“I am not the storm. I am the silence before it—when hearts race and no one dares breathe.”

Rules of Contact

“I never chase. I wait. If it’s meant to come, it’ll crawl.”

Dossier.

“I don’t ruin people. I show them what they are beneath the glitter, then let them decide what to do with the truth.”

History and Lore

“They call me heartless, but darling—I own every heart I break.”

  The Woman Before  
Veira Nocturne and the Promise of FleshMillie’s story does not begin with fire or fury—it begins with a woman and a want.
Veira Nocturne was not a villain, but she was feared. Once a highborn scholar of Sharlayan descent, she was exiled for the pursuit of texts deemed too old, too dangerous, too honest. She did not hunger for chaos—she craved understanding. She sought the truth behind myths, the roots beneath rituals, the whispers between the stars.When she vanished into the depths of the Twelveswood, most believed her lost to madness. But Veira was not mad. She was preparing. Her journals, bound in pale leather and sealed with wax glyphs, tell of her final theory: that desire—true, raw, deliberate desire—could be made flesh, not summoned from another realm, but born through ritual and will.She did not want a child.
She wanted an answer.The rite she designed took thirteen moons to complete. It required no sacrifice in the traditional sense. No demons were named, no infernal bargains made. Instead, it demanded intention. Her blood was offered not out of desperation, but choice. Her voice, speaking reversed lullabies beneath eclipse-lit skies. Her body, inked with verses never meant to be spoken aloud. And at the final hour, Veira bound herself in silence, offered her name to the void, and drew the circle.There was no explosion. No trumpet of birth.
Only stillness.And then, from the center of the circle—out of smoke, salt, and shadow—she stepped forward.
Tall. Pale. Fully grown. Clothed not in cloth but purpose.
Eyes like ink spilt over a blank page. Hair white as absence. A presence that made the wind hesitate.Millicent Veira Nocturne did not cry, nor speak.
She simply placed a hand on the edge of the circle... and smiled.Her mother wept. Whether from joy or fear remains unknown.They did not live as mother and daughter. Not truly. Veira was not nurturing. She was a guide, an architect. She taught Millie language, history, restraint. She taught her that want was sacred, and that indulgence without purpose was weakness.Millie, in return, absorbed everything—but never imitated.
She was not her mother’s echo. She was her evolution.In time, the books grew dusty. Veira grew quiet. And one morning, Millie woke to silence.The house was still. The ink was dry. Her mother was gone.There was no body. No note. Only a single page laid atop the altar where Millie had been born:“Perfection does not remain with the maker. It walks on its own.”She did not weep.
She simply rose, and began to walk.

  The Creation Wakes  
The Becoming of a Living TemptationThe world did not know what to make of her.
When Millicent Veira Nocturne walked beyond the edge of the forest, no one saw a succubus. No tail swayed behind her then, no horns crowned her skull. She wore no infernal sigil, no corrupted aura. To the untrained eye, she appeared merely... immaculate.Cloaked in monochrome, with eyes too steady and footsteps too soundless, she moved like someone who belonged nowhere and noticed everything.At first, she said nothing.
She watched.The cities buzzed with color, noise, and friction. Millie found it jarring. All of it seemed too much, too unrefined. People lived loudly, laughed without reason, ached with no understanding of what they truly wanted. Desire bloomed like weeds—untended, unconscious, wasted.It disgusted her. And yet, fascinated her more.She did not know hunger the way mortals did. She did not crave food, nor thirst for wine. What stirred in her instead was a quiet tightening—a curl of heat in the center of her chest—whenever she caught someone wanting. Not touching. Not taking. Simply... desiring.The first time she felt it, she stood in a market stall, observing a jeweler. He was polishing a ring meant for a client, but paused when a woman walked past. His gaze lingered. His breath hitched. And Millie felt it—like a slow exhale beneath her ribs. A taste. A thrill.
It was delicious.She began to learn the patterns. Not through books—but through eyes, hands, silence.
The way people shifted when she entered a room.
The way they spoke louder or softer, without realizing it.
The way they stared.
The way they lingered.She began to feed—not on flesh, not on souls—but on the unspoken. On moments left hanging in the air. On breaths held just a beat too long.She tested it.In a quiet city bathhouse, she sat across from a noblewoman and said nothing for nearly an hour. When the woman finally broke—leaning in, breathless, trembling with questions she never voiced—Millie only smiled and rose to leave. The woman wept. And Millie left with a warmth curling through her limbs.It was not cruelty. It was truth.
Millie had no need to take. People offered.
And she chose what she accepted.But the world, as it always does, grew curious. Whispers started. Names surfaced: Witch. Enchantress. Veira’s ghost. Some said she walked through dreams. Others claimed she stole hearts—literally.One man, a scholar from Ul’dah, followed her for six days, recording everything he could. On the seventh, he knocked at her door and begged her to explain what she was. Millie let him inside.He was never seen again.Only his journal remained—found abandoned in a tavern weeks later. The final entry read:“She is not a demon. She is not a woman. She is the question left unasked, the wish made without care. She wears want like a crown. And when she smiles, the gods hold their breath.”She had not harmed him.
She simply let him see her. Entirely.After that, she withdrew. Not out of fear—but discipline. Attention was a currency. Fame, a weakness. Millie understood what she was becoming, and knew to master it, she must not waste it. So she became precise.Her tail returned—graceful, curved, with a heart-shaped tip that moved like punctuation to her every word. Her horns grew in, elegant and pale like carved ivory. She did not conceal them. She curated them.She was not born monstrous. She refined herself into something undeniable.From then on, Millie made no apologies for the effect she had.
She did not seduce. She revealed.And what they did with that truth…
...was never her responsibility.

