Voice ; Lust FMA | An enigmatic plum base coats long tendrils which cloak the hushed, quieted woman. In possession of a sleek and slender body passed on from her mothers inevitable perfected grace and facade – yet she holds no coloring passed and intertwined of the brilliant reds, oranges or greens from either side. From the tip of her nose to the edges of her brows, is painted in true black, matching her paws and legs. “Stockings”. White stripes paint down her lower back to about a fourths length down her tail; the hairs of her tail extending in abnormal lengths. Longer than what would be deemed as normal. The platelets in her mouth are a brilliant white, matching her nickel-silver white pupil-less eyes.
Writers Notes; This is crap Dx

Like a wandering entity – a lost ghost found roaming listlessly with an empty purpose. Lingering in the mixed worlds of life and death until their work is completed, oddities and estranged behavior douses the young maiden. Beauty, a work of art she drowns in idolized admiration. While she has a habit of belittling herself, and perhaps contradicting herself in some sense. She finds herself to be a repulsive beast, being born the only child with the odd coloration compared to her siblings who predominately held the colors of red, and greens passed down from either parent. Admiring those whom she would deem to uphold the hostelry of beauty and glamor, Morgäna is quiet, silenced envious young woman keeping to herself with a small abrasion. Leaving her oft with a void, empty sense. Haunting like a lost ghoul. She only speaks when being spoken to and often found wandering listless with an aloft squandering glimpse of inquiry and inquisitive nature. A spool of darkness defined in a reserved hardly reclusive essence of serene tranquility entangled in her deep plum-indigo strands. With her questions stirring left and right, her facade conjures an expression almost impossible to read, decorating in a blank, stoic apathetic expression

I was born in a litter of eight under the rule of a ruthless queen and noble, kind-hearted king. The youngest in my litter – I was the last to be conceived. Nineve, Eurythmos, Tigris, Veritas, Irwin, Icarus, Maerlansi. They were all such beautiful creatures born into this hell-bent world. Graced with their perfected endeavors and stories to be told, born prodigies.

I tried. Oh! Did I tried so hard to enjoy and to pursue in my childhood with the blissful ignorance a child bestows once they are brought upon the world. Since she was a child, Morgäna had always thought herself to be a monster. After all, monsters were claimed to be these horrific, hideous beasts were they not? Her brothers and sisters possessed the same, if not closely related, coloration's of the greens and reddish-amber either parent had, where she felt as if she stuck out like a sore thumb in her deep plum colored coat.The life of her home pack seemed to become nothing more than a distant memory the more she realized it wasn't a place for her – there was no purpose for dwelling under the tooth and nail laws of her parents.

Then there was war. A rivaling pack had bombarded the territory of her homeland, beckoning to steal back what was rightfully theirs. Agonizing cries and blood curdling screams filled the toxic blood stained air as they fought like wild savages, ripping into flesh. There was murder, pain, death. A war which she had felt forced to partake in, a war in which she wasn't truly ready for. Yet she fought. Bone was broken and muscle was torn in the wake of her fight, her challenger an antlered man much stronger than she. His appendages were stained in her blood, stabbed on her left side and right shoulder. In the duration of the fight, she fled from her home pack – finding it an advantage to slip away under radar....