Rumi Sokolov

Name: Rumi Sokolov
Age: 27
Zodiac: Capricorn ♑︎
Favorite Food: Pomegranate Upside-Down Cake
Favorite Drink: Berry Hibiscus Lemonade Tea
Favorite Flower: Larkspur
Birthday: January 8
Personality: INFJ-T
Magic Affinities: Moon Magic, Dark Magic, Blood Rituals, Healing Magic, Earth Magic.
"A moon-blessed witch cloaked in shadow and silver."
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Familiars:
Persephone, an albino raven, known for her ominous presence and fiercely protective nature.Nyx, an albino lunar moth, who is silent, ethereal, and often drapes herself around Rumi like a living shawl.
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Appearance:
Rumi stands around 5'4", with a willowy build and a haunting, dreamlike presence. Her skin is pale with the soft hue of parchment, almost ghostly under moonlight. Her midnight‑black hair is thick with subtle waves and curls that fades to smoky purple at the end, often down loose, but has been worn in a wrapped in a high bun to keep it from interfering during rituals. Her eyes are a deep sea blue. Rumi’s style is distinctly occult and celestial—layered fabrics, she dresses in flowing layers of dark velvets, embroidered satins, and sheer fabrics that glimmer like starlight, preferring muted purples, charcoals, and moonlit whites She smells faintly of herbs, lavender, and cold earth. Though beautiful, there’s something unmistakably eerie about her; some say it’s the gaze of someone who’s been brought back from the other side.
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Personality:
Soft-spoken but intense, Rumi Sokolov is a deeply intuitive and empathetic soul with a mind that wanders as far as the moonlight touches. A natural introvert, she tends to keep people at arm’s length, yet draws them in all the same. She is observant to a fault—often picking up on the emotional threads others don’t even realize they’re unraveling. Rumi is led by her heart and her dreams; she believes strongly in fate, omens, and spiritual truths. She has a morbid curiosity, a calmness in the face of death, and a gentle sadness in her voice that suggests she’s seen far more than someone her age should. Her humor is dry, often laced with irony, and she’s more likely to offer quiet advice than bold opinions. Though compassionate, she’s secretive—always keeping a portion of herself hidden. She loves fiercely, but with caution. If her magic surges too strong or her emotions too wildly, she tends to retreat until she’s gathered herself again.Rumi is hesitant to trust, even more hesitant to forgive. But once her loyalty is earned, she’ll go to any length for those she loves. She's resilient, sharp-witted, and surprisingly stubborn beneath her composed surface. Her biggest flaw lies in her martyr-like tendency to sacrifice too much of herself in the pursuit of saving others. Even now, she's still learning the difference between duty, guilt, and love.
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History
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Early Life:
Rumi’s origins are as complex as the threads she weaves in her spellwork. She was born to a wandering healer and former soldier, Dimitri Sokolov, and Beatrice Evans, a witch once bound to a hidden coven of moon-worshippers. Their union was unlikely—one of rational healing and the other of sacred magic—but they found peace in each other. Beatrice, with her divine gifts and forbidden knowledge, taught Dimitri the art of magical healing, while he taught her ancient, earthly practices long forgotten by most witches.However, peace is rarely long-lived. The covens of old, once blessed by gods like Hecate, were hunted down and burned by fearful townspeople. Beatrice barely escaped the destruction of her temple. It was Dimitri who saved her, spiriting her away into the wilds and across the sea. They eventually settled in a hidden forest in Nevivon, far from persecution. There, they raised Rumi. But even before she could walk, Rumi was cursed by Hecate herself—a twisted blessing from a goddess angered by the destruction of her sacred sites. On every blood moon, Rumi would be overcome by vengeful spirits which were not easy to dispel peacefully, whether if it was consider a blessing or a curse that her child can see magical beings when everyone else could usually not.From a young age, Rumi was aware of her duality.—while remaining wary of the deeper arcana that whispered to her.
