History
I was born in the slums of Bucharest, the largest city of my homeland Romania. There was disease, organized crime, murder, and starvation. My father worked in the docks to the south. He imported cocaine for the Romanian Mafia. Considering the economy of our city, we were not poor, though, far from privileged. One day, I suppose I may have been twelve, he came home with powder under his nose and nearly a million dollars in his hand. He shouted at us in our native language words which would roughly translate to “Pack your things, Ana! We are going to the new world the Spaniards found” Ana was my mother’s name, and it was only a few decades since America was found. For all my powers, I would never be able to change what would happen next.
Without even a knock, our door was broken in, men with large blades rushed into our home shouting so fast I couldn’t understand them. They tied my father to our kitchen table and stabbed him. I saw their swords push effortlessly through the wood, blood dripping to the floor. The were cold-hearted, they were malicious. They dragged my mother and I into my parents room, our clothes being ripped or cut from our bodies. They threw us onto the bed, it felt as if I were separated from my body, but, I heard my mother’s pleas of preservation of my innocence. I don’t remember them raping my mother, only when a sword ripped through her flesh. I don’t remember killing them, only when they looked at me and said it was my turn, and, later, when I stood over their dead bodies.
I lost consciousness, collapsing atop my mother’s corpse. When I awoke, I was in a hospital “Ugh.. Unde sunt..? Ce sa intamplat?” My Romanian words may well as fallen upon deaf ears. “Soyez calme, enfant. Vous êtes dans un hôpital. Nous nous occuperons pour vous,” the woman said back to me. I didn’t understand her, and apparently, nor she, I.
It took weeks for me to gather that I was in Paris, France. How in the bloody hell was I in Paris? And what’s more, it seems I had awoken from a 13 month coma. Over a full year of my adolescence had been torn from me. I soon received a letter, written in Romanian, which read that I had been given a grant to attend classes at the cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris. The letter bore no return address, nor a sender’s name..
My years at school were long and uneventful, though in hindsight, it should have been a relief in a life such as mine was. Though I had developed very nicely by this point into a beautiful young woman, I never dated any boys there. I was Romanian and my pride took a hold of me when I came to the French. My classes were predetermined by whomever it was paying my large tuition. I took many classes which made little sense as to their importance in my life, such as Ancient Warfare, Martial Arts, Strategies of the Great Warriors, and, yet another class based solely upon Alexander III of Macedon. My grades far surpassed those of my mates, the subjects intrigued me greatly. Through my hard work, I graduated from the cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris early, at the ripe age of 16 and four months.
The day of my graduation, I had finally been approached by my benefactor, at first I was spooked, but I quickly came around. My schooling and prior medical bills were paid in full by the Special Forces of the Romanian National Military. One day, I was a normal child in Bucharest, the next, a student in one of the finest schools in the world, and yet another, I was a member of my native military. In my time in the military, I would never see a true battle, they assured me. And this was true. It took me only one year to train to become the most feared individual of all of Romania, and, quite possibly the world. I was the Hand of Romania. I assassinated the greatest of Romania’s enemies. I set my targets, I made the plans, I executed them without flaw. As a testament to my precision, you will never find a picture, or mention of my deeds in any written literature. There was no mark I could not hit, no head I could not take. I was the perfect killer, the flawless predator.
Until, one day.. I made a mistake. My mark was to become the new Queen of a rival country, she was determined, strong willed, and very smart. Not the kind of woman you want to be your enemy. She was only 13 years of age. I hadn’t done enough research, I assumed she was older. When the situation was to my advantage and I made my move, I’d done something I hadn’t done in the previous 18 years of my life. I hesitated. I saw this girl; and yes, though she was slated to be one of the most powerful women alive, she was only a girl. I no longer saw her as a target, but, I saw myself. Not how I was when this happened, but when I was her age, rather. I let her live. Her country soon went to war with Romania, and we lost.
As the Hand of Romania, the world’s best kept secret, I was forced to leave my country for fear of our Occupants learning of our deeds. I’d fled to France. Soon after, I was forced to serve under the French Forces, but they had no idea of my past. The Hand of Romania, the most feared woman of history, killer of countless men was a nurse in the French army. A NURSE. It was my job to tend to the hurt, those that if I were in the same situation, I could emerge unscathed, when they could not. A few months later, the barracks where we slept were burnt to the ground. It killed everyone, save for myself. 113 people died within a few hundred yards, and for all my misdeeds, all my sins, I was alive. Alive, but not unharmed. My body was a battered, twisted image of its former self.
I drifted in and out of comas for a year, the medical staff was at a loss. I drifted from consciousness once more. The last thing I remember was the soft voice of what sounded to be an angel, her voice carried an accent, or, perhaps multiple accents merged to form a distinct, beautiful melody. “It will hurt, Adriana Dimir, but when you awake, you’ll feel much better.”
I awoke Demon.
Appearance
I'm approximately 5'4 and weigh 116 pounds. Long, jet hued locks cascade to about the swell of my behind. I wear a low cut dress of obsidian hue upon my lithe frame. My skin is of alabaster color, I suppose I meet most parameters of feminine attractiveness. Not that it matters much.
Cults
