Xana has a minion!

the Dead Person


The Graveyard Neela
Owner: beer

Age: 7 months, 1 week, 4 days

Born: February 13th, 2022

Adopted: 5 months, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: April 3rd, 2022


  • Level: 89
  • Strength: 224
  • Defense: 250
  • Speed: 223
  • Health: 226
  • HP: 226/226
  • Intelligence: 100
  • Books Read: 100
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Awe-inspiring Storyteller

Have you heard what the forest whispers, the wind creaking through its age-old branches?
The Rusalka gives way to the river. The river gives no way back.

Have you heard what the creatures chitter, as they scurry through brackish undergrowth?
The Rusalka is our just avenger; she grants what was taken, takes from those who’ve refused to give.

Have you heard what the town secretively gossips about, the murmurs of backwater legend?
The Rusalka is a woman both terrible and lovely; her beauty drives men mad with desire and despair.

Have you heard what the rare survivor says after an encounter with the Rusalka?
nothing nothing nothing.
They can only bear to notelessly scream–a long, drawn out note full of nothing.


They say that, in her mortal life, she was a giving woman–a lovely, kind-hearted daughter of the village. Their words describe a girl full of laughter, devoted and selfless to her fellow citizens.
They say that her love was a prodigious hunter, a roughshod yet courteous youth in furs and leathers. She had eyes only for him, a pure, loving adoration.
They say he marveled at her beauty, yet resented the eyes it drew; over the course of years, he soured, a seed of wrong-eyed envy blooming in his heart and setting his eyes a-wandering. He became a monster of his own making–one straight out of his own presumptions–spinning suspicions from shadow and nothing.
They say that, even as he raised a hand against her, she still loved him–that she stayed by his side, forgave him, continued to give her heart to him.
… A fatal choice–one that washed her body downriver, the corpse appearing strangely peaceful once washed up on the bank.


You chase your fleet-footed quarry into a clearing split by a fast-flowing river. The doe clears the waters with a great leap, but it’d be precarious to follow; its waters are too swift and deep to ford. There's a flash of something beneath the waters, a pale skull, rotting flesh, something that makes you shake your head, rub the vision from your eyes. They open to reveal a woman in the water where the doe had been.

She rises from the depths, a pale antlered woman with loose, flowing dark hair adorned with foliage and delicate ornaments. As she steps onto the loam, the forest’s debris and soil mingle with the water, clinging to her skin–she doesn’t seem to mind it. Draped in a flowing dress, the waterlogged fabric hugs the shape of her body almost too well; even still, she is nothing short of breathtaking. She softly hums a tune to herself; her long fingers–bedecked in shining golden rings–wiggle to the uptempo beat, shedding rounded droplets that catch the moonlight breaking through the trees.

At first sight, you reel from the figure, scrabbling to flee and muttering something about cursed women and having absolutely shit luck.

She playfully rolls her eyes, beckons you forward. “Oh my, they’ve filled your head with stories, haven’t they?”

A wave of dazed calm washes over, a static of the mind. You, now dumbstruck and without words, shake your head fervently: no, no you hadn’t been caught up in the traditional stories about her. Of course not–that’d be outrageous.

At your repentant action, she laughs. “Let gossips be gossips, bygones be bygones. The village is full of stories, odd bits of folklore. You can’t believe everything you hear, dearie.”

Still at a loss for words, you nod. She smiles at you–it’s a lovely smile, really; you fixate on it, desiring only to keep it in view.

A raven, a bauble in its beak, flies down from the treetops to alight on her shoulder. She turns to look at the bird, which drops its shiny find into her hand. She sprightly laughs before tucking the shining something into her hair. The raven fixates a beady eye on you–almost judgmentally, if you didn’t know any better–then turns to preen. Somewhere on her person, she pulls out an assortment of treats, which she proffers to raven; the bird snatches a single round chickpea from her palm. She reaches up to skritch the bird’s neck, gently whispering to it and giggling all the while; all you can do is watch in a kind of foolhardy envy. Jealous of a bird, of all things!

It feels like an eternity till the bird departs, silhouetted by the bright full moon. When she turns back to you, the wait was worth every second. “Would you like the real story, darling mortal?”

You repeatedly nod, clinging to her every word. Yes, yes, tell me anything.

Sitting down on the riverbank, she motions for you to approach and do the same.

She gazes up at the moon, her stare faraway. “The bones of the folktale are true; I grew up in a nearby village, fiercely loved a hunter despite his callous, destructive choices. I was foolish then, blindly hopeful and trusting.”

She rolls a strand of hair between her fingers, starts watching the rivulets drip-drip to the ground. “Consumed by his inner demons, he drowned me in this river here. Yet somehow, I rose from these waters, cleansed of the taint of death.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “I made my home in these woods, learnt to coexist with its flora and fauna. I’ve watched the cycles of life and death elapse–sometimes in awe, sometimes in heartbreak, sometimes in horror.”

You nod along, intently listening.

She affixes her eyes on you. “Nature’s cycle flows with such grace, yet man bumbles through with destruction and terror, disrupting the balance of nature and daring to strike at something so beyond him. Fools, the lot of you.” Her stare becomes almost too intense. “I’ve done much to keep man in check, to keep my woods a haven for plants and beasties alike.” Quickly softening, she gives you a slight smile. “The stories always forget my love of nature. Nature gets the very best of me; all only do as they must, uncompelled by some greater ambition–or rather, delusion.”

“But you know how the saying goes: fury burns, then simmers.” She laughs before continuing. “The first man I claimed was for my own revenge; my lover was gone in a flash. I had scarce a moment to relish it.” She folds her hands before continuing. “Humans are all so fickle, recklessly chasing your desires. You could be the kindest soul and still they’d take-take-take from you till you have nothing left; it’s all the ends justify the means, no consequence too much to bear unless they must bear it.” Her voice turns cold, the harsh tone a complete shock–a stark departure from the charming, soft-spoken demeanor you’ve observed this whole time. “It’s grown easier to toy with your kind; after all, you only see the beauty, the grand Ruse.” She laughs, the sound high and mocking. “I marvel at how you self-centered, slack-jawed fools approach impending doom, truly.”

The veiled threat is ice in your veins, jolting you from the dreamy, mind-numbed trance. The charm broken, you flail in an attempt to run, yet you meet a strange resistance to your movements. It feels almost like… swimming?

You failed to notice the water pooling at your feet, then filling your ears, your nostrils, your lungs. How could you have let that happen?

So the river washes over you, claiming you for her own.

You’re just another soul lost to her watery domain.


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story by Tribe

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