Exploring: autonomy vs duty · social ambition · survival through charm · power learned from women · secrecy · desire · reputation and disgrace · soft voice / sharp mind · opportunity and ambition · moral ambiguity · transformation
fc: c/indy kimber/ly
Delia Grimhilde's Biography:
Name: Delia Grimhilde
Alias(es): The Dreamweaver · The Nobleman’s Daughter
Race: Advanced Human (latent demonic abilities inherited through her mother’s lineage)
Age: Mid-20s
Gender: Female
Occupation: Courtesan · Informant · Writer
Residence: A quiet manor on the edge of the woods, far from the court she once fled
Appearance
Delia is striking in a quiet, unsettling way. She has a tall, slender frame and moves with a slow, deliberate grace that draws the eye without trying to. Her skin is pale and smooth, almost too perfect, like something carefully preserved. Her hair is long, dark, and thick, often worn loose or half-pinned in soft waves that frame her face. Her eyes are large and dark, with a wide, unblinking quality that gives her an intense, almost glassy stare. Her features are sharp but symmetrical, high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and a small, well-shaped mouth that rarely shows much emotion.
Background
Delia Grimhilde was not born into darkness. She was born into ambition.
Her father, a newly elevated nobleman who had clawed his way from the mud of farming fields to the polished halls of court, believed fiercely in one thing. Status must never slip backward. Every decision he made was in service of protecting the fragile nobility he had gained.
And Delia, his only daughter, was his most valuable piece.
He intended to marry her to a powerful lord who could secure their family’s place forever. In his eyes, this was love. A father ensuring his child would never know the poverty he once endured.
Delia understood this. Which was why she spoke to him gently. Softly. Carefully.
She learned early that a sharp tongue would only provoke him. A sweet voice, lowered eyes, and careful obedience gave her room to breathe. So she played the dutiful daughter flawlessly.
But her heart belonged elsewhere.
Before the marriage arrangements tightened around her like a noose, Delia had fallen quietly in love with a promising young warrior. His honor and position were stripped away after he was defeated and humiliated by a mysterious wandering swordsman. Disgraced, he vanished from court life entirely. Rumors said he was wandering the world, trying to reclaim the reputation that had been taken from him.
Delia never learned where he went.
Only that he was gone.
And soon after, so was she.
Rather than submit to a marriage that would turn her into a bargaining chip, Delia fled the noble estate in the dead of night. The world beyond her father’s lands was harsher than she had imagined. Titles meant nothing outside the manor gates.
She survived where many desperate women did.
Brothels.
At first it was necessity. A roof, food, protection. But within those velvet rooms and candlelit halls, Delia discovered something unexpected.
Power.
The women there taught her the truth noble courts pretended not to know. Men who ruled kingdoms could be undone by whispers, smiles, and secrets shared in bedchambers. They taught her how to listen more than she spoke. How to recognize opportunity the moment it appeared.
Most importantly, they taught her one rule.
When the world offers you a chance to rise, you take it.
Delia learned quickly.
Charm became armor. Beauty became currency. Intelligence became a blade hidden beneath silk gloves.
She stopped waiting for life to happen to her.
She began taking what she needed from it.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she still wondered about the man she once loved. The disgraced warrior chasing his lost honor across the world.
But Delia had changed since those days.
If he ever returned, he might find the girl he once knew had become something far more dangerous.
A woman who had learned exactly how the world works and how to bend it.
Powers & Skills
Dreamwalking: Enters and manipulates dreams to soothe or torment.
Illusion Magic: Weaves seductive or haunting illusions at will.
Creative Expression: A gifted writer whose novels have gained a cult following for their insight into the human psyche.
Trivia
Keeps a collection of letters, court gossip, and secrets gathered over the years.
Prefers quiet tea houses and candlelit rooms where conversations carry more truth than court halls.
Speaks softly and politely, a habit learned to keep her father calm, though her words are rarely without intent.
Writes under the pseudonym D.G. Nocturne, turning observation and experience into carefully veiled stories.
Believes opportunity must be taken when it appears, no matter how uncomfortable the choice.
Never forgets a slight, though she rarely shows it.
Still wonders what became of the disgraced warrior she once loved, though she pretends the past no longer matters.
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These two are newer, so I hope I'm reading them correctly:
Tall and gentle x Tiny and vicious
Competitive x Competitive (I say this, but he'd bend faster than a folding chair if he thought it really mattered to Delia. I also think his competitiveness comes from a place of wanting to impress her.)
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*loud enough for the widow to overhear* I hear she actually had someone kill her fool husband so's she could inherent his fortune...