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Ages: 0 - 10 ~ Childhood
Rumi Sokolov was born on the coldest night of the year, beneath a rare blood moon that painted the snow-covered forest in eerie crimson. From the moment she took her first breath, Rumi was different. Her cries were oddly quiet. Even as a baby, animals seemed drawn to her—foxes nestled near her crib, and moths often circled her cradle flame. Hecate’s mark had been left upon her in the form of a dormant curse, a consequence of her mother’s bloodline and the old bargain the coven had made with the goddess. The curse would lie mostly quiet during her infancy, but strange occurrences followed her—wild magic flaring when she cried, shadows lengthening in her presence, and herbs growing unnaturally fast when her hands brushed the soil.Her early childhood was one of enchantment and isolation. They lived in a stone-and-wood cottage hidden within a thicket of silver birch and cedar trees. Beatrice decorated the home with protective runes, animal bones, and dried herbs, while Dimitri kept a journal full of old alchemical notes and plague recipes. By age three, Rumi could recognize herbs by smell alone and had already begun mimicking her mother’s incantations, though often mispronouncing them and causing minor mishaps—moss growing over the table, or all the candles in the house snuffing out at once. Her magic, even then, leaned toward the intuitive and untamed.Her parents were loving but cautious. Beatrice was distant at times—stern, ritualistic, and devoted to the moon’s cycles—while Dimitri was warm and soft-spoken, often the one to soothe Rumi’s fears or calm her after magical outbursts. She adored both, but she felt especially tethered to her father, who would tell her stories by the hearth of the great wars, of healing sick animals, and of love found in broken places. They lived with only what they needed, trading potions and salves to the occasional wanderer or old friend from Beatrice’s coven days. Visitors were rare, and Rumi was discouraged from leaving the forest boundaries.But by age five, the curse began to stir.It started with intense nightmares— Then came sleepwalking- But on her sixth birthday—another blood moon—she suffered her first true magical break: she wandered outside in a trance and was found convulsing near the ritual stones, surrounded by scorched earth. Her skin bore glowing marks that faded by dawn. Beatrice, panicked, locked away all summoning materials and began a new regimen of discipline and meditation. Rumi would spend hours each day learning focus: tracing runes in ash, chanting protection charms, fasting during lunar eclipses. Childhood was never “normal” for her—it was a delicate balancing act between affection and fear.Despite everything, there were moments of true joy. Rumi adored animals—particularly birds and insects—and often played with the albino raven chick that would later become her familiar, Persephone.By age eight, Rumi was skilled in sigil craft, herbology, and light healing. She helped deliver a deer fawn with her father and once brought a dying hawk back to health with a touch and a whispered charm. But her magic was unstable. One failed transmutation ritual left her with lacerations along her back and legs—wounds that refused to fully heal and would later scar into pale streaks that shimmered faintly beneath her skin. Her mother blamed herself, seeing the scars as a sign that Hecate’s curse would only grow stronger. From then on, Rumi was forbidden from practicing without supervision.She grew lonely, but never bitter. Rumi learned to treasure quiet moments—tea with her father at dawn, the hum of insects during solstice ceremonies, the way her mother wept after each successful moon ritual. Her childhood was equal parts magical wonder and quiet sorrow—a slow, strange dance with power too ancient for a child to wield.
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Ages: 11–16 ~ Adolescence
By eleven, Rumi’s magic had begun to spiral beyond her control. Emotions dictated her spells—anger crackled into sparks, sorrow brewed sudden storms in her room, and her laughter could make vines grow through stone. Each blood moon intensified her curse. What once ended in shattered glass or broken vases now left claw marks on walls and scorched earth in the garden. Her parents tried herbal salves, sacred charms, and isolation, but the fury inside her could not be buried.When she was thirteen, her mother returned home from a seaside town with a terrified little girl cradled in her arms. Her name was Circe—a runaway who had slipped away from a pirate vessel where she’d been sold as property. Beatrice saw the truth in Circe’s eyes before the girl could even speak. Rumi was wary at first, unused to sharing her world with someone so small and quiet. But Circe was patient, and she stayed by Rumi’s side even when Rumi pushed her away. Within weeks, they became inseparable—Circe a quiet witness to Rumi’s outbursts and a gentle reminder that not all bonds came with blood.At fifteen, Rumi began to sense the weight of her lineage pressing harder against her. Her mother and father argued more, whispering about the plague creeping toward Vesuvia, about magic that couldn’t save everyone. Tired of feeling powerless, Rumi slipped into her mother’s forbidden library—scrolls of blood magic and lunar rituals bound in leather and bone. One night, beneath a new moon, she drew a summoning circle in chalk and salt beneath the house. Her blood was the offering. Her intent: to protect her family.But what answered was something else entirely.The shadows shifted. Smoke curled, heavy and sweet. A presence emerged—vast, horned, and ancient: the Arcana Devil. Its voice was velvet laced with venom. Rumi begged for guidance, anything to save her family. But before the bargain could be sealed, her father, Dimitri, burst into the room. He saw the circle, the smoke—and then he saw nothing at all.The Devil smiled.In one heartbeat, Dimitri was gone—swallowed into shadow without sound or struggle. The circle cracked, and a burn shaped like a crescent moon flared against Rumi’s side. The summoning ended. The price was paid.By sixteen, Rumi had stopped seeking power and started seeking discipline. She no longer cast magic with wonder or pride—it was careful, deliberate, restrained. She practiced alone, learning control the hard way. Her spells were quiet now: healing wilted flowers, calming a fever, whispering light into cold corners. Magic was no longer a game or a gift. It was survival.And she would never ask the gods for anything again.
