"They said I was made. Not born. So I unmade what they loved most."

Rules of Contact

"They said she died. And yet… the ruins still whisper her name."

Dossier.

"You don’t find her. You remember her too late."

History and Lore

"I was executed for surviving. Now I survive for the execution."

  🜃 Act I — The Girl Who Was Taken 
Aurelyth Isolde Valeborne was born under a sky that never answered prayers.The town of her birth — if it could be called a town — was a place so remote it had no place on maps, no known banners, no patron saint. It nestled between the crumbling arms of a long-dried riverbed and the soft, endless quilt of green fields. The air always smelled faintly of water that no longer ran, and the people spoke in low tones, as though afraid of waking something ancient beneath the soil.No one there lived to be remembered. That was the unspoken pact.Aurelyth was the only child of two farmers whose names now belong only to time. Her father carried silence like a second spine; her mother sang to the stars even after they stopped singing back. Their lives were modest — sun-worn clothes, dirt under the fingernails, a single book passed between them when the candles burned low.And Aurelyth? She was quiet. Always watching. Always listening. She did not cry loudly as a babe, nor shout in the fields as the other children did. She would sit for hours by the roots of the old sycamore, drawing patterns in the dust with a stick and speaking to no one. The villagers said she was slow. Odd. But not cursed. Not yet.She loved the sound of parchment. The way light shifted on the river stones. The way her mother’s hands moved when she ground herbs, or told stories of gods who had long since turned away.She was small, and simple, and still.Until the alchemist came.His name was Vayren Solt. A traveler by claim, a scholar by appearance, and a man who carried too many tools and too few answers. He arrived on a morning woven with mist, with a banner of blue and copper fluttering from his cart. He said he was sent by a university — that he was offering opportunity. Education. Advancement.No one in the town had ever been offered anything.He wore a half-smile at all times, as though the world itself was slightly beneath him. He asked questions about bloodlines. About resilience. About strange lights seen near the fields at night. He took notes in a leather-bound tome whose pages smelled of ash and iron. And when he saw Aurelyth, standing at the well with mud on her feet and a satchel of herbs in her hand, he paused.She was small. Quiet. Unremarkable.Perfect.He spoke to her parents with charm and promise. A scholarship, he said. A rare mind, he said. A chance to elevate the family name. He told them he would take her to study—just for a season, maybe two. She would return with knowledge and coin and stories of the stars.Her mother wept with pride. Her father said little.Aurelyth said nothing at all. But something in her chest — something she had no words for yet — ached.The day she left, she wore a ribbon her mother had stitched from an old tunic. Her fingers curled around it the entire journey, until the color bled into her skin.They traveled by cart, then boat, then foot. The days stretched into weeks. The roads grew less familiar. The stars above her changed their patterns. And when they finally stopped… it was not at a school. Not at a city. Not even at a house.It was a stone structure half-swallowed by ivy, hidden deep in a hollow no road reached.There were no candles in the windows. No laughter. No other students.Just the alchemist. And the echo of a door that closed too heavily behind her.

