe suffering had purpose. Her strength ceased to be nurtured and began to be shaped. Her mother was no longer raising a daughter, but forging a successor. The marks left on Queen’s back were not mistakes; they were lessons meant to last. The cruelty was never absolute. There were still moments of softness, a rare smile, quiet praise, a hand brushing her hair aside. Those moments were enough to keep Queen hoping, enough to make her endure without resistance. Hope, she would later understand, was the most efficient form of restraint.That endurance fractured the morning a stranger screamed at her in a field. The girl accused Queen of stealing her sister, of taking her, of hiding her away. Queen dismissed it as grief misdirected, until she heard something in the girl’s voice that did not sound like confusion. It sounded like certainty. When Queen returned home at dawn, she heard her mother singing again for the first time in years. The old lullaby was unchanged, familiar enough to hollow her out rather than comfort her. She followed the sound into the Matriarch’s chamber and found her mother seated on the floor, bare-skinned and bleeding, calm as she sang. Her body was covered in script, ritual inscriptions carved slowly into flesh with a sharpened bone dipped in her own blood. Each mark was deliberate. Each stroke measured. Her voice never wavered. “It must be remembered,” her mother said. “Not with breath, but with flesh.” The truth unravelled then: the missing members of the tribe, the fading numbers, the rituals meant to extend their lives by shortening others. The girl’s sister had not been stolen. She had been sacrificed. Queen had not been raised to rule, but to inherit obedience to a will older than memory and older than blood.Queen confronted her mother. There was no struggle and no defence. The Matriarch welcomed the blade. “You already are me,” she said. Queen struck once, cleanly. Mercy and execution shared the same motion. She buried her mother with her own hands. The tribe did not stop her. They watched in silence, afraid not of what she had done, but of what remained in her place. Queen offered them nothing. She left with the axe her mother had once placed in her hands and did not look back. The girl remained. She did not scream, beg, or curse her. She looked at Queen and recognised what the tribe could not: that Queen had been shaped by the same cruelty that took her sister, that survival did not absolve her, but neither had it made her willing. The girl did not forgive her and did not ask for repentance. She named nothing. She simply saw her clearly. That recognition did not wound Queen, and it did not save her. It stayed with her because it was accurate.Time passed, and the world began to fail. Light crept across the land of the First, not as salvation but as erasure. Night vanished. Shadow thinned. Entire regions were swallowed by radiance that stripped form and will alike. Queen watched it advance without prayer or protest. She did not fight the Flood as a hero, nor submit to it as a martyr. She endured it as she had endured everything else, by refusing to yield meaning to it. When the balance finally shattered, Queen survived where others did not; not through purity nor blessing, but through sheer refusal to dissolve. She watched civilisation fracture, watched light consume what memory could not preserve. When the Flood was at last halted, the First that remained was wounded and unrecognisable.It was then that Queen followed the whispers of paths between worlds. Not hope, nor escape, drew her onward, but curiosity. The existence of a way out was simply another truth to be tested. She crossed the rift deliberately, through methods better left unnamed, and emerged upon the Source carrying no reverence for the miracle of it. She settled in Ishgard, a city shaped by cold, austerity, and inherited cruelty. It suited her. The climate demanded endurance. The people understood hierarchy. Stone remembered what flesh forgot. Centuries passed. Queen lived far longer than her kind should. She watched wars flare and fade, saints and tyrants wear the same faces across different ages. She never joined them. Her presence alone silenced rooms. She stood just under twelve fulms tall, carved of stone and shadow, her charcoal skin and stark hair marked by scars she never hid. Each one carried meaning. None were regrets.She does not seek redemption. She does not ask forgiveness. She does not believe in absolution. What was shaped into her cannot be undone, and she has never desired that it be. Those who kneel before her do so without instruction. Queen does not discourage it, nor does she reward it. Remaining near her is itself a choice, and one most cannot sustain for long. Obedience is not demanded; it is assumed, and tested the moment it is offered. Cruelty, to her, is not indulgence but function. Through fear, pain, and restraint, she strips away pretence and watches what survives. Many break quickly. Some endure longer than expected. Very few last long enough to be remembered. Connection, when it occurs, does not change her. It exists only as continued presence under full knowledge of what she is. Those who remain do so without illusion, and Queen has never offered safety in return. She resides in Ishgard still. She speaks little. Her voice, when heard, is steady and precise. She accepts reverence without warmth and obedience without mercy. Those who approach her are not welcomed. They are tested.Queen lives because living is all she has ever been taught to do.