Rosalind “Rose” Thorne
**Faceclaim:** Chappell Roan
Pronouns: She/Her
Height: 5’2”
Build: Slender, willowy, with an almost unnatural grace
Occupation: Drifter, survivalist, occasional thief
Apparent Age: Mid 20s
Date of Birth: June 8th, 2000
Date of Escape: February 14th, 2025
Fetch: Olivia Pressley
Relations: Jim & Carrie Pressley
Description:
Mask: Rose is striking in a way that lingers, like something out of a dream that fades too slowly. Her red hair falls in soft waves, thick and untamed, often half-wild no matter how carefully she styles it. Her green eyes are sharp, watchful, a little too knowing, framed by long dark lashes that make them seem almost unnatural. Her skin is fair but never quite looks warm, no matter the lighting, always carrying a subtle coolness beneath the surface. She dresses in dark, vintage-inspired clothing—lace, velvet, leather—always with something floral in her look, even if it’s just the faint scent of roses that clings to her no matter what she does.
Mien: Rose’s body is a garden left untamed, vines and thorns woven into her skin as if they have grown through her rather than on her. Her red hair is tangled with living briars, deep crimson roses blooming among them, petals falling with each movement like a trail marking where she’s been. Her skin has a soft green undertone, deepening into a mossy hue along her collarbones and throat, as though she is something that has begun to take root. Her veins are visible beneath the surface, but they do not run with blood—rather, they twist and curl like roots spreading under her flesh. When she moves, the air carries a faint rustling of leaves, as though she is always just on the edge of blooming, always just one breath away from being overtaken by the garden within her.
Personality:
Rose is charming, observant, and deeply intuitive, able to read people with unsettling accuracy. She holds on too tightly—to memories, to people, to things that should be let go. She is self-destructive in her inability to change, trapped in cycles of repeating mistakes and sabotaging anything that gets too close. Beneath it all, she is haunted by what she doesn’t remember and terrified of what she might still lose.
Keeper: The Devil at the Crossroads
Seeming: Elemental
Kith: Flowering & Venombite
Court: The Court of Cups
Mantle: Stormbinder - 2
The Stormbinder (••)
Responsibilities: Stormbinders serve as emotional anchors within the Freehold. They guide others through periods of grief, longing, and emotional turmoil by being a steady presence—one that listens, supports, and helps others feel seen without judgment. In doing so, they restore calm and clarity to those caught in emotional undertow.Mantle Manifestation: Their mien is touched by the quiet grace of water. Skin and hair may glisten with morning dew, and their scent subtly recalls rain on damp earth after a storm. In moments of deep emotional connection, the air may grow humid and hushed, as though a storm is coming.
Effect: The Stormbinder gains access to the Contract Read Lucidity.
Visible Effects:
- Smelling Like a Rose - The scent of roses always lingers around her, growing stronger with her emotions. The longer she stays in one place, the more small flowers or creeping vines appear around her. When she speaks, her voice carries a hypnotic, honeyed edge, meant to draw people in before they realize the danger.
Those with a shared Keeper may remember: The Devil called her his finest bloom, his most poisonous promise. She was the flower that lured, the thorn that punished. Those who crossed her path did not leave unchanged—if they left at all.
Dahlia
Mask: A sleek black motorcycle, low and predatory, built for speed and silence. Its matte black frame seems to drink in the light, its surface too smooth, almost organic. The engine hums with an unnatural purr, more like breathing than machinery, and those who touch it too long swear they feel something pulse beneath their fingers. When parked, it never quite feels still, as if waiting, as if watching.
Mien: A massive black cat made of shifting shadows, its form barely holding to the shape of a beast. It moves without sound, melting into darkness, its green eyes gleaming like distant embers. Its fur is not fur at all, but something soft and insubstantial, like curling smoke and moonlight caught in mist. When Dahlia prowls, the air grows still, heavy, waiting, as though the night itself bends around her presence.