  ⚗️ Act II — The Body Remade  
What followed cannot be described as education.There were no lectures. No letters sent home. No classroom to speak of.
Aurelyth was not a student. She was stock.
And Vayren Solt’s manor — the promised sanctuary of scholarship — revealed itself to be a prison built for commerce.The estate was hidden deep within the forest’s throat, built into the bones of a cliffside. Ivy masked its outer structure, but inside, the air was sterile. Heavy. Mechanical. Its only light came from narrow glass apertures or the cold glow of aether lamps. The floors were polished stone etched with diagrams of the body — not in reverence, but in dissection. Hallways whispered of doors that never opened again.She was not the first to be brought here. Nor the last.Vayren Solt’s genius was not innovation. It was in refinement.He had perfected the art of infusing gold with soul-binding rituals. His early trials had been crude — automatons, golems, creations of metal and stone. They functioned, but only barely. They broke easily. They lacked elegance. They lacked suffering.So he turned to flesh.Children.
Quiet ones. Forgotten ones. Stolen from orphanages, farms, rural edges of civilization where no one would come looking. They arrived clutching empty promises. Some cried. Some didn’t. All were silenced eventually.The experiments were horrific — not in madness, but in calculation. Gold, in its purest form, rejected life. It was sacred. Unyielding. The body, however, was porous, soft, full of memory. Binding one to the other required not just alchemy, but sacrifice.Veins were replaced strand by strand with aether-fused filament. Organs were soaked in tinctures that slowed decay. Bones were hollowed and filled with molten alloy that seared marrow to ash. Skin blistered where the transmutation refused to settle. Some subjects burst into flame. Others wept gold from their eyes until they collapsed.They screamed. For hours. For days. Until they either died…
or forgot how to be human.The failure rate was near total. But he called it progress.Cots were cleared. Names erased. Rooms sterilized and re-used. Sometimes Aurelyth would pass by the infirmary and find only ash where a girl had lain the night before. The walls did not echo with mourning. Only with scraping metal, boiling chemicals, and soft, calculated footsteps.She was the exception.Something in her body adapted. Survived. Held the gold not as poison, but as purpose. Her blood began to shimmer. But it did not stay hidden.The gold began to rise.Thin lines surfaced across her skin — not like wounds, but like vines. They crawled over her throat, her shoulders, her collarbones. What should have been internal began branching across her body like living script. Her skin did not blister — it hosted the metal, embraced it. Her flesh became a reliquary of filigree and ruin.She stopped aging.She no longer scarred.And with time, the gold began to listen to her.Her touch could transmute matter. Wood, cloth, even iron — with time and focus, she could turn them to gold. At first it happened by accident: a spoon melted in her grip, a chair fused to the floor. Vayren was thrilled. He stopped calling her a failure. He stopped calling her a subject.He called her useful.And soon, he began to bring her objects. Trinkets to enhance. Coins to multiply. Broken crowns to restore and resell as “blessed.” She was not just a relic. She was a tool — a means to limitless wealth.And then… one day… he brought a man.Aurelyth was made to sit. To hold out her hand. The man was bound, drugged, already halfway to unconsciousness. Vayren placed her palm upon his chest.She resisted.He spoke a command word — something old, etched into her bones — and the gold surged.It spread through the man like fire through oil. Veins seized. Skin hardened. In less than a breath, he was frozen in place — a statue of hollow beauty, mouth open in a silent scream, caught mid-motion. His death had been elegant.And irreversible.She did not cry. She did not scream. But she did not speak again for seven nights.From that day on, she was no longer for sale.
Not because she was precious — but because she was profitable.
A living mint. A relic that could fabricate gold on command. Vayren no longer needed sponsors or nobles. He had her.She became his entire economy.He confined her to ritual chambers, restricted her food, limited her sleep. Every function was optimized. He called it preservation. In truth, it was extraction.But Aurelyth endured. And beneath endurance, she plotted.She began to sabotage rituals. Alter runes. Withhold transmutations. She trained her face into stillness and buried her fury beneath layers of obedience. When she was called a miracle, she did not speak. When she was praised, she did not smile.She was calculating.And Vayren — meticulous, perceptive, prideful — noticed.So one morning… he vanished.No warning. No punishment. No confrontation. Just silence.
Her door remained locked. Her ritual chamber sealed. The food never arrived.When she finally escaped, the manor was empty.
His notes were gone. His chambers scorched. His deeper laboratories — locked from the inside.Only she remained.

