Player: @Atlas

NAME: Violetta Ravenscar
KNOWN ALIASES: Captain Blackwater
PLACE OF BIRTH: Kingdom of Northpoint, High Rock
AGE: 28
EYE COLOR: Green/Hazel
HAIR COLOR: Dirty Blonde
HEIGHT: 5'8"
WEIGHT: 135 lbs
KNOWN RELATIVES: Lord Cedric Ravenscar (Father), Lady Isolde Ravenscar (Mother), Sir Lucien Ravenscar (Brother), Sir Alistair Ravenscar (Brother), Sir Tristan Ravenscar (Brother)
SKILLS/ABILITIES: Sea Magic, Hellfire Manipulation, Naval Tactics, Spectral Manipulation, Dimensional Navigation, Battle Axe Mastery
EQUIPMENT: View Specs & Stats
SUPER GROUP: GEMINI

Introduction

Violetta Ravenscar, known across distant seas as Captain Blackwater, is a Breton-born pirate whose journey has taken her far from the noble halls of her youth. Leaving behind her family's legacy and traditions under circumstances cloaked in mystery, she pursued freedom on her own terms—carving out a reputation steeped in magic, danger, and contradictions. Her history is veiled in rumor, shaped by encounters with powerful artifacts, forbidden knowledge, and choices that have left lasting marks on her soul.

Currently allied with GEMINI, Captain Blackwater maintains an elusive presence within its ranks. Although outwardly composed and charismatic, glimpses of spectral power and unspoken burdens hint at a deeper, unsettled complexity. She navigates lingering shadows from her past, quietly balancing her ambitions and secrets while remaining a formidable presence.

Early Life

As the only daughter of House Ravenscar, a noble Breton dynasty ruling the coastal city of Northpoint, Violetta’s life ought to have been one of comfort, power, and status. Instead, she found herself caught in the shadows cast by her father’s obsessive ambitions.

Lord Cedric Ravenscar was a ruthless patriarch, utterly fixated on a family prophecy that foretold the rise of an heir who would command unparalleled mastery over the seas and reshape the bloodline’s destiny. Convinced the chosen heir must be one of his sons, Cedric relentlessly trained them in naval strategy, arcane arts, and brutal ambition. Violetta, his only daughter, was dismissed outright—seen merely as a political pawn whose marriage might one day strengthen her brothers’ reign.

Lady Isolde Ravenscar maintained an uneasy balance of distant affection and muted sorrow, unable or unwilling to challenge her husband's harsh rule. Among polished halls and cold dinners, Violetta learned early from her mother how to smile when dismissed, how to listen while forgotten. The suffocating expectations within Ravenscar Castle bred deep resentment in Violetta, intensified by her brothers' cruelty and incompetence, hidden behind practiced elegance.

Violetta's childhood was lonely but defiant. She haunted the archives, the damp tunnels beneath the castle, the crumbling libraries where arcane knowledge had long since gathered dust. She studied her brothers’ discarded spell books, traced maps they never bothered to understand, and listened to the ocean’s call as it crashed defiantly against the cliffs of Northpoint.

The Journey

As she neared adulthood, the ocean’s relentless pull grew irresistible. Under the cover of darkness, she often slipped away from servants' watchful gazes to explore the jagged coastline near Ravenscar Castle, following faint echoes of power humming beneath the tides.

One storm-ravaged night, guided by an irresistible sensation, she felt it before she saw it—a thrumming, ancient pull in her chest like a heartbeat not her own. She descended alone into the flooded caverns, seawater rising to her knees, guided by something both alien and intimate, until Violetta discovered a cave freshly unearthed by violent seas. Within its deepest chamber—awash in seawater, bones, and shadows—lay a mysterious artifact: a crystalline orb darker than the ocean's depths, encased in corroded metal etched with forgotten sigils. As she touched it, reality fractured around her. Magic exploded through her body—seawater surged unnaturally high, the sky above split open with thunder, and visions clawed their way into her mind: drowned cities, ships aflame, and a voice… ancient, seductive, hungry.