Delia was measuring tinctures with more force than necessary when she overheard the statement. The glass vial slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor. Her head snapped up fast, breath caught sharp in her chest, something raw broke loose before she can contain it.
“Say that again.” Her voice is louder than the room has ever heard it, edged and uneven, carried far beyond the apothecary counter. She was already moving, skirts catching, steps quick and unsteady with a fury that has no patience left for composure. “Go on, I dare you. Say it again where I can hear it properly.” Her hands trembled at her sides, eyes fixed on the source like she might tear the words straight from their mouth.
“You think I needed to have him killed?” she snaps, the words spilling faster now, sharper, her control splintering under the weight of everything pressing in at once. “You think I would have traded his life for coin?” A short, breathless sound escaped her, almost a laugh, but there is nothing amused in it. “Tell me who told you that. Tell me who put that filth in your head.” Her voice rose again, uneven, cracking at the edges as she takes another step forward, relentless. “Was it him?”
Sermon Soaked in Sin [Delia and Preacher Draven Drabble] pt 1/?
tagging: @bewitchingbaker @gretaphasmatosmartin @worldofsenelfy
Delia goes still the moment he crosses the threshold of Widow's Lantern, a quiet tightening settling deep in her chest before recognition fully forms. She knows him. The shape of his presence, the weight of it, something deeply wrong dressed up in something clean.
Then the truth lands. Preacher Draven. Younger than she expected, or perhaps simply untouched by consequence, his face still striking in a way that feels undeserved.
Uninvited memories rose, memories of her husband’s voice, his hands, the life that was taken from her. It fades just as quickly, pressed down beneath the reality standing in front of her. The man who took that life now stands in her doorway, wrapped in false virtue.
“I wondered how long it would take you,” he says quietly, voice smooth, almost pleased. “You always were perceptive, Delia.”
Ruby red lips curve into a small, controlled smile that holds no warmth. “You always did have a talent for dressing sin up as something holy,” she says, her tone calm and measured as she looks him over with open disdain. “Walking in here like you belong anywhere near salvation.” Her fingers curl slightly at her side, nails pressing into her palm just enough to keep her steady. He did not stumble into this town. He came for her. That thought settles heavily, but it does not make her step back. Instead, she lifts her chin, presence sharpening into something unyielding, something that refuses to be shaken by him.
A faint breath leaves him, something close to a soft laugh. “Salvation is not a place, my dear,” he replies, taking a slow step inside as if invited. “It is a purpose. And I have always known mine.” His attention lingers on her, unashamed, intent. “You of all people should understand that.”
“And tell me, Preacher,” she continues, her voice dropping softer, more deliberate as she steps closer, closing the distance on her own terms, “when you knelt after killing your own brother, what exactly did you say?” Her head tilts just slightly, expression thoughtful in a way that cuts deeper than anger. “Did you ask your God to forgive you… or were you thinking about me?”
His smile deepens, slow and certain, since this question is one he has been waiting for. “I did pray,” he answers, almost reverent. “I thanked Him.” A pause follows, deliberate, heavy. “For clearing the path. For removing what stood between me and what was always meant to be mine.” His voice lowers, something darker slipping through the polish and refinement as he reached over to cup her cheeks.
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"I'm sorry to hear you had to lose that, Miss Delia. Your husband sounds like a good man. Don't seem right that terrible men walk the earth while most good ones have gone onto glory. I thank ya for sharing your story with me. It helps to talk things out, to hear different takes from other women... it helps."
Miss Delia's words were rich and thought provoking. She really sounded like she'd lived life, come out on the other side of tragedy and found the strength to keep going. Greta truly admired that about the other woman. She made what had to be a hard situations look effortless.
"I suppose ... then again there's some comfort in the not knowing. The hope between answers... of course that could just be my own cowardice. It's better to know, right? Right." She was resolved for the most part. Now she just had to work up the courage to ask him.
“I'll be honest, I do not know if it’s right for me to fill anyone's heads with dreams of devotion and gentleness when so few people in this world are willing to offer either.” The thought had lingered with her for months now, settling into the quiet hours of the night when there was no one left to comfort but herself.
“Funny, isn’t it?” The irony was not lost on her, not after years of hushed voices and sideways glances. “A woman half this town insists on calling a demoness… believing in miracles.” Yet she still did. Perhaps foolishly. Perhaps stubbornly. “I believe in magic. I believe some people can surprise you. And I believe hearts can soften, if they’re given enough patience.”
She thought that was the part most people failed to understand. Love was not proven in intensity, but endurance. “Consistency matters more than grand gestures ever will. Anyone can make promises when passion overtakes them. Flowers, declarations, all those beautiful little spectacles…” Her thoughts soured faintly at the memory of how quickly such things could disappear.