  ⚖️ Act III — The Execution That Failed  
When they found her, she was not hiding.The doors of the manor had been opened by force — not from within, but by an investigative team dispatched by the state Vayren Solt had once served. A courier had raised concerns after finding the outer gates sealed and the deliveries untouched for weeks. His report, as dry as it was curious, triggered an inspection.They expected to find a derelict laboratory.
What they found instead was silence, ash, and her.Aurelyth stood in the center of the compound’s main ritual hall. Barefoot. Bare-skinned. Unmoving.The floor beneath her feet was scorched black — laced with sigils half-burned and diagrams long since defaced. Around her lay the remnants of shattered glass, melted gold, and charred parchment. Her skin gleamed in the low light, pale and unmarked. But most striking of all were the veins of gold visible across her body — not hidden beneath the flesh, but risen to the surface.They branched across her like vines. Along her throat. Across her shoulders. Down her arms and legs. Ornate and unnatural — an intricate latticework of shimmering aether-infused metal growing along her skin like holy scripture etched in violence.She did not flee.She did not speak.She merely blinked at the armored investigators, her golden eyes unwavering, her expression unreadable.She was seventeen.The manor was declared a site of catastrophic alchemical corruption.
No other survivors were found.
No remains of Vayren Solt were recovered.
His journals were missing. His arcane machinery destroyed.
The laboratory vaults were sealed with sigils written in a language no scribe could recognize.Aurelyth, however, remained… perfectly intact.To the scholars, she was unexplainable.
To the public, she was unholy.
To the state, she was a threat.She was placed in containment beneath the city’s central arcane tribunal. Surrounded by glyph-locked wards, monitored by silent guards, and stripped of any identity but the number engraved on her file. She was examined by theologians, dissected in legal debates, and pronounced an “unauthorized magical construct of dangerous potential.”She never spoke again after the day she was found.Until one morning, a magistrate asked her what she remembered.“Everything,” she said.That was all.And it was enough.The council moved quickly.
Her fate was sealed under Article IX — a clause once written for rogue war-machines and summoned monstrosities: “No entity forged beyond natural law may exist within the domain of men.”No trial.
No defense.
No name spoken aloud.Just a single sentence:Termination.A temporary scaffold was raised under moonless sky — not in the square, but within the outer walls of the Sanctum of Civic Harmony. Not a place for criminals, but for corrections. There were no crowds. No announcements. Only authorized witnesses, scribes who would never speak, and a masked executioner whose hands trembled as he affixed the restraints.Aurelyth said nothing as they bound her.
She wore no armor. No markings of her former self. Only a thin white robe — and even that struggled to conceal the shimmering gold branching across her skin, like a map of broken constellations.Some described her stillness as eerie. Others, beautiful.
One scribe recorded, privately, that she had the expression of someone already past death.When the blade fell, it did so without flourish.Her body dropped. Her head rolled cleanly.
And from her neck spilled not blood… but gold.Molten, radiant, and unnaturally slow as it spread across the execution stone — like the last breath of a dying sun. It cooled into a dull sheen before anyone dared move.Her body was sealed in a containment vault beneath the city’s outer ring — a final precaution.Three days later, the vault was empty.No signs of intrusion. No traces of escape.
Only a thin trail of gold dust leading to the threshold, vanishing into the forest beyond.She was not seen again.But the stories began to grow.Of a girl with veins of living metal.
Of a shadow in the ruins, wrapped in black, eyes like coin-fire.
Of a woman who died once… and did not stay dead.Most say she is myth. A cautionary tale for the prideful.
Others swear they saw her. That she looked at them — truly looked — and knew them to the bone.But there is one truth none dare speak aloud, even now:Gold does not die.

  🜁 Act IV — Resurrection in Silence 
No one saw her rise.There was no thunder. No divine flare. No chant to call her soul back into the world.Only stillness.The vault where her body was laid to rest had no altar, only stone. Its walls were inscribed with layered wards — binding glyphs, null fields, holy seals etched by trembling clerics. The city’s leaders believed them sufficient. After all, she had no pulse. No breath. Her head had been severed cleanly. Her body did not decay — but gold does not rot. It merely waits.And in the silence of that tomb, the gold began to move.First, a flicker beneath the ribcage. Then the slow knitting of flesh — not with stitches, but with memory. Her veins pulsed faintly, as if remembering a rhythm long gone. The golden seams along her throat shimmered like thread dipped in light. Her eyes did not open immediately.She was not summoned.She was rebuilt.The alchemy that had cursed her was never dormant. It had been watching, listening through the latticework it had carved into her bones. The execution had simply paused the system — briefly. Inefficiently. The moment her body was left alone, it began correcting the error.She awoke not with breath, but with awareness.There was no gasp. No scream. Just the slow shifting of limbs. She sat up, touched the line across her neck, and felt the scar — seamless. Smooth. Unnatural. The final seal between what she had been… and what she could never be again.She stood.The door was still locked.The glyphs still glowed.But they did not recognize her anymore.Whatever protocols the city had used to define her — as construct, as artifact, as anomaly — were no longer valid. The magic meant to hold her flickered in confusion and failed to fire. The wards saw her… and hesitated.She left no sign of struggle. Only a smear of gold trailing from her bare footfalls, fading as it dried into dust.No one noticed her absence until three days later.By then, she had vanished beyond the forests, walking roads that had not been trodden in decades. She left no trail. No name. No destination. Only the weight of something terrible that refused to stay buried.She did not return to her home — what little memory she had of it was fractured beyond use. She did not seek help. She did not cry. The world had called her a monster. And monsters, once made, do not beg for absolution.She changed her name. Or rather, she used the one that had been taken from her:
Aurelyth — meaning “gilded silence” in an old dialect Vayren once studied and mocked.She wandered. Cloaked. Quiet. Alone.She learned to wear layers that masked the gold — high collars, long gloves, dark fabric thick enough to hide the shimmer beneath her skin. But even hidden, the world felt her when she passed. Birds would fall still. Aether would stutter. Children would stop speaking mid-sentence.She did not speak unless spoken to.She offered no kindness unless asked.But she listened.She listened to whispers in forgotten ruins. She learned what relics were being sold under false names. She followed the black market trails of gold-threaded enchantments and statues with eyes too lifelike to be coincidence.And always… she listened for the name Vayren Solt.For the man who made her.For the one who turned her into something that could never die cleanly.Aurelyth is no hero.
She does not wear vengeance like a sword.
She wears it like patience.She is not fire. She is not wrath. She is what comes after the smoke — what endures after history closes its eyes. And when she strikes, it is without warning, without spectacle.Just a hand on a shoulder.
Just a voice saying, “I remember.”Just a body, turned to gold.

