Desired Position: The Banshee
Name: Hercia (Hair-see-ah)
"Oh! Please forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you, my dear. Although... I could sing your soul into oblivion if it would please those keen ears of yours..."
Background: Hercia has never reckoned with the origins of her existence. Her song has been sung for years by now, and that is all she has ever known. Her precious silver hair has never changed, seemingly always of the perfect length and arrangement to flow beautifully from her gilded crown. That strange, intricate mark has always woven itself about her shoulder, and her flowing silken garments have always fluttered, draped across her ever perfect figure. Her beginnings exist, of course. But she doesn't dare to question them. The hierarchy of the dark world is far beyond anything she wishes to comprehend, and if it lies beyond the ferryman, she needn't know about it. Hercia is quite content with the wonders and delights of the mortal realm, all of its souls and people just waiting to hear her call.
Her mind is always set upon her passion in life, sharing her voice with the ethereal figures that litter the fringes of the dark world and beyond. Nothing gives her more joy than to look upon the faces of those she sings to, to see how her voice resonates in the very souls of those wretched enough to delight in her voice. For to the souls of the damned, her song is like a lullaby in the tumultuous darkness, guiding them to the all too capable hands of the ferryman. She sees herself as a guide, not a temptress, more of a helping hand than a waiting snare. Her intentions are benign, in her mind at least, and Hercia believes herself a guiding light in the dark. Though, she is all too knowing of where she guides her loyal listeners to, and she does not envy them in their fates.
The only thing that depresses her, except for the inevitable endings of those who respond to her call, is that of mortals and their kind. Hercia cannot sing to them, lest she tear their souls from them and be forced to sing them to their fate thereafter. In light of what she views as an unwillingness to listen to her beautiful voice, Hercia directs most of her scorn at the dwellers in the mortal realm, and is generally distrustful of them until they shed their delicate forms and ascend to her plane. However... There are those particularly fortunate mortals who escape her unwavering hatred. Or perhaps they are not so fortunate?
For Hercia has known love, or more aptly, infatuation. A beautiful little thing that sparkled like the sun dappled waters, with skin as pure as the snow. Her hair was silken, perfect. She was perfect, a delightful girl whose radiance reflected her mentality of equal brightness, and her manner of equally brilliant elation. She never saw the darkness that Hercia did, and she always looked for the good in things. These were all the qualities that Hercia would shed endless tears over as the girl lay dead in her arms. Hercia had just wanted to sing to her... To let her delight in a voice more heavenly than the angels. So why then, did the girl thrust her palms to her ears to block out the banshee's wonderful voice? Why would she scream her discordant cries of terror and disrupt Hercia's beautiful song? How could she break the banshee's heart like that? Hercia didn't pretend to understand why they wouldn't listen to her, nor why they would let their mortal forms fall away from their soul whenever they heard her chorus. She simply couldn't fathom it.
In more recent years, Hercia has grown ever more tired of her existence, her songs becoming repetitive and dull. Sometimes she visits the Ferryman, but more often than not she won't utter a word to him, as though she's afraid he might drop dead at the sound of her voice, however silly the notion. Upon these occasions, she might also make an attempt at conversation with a dearly departed soul that she's sung to its final passage. Though it takes an interesting specter, an intriguing remnant of an intriguing person to catch her eye...
