Name: Vivian Lenitz
Age: 21
Gender: Female

Race: Human

Appearance: Vivian is 168cm (5'6") tall, an unimposing height for someone with a very slight build. She is dainty and thin, looking frail and brittle even under heavy clothing. Though her life could in no way be called leisurely, she never saw manual labor in fulfilling her role. Her skin is light, coldly colored and quite pale but otherwise healthy. It is clear and smooth, free of distinguishing marks and scars. Vivian's face is girly, shaped with a soft jawline and gentle features. Her eyes are an unnatural and bright gemstone blue, the color of cold waters. Their shape is round, never drooping but gripped by a deep-rooted sadness that permeates any expression she happens to be wearing. Her nose is tiny and pointed, usually colored only by two small blemishes of irritation caused by her glasses. Her lips are much the same, childishly small and frowning. Vivian's hair is a glossless slate black, and almost always tousled. Long, messy bangs obscure most of her forehead down to her eyebrows. Behind, her hair reaches down to the nape of her neck, and further in a few rogue strands. Vivian carries herself meekly, with a low head and a peculiarly shuffling stride that makes her easy to identify.

 Vivian is stuck in the garments of her office. The first of which is a sleeveless blue jumper dress. It is an overgarment, made of sturdy cloth and quite rugged for a clerical uniform. Another difference from common religious garb is its complete lack of an emblem. It is double breasted, decorated down the front solely by two rows of black buttons, ten in total, spanning from the waist to just below her collarbones, where the body of the dress ends and its shoulder straps begin. The garment is tightened over her lower ribs by a black belt, partly integral to the dress, passing under the third row of buttons. The dress ends at her knees, fitting around her legs with little excess, but not so tightly as to prohibit mobility. Underneath, she wears a white shirt, utterly simple and without pattern. It is buttoned up the front, again with black fastenings, and similarly cuffed at the end of its full length sleeves. It has a high collar that obscures her throat even when folded. Her legs and feet are covered by tights, opaque and black colored, which run up to her hips. For footwear, Vivian has appropriated a set of brown leather shoes, rounded toed and high ankled with a very slight heel. Around her shoulders, she wears a long, wide scarf dyed pale blue. It is typically tightly wound, piled high and obscuring her jaw if not her lower face when she's keeping her head low. Both tails of the scarf hang over her left shoulder, one going down her front and other other her back. Less clothing and more essential to her being, she carries a pair of glasses. They are a thin wire framed set with rectangular lenses rimmed only along their bottom halves. 

Weapons: None. Vivian has seen and handled a wide variety of weapons, but only for the purpose of moving and storing them. She has a rudimentary understanding of martial concepts gained from close proximity to soldiers and officers for most of her life.

Personality: Vivian is a quiet, kindly mannered person. She embodies charity, born with a disposition towards altruism that manifested in her career as a priestess. She finds satisfaction in helping the needy and placing others above her, and her fixation on this might even be seen as egotistical to some. Something that separates her from the idealized view of the cleric is Vivian's understanding that saving people is more or less outside of her capabilities, instead, she is content to serve as an indiscriminate helping hand. Paired with her free-floating ideology is a monumental patience. Never one to speak first, she is always ready to sit, wait, and understand her way through a difficult situation. Stemming from her primary quality of patience, Vivian has a distaste for hasty people, finding them to be usually wasteful or unreasonable. She isn't particularly confident in any of what she does, dueling with the fear that her good will towards others is not genuine and a gradually diminishing self-respect. Emotion often comes to her without context, and her lack of memories makes it hard to understand even her own feelings, much less the strange world she now inhabits. Every timeless day is spent in a stupor that she has yet to decide the identity of, between shame and regret. Feelings held for memories that come only in jagged, mismatched pieces. Patient as she is, the lack of answers is wearing her down, making her brittle, and an animal part of her knows it.

Ability: The chains used to kill Vivian manifest first as ether, intangible but visible as the blackened chain solidifies. They flail around, attempting to seek out a target, and react only to things they can feed on. Vivian herself is simultaneously bound by the chains, and the entity works to kill both parties as it feeds. Given her constitution, and also the preference of the chains, Vivian is assured to die first in any exchange done this way, rendering the chains inoperable and limp following her expiration. The rusted, battered spans of heavy, thick chains seem to have a mind of their own, appearing inconsistently and defying Vivian often when she wills them to disappear. Even before the chains assume their historic positions on Vivian, the ligature marks once made around her throat begin to bruise and bleed when the chains become active. The pain of this invisible force strangling the life out of her is only intensified when the real chains are worked into the grooves. They are only slightly stronger than their steel construction would suggest, held together by a lingering malevolence that warms the steel links to the touch and commands the bindings to consume. When broken, the metal bleeds and sings out in shrill voiced, erratic melodies as it slowly works to morph and mend itself. Upon destruction, they disappear and become dormant, only to reawaken days later, hungrier and more active than before. Vivian believes that she is slowly developing an understanding of the chain's song, which continues in her mind even when the links are unbroken.

History: Vivian was born into a troubled country, and she lived in a small town in the country's rural lands. As a child, the state of the world didn't concern her or the other town children. They played at the town's river, and found entertainment their own way while worry filled their homes. She herself grew up destitute, and poverty drove her to seek shelter and employment with the local church. With no real love for preaching, Vivian became fixated on the spiritual help she could deliver through tangible means. She became a clerk, and life was stable. The troubles of the nation slowly turned to violence, and over the course of her adolescence she watched the land descend into war. The fighting was always far off, an abstraction that only served to inspire terror and propaganda. To Vivian in particular, it was a series of words and numbers prescribing the delivery of relief supplies to the surrounding areas. The fighting continued to simmer over the horizon, and before she suspected it she was an adult. She was no longer a clerk, but a slightly larger child in charge of the other children following the same path through life. Soldiers now came and went through their little town, pitching camp on its outskirts to rest before they set off to the front lines. The wounded were marched back for processing and recuperation, usually within the walls of the church and sometimes piled on makeshift beds spilling out onto the town green. It was helping, but it was bleak labor. The majority of her time was spent comforting the dying. Somewhere along the line, Vivian found herself dissatisfied with her work and its futility. She wanted to leave and go her own way, not for disdain of the church but a desire for freedom she'd never felt in her youth. Whatever she was doing was not working, for her and the people dependent on her, and the only thing on her mind was lashing out and experimenting in the hopes of finding her way. Before the young cleric could scrounge up the courage to become a wanderer, the long fought war had reached her home. The town was razed in the fighting, and the war moved on. Vivian remembers very little of her life, especially its end. Pleasure at feeling warm blood on her hands, without the ability to recall whose. Excitement at being hunted through the streets, with a confidence that feels utterly alien. Soldiers, or maybe just looters apprehending her. Everyone else was already dead, out in a ditch or butchered in the church's foyer. No matter what placations she sputtered out they kept circling her, shouting the word over and over again. She was wrapped in chains, pulled tighter and tighter until even breathing became impossible. "Butcher," they cried, and threw her to the river as the town burned. She awoke with a scattered mind in a strange world, footprints behind her and a golden city before her.

Spirit Clarity: Crimson