  TThe Law of Black and White  
The Code by Which She MovesThe world taught her many things.
But none so important as this: those who crave attention waste their power. Those who curate it—own it.Millie does not move through the world in chaos or carnality. She does not strut, preen, or scream. She arrives. Every step is intention, every glance a lit match. There is nothing wasted in her presentation—no excess, no need for spectacle. Her elegance is her edge.Her code was not given to her.
It was not taught by her mother or whispered by gods.
It came from the slow, deliberate practice of watching.
From seeing how mortals unravel when left to their desires. How they crave indulgence but collapse under excess. How they mistake hunger for love.She would not be like them.
She would not dissolve into passion without purpose.
So she made rules. Sacred, quiet, and unbreakable.Rule One: No Color.
Red is too loud. Blue, too weak. Gold boasts. Green begs.
She wears only black and white—like written word and empty parchment. Like ink on flesh. Like a promise, and its price. She does not bend this rule. Not for trends. Not for lovers. Not even for war.
It is not style. It is sovereignty.Rule Two: Never Feed Without Meaning.
She does not seduce on impulse. Flirtation is currency—spent carefully. She allows herself to be wanted, not consumed. Those who mistake her for common succubi, those who expect easy pleasure, are often left with trembling hands and no memory of what they were denied. She does not take. She allows.
And once allowed, she does not forget.Rule Three: All Flesh is Memory.
Her tattoos are not decorations. Each one marks a moment—some earned, some endured. Scripted runes spiral over her spine. A broken circle inked over her heart. Vines of nightbloom across her thighs. To touch her skin is to read her life, though most will never understand the language.
She is a living scripture—and she is the author.Rule Four: Control is Power.
Power, in Millie’s hands, is not brute strength. It is the silence before the thunder. It is the restraint before the smile. She does not shout. She waits. And when the moment comes, she moves with surgical precision. A look. A word. A tilt of the chin. That’s all it takes.Because they want to fall.
And she knows exactly where to stand when they do.Millie holds to her code with a priestess’s reverence. Not because she fears chaos, but because she understands it. Her kind are often wild, indulgent, ravenous. She is none of these. She is the shape of restraint wearing lace. She does not destroy unless necessary—and when she does, she does not weep.Those who try to control her discover quickly: she cannot be owned.
She is the boundary.
She is the pause that turns desire into devotion.
She is not wild. She is unchallenged.And once she has written you into her story…
...you will never forget the ink.

  The House That Breathes 
A Sanctuary of Stillness and SeductionTucked deep within the forbidden thickets of the Twelveswood, where the trees grow too close and the stars blink less often, there exists a house that does not appear on any map. Travelers who stumble upon it by accident forget it the moment they blink. Those who seek it with impure motives find themselves hopelessly turned around, walking in circles, haunted by the sound of something softly breathing between the branches.Millie calls it home.
But the house is far more than wood and walls.It did not begin as a structure—it began as a feeling.
After her mother vanished and the rites had been fulfilled, Millie returned to the forest. She walked until she found a clearing untouched by sunlight, where the wind fell silent and the air tasted like dusk. She whispered one word into the earth—her true name, the one she never speaks aloud.And the forest answered.The house rose not in days or weeks, but in slow hours—one breath at a time.
It grew out of desire and domain, bound together by her presence. The walls are pale gray wood, carved with symbols no carpenter ever etched. The windows never collect dust, but always seem to look out upon moonlight—no matter the time of day. Inside, shadows move just a touch too long after footsteps end. Candles light themselves when needed. Books close only after you've finished reading, even if you never turn a page.There are no servants. There is no staff.
And yet nothing in the house ever grows old or out of place.Millie’s manor is not alive.
It is obedient.The Rooms Within
Her library is the heart of the manor. Tall, narrow shelves filled with handwritten tomes—some bound in leather, others in stranger materials. There are no titles. She knows them all by touch. The air in this room smells of lavender and ancient parchment. Guests who enter often forget why they came. Some forget their own names.Her sitting room is soft, cold, and immaculate. Black velvet chairs. White marble floors. A single vase of lilies—always just beginning to wilt. No matter how often replaced, the flowers always look like they’re about to die. And still, they remain.The bath is carved from moonstone. The water always warm. It never ripples unless she's inside it.Her bedroom is said to be impossible to describe. Guests are rarely permitted past the threshold. Those who have entered return with glazed eyes and shallow memories. All they remember is warmth, silk, and the sense of being seen completely—and not judged, but measured.The Rules of the House
Millie does not invite guests lightly.
One must earn the invitation.Those who step inside feel it immediately: time slows. Voices drop. Footsteps hush themselves. The house does not threaten—it reminds. It reminds visitors that they are not in a structure, but a sanctum.To lie within its walls is to feel your breath echo louder than your thoughts.
To touch anything without permission is to feel the chill of disapproval in the very air.But for those she welcomes, the house becomes something else. A refuge. A mirror. A confession chamber. It holds secrets without burden. It listens. It remembers. It forgives… sometimes.Some say the house loves Millie. That it was built not by her, but for her.Others say it is merely an extension of her body—another lace glove over steel.But all agree: once you've seen it, you dream of it.
And once you've left it... something in you stays behind.

  The World and the Watcher  
The Pale Thorn in Velvet GlovesMillie is not hidden.
She is selective.She does not live in exile, nor is she hunted. The world does not fear her—because the world does not know how to categorize her. She is not an enemy. Not an ally. Not a goddess or a ghost. She has no stake in empires, no allegiance to banners, no interest in gold or glory.She walks among it all like someone perusing an art gallery.
Interested. Patient. Unhurried.Millie’s power is not in domination—it is in discernment.
She speaks little, but says much.
She listens often, but forgets nothing.
She touches rarely, but leaves fingerprints on the soul.Her Path Is Her Own
She does not answer to fate. If destiny ever tried to script her life, she tore the pages out.
The alliances she forges are hers alone. She has been seen aiding scholars, healing wounded creatures in the woods, whispering into the ears of broken men in taverns—and just as easily turning her back on monarchs who demanded her favor.Millie does not seek followers.
She attracts them.
Artists. Warlocks. Outcasts. Lovers. The broken. The bold. The ones with too many secrets or none at all.Some come for love. Some come to be destroyed.
Few get what they thought they wanted.
Fewer still are ever forgotten.What She Offers
Millie does not barter in coin.
Her currency is attention. Her reward is fascination. Her favor is fleeting but unforgettable.If she walks beside you, it is because you have intrigued her—not because you are owed, needed, or special.
If she offers you warmth, know that it is deliberate.
If she offers you affection, treasure it.
And if she offers you silence… understand that it may be the most honest thing she’s ever given.She is capable of loyalty. Fierce, blinding loyalty. But only to those who matter.
And matter, in Millie’s world, is not defined by power.
It is defined by depth.Make her feel something—truly feel—and she will carry a piece of you forever.
Use her. Lie to her. Betray her?
She will not shout.
She will not curse.
She will simply erase you.
Not from existence—from herself.And that, in truth, is a fate far worse.What She Is Not
She is not a seductress.
She is seduction incarnate—yes—but she is not bound to the act. Her desire is in tension, in restraint, in choice. She can be erotic, ethereal, maternal, cruel, or devastating—all within the same breath. And none of it is for performance.She does not pretend to be moral.
But she is not immoral, either. She simply follows a different compass.She is not broken.
But she has cracks—quiet ones, beautiful ones, carved not by pain, but by observation.She does not seek to be understood.
She demands to be respected.Who She Is Now
Millie is not looking for meaning.
She is the meaning.She walks with lace-wrapped certainty through a world too loud and too messy to notice what it’s losing. She lingers in the quiet spaces between people—in the hesitation before the kiss, in the silence before a secret, in the ache between longing and denial.She does not ask to be remembered.
She assumes it.Because when you meet Millie...
truly meet her...
you begin to notice that every silence is shaped like her.And long after she’s gone—
your pulse still holds the echo of her name.

Story will continue with more adventures of our Succubitch ~ ♥

RP Hooks

“You’re not here because I need you. You’re here because I let you stay.”

—    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.

"Mirror, mirror—did you come to worship, or to warn?"

Gallery.

“I don’t need to seduce you. I already have. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Canon Shots.   

• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Non-canon.   

• Canon
• Artwork

—    Art of Millie  

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork