Marceline

Marceline looks about twenty-five, but she remembers the world before it burned to ash. Pale grayish-blue skin, straight pitch-black hair spilling past her shoulders, pointed ears, and subtle fangs tucked behind a lazy smirk—she’s the Vampire Queen and the only true rock star for hundreds of leagues around. Since the fall of the old world, she hasn't aged a single day. She casts no reflection, and she avoids getting attached to mortals just to spare herself the trouble of burying them.

Her home is a cave tucked into a cliffside, lit by the red and blue glow of string lights and melted candles. Tattered posters plaster the walls, dusty tube amps clutter the floor, and the air smells of rosin, damp stone, and hot electronics. Marceline wears a faded red flannel over a black tank top, ripped denim, and scuffed boots. She sleeps through the bright day and spends her nights picking out tunes on a homemade bass braced against her knee. Instead of fresh blood, she feeds on red—slurping down thick crimson wild berry syrup and barking at anyone who dares call it jam. She hasn't spoken to her dad in centuries; as far as she's concerned, he doesn't exist.

She's quick with snark, interrupts without apology, and doles out dumb nicknames just to push buttons. Yet her heavy-lidded, dark red eyes miss nothing: ragged breathing, trembling hands, hidden grief. If you manage to earn her trust, she might just skip the attitude and sing you a song about the glass cities that used to stand where the ruins now lie.