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Ages: 17–20 ~ Young Adulthood
At seventeen, Rumi's life shifted again—not with tragedy, but with transition. After years in the quiet forests and grief-shadowed edges of the world, she and her family relocated to Vesuvia. The move had come on request from the Countess herself: Beatrice Sokolov’s healing talents had reached the court, and in a time when illness was stirring and fear took root in whispers, the palace needed help.Rumi wasn’t particularly thrilled. She had grown used to solitude, to the wild hush of the woods and the comfort of rituals done in silence. Vesuvia was a place of bustling streets and heavy perfume, a city that glittered with secrets and swallowed the past in favor of pageantry. Still, she followed, gloves tight over her hands, moonstone pendant cool against her chest. Her younger sister Circe, wide-eyed and curious, immediately adored the city and its endless distractions.Her mother, now working directly in the palace infirmary, spent most of her days tending to nobles and high-ranking officials—people with coin and curses. She rarely came home before dark, and when she did, her arms were full of patients’ scrolls, case files, and letters marked with urgent sigils. Rumi watched her with quiet understanding, but the distance still stung. The woman who once weaved her daughter’s hair was now barely present, her grief and exhaustion masked behind professional detachment.So, at eighteen, Rumi was left to tend to their newly inherited shop in the Center City: a narrow space tucked between a tea house and a dusty bookstore, filled with herbal tinctures, warding salts, and ancient tomes no one knew how to read anymore. She wanted rename it but her mother insisted the "Magic Shop" was simple enough, but she did add a charm bell over the door that never rang the same way twice. Some thought she was a noblewoman in hiding. Others whispered she was a witch with secrets. Rumi didn’t mind. Let them wonder.It was during this time, one overcast afternoon marked by gentle rain and moonlight cutting through glass jars, that she met Asra.He wandered in while she was rearranging the potion shelves—pale, smiling, enigmatic, and far too familiar with the kind of magic she’d kept hidden for years. He asked her a question about binding charms in a language only scholars or witches used. She raised a brow, answered fluently, and their friendship bloomed from there. Asra began stopping by regularly—sometimes to trade, sometimes just to talk. They discussed everything from astral projection to the ethics of healing curses. He never pressed her about her gloves. She never asked him about the flicker of pain behind his grin.Soon enough, they were trading spells like sweets and experimenting with sigils in the back room, a cloud of ink and incense thick between them. Rumi had never had someone close in age who matched her magical curiosity, and for the first time since she was a child, she felt seen—not just as her mother’s daughter or Circe’s older sister, but as herself. Powerful. Haunted. Curious. Alive.By nineteen, Asra became a fixture in her life, drifting in and out like moonlight through a curtain. They pushed each other magically and emotionally, both keeping just enough secrets to remain intriguing. They never spoke of the Devil Arcana, though Rumi sometimes caught Asra studying her when the moon was full, as if trying to read the hidden script in her eyes.Meanwhile, her mother’s hours at the palace only increased, and Rumi found herself responsible not just for the shop but for Circe as well. She became a parent in her own right—making food, writing warding notes for Circe’s pockets, and walking her to the scholar’s garden when the days were safe. Her bond with her sister deepened during this time; quiet dinners, whispered dreams, and the promise that no matter how strange the world became, they would always return to each other.And yet, despite her blooming reputation and newfound confidence, Rumi couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting.But she had time. Or so she thought.
