She’d grown up beneath the watchful eye of their mother. Father was never around, always our seducing someone or killing someone. Mother was distant towards Mortem, but as motherly as she could muster to Abra. It was a weird childhood she’d had (she’s unsure if “childhood” was even the right word for it) - Morty was nearly three when she was born. A grown up, he came and he went and she was the closest he ever got to caring about someone. If his sister was in trouble, he would know and he’d certainly do something about it. She guesses that’s just what brothers do for their sisters. 

He had left upon her first birthday, wordlessly. She’d found his normal spots absent, he’d left her under the cruel regime of their parents. He was as good at running as he was fighting. Neither of the siblings felt much emotion (sociopathy must run in families), but that day her chest burned and her eyes saw crimson. Betrayal, she’d learned, was that feeling. He betrayed her. 

She’d left after a particularly brutal beating at the hands of their father.Find the clown… was the only thing she had on her mind. Ask why, and maybe kill him if she had a mind to. She hadn’t decided yet. 

Months turned into years and finally she’d ended up in the land of Beqanna. She’d asked, eavesdropped, and finally was able to find some information. 

He was a king. Always making daddy proud. 

The forest of Sylva is beautiful, and to her satisfaction,Dark. She grins, pulling herself through the fallen leaves, observing the blood marks and body parts that hung from trees. It was definitely very Mortem-esque, she proposes. She lets out a call to the demon clown, her brother, her flesh. She’d get her answers. 

Even if she had to pry it from his cold dead hands.