History

Esmedora was born within a secretive coven, the daughter of two mothers bound by blood and magic. Her biological father had been sacrificed long before her birth in a shadowy ritual whose echoes still haunt her dreams. From the very beginning, her life was intertwined with death and dark rites.

As a child, she was taught to read the stars, prepare herbs, and whisper old prayers to bones. Her childhood was one of silence, shadows, and reverence. Death was never something to be feared—it was part of the balance. Her mothers raised her with care, both gentle and stern, preparing her to someday take her place among the circle.

When Esmedora was a teenager, the coven came under violent attack. Her mothers, desperate to save her and themselves, fled into the wilderness seeking peace and anonymity. But the world’s hatred was relentless—pursuers tracked them down, and the coven was burned to ashes. Her mothers perished in the flames, leaving Esmedora utterly alone, grief-stricken and raw.

In her darkest hour, Esmedora’s anguish called forth three massive Irish wolfhounds—mysterious beasts who emerged from the woods and never left her side. She did not know it then, but they were fragments of her own soul, torn loose by grief and shaped into living guardians. One carried her grief, one carried the bones of her people, and the last carried her mourning—walking beside her not as comfort, but as shared burden.

With nothing left, she wandered. After the death of her mothers and the summoning of her hounds, she moved through cities and ruins like a ghost in her own skin. Drawn by the presence of death—not in fear, but in reverence—she followed it across borders and through time.

Her path led her to France, where she took the name of a foreign widow and apprenticed under a reclusive mortician who had once prepared nobles during the revolution. From him, she learned how to still the blood, to mix the chemicals, to make death appear momentarily restful. To her, embalming was not a rejection of magic, but an extension of it. While other witches whispered to bones or brewed charms, she learned the measurement of chemicals, the art of drainage, the stitching of still skin. What others saw as science, Esmedora saw as sacred ritual—each incision a prayer, each body an offering.

From her mentor, she took a single silver lancet engraved with the Latin phrase “Mors certa, hora incerta”—“Death is certain, its hour uncertain.” She still uses it to make the first incision in every body she embalms, murmuring a small prayer in a forgotten dialect only the dead seem to understand. It’s her way of inviting the soul to rest before the craft begins.

Later, in Italy, she studied ancient Roman funerary rites. In Spain, she uncovered remnants of Moorish and Catholic death customs threaded with old superstitions that felt familiar. Her magic, once raw and instinctive, grew sharper—guided not only by grief but now by practice.

She journeyed to war-ravaged lands in the American South, walking through battlefields thick with death. There, she studied from battlefield physicians and undertakers, learning how to preserve what remained. She saw how the dead were treated with haste and shame and vowed to give them stillness, even if the world wouldn’t give them peace.

In Mexico, she lingered longest. Long before colonizers arrived, she lived among native peoples, observing their death customs with quiet respect. When settlers came and towns rose, she remained on the outskirts, close to the graveyards where she felt most at home. She witnessed the rituals of Día de los Muertos, watching how the veil between life and death thinned without fear. There, she began fusing her craft—using oils imbued with herbs and death rites, preserving bodies not only with chemicals but with stillness that ran deeper. Some say the dead she embalms never rot. Some say they whisper to her long after.

By the time she settled in Never, in a remote corner of New Mexico, the town was barely a cluster of dust and wood. She was already a master of both science and deathcraft. When outlaws and miners began to die in growing numbers, she was called—quietly, reluctantly, respectfully.

She took up the mantle of embalmer, offering her rare skills to prepare the dead with care and ritual. At first, the townsfolk whispered of witchcraft and kept their distance. But in time, her calm presence and quiet work earned their respect. The arrival of her three great wolfhounds became an omen—when the dogs were seen in the streets, death was near.

Now, Esmedora is known as La Dama de la Muerta, the Lady of Death. Feared and revered, she lives quietly on the edge of town, a figure spoken of in hushed tones. She walks between the worlds of the living and the dead, bound to the delicate balance of both. Her wolfhounds remain ever at her side—silent sentinels born from loss, guarding what remains.

Her embalming rituals are her own. Elders speak of the coin she places beneath the tongue, steeped in wormwood and yarrow tea. It is said to buy the spirit peace, or keep it from returning. No one dares ask her why—only that when she’s done, even the most violent dead look calm.

To the townsfolk, her work is practical. To her, it is sacred.