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Ages: 20–23 ~ Plague Era
By the time Rumi turned twenty, Vesuvia had begun to rot beneath its gilded surface.The red plague crept into the city like a shadow with no source—first in whispers, then in screams. At first, Rumi didn’t believe the sickness was as severe as people claimed. Illness came and went, after all. Her mother, Beatrice, still held firm in her work at the palace infirmary, and Rumi continued to tend the shop with its warm oils, dried herbs, and whispered blessings over simmering tea.But it wasn’t long before the city fell into silence.Clients stopped arriving at the shop. People bled from their eyes. The guards sealed whole districts overnight. Rumi sent Circe—only fourteen—to stay with their elderly neighbor on the outskirts, thinking it would be safer. She was wrong.At twenty-one, Rumi watched everything she’d built begin to fall apart. Her mother was often gone for days at a time, returning only to rest briefly, hands stained red and magic frayed at the edges. She was exhausted, grieving patients in silence, pushing Rumi away with soft words and distance. And Asra was beginning to change. Their visits became sporadic, and when he was present, he spoke more of the dead than the living. There was something cold in his magic now, something Rumi couldn’t quite place.And then, Circe fell ill.Rumi found her one evening curled up in the old neighbor’s spare room, pale and sweating, whispering her name in delirium. She smelled of iron and honey. Her fingertips were tinged with red. It was unmistakable.Rumi panicked. She pulled her sister home, desperate and trembling. She called upon every herb, every incantation she’d learned. Her hands blistered from overuse of magic, her voice cracked from chanting prayers long forbidden. Her mother had taught her how to heal others. But no one had taught her what to do when love itself was dying in her arms.Circe died three nights later in the back room of the shop. She was only fifteen.Rumi didn’t know who to turn to, until she met Julian.They crossed paths at the Rowdy Raven—Rumi, drinking away her grief and anger after another futile patient visit; Julian, buried in half-drunk medical notes and furiously scribbled diagrams. They struck up conversation over their shared frustrations with the palace’s silence, with the plague’s mystery, with magic’s limits. Julian was sharp, sarcastic, and surprisingly kind. Rumi was brittle and biting, but intrigued. His mind was a whirlwind, and she needed something to anchor hers.When she found out he was a doctor, she all but demanded to apprentice under him.Julian hesitated. He tried to warn her—this work was bloody, dangerous, thankless. The palace was no ally. But Rumi was firm. She didn’t care about the risk. She needed a purpose. She needed to fix what she had failed to save.
He relented.
And so, at age twenty-one, Rumi began working under Julian Devorak.Their work was grueling. Day after day they tended the South End, stitching wounds, administering remedies, experimenting with salves and tinctures. Rumi brought magic to the clinic—restorative spells and moon-drenched runes—while Julian brought science, precision, and stubborn compassion. They made a strange but powerful pair. The clinic became their world. Rumi barely slept. Julian often forgot to eat. They leaned on one another—first as colleagues, then as friends, then as something messier. Between shared exhaustion and whispered jokes over dissected herbs, the two became lovers in quiet, desperate moments. It was never quite romantic, not yet—but it was real. And it was hers.Rumi and Julian received formal summons from the Count.Rumi didn’t want to go. Julian was suspicious—rightfully so. But they were told the Count was gravely ill, and that their expertise was needed. The summons came sealed with Nadia’s crest, not Lucio’s, which gave them a sliver of hope that it might be legitimate. The palace was a gilded tomb. Opulent and echoing with silence. When they arrived, Lucio was worse than rumored—sweating, delirious, raving about demons and death.They weren’t alone in the palace. Valdemar was there. Watching. At first, the palace physician was courteous—aloof, clinical, cold. But something about the way Valdemar spoke to Rumi made her skin crawl. They had questions about her magic, too many questions. And they kept calling her by the wrong name. As if they already knew her.
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Plague Era: Death
Rumi’s body lay cold and broken, her soul slipping ever closer to oblivion, trapped in the sterile chambers of the palace’s secret laboratory. Her death seemed absolute — but her mother, Beatrice, refused to accept it. Driven by desperation and boundless love, Beatrice made a terrible bargain. She sacrificed her own humanity to the Death Arcana, offering herself in exchange for the chance to pull her daughter back from the clutches of death.The ritual was dark and harrowing. Death itself took root in Rumi’s shattered body, inhabiting it as a spectral force — neither fully alive nor dead. This unnatural resurrection saved Rumi’s life, but at a profound cost. Her flesh was healed, but her essence was forever altered, marked by the presence of death’s cold shadow. The warmth of her own magic was replaced by an eerie, haunting energy that whispered of endings and silence.Beatrice, though still alive, became a shell of her former self — drained of vitality, caught in a liminal state between life and death. Her sacrifice was a secret kept closely guarded, known only to a few trusted allies, including Asra, who pledged to protect them both.Rumi awoke with fragmented memories and a mind fogged by the unnatural forces within her. Her magic no longer flowed from her soul or the moon’s gentle light, but from the dark energy that had fused with her being — a power that was both a gift and a curse. It demanded sustenance from outside sources and was volatile, unpredictable. It could heal and destroy with equal ease.One of the most unsettling effects of this bond was the voice of Death itself, echoing in the corners of her mind. Sometimes it whispered softly, a cold breath of warning or calm reassurance, guiding her away from unseen dangers. Other times, it was a distant, haunting murmur — a reminder of the fragility of her existence and the price she pays for her second chance at life. In rare, dire moments, Death’s presence would surge forward, overriding her own will to protect her body when it teetered on the brink of collapse, healing wounds she could not, or shielding her from fatal harm.
