⧼ 𝔗.ℭ. 𝔖𝔞𝔩𝔢𝔪 ⧽
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⧼ 𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔞 ℭ𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬 ⧽
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Given Name || Thana Calisto
Thana Meaning Death
Calisto Meaning Most Beautiful
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Pseudonym || Salem
Meaning Death
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Gender || Genderfluid female
Voluntarily disguises herself as a man
or carefully uses ambiguous pronouns
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔘𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔎𝔢𝔯
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𝟣𝟪𝟩𝟤, 𝔏𝔬𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔫
Drip.... Drip.
'Have to keep my hands clean for this. Oho, now this looks nasty...' Salem’s face scrunches up wryly at the sight.
The black, viscous liquid continues to drain into the basin under the table. While not much, the figure rolls on the flexible, recently cleaned medical cloth gloves onto their hands. Dark gray, much darker than their own fur to dissuade staining. The cloth still looks discolored despite the few times it’s been used.
A satisfying crack echoes through the candle lit room as the kalon rolls its broad shoulders back in preparation. Buttoning up the last few seams on their dingy off gray coat, the figure turns their attention to the body laying on the table, innocuous save for the pallid nature of its nose and extremities, and sightless eyes. They get to work.
The movements are second nature at this point. The undertaker prepares the body with clinical precision, even as their morally ambiguous thoughts wander into more... morbid territory. They observe the passed individual.
'My, my. What a gruesome way to go. So many lacerations, wounds... shame such a sweet-faced male such as yourself died so young. Bad breakup, maybe...'
'Mmm, no, no. That doesn’t make much sense. You, Mr. Heart Stealer, must have crossed one too many a woman. You have to be careful. Women may be quiet in your high society, but that just makes them that much more of a threat... Well, I suppose it’s a bit too late for you, hm?'
Quietly, Salem works.
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After many work intensive hours later, the dark-furred figure finishes their task, wiping their hands clean on a rag that they intend to throw out after its single use, much like they do with all rags that they use. Have to try to stay as sanitary as possible. Though, if only the gloves were as replaceable as the cheap rags. As they say, in a perfect world, with no money problems...
Huffing idly, the undertaker surveys their work with an assessing eye. Despite such a gruesome task, satisfaction weaves under the carefully neutral stare. The body is definitely funeral-worthy.
Salem retrieves the pristine sheet graciously provided to her by the noble’s family for the body. Along with their own flowery death threats as well if word of his actual cause of death got out, but eh. Semantics.
Salem merely chuckles at the memory. Such an odd mixture on their faces of crippling sadness and righteous indignation. Salem was pretty sure that the mother was faking her tears, the fat broad. The snort at the thought of her face resounds in the room, oddly lighting the grim atmosphere just a tad.
Outside, the snow continues on, and the candles burned strongly.
'Not bad for a dead noble. Looks more like he died of some invisible illness than murder.' Salem tosses the rag into a nearby bucket once they finish. 'And we can’t have a precious noble dying from murder, now can we?'
Salem covers the body.
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𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶
Salem’s a bit of a conundrum. A woman in mid-1800s London doing a man’s job.
She’s been able to pass herself off fairly well- tall, broad shoulders, large hands, voice
just on this side of baritone...
Yet, there's a sweet quality to her voice, easily hidden yet still present curves, and an elegant quality
in her face that makes her strikingly beautiful despite her stance in life. Most men her age wear
facial hair proudly, but curiously she's clean shaven. Or, just without facial hair at all.
If she's not careful, she sticks out like a sore thumb. So, onto her less than savory occupation.
Salem’s an undertaker.
She does the dirty work of preparing bodies for funerals and disposing corpses. Embalming, cremation,
covering up a bloody end... it makes ends meet. She couldn't risk becoming a doctor, and she's never
had a problem with dead bodies, so. Undertaker.
But she is fascinated by her job. Salem’s mind is quick as a whip, and she makes it a personal game
to figure out how person might have died. Morbid, but it’s even more rewarding when she finds out how
often she's correct.
Society sees her as T.C. Salem: professional, surprisingly young male undertaker who his neighbors
subtly fear and fawn over in equal amounts. He’s literate and cold, known to cut people down verbally
but a bit too intimidating to get into a row with. Yet, the man is suave instead of off-putting, and
approachable in his own reserved type of way. Good with children and elderly alike, he thankfully keeps
work apart from his relationships and subsequently becomes adopted socially by the odd widow or elected
the honorary big brother to a group of rambunctious boys. And, when he's not doing death’s work, he
takes great care in trying to prevent it- his neighbors are grateful for his medical skills and remedies, no
matter how limited they may be. Many a woman attempt to pursue him to the point where he's rumored to
flip a skirt or two in response to the advances when the mood strikes him.
But, beneath the mask, Salem is simply Thana Calisto, daughter of a gypsy with a sharp mind coupled
with a gentle disposition. She’s icy only to protect herself. She's skilled in both the art of healing and death
and creates a balancing act with it. She even tries vainly to make herself seem less foreign- harmless drops
in her eyes to dilate the slits marking her as foreign and tying her homeland braids back into a customary
ponytail- well, only sometimes. She has no wish to dishonor her mother’s memory by ceasing to wear them.
Thana wishes for children of her own, life that she created despite her precarious position, yet has never
touched another kalon romantically. She tells herself that she can't risk it, but there are days where she
wonders what it would be like to hold another or raise a child into greatness. Pipe dreams, surely.
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ℌ𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔶
Thana Calisto. Orphaned at 16, started her career full-time at 22.
She was used to being alone; father absent and a taciturn mother her only possession, all sharp edges and
weary eyes. Mother and daughter are both immigrants, two vagabonds and gypsies in all but name until
Thana’s mother had to establish herself in London in the 1840s in order to save her child from sickness.
Thana and her mother were granted a good 12 years together after settling before sickness claimed the
older kalon. A harsh twelve years, but rock solid nonetheless. Thana, used to such sternness, was content
with her lot in life. Surrounded by the oddity of Britain, with its overwhelming prejudice, fakeness, strict
systems, and juxtaposing beauty, she had no interest in being associated with the higher classes.
When her mother was finally claimed, Thana couldn’t feel too sad about it- her mother instilled into her
that death was a natural process, and knowing that her mother was finally free of such pain made relieved
Thana. Now to tackle the world on her own.
Thana was a peculiar kid. By the time she was 13, she started to develop characteristics more suited for a
man than a woman. Her mother obviously took advantage of this, and almost from the start she’s been
raised to act like a boy. Do what they do, act as they do...
Protect yourself, paidi mou, Her mother told her. Thana had never known her mother to be wrong.
Without her mother, Thana initially survived doing grunt work. She briefly debated on moving overseas to
America despite the difficulty. Just needed a few years to save up money, is all.
Ah, but wait...
Job Opportunity.
In the form of a quirky old man. He was an undertaker himself, but very much so past his prime with shaky
fingers and knobby joints. Considering how much she was paid, she didn’t complain about the grisly work.
He took her under his wing as an apprentice, taught her all she knows.
Besides her mother, he was the only one who knew she was a woman. Never had she felt such relief over a
simple action.
His death date was January 19th, 1860. She cremated his body 7 days later.
Thana doesn’t remember much from that year, but at the very least, the man got to see another year before
leaving her. She did earn a good 5 years with him. A father she never had...
Ever the diligent student, she continued his work. Such is the life of an undertaker.
Now, if only she could satisfy her heart’s desires. But, she was masking her identity in London for a reason.
No need to get ahead of herself... maybe someday she could gain what she wanted, without the stigma
attached to it all.
Someday.
