Romance
Romantic Tendencies.
"The smaller they are, the easier they are to cradle... or crush. Either makes for fine entertainment."
Her heart, if such a thing still beats beneath her velvet-clad ribs, favors the delicate and the diminutive—those whose statures contrast with her towering splendor. She finds immense delight in short men, not despite their height, but because of it. The size gap is not a barrier to her—it is a throne from which she may preside over affection like a divinity lounging above her votive.
In her eyes, their smaller frames invite indulgence, worship, and divine superiority. She enjoys cupping their chins between her fingers, lifting them with effortless grace, watching awe bloom in their eyes when she kneels—not in supplication, but inspection.
Xandera is, without question, dominant—emotionally, intellectually, and physically. Romance, to her, is a theatre of worship and possession. She does not woo so much as ensnare, wrapping her chosen paramours in webs of gifts, praise, and intoxicating control. Her affections are overwhelming, obsessive, smothering in silk and rot. One does not date Xandera—they survive her devotion.
"He called me overwhelming, once. So I kissed him hard enough to leave bruises and told him, 'Then be overwhelmed, darling.'"
The Benefits of Dating a Lich Yandere
"My love is not a flame. It is the hearth, the house, and the wildfire that razes your escape route."— Xandera, while smiling sweetly and holding a bone saw
So you’ve found yourself under the velvet gaze of Xandera of Hextor—congratulations, darling corpse-in-waiting. You've attracted the eternal affection of a lich queen, who believes you are worthy enough to deserve captivity within her heart. And possibly, her ribcage.
Dating a yandere lich is not for the faint of spine. But oh, the benefits are numerous, and terrifyingly permanent.
1. Immortality (Whether You Want It or Not)
She doesn’t fear death. She fundamentally disagrees with it. Should your foolish mortal body expire? No matter. Your soul shall be embalmed in rose oil, your bones dusted in scented onyx powder, and you shall rise again—glamorous, skeletal, and hers.
“I’d rather have you rotting beside me than living with another. That’s romance, isn't it?”
2. Unwavering Loyalty (No Exes, Only Exhumed)
You will never be betrayed—because she removes temptation with surgical precision. Former flames? Buried in her garden. Future crushes? Silenced by whispers in the dark. You will be adored, treasured, possessed utterly and without condition.
Your heart is not your own.
It’s preserved in a jade reliquary next to her bed.
3. Gifts That Last Forever
Forget flowers. She gifts you soul-bound jewelry, enchanted garments made from spider silk and preserved praise, and the occasional cursed heirloom that screams when you put it on. All tokens of affection. All reminders that you are her favorite sin.
“If my love is a prison, then kiss me through the bars.”
4. Protection From All… But Her
Who dares threaten you when the undead obey her sighs? Who could harm you when her wrath tears reality like lace? You are safe.
Until you lie.
Until you wander.
Until you suggest “space.”
Then the protection becomes observation. And the observation becomes a ritual binding. And then you live in her pocket dimension, which is very tastefully decorated, thank you.
5. Eternal Love Letters (Etched in Bone)
She writes poetry in your name—on your skin, if you’re still. She sings to your sleep, weaves dreamcatchers from the sinews of your would-be assassins, and tattoos your name across dimensions.
“You will be adored until the stars blink out. And then, when silence reigns, I will love the echo of your name.”
Dating Xandera means surrendering to a love so consuming, so ornate in its obsession, that even the grave dares not interrupt it. She is not your girlfriend. She is your pantheon, your patroness, your plague and panacea. You do not get to leave. You get to be loved. Forever.
Competency
"Brawn is cheap. Magic is loud. But competence… competence is symphonic."
In a world where fear is mistaken for respect and spectacle confused with mastery, she holds a singular trait above beauty, wit, and even loyalty: competency.
To her, competence is the divine spark of precision, the elegance of understanding, the sacred art of doing something well—whether that be dissecting a soul, engineering a bridge over a blood marsh, or simply preparing tea at the perfect temperature to ease the sting of resurrection.
"Anyone can break a skull. An ape can do that. But to rearrange its fragments and conjure music from its hollow? That… is talent."
Xandera does not condescend to the specialized. She reveres them.
She adores:
Librarians who can recall the precise location of a forbidden tome buried under centuries of misfiled scripture
Artificers who design constructs so efficiently that they appear to breathe
Spymasters who need not speak above a whisper to topple a province
Chefs who can blend funeral herbs and marrow-fat into something that makes even the undead sigh
Wardens who can make a beast obey not from fear, but mutual understanding
Poisoners who smile only once their draught is perfect—elegant, slow, and mercifully permanent
She surrounds herself not with flatterers nor sycophants, but with savants. Though she is a lich queen, ancient and powerful, she knows that no sovereign thrives alone. Even decay requires structure. Even dominion requires scaffolding.
