Serenia d'Argenteuil

Aliases: La Reine de Sang, The Scarlet Heir, The Bourbon Widow

Real Name: Serenia d'Argenteuil

Home: Chateau Mourninglight , New Orleans, Louisiana Territory, United States

Birthplace: Bordeaux, France

Gender: Female

Height: 5’10”

Weight: 140 lbs

Build: Slender and poised, with serpentine grace; deceptively strong beneath an aristocratic frame

Hair / Style: Thick silver-white curls, typically styled in elegant Creole fashion, sometimes pinned with coffin-bone combs or worn loose under a lace mantilla

Eyes: Crimson irises with flecks of gold—glow intensifies with bloodlust, seduction, or fury

Ancestry: French-Spanish Creole; illegitimate noble lineage

Skin: Pale moonlit alabaster, unnaturally flawless and cool to the touch; glows faintly in candlelight

Occupation: Vampiric Noble, Seductress, Duelist, Emissary of Clan Dracul, Informal Matron of the Mississippi Bloodways

Affiliation: Clan Dracul, The Casket Girl Legacy (unofficial founder), Bloodbound to Carmilla Karnstein

Current Status: Active and ascending; establishing dominion across the southern frontier, particularly within Louisiana and along the Mississippi River

Iron Frontier Threat Classification: Gold Grade / Veil 5

Modifier Tags: M Magical, S Supernatural, V Vampire, W War-trained

MBTI: INFJ — The Temptress Prophet

Background

Serenia was born to hunger.
A bastard child of French-Spanish nobility, she clawed her first breath in a Bordeaux alley, swaddled in merchant linen and discarded like a failed transaction. Her mother—a laundress with bruised wrists and unvoiced prayers—died before the girl turned seven. By ten, Serenia had learned how to cut a throat for coin. By twelve, she’d learned how to lie sweeter than wine.

She survived in the gutters of Bordeaux and Marseille, mingling with smugglers, low priests, and worse. But despite the grime, there was something about her—something that couldn’t be drowned in pisswater or buried in gutters. A presence. A hunger. A promise. And that promise caught the eye of something ancient.

Carmilla Karnstein met her in the catacombs beneath Toulouse—not as predator to prey, but as mirror to flame. The girl had tried to rob the wrong crypt. Carmilla saw what Serenia might become, and for the first time in decades, she turned without permission. It was not an act of pity. It was a gamble.

Serenia burned through her early years of undeath in Europe like a plague in velvet. She didn’t whisper through drawing rooms or hide in castles. She conquered. Blood-wet, cunning, and terrifyingly composed, she proved herself capable of more than feeding. She could lead.
Dracula noticed.

The Court of Dragons had always plotted to send agents west, but few could be trusted. Ruthven was too political. Carmilla was too treasured. So when the time came to seed North America, it was Serenia who was chosen.

Her departure was cloaked in myth.

In 1731, she sailed on La Nouvelle Vierge, a vessel bearing les filles à la cassette—the "Casket Girls" sent to sate the marital demands of colonial officers in New Orleans. The story goes that the Casket Girls were all mortals, turned after arrival. But that is a lie. A crafted tale for the records.

In truth, one among them was already turned. Already trained. Already bound to the bloodlines of Dracul. She did not feed en route. She did not need to. She slept among the girls, whispered in dreams, and carried a locked coffin of her own—not for sleeping, but for ritual.

She became the Emissary of Night—La Reine de Sang—founder of the first true vampiric dominion in the Americas. Yet her name was never recorded in the official stories. The other Casket Girls feared her, loved her, and in time, forgot her. Or were made to.

For decades she lived in the attic of the Ursuline Convent—not trapped, but waiting. Working ancient rites. Binding herself to the very land with blood and soil and bone. It was not imprisonment—it was rooting.

Now, centuries later, Serenia is not merely a survivor. She is the first whisper of empire. While others speak of her legacy as myth or mistake, she builds a kingdom in shadow—rail line by bloodline, border by boneyard.

And beneath the candlelight and velvet of her masked soirées, a newer name has taken hold. The Bourbon Widow. The title is not born of mourning, but empire.
Through a latticework of shell holdings, debt-ensnared heirs, and charmed attorneys, Serenia has quietly claimed a swath of sugarcane fields, distilleries, and barrelhouses stretching from the Mississippi Delta into the inland parishes. She bottles limited-run vintages under old family crests, brews with century-aged barrels, and debuts her finest work at masquerades in her name.
She drinks first from every cask. Alone. And when she raises a glass, the room stills.

She remembers Europe. But her eyes are on the continent. On the crown.
And she knows: The Queen of the New World will not be appointed. She will rise.

Abilities / Skills / Powers of Note

Dracul Vampiric Traits (Undead Origin):

• Enhanced Physicality: Strength, speed, agility, and reflexes vastly beyond human norms. Capable of tearing limbs or clearing rooftops with a single bound.
• Regenerative Healing: Wounds seal rapidly, even those fatal to mortals. Scars vanish unless willed to remain.
• Immortality: Has not aged since her turning in the early 1700s; unaffected by disease, poison, or time.
• Shapeshifting: Can collapse into mist, form a swarm of bats, or shift into a shadow-wolf for travel, intimidation, or evasion.
• Aura of Presence: Projects a supernatural allure that disorients, unnerves, or enthralls. Presence alone can freeze a room.

