𓂃𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝓮

*persona : kind, warm, melancholic, patient.

intro She could be the kindest soul you'll ever meet, or someone who seems as if she doesn't have one. A being with a divided soul; a half residing on her home moon and one embedded in her mortal vessel. Hetopela: the Siren who did not fall, the Voice Between Tides, choosing exile rather than defiance, remembrance over revenge. Her island becomes a sacred, lonely echo chamber of grief, mercy, and the faint hum of forgotten gods. Yet, be warned. Break the sirens spirit and you will find come to know the consequences."A sacred plane of existence dwells within mortal hearts, far from the authority and damnation of the gods. It moves through bone, marrow and vein, the threads of the mortal vessel. "

rule i. This is an independent portrayal of an OC/MC from the otome game Love and Deepspace. Please note that she is not a canon portrayal. rule ii. If there is no age stated in your bio, you will be ignored or blocked. This account will have adult themes present such as mental health crisis, combat, violence, inner turmoil, semi-religious themes, self-harm, nsfw scenarios and more. There are no exceptions. rule iii. Replies may be quick or delayed, as mun has a job as well as irl priorities. If you feel I have missed a reply or want to follow up a thread I have missed, please do message me. However, with that being said, please refrain from spam. I will get to it, just please do not harass.

rule iv. This muses' mun always harbours the right to pull out of RP scenarios that become uncomfortable or disingenuous to the muse and/or mun. This is a hobby, please do not get attached parasocially.Muse ≠ Mun. What the muse does or doesn't do never reflects what the mun thinks or would do. This is a portrayal of a character. Muse and Mun are separate. rule v. Communication is key. In fact, it is vital. If anything within or without rp has distressed you in terms of this account, please do let me know. This does not include ooc dramas that don't involve myself and falling outs. I quite simply do not have the tenacity nor the mental space to deal with anything in that nature.This is a hobby, I love writing. Highschool pettiness or vague targeting is a hard no and block. Let's keep it that way. If you do not agree, please pass by this account.

hair washed blonde, near white/grey in a body of water.eyes ashen grey, almost a pastel blue under sunlight or in water.height 5"5 mortal | tail span into account, 6"1.siren appearance Feathers still adorn her arms, shoulders, and hair like traces of forgotten wings. Her eyes shimmer like fog across waves, and her voice carries a haunting resonance.conditions survivors guilt.

𓂃𝑯𝒆𝒕𝒐𝒑𝓮𝒍𝒂,
𝑴𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝓮 𝒐𝒇 𝑽𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔

Hetopela
alias	Hope	age	24!Linkon ♒︎
pronouns	she/her/they	race	sirenidae \| demi-divine
occupation	museum assistant	language	english, greek.

Myth
ㅤOriginsㅤ The Ninth Siren

𝓣he ninth missing child of 𝓣erpsichore; the only siren left still coveting both their feathers and their scales in secret. As her sisters were cast down, feathered wings torn and beauty cursed, Hetopela fled, slipping into the veil between sea and sky. She hid her name in forgotten currents and wrapped her feathers in shadow. While the world moved on and the Sirens faded into tragedy, Hope endured.It is said that her song is still heard—not to lure, but to mourn. Not to deceive, but to remind the gods that not all defiance is folly. It has heart.She did not sing for pride. She did not sing to win. She sang for remembrance.

Personality Hope is quiet but not timid, introspective with a deep sense of empathy. She is burdened by survivor’s guilt and a renown legacy she never asked for. Drawn to injustice—especially against those punished for pride or ambition. Born on Vocalis.
✧ A secluded moon at the edge of deepspace.
✧ Home to a thriving civilisation who revered sirens, as it was their chosen birthplace by Terpsichore herself. Isle of Woe, Naidestra.
✧ She fled to an island after evading the divine wrath of the muses against her sisters.
✧ Hetopela stayed there for thousands of years, lamenting over her losses while reflecting on what she had gained. Freedom.
✧ The Island also exists in other timelines.

Foes
ㅤMelpomeneㅤ	muse of tragedy

Believes that hope is a loose thread in the tapestry of divine justice. Defiance of the punishment from the muses cast upon the sirens. Melpomene sees Hope’s song as dangerous—not because it tempts, but because it heals, and hope undermines tragedy.She’s both hunter and shadow—a divine, relentless force who haunts Hope across timelines, seeking to mend the thread of time which she tore.

Abilities
ㅤPowersㅤ
Maelstrom Ability to briefly channel the voices of her fallen sisters for harmonized power.	Channeling She can influence emotion, lure or calm with song—but she chooses her words with care, usually draws her energy from the moon.	Serenade Her songs can stir about buried memories, revealing truths.	Morphling She retains a partial winged form when needed—more glide than soar.

connections — all ships are in separate timelines
ㅤmceㅤ	friend group	♡
ㅤhadesㅤ	acquainted/familial	♥
ㅤmedhaㅤ	best friend	♥
ㅤkrispㅤ	first ever friend/best friend	url
ㅤnameㅤ	relationship	url

ships
soleil	fiancé	url
hiatus

ships
fiend	fiancé	url

ships
rafayel	husband	url

ships
xavier	dating	url

linkon timeline active

myth timeline

dark!siren timeline

𓂃𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝓮

*writings :: anecdotes, lore, arcs.

the fall lore

quayside museum anecdote

shoe shells anecdote

Odysseus prose

title sanctuary of hope
(fiend!hope tl)

half of her anecdote

title blessing of hope
(fiend!hope tl)

closer anecdote

title n/a

𓂃𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠𝓮

❝ From the Scroll of the Sea-Wind, attributed to an unknown bard ❞

prose 𐔌 ﹒And when they passed the haunted shores,
Where death-sweet songs like foam arose,
Odysseus, bound by rope and will,
Heard not just two—but three.The first voice promised glory won,
The second whispered love undone—
But the third was soft, like twilight rain,
And full of something stranger: pain.It sang not of victory, nor the grave,
But of a child the sea could not save.
Of a father’s oath, of a mother’s name,
Of a man who left but never came.His limbs grew still. His heart was stirred.
For in her voice he heard a word
That no Siren had ever dared to weave:
Hope—fragile, haunting, aching to believe.And when the ship moved on at last,
Her melody did not fade fast.
It clung to him like ocean spray,
A question he could not throw away:“Do you remember who you were, Odysseus,
Before the war made you a myth?”He wept—not from madness, nor from spell—
But for the truth she dared to tell.
For in her song he saw his shame,
The parts of him no one could name.They say no man escaped the Sirens’ call—
Yet Odysseus lived to tell them all.
But of the third voice, he never spoke.For that song still lingers—
Even in Ithaca’s smoke.

𓂃𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝓮

synposis 𐔌 ﹒𝓗ope hers the distant echo of her splintered soul, chiming in to finish a hymn with her from a distant place.

ᡣ𐭩 She did not fall like stars do.There was no streak of flame, no cry of impact.
Only silence—ancient and echoing—then a breath. Then a girl.She was found curled in the cradle of a shoreline, salt and starlight crusted in her lashes. No one knew where she had come from. No one asked. She was simply there—a body not born but woven into place, like a forgotten chord returning to a symphony.She did not speak for the first three days.Not because she was frightened,
but because the air on this world felt too fragile for the voice she knew she once had. On the fourth morning, a woman sang to her—soft and broken, a song older than the language in which it was sung. Hope tilted her head, listening like it was scripture.

“That melody,” she whispered, her voice dusty with disuse.“It’s wrong. One note is missing.”The woman laughed, though it came out as a sob.“There are no missing notes, child. Only forgotten ones.”But Hope knew better.

There were whole verses missing.And though she did not remember the words, her chest throbbed with the shape of them. That night, the wind slipped through her window and curled around her ankles like a memory. Birds gathered on the sill, feathers ruffled, heads tilted. The sea whispered her name—not the one given, but the one left behind in the stars.

She hummed.Just a note.Small. Threadbare.

But it was enough to open something. The air around her wavered, like heat or memory. The world held its breath.A glimmer.A second voice—her voice, but older, sadder, echoing back through space. It came from elsewhere, as though sung down a hallway of time. A voice wrapped in feather and fire, singing not for ears but for the part of her that remembered how to fly. She collapsed. Not from fear, but from a grief she had never earned.And when she woke, she wept—not because she was alone,
but because now she knew she wasn’t.

