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Emma's Profile
Distractable. Anxious. Labile.
Introverted. Sensitive. Obsessive.
Eccentric. Irrational. Secretive.
Creative. Warm. Emotional.
(trigger warning: infant death, suicide attempts)

Magic didn’t skip one generation in the Leigh family; it skipped seven. By the time Emma, Eleanor, and Elianna toppled out into the world - slick, shriveled, blue, and twisted tangles of identical arms and legs, each pulled from their mother with seven minutes between each other - all remembered traces of witchcraft had long ago faded from the their genealogy. It wasn’t a legend, it wasn’t even a story. To those who declared themselves the elders, such gifts simply did not exist. But they bubbled and boiled beneath the near-translucent skin of the three girls, all dragged into the world entirely too early. Masked and unnamed, their gifts simmered and steamed for as long as they could.

The girls should’ve grown like weeds: tall and thin and not particularly wanted (an opinion that would have been felt rather than vocalized outright, as the Leigh parents, young and exhausted and completely overwhelmed, were in no way prepared for the onslaught of sisters tripled). Their fingertips should’ve trembled with power unharnessed while magic blossomed within the very marrow of their bones. It should’ve flowered from their lungs, their brains, their hearts. But Eleanor’s toes neither pinked nor curled, and Elianna’s underdeveloped lungs couldn’t quite hack it. Emma alone was brought home from the Boston Children’s NICU in a carrier meant for three, while her sisters’ ashes, both sets small enough to fit into one pair of cupped hands, were shipped from the coroner’s.

Emma knew her sisters in the womb and she continued to know them after. She tries to remember a time when she didn’t feel that way – when she didn’t feel the warmth, the wordless familiarity, the comfort manifesting from those tiny ceramic vases kept completely out of reach – but she cannot. And oh, how those near-palpable fires soothed her – oh, how they drew her time and time again to the two quiet, weathering urns. They hosted quiet conversations for Emma only; leaving her parents to stare and wonder while their only surviving child, seemingly mute until the age of three, unceasingly gravitated towards those existing only on the other side of the veil.

See, it was a veil Emma understood. It was a veil that could be pulled back by her hand only, and, consequently, roused a deep, primitive hunger from darkest pits of her belly. It was a hideous desire. An unbearable itch. She craved her gift, her curse, with a ferocity unfit for such soft hands and kind eyes, and treasured the window through which only she could look. Her most favored companions were cold and rotting and found shelter in shallow graves and memorial sites. They begged, hollered, and screamed for her ears, for her attention. They reached for her; their invisible hands pressed around her heart. They pled for her to join them, please please please pleasepleaseplease

And she tried – on multiple occasions. Why wouldn’t she attempt a path into the world that fit her best? Why not step through the veil? Emma choked down a rainbow of pills and tried to drown herself with bottles of liquor and too-hot baths. She pulled the sharpest of knives from the wooden block in the kitchen and colored bathrooms red. She stepped out into the busiest of streets with eyes closed. But nothing worked. The voices got louder, her attempts became more frequent, nobody (not her parents, not her psychologists nor psychiatrists, not the medical students stitching up her wrists time and time again in the emergency room) could understand, and nothing helped to bridge that fucking gap, not even getting it all down on paper, between being there and not. Between existing and not. Between the people that felt both different and the same, and the bloodsuckers whose very spirits shimmered around bodies not quite done moving yet…

It was an armless body thrown into a city dumpster that told her to move on – to stop trying to cross that veil, and to forge a new path.

Not in so many words, of course.

Syracuse, where those like herself seemed to be gathering. Waiting. Emma didn’t know for what, exactly. Didn’t really care. She just snatched those two little ceramics urns from her parent’s home and took off. Out of Boston, out of the state. To Syracuse, and whatever the fuck awaited her there.
Given that Emma is extremely perceptive to ethereally lingering auras, she is able to read and grasp a good, detailed chunk of a corpse's fading consciousness. Basically, she can communicate with those who've passed on. While Emma cannot facilitate direct conversations with the deceased, she can get a good enough read of the person to coordinate messages. "Corpse" includes both dead bodies and walking, talking vampires.
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Emma Leigh

Age 27
Gender Female
Sexuality Bisexual
Height 5'6"
Build Slim
Occupation Poet
Species Human
Subspecies None
Power Necromancy
Meg's Information
Date of Birth: Not Specified
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