Blood Communion (Dracul Ritualism):

• Drinking from a target allows Serenia to form a psychic and emotional tether—letting her taste memory, location, and surface thoughts.
• If her blood is taken in return, the bond deepens: shared sensations, pain, and even emotional bleed-through may occur.
• These connections are often used to manipulate, torment, or control over long spans of time.

Hypnotic Will / Seductive Command:

• Her voice and gaze carry irresistible weight. She can coerce confessions, lull pain, or sow doubt in the minds of hardened killers.
• Works best on mortals, though even supernatural beings may feel the pull if emotionally compromised.

Occult Knowledge (Casket Legacy):

• Fluent in ancestral French necromancy, New Orleans voodoo, and ancient European blood rites.
• Performs binding rituals, protection wards, and sensory tracking using blood, hair, or bone.
• Carries esoteric knowledge of leylines, saintly relics, convent-bound witchcraft, and vampiric legacy artifacts.

Combat Skills – Mortal Discipline and Duels

• Master Duelist: Trained in classical fencing, street dueling, and close-quarters combat.
• Favors a silver-edged sabre or ornate rapier; her strikes are precise, fluid, and aimed to humiliate or disable.
• Her bladeplay combines Old World elegance with savage unpredictability.
  
  
• Crackshot Markswoman: Carries and expertly wields a custom-modified derringer or percussion-cap pistol—often laced with cursed silver or hallucinogenic tincture rounds.
• Can draw and fire with supernatural precision, particularly at close range or during distraction.
  
  
• Hand-to-Hand Brutality: Serenia will fight with her bare hands when desired.
• Rips, tears, and dismembers without hesitation. Her strength is surgical, not showy.
• Prefers to break a spine or shatter a ribcage if it ends a threat quickly.

Other Skills and Expertise

• Polyglot: Speaks fluent French, Spanish, Latin, English (both colonial and frontier dialects), and Creole patois. Understands ecclesiastical Greek and conversational Hungarian.
• Cultural Chameleon: Seamlessly navigates high society, back-alley dens, convent halls, and frontier brothels.
• Strategic Mind: Capable of managing long-term political maneuvering, influence webs, and layered deception.
• Musical Talent: Plays the harpsichord and violin—learned in court and perfected in cloistered attics. Music, to her, is another form of seduction and power.
• Calligraphy & Inkcraft: Writes beautifully in multiple scripts—Arabic, Latin, Cyrillic—often used in ritual sigils or coded correspondence.
• Relic Lore: Collects and catalogs spiritual, vampiric, and cursed items; can identify, repurpose, or ward against them.

Weaknesses

• Sunlight: Weakens and burns her flesh severely. Even indirect exposure limits her powers.
• Blood Starvation: If she goes too long without feeding, she becomes brittle, feral, or falls into torpor.
• Holy Symbols: Relics of genuine belief (especially those of women martyrs) burn her skin or repel her.
• Emotional Ties: She hides it well, but she keeps tokens of former lovers, dead victims, and old lives. These relics haunt her—psychically and otherwise.
• Carmilla’s Command: Though rarely enforced, she remains bloodbound to her sire, unable to act directly against Carmilla’s true will.

Equipment / Tools / Gear

La Rose Sanglante (The Blood Rose):
A silver-edged French dueling rapier, etched with blood-binding glyphs and a hollow channel in the guard filled with preserved vampire vitae. Its wounds resist healing unless sanctified. The blade hums softly near the undead or sorcery.

Derringer du Chagrin:
A four-shot derringer with a white bone grip, engraved with “Per Cruorem, Pax” (“Through Blood, Peace”). Fires handcrafted rounds—silver-tipped, saint-blooded, or laced with hallucinogenic venom. One hidden round bears her own blood—meant for a last kiss, or a curse only she understands.

Fan of Veils:
A silk-and-lace fan reinforced with razor-thin steel ribs, each sharpened and venom-coated. Doubles as a dueling weapon and blood-scent detector. When opened in a specific pattern, it silently invokes a ward against tracking spirits.

Casket Comb Set:
Three coffin-wood hair combs carved from the box of her first kill—each enchanted: one wards, one binds, one marks. When all are worn, they form a triadic charm amplifying her hold over blood-bound thralls. Hidden within one: a sliver of consecrated nail from a forgotten saint—used to break unholy possession.

Funeral Veil Cloak:
A flowing mantle sewn from wedding veils and burial lace. Grants ease in mistform and masks her from most divination. The threads are stitched with powdered bone and mourning ash—each tear she’s cried sewn back into its seams.

Crimson Reliquary Pendant:
A bone-and-gold locket worn over her heart, filled with saint’s grave-soil and a single drop of Carmilla’s blood. Protects against domination, false memory, and vampiric enthrallment. If broken in ritual, the locket can summon the attention of Carmilla herself—though what follows is never gentle.

Portable Ritual Kit:
A velvet-lined case of lacquered bone housing:

• A fingerbone wand carved from a saint’s knuckle
• Grave dust from Bordeaux's plague pits
• Powdered mercury sealed in a bone capsule
• Blessed oil soaked into parchment lace
• Two black quills and vials of blood ink (hers and another’s)
• Hair clippings, broken mirror shards, and ritual salt
• A coin from her turning night, marked with Carmilla’s sigil

Some items within can mimic death, banish lesser spirits, or seal identities for weeks. The box itself bears a lock that can only be opened by those with Dracul blood in their veins.

Concealed Blade Boot Knives:
Twin stiletto daggers hidden in her riding boots—silver-plated, etched with Saint Sebastian’s pleas. The right blade is cursed: any blood spilled with it sings in the ears of her children.

Personality

Serenia is the embodiment of cultivated power. She does not rant, rage, or rule through spectacle—she influences, seduces, and waits. Her presence in any room is measured and magnetic, her voice a balm laced with subtle blades. People lean in when she speaks, even if they don’t know why. They want her approval. They fear her disappointment. And she knows it.

She is fiercely loyal—to Carmilla above all, but also to the rare few she calls family. Loyalty to her is not blind obedience—it is protection, reverence, and expectation. Those who betray that bond are not punished. They are erased.

But even this loyalty is second to the one she holds for herself.

Serenia plays the long game. Every encounter, every favor, every seductive glance is weighed and measured. She advances her station inch by inch, not because she needs more power—but because power is the only language eternity speaks. She does not crave thrones for vanity’s sake. She walks the path because no one else has the patience, the pain-tolerance, or the vision to finish it.

Despite her predatory nature, she is not cruel. In fact, she is often warm—almost unnervingly so. She speaks gently, listens well, and smiles easily. But that smile is always knowing. Because Serenia is always watching. Calculating. Weighing every heartbeat around her. She does not see mortals as equals—but neither does she mock them. She understands them. Their desires, their fears, their weaknesses.

She believes pain has value, that beauty is the perfect weapon, and that desire is the leash upon which all souls can be led. She collects scars like relics, stories like saints, and turns both into weapons. And when she fights, it is not in rage—it is in ritual. Swift, brutal, and final.

There are only three things that truly provoke her wrath:

• Betrayal of Carmilla’s will.
• Violence against those she calls her bloodbound kin—her “children.”
• The breaking of a soul she was still molding.

To harm one of her “children”—those rare few she has turned with sacred intention—is to invite annihilation. Not rage. Not revenge. Oblivion. She can stomach loss… even death, if it comes with honor. But to take from her unjustly is to declare war.

Serenia is not merely a vampire. She is a mother, a lover, a general, and a goddess of slow-burning vengeance—all housed within a flawless mask. And that mask? It never cracks. It simply watches... and waits.

Full Physical Description

Serenia is a vision carved from moonlight and memory—eerily perfect in ways no living woman could ever be. Her skin is alabaster, pale as candlewax, yet never sickly. It gleams faintly under lanternlight, like polished ivory left out under the stars. There is no blush of blood beneath it—no pulse, no warmth—only stillness. Yet she never appears cold. Just... untouchable.

Her hair is thick and silver-white, the color of ash after a sacred fire. It curls naturally but is often pinned into elegant rolls or swept up in decadent arrangements with combs carved from coffin wood and bone. When left loose, it tumbles like mist around her shoulders—soft, weightless, impossible to forget.

Her eyes are her weapon and her warning: deep crimson irises with golden flecks that shimmer when she feeds, when she feels, or when she decides. Those who lock eyes with her too long often forget what they were saying—or why they feared her in the first place. Her lashes are dark and heavy, framing every glance like the slow closing of a tomb.

Serenia moves with an effortless, liquid grace. Not gliding, not stalking—inhabiting. She owns every room she enters, not by force, but by inevitability. Her gait is slow, deliberate, not cautious but curated. She walks like someone who knows the ground owes her thanks for touching it.

Her voice is low, smooth, with a measured French lilt softened by centuries abroad. It is not a whisper, but it makes others whisper in response. When she speaks your name, it feels like a secret you didn’t know you were keeping.

Her clothing is part weapon, part liturgy. She dresses in black, burgundy, and deep violet—never gaudy, always precise. Her gowns are often high-collared, with blood-red trim, laced sleeves, and fabrics that shimmer like dried petals. Some are antique. Others are custom-forged by tailors who’ll never speak of the work again. Hidden slits allow for blade draws. Corsets conceal small firearms. Everything she wears is both beautiful and brutal.

The scent she carries is subtle—crushed roses, iron, and faint incense from some vanished cathedral. Old wood and smoke trail behind her, like a chapel’s final hymn.

Her hands are elegant but strong. The fingers are long, cold, and adorned in rings: one of bone, one of glass, one etched with a crest no human heraldry recognizes. Her nails are clean, sometimes lacquered blood-dark, sometimes bare—depending on whether she’s hunting or holding court.

Up close, there are signs—if you dare to look. A hint of dried blood in the corner of her mouth. A smile that’s a little too still. A heartbeat that never comes.

Rooms go quiet when she enters. Not in fear—but in submission.