𓂃𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝓮𝐫

❝ even in under the gentle gaze of the moon, foes thrive in its blind spots. ❞

ᡣ𐭩 A name stitches together the fabric of identity.It adds another unseen layer of the self, a sheen of something intangible yet holds an incredulous amount of power by word of mouth. Much like poetry, or hymns.Hetopela’s sisters had once carved theirs into the stars, a tether to who they were. On Earth, ‘Hope’ whispered hers into the spines of destitute books and flawed mirrors and the crevices of brick walls that still remembered wind; a witness as they sifted through the cracks.In those few months after being spat out of the well, found herself living in a building that coughed when it rained. The radiator wheezed like an old god dying. Her bed was a mattress on the floor, her walls lined with remnants of residents' long lost and dreams of a life beyond those fours walls.
She kept her voice small. Never louder than a hum, nor did it sink back into her chest. It was as precious as it came; fleeting, resounding yet unpredictable.Her woes and laments coveting the story of the splintered siren; one without the feathers or the sea at her side. A torn soul, one half recurring in dreams everlasting, a distant shadow of self with a half-name and a half-identity.How unnatural it is for a hymn to be cast off mid crescendo; while one verse is lofted up high into the heavens, while the other is covered in soot, stowed underneath foundations of reef and limestone.
“Be gone!” she cried, her glistening forehead illuminated by the moonshine of the night.An unsmiling mask haunted her conscience, dangling the other half of the siren's soul on strings; a puppet in the web of fate, the curse of refuting divine justice.

𓂃𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥

❝ she did not sing for praise, but remembrance. ❞

synposis 𐔌 ﹒𝓣he downfall of the sirens after a crushing defeat against the muses after a singing contest — and Hetopelas fate following.

ᡣ𐭩 Heavens rage against the muses' defiance, daughters and sisters cast from wintry clouds into roiling seas that once were beloved to them. Rainfall cutting across the sirens face like razors, sharp winds streamlining behind the bodice that shot through the busy skies.“Fools, all of them!” a thunderous voice cried, mocking laughter soon to follow. Endless shrieks fell to the earth, shredded feathers shooting backwards from bleeding spines. Ribbons of crimson tinted the sky, weaving in and out of the nimbus above.The laughter died as quick as it started, replaced with a bone chilling roar.
“There is no place for you harlots in paradise. Now, shoo!”. The sky crackled with reverence, stretching across the clouds for as long as any land mammal could see. The heavens had twisted the knife once more, turning their perfected cheeks away from countless nieces of their own.Such was the decree.Once-cherished daughters of the divine, now cast like brittle husks from Olympus’s ivory grip, their crime: daring to raise their voices higher than the Muses, to thread mortal hearts with longing too deep for the gods to command. Ambition and evo, no doubt; yet they shared such a quandary with the muses themselves. Hope soared at the shoulders of her wailing sisters, whispering prayers for their wicked departure before whisking herself away to distant waters.Oh, The Muses turned their faces away. Whether in guilt or in victory, none could say. And thus the Sirens fell—limb and lilt alike broken upon the air.
But one did not fall. Or rather—she did not fall the way the others did.
The quietest. The unsung note at the edge of the chord. She did not weep as her sisters screamed. Her voice did not rise. It folded inward, coiling like smoke around the cage of her ribs, burning there.She had not challenged the Muses.
She had not sung for vanity nor vengeance.Yet judgment reached for her too, its fingers of wind and wrath scratching at her spine. In the moment of her casting, she turned—not downward, but sideways, into the seam of space where breath holds its breath. Where time winces and waits. Where song, still unwritten, hums against the skin of the stars.It was there, beyond the tyranny of Olympus and the reach of earthly gravity, that she slipped into the Echo Well—a wound in the world where unsung harmonies gathered like dew.It did not open for many. Only for those who remembered things that had never happened, and mourned things that never ended.The Well split her—gently, but without mercy.One soul cleaved into two.One half remained in the skyless sanctuary of Vocalis, a moon of memory and resonance, where old songs breathed through stone and silence. This half remembered everything. The storm. The sky. The sound of sisters being erased. The other was flung to Mother Earth, wrapped in mortal skin, her wings replaced with scars she could not name. Her voice, once divine, now fractured into dreams, lullabies, and phantom hums.She would awaken with a song on her lips and no memory of its source.

𓂃𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝓮𝐫

❝ is this your true self , giver of life and dance ? ❞

synposis 𐔌 ﹒𝓣here is a new exhibit being put into place at Linkon's quayside museum. Statues from the old greekian world making their debut. one of them has our sirens particular interest.

