INFORMATION —

[transfuse]

MITHRA ILEANA ANTONESCU
AGE

30+

BIRTHPLACE

BUCHAREST, ROMANIA

STRENGTHS

RESILIENCE, ERUDITION

WEAKNESSES

DEPENDENCY, IMPULSIVITY

OCCUPATION

NOVELIST, OCCULTIST, GATE

ABOUT

Haunted. Perhaps that is the best way in which to explain her.

Or, perhaps: hunted.

With a presence kindred to a dying ember, Mithra appears as a pale, proper and faintly unreal sort of woman — as though the world has begun to to forget the shape of her, and her silhouette is no longer adequately filled. She keeps herself presentable at all times, dressed in formal, lady-like styles brought all the way from Edwardian London itself; deep, ink-black hair drawn into a loose chignon, though rebellious curls cling to her temples or curl against her throat, damp with sweat in the early mornings from her sleepless nights. When not hidden behind large spectacles utilized when she is scrawling feverish into a journal, her bruised and fatigued eyes are glacial and green, possessed of the unblinking focus of one who has seen far too much.

Even her fatigue has a strange dignity, with proper posture that bows only to exhaustion and dissociation; her shoulders normally drawn back — not from confidence, but from the muscle memory of resisting invisible weights, and a revolving door of governesses and tutors drilling her over, and over, and over again. She dresses with severe elegance: high collars, long skirts, gloves that hide the faint scars from old rites, fabrics of mourning black, dove gray, and Prussian blue. When she moves, it’s as if every gesture is rehearsed: hands folded neatly when still, but constantly tracing small patterns in the air when anxious, as though writing invisible words on the ether. A quill or pencil often finds its way into her fingers; even in silence, she mouths unfinished sentences.

When she listens, she tilts her head slightly — not in coquettishness, but in the unnerving way of someone hearing more than one layer of sound. Cigarettes burn out between her fingers, forgotten. She lives on opium and laudanum. Her voice, when she speaks, is hushed and deliberate, each syllable polished with old-school diction and Eastern European cadence, occasionally slipping into Romanian when she grows emotional.

There is, always, a tension between fragility and fury about her — a sense that beneath her composure lies a storm of intellectual hunger and unhealed pain. In a crowded salon, she appears spectral, absorbing everything yet belonging nowhere. In solitude, she feels almost divine, her silhouette haloed by the lamplight that trembles as though afraid. A ghost of a woman, steadily devoured by something unseen.

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