  🜂 Act V — The Gilded Edge 
Aurelyth lives, but not in any way a scholar of life would define.She breathes. She walks. She speaks, when necessary. But it would be a mistake to call her alive in the same sense as others. Her body functions not through heartbeat or hunger, but through memory and mechanism. Her blood still glows faintly in the dark. Her skin still maps her suffering in gilded lines that no robe can fully conceal.She is no longer hunted. Not openly. Not officially.But her name — whispered, forbidden, fragmented — still moves through the undercurrent of forbidden texts and alchemical circles.The rich who once commissioned Vayren’s work now deny any involvement. The academics who praised his brilliance now redact his contributions. His name is rarely spoken in full — and when it is, it is with trembling caution, like invoking something that might still be listening.But Aurelyth never stopped listening.She walks the edges of the known world — through forgotten ruins, across salt-bleached coastlines, beneath the cracked ceilings of lost sanctums. She trades her gift only when necessity demands it, and always behind a shroud of false names and hidden eyes.When she does use it — when she turns an object into gold — it is quick, cold, and without spectacle. A gesture. A flicker. A reminder. She never explains how it works.The truth is, even she doesn’t fully know.The gold within her has evolved. It responds to her will, yes — but also to her instinct. It pulses when she is afraid. It burns when she is angry. It lingers after she sleeps. It is not a tool. It is a companion. Or perhaps… a second self.Each time she uses it, it spreads more. Not visibly — but within. A creeping sense that she is becoming less flesh, more artifact. That someday, her reflection will no longer blink back. That the gold may finish what the scaffold failed to.And yet… she persists.Not for vengeance alone. Not anymore.Aurelyth seeks balance — the slow erosion of a broken world’s lies. She hunts for what was buried, sold, or corrupted. She retrieves relics, disarms false prophets, corrects history written in the wrong hand. She is not a guardian. She is a reckoner.And always, always, she seeks him.Vayren Solt.Whether he lives or rots, she does not know. But if he breathes… she will find him.Not to beg.
Not to question.
Not to ask why.But to look him in the eye.
To let him see what she became.
And then — to return him to the gold he so worshipped.Aurelyth has no home. No banner. No allies.
But she has something rarer than any artifact.She has time.And time, like gold, does not forgive.
It only remembers.
And waits.

Story will continue with more adventures of our Golden Girl~ ♥

RP Hooks

"If I am a monster, it is only because I was sculpted by human hands."

—    Rules of Play.   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- ERP must be talked about prior. My character is not meant for this kind of RP and will be treated with respect.
-Must have a thought out character (ex: detailed background, personality, and are willing to strive for character development)

—    Disclaimer   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- I reserve the right to say NO to writing with anyone.
- Do not expect to become my "Ship."
- I am not looking for romantic interests. If this does form over writing, then me and the person writing will talk about it.
- I will not do ERP with people I am not comfortable with. I am not a one night stand or a sex machine. I will avoid this at all cost.
- God mode - I will avoid anyone with a god complex that think their character is the most powerful being on the planet.
- Anyone that tries to control my character through writing I will be avoiding.

Relationships.

"Her touch doesn’t burn. It remembers."

Gallery.

"I saw her once—just once. A woman of gold and silence. And I’ve never slept soundly since."

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Canon Shots.   

• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Non-canon.   

• Canon
• Artwork

—    Art of Aurelyth  

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork