Lilith
Not much is known about Lilith. Lilith doesn’t know much about Lilith either. She doesn’t dwell on the past.
She stands at 4”9. Black, straggly hair hangs at her back, often braided somewhat neatly. If you look closely enough, a few stray white hairs can be spotted here and there within the straight locks. A halter-top dress hugs her slim frame; the bottom torn and frayed. Beneath some of the gaps in the cloth, a metallic gleam can be seen. What flesh is visible is adorned with old faded scars. Worn boots cling to her feet, and if asked if she wants new ones, she claims these are too comfortable to get rid of.
If asked how old she is, she’ll shrug. Her appearance suggests somewhere between her late 30s or early 40s. She can tell you how old some of her parts are, though.
Her concept of right and wrong are somewhat skewed. She’ll do what she needs to do to survive. She’s used to fending for herself. Often, she will offer up her services as a way to get by. However, one might get the idea that she’s not quite all there.
Lilith doesn’t remember much about her childhood. Did she even have a childhood? Did she have parents? She must have. There is a man she calls father. He certainly did create her, but he’s not the one responsible for siring her.
She does recall a scalpel...and pain. Lots of pain. But then she learned to welcome the pain and the cold. She learned she didn’t need flesh. Metal served her better. Metal was cold, comforting, and devoid of pain. But then she held the scalpel. She welded the pain. She repaired the broken flesh. She became useful. Now she is free and she wanders, with both pain and a scalpel at her disposal. Tea, torture, and tinctures are her passions.
She stands at 4”9. Black, straggly hair hangs at her back, often braided somewhat neatly. If you look closely enough, a few stray white hairs can be spotted here and there within the straight locks. A halter-top dress hugs her slim frame; the bottom torn and frayed. Beneath some of the gaps in the cloth, a metallic gleam can be seen. What flesh is visible is adorned with old faded scars. Worn boots cling to her feet, and if asked if she wants new ones, she claims these are too comfortable to get rid of.
If asked how old she is, she’ll shrug. Her appearance suggests somewhere between her late 30s or early 40s. She can tell you how old some of her parts are, though.
Her concept of right and wrong are somewhat skewed. She’ll do what she needs to do to survive. She’s used to fending for herself. Often, she will offer up her services as a way to get by. However, one might get the idea that she’s not quite all there.
Lilith doesn’t remember much about her childhood. Did she even have a childhood? Did she have parents? She must have. There is a man she calls father. He certainly did create her, but he’s not the one responsible for siring her.
She does recall a scalpel...and pain. Lots of pain. But then she learned to welcome the pain and the cold. She learned she didn’t need flesh. Metal served her better. Metal was cold, comforting, and devoid of pain. But then she held the scalpel. She welded the pain. She repaired the broken flesh. She became useful. Now she is free and she wanders, with both pain and a scalpel at her disposal. Tea, torture, and tinctures are her passions.
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