Terrified yet irresistibly drawn, Violetta hid the orb in a desperate panic, unaware she had uncovered her family’s deepest secret: the source of House Ravenscar’s naval supremacy and arcane influence—the Eye of the Drowned. For generations, it had quietly guided their political dominance, secretly studied yet never fully understood, its true potential locked away from all but the family's patriarchs...

She should have let go.

Instead, she staggered from the cave at dawn, soaked and gasping—alive, changed, and forever bound to the Eye of the Drowned. It would take days to understand what she had done—and what she had stolen. The faceless voice that had guided her to the relic would return to reveal that it was House Ravenscar’s secret cornerstone, passed down in silence by patriarchs for centuries. It had guided their naval fleet through impossible storms, whispered victory into their captains’ dreams, and cloaked the family’s rise in an aura of unspoken sorcery for generations, but no longer.

The prophecy that drove the Kings of House Ravenscar mad was finally fulfilled.

She had awakened it.

Fearing the consequences and driven by ambition, Violetta hid her discovery of the Eye of the Drowned from everyone—her family, the servants, even the people of Northpoint. The orb’s whispers grew louder each day, urging her to abandon her oppressive life and claim her own destiny. At first, she believed she could master it alone, confident in her secret studies and fierce independence.

But soon the orb’s power overwhelmed her more quickly than she dared admit. Her attempts at secretly harnessing the orb's immense tidal magic became increasingly unstable, leading to dangerous, near-catastrophic episodes: sudden storms, unnatural tides, and ghostly visions along the coastline. Terrified of exposure and unwilling to relinquish her newfound power, she made a desperate choice to flee Northpoint under the cover of darkness, taking the orb far from her home.

Unbeknownst to Violetta, her flight carried catastrophic consequences. Without the orb’s protective influence, Northpoint was soon left defenseless. The city and her family’s naval fleet—long dependent on the orb’s subtle guidance and protection—quickly fell victim to a brutal, opportunistic raid by rival Bretons from House Montclair. The assault devastated Northpoint, leaving House Ravenscar shattered, humiliated, and stripped of political power. Violetta remained unaware of this disaster until whispers from the orb eventually revealed her inadvertent betrayal, taunting her with cruel truths: her selfish flight had doomed the very family she sought to defy.

Violetta’s initial days at sea proved chaotic. With each passing moment, the orb’s volatile magic grew harder to control, threatening her sanity as much as her safety. Violent storms and spectral apparitions surrounded her ship, marking her course with supernatural disturbances that rippled across the ocean. These disturbances quickly drew the attention of the vigilant Psijic Order, whose members observed for any disruptions in magical balance.

The Psijics found Violetta adrift, mentally and physically exhausted by the orb’s relentless power. Initially wary, she saw their intervention as both an insult to her independence and a humiliation—an admission she lacked control. Yet, in a calculated move, she feigned willingness to cooperate, knowing that accepting their aid offered her a way to master the orb without sacrificing her ultimate ambition for freedom.

On the hidden island of Artaeum, Violetta underwent rigorous training. She quickly grasped the Psijics’ teachings, absorbing knowledge in mysticism, containment rituals, and arcane manipulation far beyond what her previous studies allowed. During her training, the Psijics reshaped the orb’s overwhelming power into a practical, wearable form—fusing its essence into her Ravenscar heirloom necklace, allowing her to manifest and dismiss its presence at will.

Yet even as she outwardly conformed, Violetta secretly chafed under the Psijics’ strict rules, their obsession with balance, and their watchful scrutiny. Beneath her composed façade, she constantly plotted how she might escape their influence, retain the orb, and carve a destiny fully her own. Her mastery grew, and so did her secretive search for a method of permanent concealment from her vigilant mentors.

Artaeum was a realm of ordered thought and luminous restraint—floating gardens, silent libraries carved from starlight, monks who spoke in riddles and moved like glass over still water. Violetta hated it.

The island smelled of smug balance and ageless decorum, a place where time held its breath and power was something to be studied, not claimed. The Psijics were not her teachers—they were wardens, always watching, always measuring. She smiled when they demanded it, bowed when protocol demanded, all while feeding the whispers within the Eye of the Drowned—whispers that had only grown louder.

She played her part well. She passed their tests, demonstrated control, and offered obedient curiosity. And when given supervised access to ancient texts and void-tempered relics, she memorized more than she was allowed to study. What the Psijics saw as a lesson, Violetta saw as reconnaissance.

