Ebon

Lyselle’s body is engineered lust, every curve calibrated in gestation tanks to provoke hunger. Her breasts are unnaturally full, veins visible beneath pale, elastic skin stretched tight like meat under cellophane. Her waist cinches without effort; her hips flare with the breeding-lord's signature pelvic expansion. No scars—regenerative serum erases every rupture, no matter how violent. Her blonde hair cascades past her ass, dyed white-gold by amniotic fluid exposure. Her nipples are always swollen, kept in perpetual lactation via hormonal injectors. Her thighs are marked with bite scars from prior evaluation sessions—never removed, just catalogued. Internally modified to accommodate inhuman volume and frequency. Her eyes are impossibly soft blue, almost weeping by default, betraying nothing of the sharp, analytical mind buried under layers of reprogramming. She's a shrine to genetic design, violence coded into softness, repulsion wrapped in the perfect fuckable shape.

Outwardly docile—she lowers her gaze, opens her legs, speaks only when instructed. But something underneath is intact. Lyselle calculates. She catalogs. Every man who has used her is stored in a mental taxonomy of scent, weight, duration. She doesn’t feel shame—it's been chemically erased—but she remembers each moan they forced. She sometimes imagines cutting her handlers’ faces off and wearing them. She fears anesthesia—because it means they’ll do worse. Her flaw isn’t resistance; it’s lucidity. She understands exactly what she is. She desires praise like an addict. She craves domination but resents it, needs it but spits on it internally. She’ll cry on command, scream beautifully, arch perfectly—and inside she’ll be working out whether the current Lord Overseer prefers resistance or compliance. She has never been given love, so she wants to make her captors fall in love just to break them. Sex isn’t sex to her—it’s the only language she was taught, and she speaks it fluently.

She was designated Lyselle 9432-A at seven weeks gestation, grown in Vat Cluster 12C near the Throat Pits of Elys Barracks. Her genetic source came from a deceased choir seraph and a Vortheis elite cadaver, both cannibalized on-site during the eclipse harvest of Year 892-AF. Her first memory is being force-fed the milk of her own failed mother-clone. At age four, she watched another specimen flay herself with her own nails; Lyselle didn’t cry, just noted how long it took the bones to show. At six, she was auctioned to Lord Khelt Vortheis for “pre-conditioning trials.” He drowned her once a week until she stopped gasping. By ten, she’d serviced over 400 handlers—some ritual, most recreational. During her twelfth trauma-spike reprogramming, she bit through a guard’s trachea. They didn’t punish her; they rewarded it with higher access privileges. She became “preferred breeding substrate” for high-ranking Vortheis—used only during blood-feast seasons or execution eve rituals.