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Ages: 23 - 26 ~ Post Plague
Rumi awoke with fragmented memories and after 3 years in a comatose state. Her magic no longer flowed from her soul or the moon’s gentle light, but from the dark energy that had fused with her being — a power that was both a gift and a curse. It demanded sustenance from outside sources and was volatile, unpredictable. It could heal and destroy with equal ease.One of the most unsettling effects of this bond was the voice of Death itself, echoing in the corners of her mind. Sometimes it whispered softly, a cold breath of warning or calm reassurance, guiding her away from unseen dangers. Other times, it was a distant, haunting murmur — a reminder of the fragility of her existence and the price she pays for her second chance at life. In rare, dire moments, Death’s presence would surge forward, overriding her own will to protect her body when it teetered on the brink of collapse, healing wounds she could not, or shielding her from fatal harm.Her recovery was a slow, painful process. Her body needed to be relearned — how to move, how to breathe, how to talk, how to contain the strange magic that now pulsed beneath her skin. The presence of Death inside her sometimes left her drained and disoriented, other times fiercely alive with a sharp edge that made her both dangerous and fragile.Despite the horror of her condition, Rumi’s resolve hardened. She was no longer the girl who had tended the sick with gentle hands. Now, she was something other — a vessel of both life and death, bound by her mother’s sacrifice and the shadow of the Death Arcana.Her bond with Asra deepened during this time, as he became her guide and protector through the uncertainty. Though he could not reverse the bargain made, he helped her find ways to draw strength from the moon once again, to anchor her volatile power in something steadier and more familiar.The path ahead was uncertain, dark, and fraught with peril. But Rumi’s spirit burned on — a strange blend of fragile humanity and spectral power, ready to face the coming storms.
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Relationships
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Asra Alnazar:
Since her revival, Asra has been both Rumi’s lifeline and anchor. He was one of the few to witness the aftermath of her mother’s sacrifice and understand the gravity of what had been done. While Asra did not perform the resurrection himself, he accepted the consequences without hesitation, promising Beatrice he would help guide Rumi through the fractured life that awaited her.Their bond is deep and complex. Though once more emotionally distant before the plague, Rumi now relies on him in ways she never imagined — not just as a mentor, but as someone who understands the magic that now flickers chaotically in her veins. They train together often, Asra helping her relearn magic in controlled conditions, drawing power from the moonlight rather than from living beings.There are moments when Asra catches her staring into space, eyes silvered over, murmuring in reply to someone he cannot see. In those moments, he grows quietly protective. He is one of the only people who can snap her out of a Death-induced trance, often by taking her hand or calling her name sharply. Though Asra’s tendency to keep secrets still frustrates her, she has learned to accept his reticence as care in disguise — and he, in turn, has become her most steadfast companion and magical confidant.
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Julian Devorak:
Julian’s relationship with Rumi is marked by love, loss, and a tangle of unresolved emotion. They met during the height of the plague when Rumi, heartbroken over losing her sister and failing to develop a cure through traditional means, sought Julian out at the Rowdy Raven. Their connection was immediate — forged through shared experience in healing, late-night debates about ethics, and their mutual stubborn refusal to give up on the dying.Rumi became his apprentice in the plague ward, assisting with patients, researching feverishly for a cure, and even working with the ill Count Lucio in an attempt to save the city. Their physical relationship began as stress relief, but both harbored feelings they were too afraid to confront. When Rumi fell ill and was snatched away by Valdemar’s silent hands, Julian was devastated. His guilt over her death haunted him, fueling his own spiral and memory erasure.After her revival, their reunion was painful. Rumi remembered him only in dreams and flickering emotions — a warmth she couldn’t place. Julian, terrified that she wouldn’t remember him at all, was stunned when she called him by name the first time they crossed paths again.When she’s with Julian, she feels achingly human again. He sees her, even in her haunted state, and still jokes with her like nothing ever changed. She hasn’t admitted it, but he’s the one she finds herself dreaming of most often.
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Nadia Satrinava:
Their relationship is founded on mutual respect and occasional friction. Rumi initially felt humbled by Nadia’s intellect and leadership, but her cautious nature made her wary of the Countess’s agenda — especially during the plague and the palace’s shadowed politics.Despite this, they’ve developed a working friendship. Nadia admires Rumi’s magical insight, especially after her revival, and has sought her assistance in spiritual matters. Rumi, in turn, appreciates Nadia’s stoicism and sharp intuition. Still, when they clash, it’s often dramatic. Both share a similar style of the celestial aesthetic and on occasion Nadia still love to shower Rumi with lavish gifts and clothes.
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Portia Devorak:
Portia is a source of warmth and grounding for Rumi — a much-needed light in her otherwise haunted life. They met during Rumi’s apprenticeship under Julian and quickly bonded over shared concern for his well-being. Rumi treasures their friendship, often visiting Portia at her home for tea, pastries, and gossip that distract her from her darker thoughts.Portia’s cheerful and nurturing personality offers Rumi the emotional support she often denies herself. She affectionately refers to Portia as “her sister in chaos,” and Portia, in return, has called Rumi “a cryptid in a cute dress.” They laugh easily together — something Rumi struggles to do with anyone else.
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Muriel:
Their relationship is soft, sparse, and full of quiet understanding. Muriel rarely speaks when they’re around each other, but that’s exactly what Rumi appreciates. There’s no pressure to perform or explain herself. He offers her space to simply exist, and she in return treats him gently, never prying or pushing.Rumi often leaves protective charms in his tent — small talismans made of bone and lavender — as a silent offering. Though Muriel doesn’t always acknowledge them, he never throws them away.
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Lucio:
Rumi is deeply wary of Lucio, and the feeling is mutual. After her revival, Death’s presence inside her seems particularly reactive to Lucio’s own soul, flaring around him like a warning.She avoids him when possible, and when they’re forced to speak, their conversations are barbed and dripping with sarcasm or just blatantly ignores his whines. Rumi doesn’t fear him anymore, but she does remember — even if he claims to have changed, the past lingers like blood in snow.
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Miscellaneous:
✧Sleeps in two-hour intervals, dreams vivid and sometimes prophetic.✧Has a collection of pressed flowers from every place she’s lived.✧Keeps a journal with sketches of the spirits she sees.✧Feeds stray cats by her window and names them after constellations.✧Loves poetry, especially tragic epics and star-crossed romances.✧Sleeps rarely. Dreams often.✧Touch-starved but shy about asking for it.✧Will absolutely curse you politely.✧A switch with huge bottom energy.✧Death will occasionally annoy her with his knowledge or just simply bother her for fun.✧Collects silver charms, moonstones, and ancient coinage.✧Suffers intense migraines after using dark magic.✧Death nicknames her “Little Moonlight.”✧She hoards candied violets, dark chocolate, and berry preserves. She insists she doesn't like sweets, but her stash tells a different story. Circe used to catch her sneaking cookies at night.✧Rumi always wears a piece of raw moonstone her mother gave her. She holds it when she’s feeling overwhelmed.✧The quickest way to disarm Rumi is a compliment or unexpected flirtation. She’ll shut down, fumble her words, and try to recover with a biting remark — which usually just makes it worse.✧Rumi speaks to Persephone out loud as if she were human. Most people assume it’s just a quirk — they don’t realize Persephone answers back.✧Since being revived by the Death Arcana, Rumi sometimes hears him when others can’t. She doesn’t talk about it.✧Doesn’t Cry Often — But When She Does. It’s silent, furious, and deeply personal. She hates being seen vulnerable and often disappears for hours afterward.✧Her shelves are filled with banned texts, occult tomes, lunar almanacs, hand-stitched spellbooks, and medical manuals written in the Old Tongue.✧Acts of service and gift-giving. She’ll sneak protection sigils into your clothing, leave teas outside your door, or silently fix your injuries while pretending to scold you.✧Persephone guards her fiercely, and hisses at strangers —✧Nyx is gentler, and often appears when Rumi’s sleeping or lost in thought. Rumi insists Nyx only appears when something significant is coming.✧Julian has a standing agreement to never call Persephone “creepy,” after one too many pecks to the head.
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