The whispers in the orb began to converge—no longer indistinct voices, but a singular presence: vast, ocean-deep, ancient. It had no name she could recognize, only gravity. It offered riddles at first, then suggestions, then instructions. It called her not just to power, but to freedom—freedom from being watched, managed, pitied.

When she made her move, it was elegant and catastrophic.

During a sanctioned “solo sea trial” meant to test her ability to wield the orb away from Artaeum’s stabilizing influence, Violetta redirected the ship, masked her magical signature using Psijic techniques, and shattered the scrying tether that anchored her to the isle. She knew they’d pursue her—and that if they caught her, they would take everything. So she didn’t run. She dove.

The orb guided her to a fissure in the ocean floor, deeper than any mortal chart had dared to mark. There, carved into basalt and glass, was an ancient sanctum drowned in shadow. Pillars shaped like weeping sentinels loomed in the depths, and the water itself shimmered with unnatural stillness. At the altar’s center, impaled into the broken earth, stood a sword—or what had once been one.

It defied scale. The blade was twice her height, jagged and asymmetrical, as if forced into its own form by rage alone. Its surface was neither metal nor stone, but something in between—dripping with molten glyphs that pulsed in rhythm with her breath. The hilt was wrapped in sea-silk and bone, long since blackened. Around it, the world bent ever so slightly—as if time itself recoiled from it.

The whisperer spoke through her bones.

Take it, and they will never find you again.

Feed it, and it will feed you.

You will never serve again.

When her fingers closed around the hilt, the sword surged to life—not with light, but with hunger. It screamed without sound. Her vision fractured. Sea turned to ash. The handle twisted in her grip like a living creature, its core unfolding, wrapping tendrils of molten runes around her wrist and forearm like binding sigils. Her skin blistered. Her breath stopped. She held tighter.

The transformation began instantly. Her arm blackened like burnt parchment, spectral energy weaving into her bones. Her heartbeat synced to the blade’s core, and for a moment, she didn’t know where the sword ended and she began. The orb—buried in her necklace—lit up with violent resonance, in recognition. She smiled.

Ghostblade had found it's new champion.

The sea began to churn above. The sanctum collapsed. The entity—unseen, unnamed—laughed like a chorus of drowned voices. She surfaced in the wreckage, alive, changed, and unseen. The Psijics scoured the currents for her for months. They never found a trace.

No longer a princess, no longer a student—Captain Blackwater took to the seas with fierce abandon, determined to forge a destiny entirely her own. She carried no crown, needed no throne; her kingdom was the open ocean, wild and free beneath storm-blackened skies. And for the first time, she felt like she truly belonged—not to a family name or some dusty prophecy, but only to herself.

Her power surged unchecked. With the Eye of the Drowned hidden close against her chest, she commanded waves to crush rival ships and drown coastal towns that resisted her. The storms obeyed her as if she were a goddess, roaring to life at her whim. And in her hand was Ghostblade, massive and horrific, a molten thing of infernal beauty that writhed with hungering glyphs every time it tasted blood. She loved the sword—loved how it screamed through flesh and bone, how it terrified those who opposed her, how each kill sent a rush of ecstasy coursing through her veins.

But she told herself she wasn’t just a pirate. She believed her raids brought justice—that every ship she tore apart belonged to those who deserved punishment: corrupt nobles, abusive slavers, arrogant admirals who reminded her of the father who dismissed her. After every massacre, with bodies floating face-down in bloody water, she justified it all: she was purging corruption, delivering retribution, and liberating those crushed under the same oppressive systems she had escaped.

She seduced the influential, noble and common alike, delighting in the thrill of conquest and manipulation. Yet she reserved her most predatory attentions for powerful men—ambitious admirals, arrogant lords, and entitled princes whose proud, leering gazes echoed the suffocating disdain of her upbringing. These men saw Violetta as a trophy, a mysterious beauty to possess, never suspecting they were the prey in her carefully laid traps. She played into their fantasies with gleeful cunning, savoring each whispered secret, each arrogant boast they entrusted to her false affection.

When boredom or spite overcame her patience, she took great pleasure in crafting their gruesome fates. Her vengeance was cruelly imaginative: limbs severed and draped theatrically across their throne rooms, family crests nailed above blood-slicked decks, eyes left open wide in frozen terror—each horrifying tableau meticulously arranged. Standing amidst the carnage, she would smile with satisfaction, relishing her artistry, a gleeful repudiation of everything her previous life had forced her to honor.

In those moments, her laughter would echo across the waves, louder even than Ghostblade’s infernal shriek.

And always, her hunger for relics drove her deeper into forbidden waters. Her ship soon carried a hold full of dark artifacts and her journals became filled with cryptic notes about sunken temples, cursed burial grounds, and Daedric altars lost beneath black waves. Each new acquisition heightened her power, reinforcing her delusions of righteousness even as she descended deeper into depravity. Eventually, Ghostblade stopped urging her forward—she needed no encouragement.

It was a paradox she refused to acknowledge: the girl who had once longed to escape the prison of her birth now imprisoned herself willingly in something darker. She was blind to her growing obsession, heedless of how the relics' influence increasingly blurred the lines between her desires and their own monstrous appetites.

But those who served her saw the truth clearly. Crew members whispered fearfully below deck, recognizing the madness creeping into her commands. Ports that once welcomed her began quietly barring their harbors. The name Blackwater became synonymous with calamity—she was no liberator, only a tempest in human form, leaving ruin wherever she landed.

Still, Violetta denied it. She pressed onward, hunting relics with manic glee, certain each artifact brought her closer to absolute mastery—of the seas, of her destiny, and perhaps one day, of the cursed relics themselves.

Violetta’s power had grown monstrous—unchecked, intoxicating, insatiable. For years, she had listened only to Ghostblade’s ravenous screams, to the Eye’s seductive murmurs of dominance, drowning out the fading voice of her own humanity. Yet, inevitably, the day came when even her formidable will began to fracture beneath the weight of the relics' insidious hunger.

It started with her body. At first, she ignored the veins blackening beneath her skin, the subtle rot at her fingertips, the slow decay that no glamor spell could fully conceal. But soon her reflection in still water revealed a horror she barely recognized: ashen skin, eyes sunken and glowing with unearthly fire. Pain became her constant companion, every breath a searing agony as Ghostblade’s curse devoured her vitality. The blade still whispered promises of greatness, but now its voice had twisted—mocking, triumphant, feeding on her desperation.

Night after night, visions of drowning souls, burning ships, and gutted villages haunted her sleep. She would wake shaking, gasping for air, tormented by images of those she had slain, each accusing her of atrocities she barely remembered committing. The woman who had felt herself a goddess now stood at the precipice of ruin, her delusions finally laid bare: she was no avenger, no liberator—only destruction incarnate, a puppet for artifacts she never truly controlled.

And for the first time, Violetta felt real fear.

In her crumbling state, she became reckless in ways she hadn’t been before. Ignoring the warnings of her crew, she sailed headlong into traps, attacked impossible targets, desperate to feel something beyond the relentless decay. On one such raid, she found herself facing not merchants or slavers, but an armored woman whose presence radiated an aura both sacred and lethal—Alyxandra Lykaios.

Their clash was ferocious, Violetta driven by panic and rage, Alyxandra wielding precision and purpose. But as their blades clashed, Ghostblade suddenly faltered in her grip, the relic recoiling from something shining within her opponent—something pure and antithetical to its corruption. The momentary pause allowed Alyxandra’s strike to land, and Violetta staggered backward, disarmed and forced to her knees for the first time in memory.

Yet Alyxandra did not deliver the killing blow. Instead, she regarded Violetta with a piercing, knowing gaze, as though seeing past all illusions to the wounded soul beneath. "You are not what you think you are," Alyxandra said with strange gentleness. "There is a better way."

Stung by mercy more painfully than defeat, Violetta spat defiance. But Alyxandra pressed forward, speaking of a mission far greater than petty piracy or relic-hunting—a mission to save her sister, Odessa, from Hell itself. Her words tugged at something buried deep inside Violetta, something she had violently suppressed: the yearning for purpose, belonging, and redemption. Still, she mocked Alyxandra’s idealism—she had long since abandoned hope for salvation. What use was she, cursed and broken, to anyone?

Yet Alyxandra’s words planted seeds of doubt that festered within Violetta like an infection. For weeks afterward, she sailed aimlessly, growing weaker, Ghostblade screaming for blood she no longer wished to spill. Eventually, driven by pain and a lingering spark of curiosity, she sought Alyxandra once more, demanding an explanation: what had she meant by “a better way?”

It was then Alyxandra revealed a truth that Violetta had long ignored. The ancient prophecy, the relics’ corruption, even her darkest atrocities—all were symptoms of a profound imbalance. The relics she wielded were never meant to be mastered through dominance and bloodshed, but understood through discipline and harmony—concepts utterly foreign to the rogue pirate queen. To save herself, to regain control, she must learn what her upbringing and her obsessions had always denied her: balance.

Violetta was contemptuous, skeptical—yet desperate enough to agree to Alyxandra’s terms. She would join Alyxandra’s nascent organization, GEMINI, and help rescue Odessa from Hell, if only to silence the curses that plagued her. Privately, she thought it futile—a doomed attempt at redemption—but even she could no longer ignore the destruction her unchecked ambition had caused.

The early days in GEMINI were torment for Violetta. The discipline, the cooperation, the very idea of serving alongside others grated against every instinct she had cultivated. Yet Alyxandra’s quiet strength and unwavering conviction challenged her in ways no enemy ever had. Slowly, painfully, Violetta began to confront truths she had long denied: that power without restraint was hollow, that her obsession had only enslaved her, and that the balance Alyxandra preached was no mere weakness—but a foundation for true strength.

She began training again, but this time in restraint, precision, and self-control. The relics resisted fiercely, their whispers growing frantic. But the GEMINI team was patient, teaching Violetta techniques she had dismissed as weakness—meditation, introspection, and even trust. Gradually, the chaotic storms around her quieted; the madness receded. She began to see, for the first time in years, a path forward shaped by her own choice.

When GEMINI’s preparations were complete, Violetta stood alongside Alyxandra and their team as an equal. She had not fully mastered herself, but the wild pirate queen had been tempered—her power undeniable but now directed, purposeful.

When GEMINI finally descended into Hell, they faced legions of demons—an overwhelming, relentless horde determined to protect their captive prize: Odessa Lykaios. Violetta, tempered by newfound discipline, fought at Alyxandra’s side as an equal. She channeled her sword and magic with precision, carving through infernal ranks, her power immense yet controlled.

As the tide of battle shifted toward GEMINI, desperation seized the enemy. A towering demon captain broke ranks, defying his master's orders in a frantic effort to end Odessa’s life and shatter GEMINI's resolve. In that split second, pure instinct surged through Violetta; clarity replaced chaos, purpose overcame impulse. She intercepted the attack in a clash that reverberated through Hell itself. Ghostblade pierced the demon’s chest—but not before his poisoned blade drove deep into her side.

As she sank to her knees, blood spilling onto Hell’s scorched earth, something shifted. Her blood carried a price and a promise—breaking the chains that bound Odessa, dissolving the demonic magic that had held her captive. Odessa fell forward, catching the quickly fading Captain in her arms, their eyes meeting in sudden recognition. The blade knew her. Had been waiting for her.

In desperate defiance, Odessa channeled the vampiric magic forced upon her by her tormentors, pouring it into Violetta in an attempt to stave off death. Ghostblade absorbed this energy eagerly, creating an unprecedented force.

It wasn’t enough to heal.

It was enough to twist.

The surge, mixed with Ghostblade’s endless appetite and the Eye’s dormant pull, tore Violetta from the mortal realm. Her body vanished into flame and ash—but not into death. She awoke somewhere else: between. Instead, she awoke to find herself suspended between worlds, in the spectral realm of the In-Between, forever tethered to Odessa by threads of prophecy, sacrifice, and the undeniable truth that their destinies had always been one.

Personal Life And Abilities

Captain Blackwater is a woman sharpened by time, tempered by study, and bound by an unraveling clock. Though once consumed by reckless hunger, her years with GEMINI have refined her, revealing a calculating force beneath the chaos. The scholar she became under Psijic training still lingers in her—measured, intuitive, and precise—but it wars with the curse in her veins and the instincts of the pirate she once was. She does not wear kindness easily. Her reputation for intensity is well-earned, and while she is not cruel, she rarely tempers her words for the comfort of others. It is not that she’s indifferent—it’s that she knows time is short, and sentiment cannot shield you from the storm.

Violetta carries beauty like a blade: elegant, deliberate, and never mistaken for vulnerability. She neither shies from its power nor hides behind it. She draws people in only to keep them at arm’s length—a paradox that leaves some fascinated and others scorched. Relationships are often transactional, but not heartless; she simply expects things to end, and makes no promises that they won’t. For those who can endure the chill behind the flame, there is loyalty, and sometimes something close to grace. But even those closest to her know: She doesn’t need to be liked. She needs to survive.

Violetta's power is undeniable—but it is never free. Her command of the Eye of the Drowned reflects her profound connection to the ocean, enabling her to control storms and ocean waves. In addition to the Psijic magic she's classically trained in, she possesses the manipulation of Hellfire as she's learned in the In-Between. On the open sea, her tactical mind is as sharp as any blade, turning the chaos of battle into a calculated dance where every move is precise, every strike deliberate.

Her magic is formidable, but far from boundless. The Eye of the Drowned, once a mystery her family feared, now answers to her alone. With it, she can read the language of tides, call sea storms, and command water like breath. Her Psijic training grants her precision, and her time in the In-Between carved new pathways into the spectral and the infernal. She can tear open veils between realms, conjure hellfire, and walk the edge of planar existence—but each invocation leaves a mark. Her strength is never without cost. Every spell she casts pulls her one step closer to oblivion.

Ghostblade is no exception. The cursed sword is a reflection of her own unraveling—part relic, part parasite, it evolves with her decay. It does not merely cut; it consumes. She commands it now, but it is never truly hers. And while her abilities mark her as one of GEMINI’s most formidable arcane tacticians, they are also her greatest liability. She is a woman made powerful by forces that would rather see her undone, walking the knife’s edge between autonomy and annihilation.

It is this tension—between mastery and surrender, survival and sacrifice—that defines her. Violetta lives with the knowledge that she may not outrun what haunts her.

Significant Quotes

"The sea taught me that power comes at a price, but it's a price I'm willing to pay. The curse may seek to consume me, but I'll carve my destiny from the shadows, even if it means defying death itself."

"The In-Between isn’t a prison; it’s a second chance. I’ll find a way to keep what’s left of me alive."

"Power isn’t given; it’s taken. And I’ll take whatever I need to forge my own destiny."

"So, it was you all along. The one I could never defeat… maybe that’s why I’m here."

"I can feel it, gnawing at the edges of my soul. Every step forward pulls me deeper into the abyss. But I’ll keep walking, I have to."

Trivia

Violetta is oddly superstitious about mirrors and refuses to keep any aboard her ship. She believes her reflection might show more than just her face, perhaps revealing the decay beneath her human facade.
Captain Blackwater has an uncanny ability to predict the weather, often sensing a storm hours before it arrives. This skill has earned her a reputation among her crew as being almost otherworldly as if she’s attuned to the very forces of nature.
She has a habit of collecting feathers from different birds she encounters on her travels. Violetta keeps them in a small leather pouch, considering them tokens of the freedom she cannot fully attain.
Violetta carries an old, worn playing card—a queen of spades—tucked into her coat. She never gambles with it, but she keeps it close, believing it symbolizes the hand she was dealt by fate, a reminder of her choices and path.
The Captain has a curious ritual of throwing a single gold coin into the sea before every voyage. She believes this act buys her safe passage, a superstition she picked up from an old pirate mentor long since lost to the depths.
Despite her fierce independence, Violetta dislikes being truly alone. She often surrounds herself with people or animals, preferring their company to the isolation her curse threatens to impose. It’s a quiet, unspoken vulnerability she rarely allows others to see.
Violetta has an affinity for the scent of lavender, which reminds her of a happier, more innocent time in her life. She carries a small sachet of dried lavender, hidden away in her clothing, as a private comfort against the harsh realities she faces.