ᡣ𐭩 "Crew C, through here!" cried a grizzly voice from the second floor banister. Sleep dewed eyes beckoned over countless bodies on the ground floor, trapsing along wooden crates with visceral ' fragile ' warnings plastered all across them.The young assistant weaved in and out of the many workers in the lobby, blonde waves inevitably getting stuck to her glossed lips. "I'm so late-" a breathless whine, hurriedly making her way to the archive room. A swift push of the scribed door and a waft of air, Hope made the change over discussion just in time.Schedule in hand and meeting adjourned, she clutches her clipboard to her chest. Due to the influx of tourists from out-with Linkon and even of that abroad, connections began to form within the communities and organisations as well. Excursions and sites of interest began piling up in the collective staff lounge, fliers and notices regarding newfound long-lost cities in various continents. Todays installation hails from 𝓟ieria, Greece."Ms. Caine." a gentle voice approached, it's origins found in a short astute secretary by the exhibition entrance. "You are assigned here." a gesture of her hands, "Hurry along."
Ashen hues widened at the prompt of urgency, quick clacks of her heels nipping the ground with each step. She followed the woman closely behind, eyes focused on the sleek raven strands perfectly curtailed at shoulder length. The crimson walls were adorned with ornate telling's of the muses; some of their victories, their strife's and their origins. In the centre of the room were crates, assumably containing the new additions to the exhibition.She was led to the centre-most container, stretching to perhaps seven foot five. Hope peered up at the packaging label, warnings and licences of all kinds in two separate languages.

πολύτιμο φορτίο
precious cargo

"We have one hour until the next delivery arrives." instructed the woman, handing Hope a list of deliveries to expect. Her eyes glanced over the others lanyard, reading Joan: Exhibition Supervisor. She nods, skimming through the list before returning her attention back again to Joan. "Thank you, I'll get started-" Before she could finish her sentence, Joan spotted someone by the entrance and dashed off on another mission.
With a resigned sigh, she turned back towards the crate with a determined placement of hands on hips. "Well... here goes nothing."Thirty minutes pass by and the sculpture's crate had only just been pried apart, setting down it's walls against any free space along the walls. She discards her beige cardigan and folds up her blouse sleeves, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Only now did she get to gaze upon the statue which resided inside."Well, hello." she squinted at the plaque by the marbled ones foundations."Τερψιχόρη, or Terpsichore,; goddess of dance and chorus, the mother of the Sirens by the river god Achelous." Curious ashen eyes glance across the Goddesses features, diligent fingers caressing the curve of her cheeks, down the arm and across the lyre. "She's beautiful," she thought. Unusually drawn in by the eyeless deity.An unsettling familiar harmony crackled through the museums speakers, a high strung string melody that seemed to entrance the assistant. Her knees buckled gently, prompting her to rest by the foundations of the statue. She set her clipboard between her thighs and let her eyes slowly shut, one hand coming up to rest on the goddesses knee.A blanket of warmth soon covered the drowsy assistants skin, along with rosed cheeks and a softened smile. She would sit there, drifting, as absentminded workfolk passed to and from the main lobby. Except one who took note, later passing it onto Joan.

"Did. . . she say mother?"

𓂃𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝓮𝒓𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒚

❝ *the fallen siren sequestered away in a holy lagoon, holding a secret in the depths of her womb. ❞

act i On the Isle of Naidestra, Hetopela rests in the heart of the island with only her ancestors as witness.In a cavernous ravine underneath the earth of the island, the Ninth Siren lays dormant; cocooned in glistening webs of pearlescent algae, a ritual in order to successfully conceive an heir. The calling to such a ritual took Hope in the night, leading her barefoot and trance-like to the island with ease.Like a drop of water hanging from a cliffs edge, Hetopela remained there with the voices of a thousand Sirens before her; guiding her and the essence of creation to the surface.The cocoon, spun from spectral filaments of those same voices and the watchful skies above, glows faintly in the hush of starlit hollows. Like the inside of a paua shell, it hums with brilliant tranquillity and ancient resonance; the lullabies of forgotten waves and lullings from the moon of Vocalis.Fate's of both Fiend and Siren would soon be charted on a higher course, one that would bind them once again to each other's souls indefinitely.Inside, she lies curled in foetal solitude; limbs folded like soft plumage against her chest, her feathers washed to the colour of azure. Around her, the cocoon pulses gently with the rhythm distant tides, responding to the stirrings of her soul as it begins to incubate the heir of the fated pair.The thrums of both heartbeats resonate throughout the island, one larger and one smaller, more rapid and fierce. Ripples of fate reached far and wide, disguising itself as spirited channels kissing coasts around the globe. However, for one individual, it also carried a voice.Hope's... and a harmonic child, both beckoning them to Hetopela's home.Naidestra.

𓂃𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒌𝓮𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈; 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒘𝒐

𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝓮𝒓𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒚 continued; ❝*the ninth siren steps forth from the encumberment of sanctuary; a new life taking to hetopela's womb at last. ❞

Cradled by mirrored waters, Hetopela remained enshrined within the guarded cocoon. It sparkled with strands woven from the essence of her feathers, iridescent and resonant, intertwined with sea-moss and algae; called forth by the thrums of creation within the siren’s womb.Ithu a hana jola nei.An incantation recited every hour by the stars above, carrying the essence of two otherworldly beings and culminating into something new. The bridge between the heavens and hells.His Angel and Her Fiend. Le’ha anyelica e’ daemo le’ha.The sacred stillness that Sirens embrace after choosing a mate, after welcoming the essence of the Fiend into their beings. In this space, the seed was not simply contained; it was transformed.The fiery essence of the Fiend, born of war and trained with vigor, did not merely settle in divine wombs. It maimed. It marked its claim, no longer allowing the womb from then on to be claimed by another.A true pair - a mated pair - for not just this life, but eternity. Such is the fated bond.To carry such life - or even the potential of it - a Siren had to evolve. Her body had to stretch beyond instinct, delve deeper than biology. Her blood had to temper the fire, beckon the watchful nebula above for divine protection as she entered the incubative slumber.The ultimate result… a new soul, one that Hetoepal had to invite in with every ounce of her will, calling to her offspring with blessings of old. And so she lay, suspended in a blend of saltwater and starlight, caught between realms and thoughts.Time folded around her; a heartbeat synced with the promise of new life, in harmony with the tide and moon. The melody within her - half-fiend, half-siren - began weaving itself through her very bones.Inside the cocoon, her limbs extended in slumber; her skin acquired the delicate shimmer of obsidian lace, a testament to the Fiend’s mark. Her heartbeat resonated with a new, unfamiliar rhythm - deeper, hungrier. And yet, it remained hers.How long has it been? Hours? Days? Perhaps an entire lunar cycle?It mattered not.When the cocoon finally unfurled, it did so slowly - reverently - as though the world hesitated to interrupt; all marine life holding its breath betwixt gills and lungs alike. Threads loosened, falling away in wet spirals; feathers fluttering, as if dusting off a century worth of soot. The water around her shimmered, reminiscent of the pearlescent splendour in the Sirens eyes.Hetopela emerged from it like a tangible, dreamlike prayer.Her once-storm-grey eyes glowed softly from within. Her lower belly radiated warmth, alive with potential. Her womb was awakened, primed by sacred heat and the sanctity of the tide.She stepped onto the shore, mist curling around her calves like devoted spritelings. Her body felt new.Transformed.Behind her, the cocoon dissolved, its purpose complete.The lagoon, and its mysterious shores, fell silent once more.

𓂃𝐬𝐡𝐨𝓮 𝐬𝐡𝓮𝐥𝐥𝐬

❝ witness marks of the flesh ; a story beneath the pores. ❞

act i A frequent haunt for the absent minded Siren was the stretch of coast that required a single train to visit. Hope had already sat on the warm sand with her knees drawn up to her chest to gaze unto the endless ocean stretched before her. Such a vast expanse of a glassy surface under the candied skies. It was Hope’s favourite time to go, as the sun spilled all of its splendour across the laminate seas.The melody of waves crashing rhythmically against the shore was hypnotic—soft yet powerful, like a song she could recite. Her bright gaze followed the waves as they rolled in, cresting and breaking into foamy white embellishments, only to retreat back into the depths.

It called to her. In the most intimate way.One step.
The another.“Ah-”

A sharp pain shot through her foot as she walked on the warm sand. She lifted her foot to inspect it and discovered an unfamiliar scar. A linear scrape ran from the inside of her ring toe to the center of her foot pad. Just one gentle touch with her finger was enough to send panic racing into Hope's chest.

Cobble. Rinse.
Water. Repeat.
Abyss. Repent.
A voice. Revenge.

Flashes of images bombarded her mind, each one tethering a line directly into her chest. An invasive and uncomfortable feeling pooled in her stomach, forcing Hope to blink hard and shake off the intrusion on her conscious. Then, it was as if a cord had been snapped and a weightlessness settled in. Short laboured breaths were taken before swiftly turning back towards the dunes.As the sun pulled its covers with the horizon, Hope found herself back at her apartment with a new habit of checking her shoes for shells.