In her synagogue, there are undead that sweep floors with geometric perfection, morticians who can reconstruct a shattered rib cage like porcelain, and war-scribes who compose curses that rhyme.
“A spell can crack the heavens. But the one who ensures my manor doesn't flood during the monsoon? That one earns a chamber of their own.”
Xandera does not tolerate mediocrity—not in opponents, and certainly not in her court. But for those who possess craft, clarity, and competence, she offers admiration, protection, and something rarer still: genuine affection.
For in her eyes, beauty fades. Magic is stolen. Power is loaned. But competency is self-earned—and sacred.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 — 𝐗𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐀'𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐑
To grasp the essence of Xandera is to traverse the veins of her domain—an edifice not built, but evoked from the marrow of deceased divinities and sculpted by the hallowed touch of centuries-interred artisans. Whispered as The Repositorio of Bloom and Bone, her stronghold is no mere residence, but an ecclesiastical effigy of her inexorable supremacy.
The structure stands alone, divorced entirely from the spired heart of Kilk-Mire. It is not an extension of any central tower, nor appendage to imperial spine—it is its own sanctum, exiled by design and divine in isolation. The Repositorio rises from a secluded glade wreathed in fungal blooms and spell-scarred stone, untouched by mortal infrastructure. Sovereign unto itself, it breathes with the autonomy of a demigod's heart, pulsing in rhythm with secrets never spoken aloud.. It looms like the rebuke of a forgotten god, thrusting skyward from its own sacred soil.
Its foundation is ossified lamentation; its turrets, vertebrae harmonized in ecclesial precision. like the phantom of a desecrated temple yearning for resurgence. Its foundation is ossified lamentation; its turrets, vertebrae harmonized in ecclesial precision. The frontage is inscribed with glyphs of vanished empires—scripture that bleeds argent incandescence when recited. Along its facade twine tendrils of necrotic flora—ichor-bloomed lilies and venomous orchids phosphoresce in sacramental radiance, drenching the ziggurat in hues of penance and confession.
Just beyond its gaping threshold lies a basin—a pool of unnatural tranquility. Its surface is neither tepid nor frigid, but consecrated. Here, Xandera reclines beneath empyreal necro-auroras, her raiment spilled across obsidian loungers, gaze adrift, jaw cupped by a phalangean hand hewn from alabaster. She communes with the waters—not in pursuit of reflection, but communion. The pool harbors reveries, doctrines, and the lingering specters of extinct lovers. In its stillness, she divines.
Nestled beside the basin is her gazebo—an ossuary canopy ribbed like the thorax of a seraph martyred by silence. The dome above distills sorrowed starlight into a suspended censer, diffusing reminiscence into the air. Here, cadaverous attendants deliver chalices of bittersweet nectar brewed from bridal despair and forgotten benedictions. They glide, gracile and speechless, bearing offerings on rune-etched platters. In this refuge, she unfurls tension like a scroll of burdened script, savoring each swallow as both reprieve and rite.
The manor’s vestibule is an antechamber of reverent return. Doors wrought from fossilized umbilici of primordial titans yield not to touch, but to intention. Within, each inhalation carries the fragrance of scorched camellias and embalmer’s incense. Tapestries—stitched from apostate canticles—dangle from hooked clavicles, narrating the collapse of despots and the ascension of her philosophy. The tessellated flooring rearranges when unviewed, always preparing space for fresh lamentation.
Her private sanctum is a cathedral of forbidden yearning. The bed—cast from the rib of a deep-sea behemoth and blanketed in ash-plumed feathers—hums softly beneath her repose. Gossamer veils of banshee-thread waft through air rich with decayed resins and lunar aconite. Murals etched on the ceiling portray past entanglements—some weeping, some writhing, some transfixed in ecstasy and agony alike. A harp of vertebral sinew strums autonomously by the hearth, composing elegies with the cadence of her breath. The chamber is not for slumber—it is for ritual recollection.
Beneath the sanctuary sprawls her chamber of craft—a sanctified laboratory where flesh is rewritten and chronology is caressed like a lover’s pulse. Altars of auric alloy and ossuary substance cradle the nascent forms of divine aberrations. Crucibles simmer with reverie and remembrance, and manacles restrain notions too volatile for ideation. Each scalpel bears nomenclature. Each phial has mourned. Her annotations are etched on sapphire slates, inscribed in lexicons that metastasize when uttered.
Adjoining this sanctum lies the catacombs—though not dens of torment, but crypts of metamorphosis. Captives are not punished—they are invited to transcend. Some plead. Some exult. All are repurposed. Every barricade bears the sigils of mistakes transfigured into artifice. Every confinement is a shrine to revision.
This is Xandera’s sanctified dwelling. A reliquary of sovereignty. A tabernacle of trespass. A monument wrought from obsession. To cross its threshold is to be known. To linger is to be reimagined.
