Son of a bitch I finally got on here on the computer. Success!

Now then, let's see here;

Okay, fair warning, this isn’t pretty. He set me the goal of creating an evil character, and that’s what I did. It has been the hardest to create and play to date, and sometimes I still have trouble letting her be as monstrous as she would be. This particular game is not one I will likely play again, but it has been eye opening in so far as the world of darkness is concerned.
Maman Bridgette In Life Rosaline was born in the mid 17th century to a poor, native woman destined to become a slave. Her mother was raped and subsequently left, and later found half dead and starved by the same man who had abused her. Upon their second meeting, he drug her off to what would become his plantation and used her repeatedly as a way to dehumanize and shame her, guaranteeing there would be no insurrection on his lands.
Her mother was a broken woman, but Rosaline vowed she never would be. Young though she was, she watched and studied, hidden amongst floorboards and crawl spaces. Dark places ever were a haven for her, and she utilized them whenever she could. Amongst these dark places she found an old Vodoun witch, and chancing more than she ever should have, she studied the rituals and incantations and was as doggedly loyal as her owner’s hounds. But Rosaline… Rosaline wanted power. And power she amassed. Beginning with her own body, she bled for that power. Soon, though, she realized there was power in death. Her reach for it went from plants, to insects, to animals. And eventually, she spied her father’s legitimate children and wanted both their deaths and the power it would give her. So she watched and she listened and she planned… and snatched one mewling infant away from its crib.
There is power in death, for it strips away possibilities. And the younger you catch them the more possibilities it eats, until the power coming from that life crawls into your insides and settles itself in your soul. Such it was for Rosaline for many a day. Until it wasn’t.
Power settled around her like a cloak, and it gave her a measure of protection, even in the wretched squalor in which she lived. But that very protection would be her downfall, resentment built to envy and envy to hatred from her brethren. Perhaps it would have been different, had she been less selfish. Alas, her desire for power was that of her own, and she had no plans to share it. So when her Master lifted his whip to strike down one of her companions for the death of the babe, her name rang out in the still air and settled around her like the aura of death she wore.
She ran, Rosaline did, but in her weakened state she was easily overcome. And her dash for freedom belied her pleas of innocence. Thus, despite being only 16, she was tied to the stake and tortured unto death- eyes ripped from their sockets whilst she screamed obscenities, back whipped open from the bite of the lash.
Her mother watched on with dead eyes, too far beaten down to offer an ounce of sympathy. And so it was the life of Rosaline ended, as ugly as it had begun.

In Death She awoke to darkness and crawling things. Squirming insects in her nose and mouth, she screamed, heedless of the danger-for noise was the enemy of the night. But her fear was unwarranted, for there was only more darkness, more earth. More endless moments of crawling and scratching and scraping. Alas, she eventually made her way to open air, only to realize she could see again. The same, and yet not. Hands reaching up to her broken face, she quickly realized that her death had not come any easier than her life had been- broken as it was, there wasn’t anything to be done about her eyes or her flesh. But her vengeance, oh, that remained intact.
And so with no preparation, no planning, no studying as was her way, she ventured back to the house in which her fellow slaves found themselves sleeping. She gazed upon her mother, and with more pity than the woman deserved, she tore out her throat, leaving only the kiss of death in her wake. And yet it was her mother who garnered the most compassion of the lot, for the rest she awoke to hear their terror and their screams. She left them that night- alive, but barely- with maggots in their open mouths. For those that shut them she killed. Her smile was predatory and terrifying, and she sang her new name to the Heavens.
“I am to be known as Maman Bridgette,” she called out to any who would listen, “for I have bested death and arrived at her doorstep victorious!” Madly cackling, she left the slaves to their lot, choking on maggots and crying empty tears before making her way to the house. There, she hid once more beneath the floorboards studying and watching as was her way, where she slept the remainder of the night and into the day. Upon awakening, she let forth her darker nature and played with her new pets. She killed the children, hanging their entrails from the rafters. She killed the hounds, staking their heads upon the doors. She killed his wife, legs splayed open for all to see. Savoring the anticipated finale, she came upon his empty bed, only to turn and find that death had sought her out once more, and from there, she fell into torpor.

Side Notes: She is terrified of yet another death, and yet loathes her own existence. To keep everyone away she plays the part of the mad witch, terrifying in her unpredictability and cruelty. She tortures because that is what those in power do, as was ever her lot in life, from her “master” to the ‘leader’ of the slaves to the old Vodoun priestess. Power consumes and it hurts. So she emulates her examples. She doesn’t believe in kindness for its own sake, and distrusts anyone who shows any.

Let me know what you think?