Sinister Grace Character Lore
With a new bloody chapter comes new bloody lore. And since we're not getting our "November" chapter until January, it'll be a while before we get more of these.
Vee Boonyasak
The energetic Vee Boonyasak always loved exploring and getting into trouble, but more than anything, she loved playing the drums. She began to teach herself how to play at an early age. She learned traditional instruments and styles, but really fell in love with modern rock. By the age of 18, she could play virtually any song on the radio after hearing it once.
As a young adult, she went to a local show and saw Tik and The Kicks. She immediately fell in love with the band’s scrappy sound. Tik’s vocals had a gravelly urgency, and Krit’s huge guitar sound filled the room. The only problem was the tired, old drum machine that took ages to reset between each song.
But she couldn’t get their music out of her head. With no records or merch, the only way she could hear them was live, so she followed them from show to show, learning the simple beats programmed into the drum machine.
The band finally had their big break opening for a group of local legends. They sweated their way through sound check in the massive, uncooled venue, when disaster struck: the drum machine crackled and smoked, finally giving up the ghost. They were loading into the van when Vee offered to play with them, noting that the house drum set was already sound-checked. With nothing to lose, they let her play, and the crowd was whipped into a frenzy. Even Tik and Krit seemed rejuvenated by her brash, loud style and boundless energy. She became a permanent member of the band the next day.
After jamming for a few weeks, they decided it was time for a new name. Vee suggested they keep some of the old name: Axekick. They played their first show under the new name to a modest but enthusiastic crowd who had shown up just for them. Vee had her friend Mos record the show and post it online. Before long, they were getting buzz from around the world. Vee spent all of her off-time making shirts and patches. Axekick released an EP online. Before long, the three were scraping out a modest living.
When Tik showed the band a video of strange phenomena at an abandoned opera theater across town, Vee’s thrillseeking instinct kicked in. She said they had to play a show there. Tik and Krit were immediately on board—a heavy show at a massive, abandoned venue was going to be the gig of the century.
The night before the performance, they went to scout the venue. Everything was covered in dust and grime, the floors creaked with every step. It was perfect. In the back, they found an old dressing room filled with musty old opera outfits and cracked cassettes. With time to kill, they grabbed a couple of pieces from the costumes and threw one of the tapes on. What they heard stopped them in their tracks: ghostly, unnatural sounds—voices that seemed to dance around the room. Disturbed, they stopped the tape immediately and made for the exit.
The next day, the venue was packed. Axekick sounded tighter than ever. The crowd was losing their minds. Sweat pooled on Vee’s brow as she played harder and faster in the suffocating heat. Above the crowd’s screams, she heard something else: the voices from the tape.
She closed her eyes to block it out, focused on the beat. The noise of the crowd faded as she lost herself in the encore. As the song ended, she opened her eyes, and could barely see. She wiped her eyes, thinking it was the sweat, but it was something else: a thick, black fog.
The crowd was gone. Tik and Krit were gone. All she could hear was the echoes of her drums in the distance. She stood from her stool and strode into the inky blackness to find her friends.
The Krasue
Burong Sukapat’s operatic rehearsals in Thailand were a sea of emotion, but despite tiring efforts, she was unable to become anything more than an understudy. What started as a desire to share her gift became an unshakable need for fame. Her childhood friend Janjira was her biggest supporter, but aside from a shoulder to cry on, there was little more she could offer. It wasn’t until Malai—a fellow singer who had quickly risen the ranks—reached out, that Burong’s fortunes changed.
Malai presented Burong with a glass bottle, a clear liquid within, and advised her to drink it, her tone deadly serious:
“Each night, another will inhabit your body—but you will be a success on the stage like me.”
Burong laughed at the peculiar game. Even so, she wanted more than anything to believe its truth. She grabbed the bottle, swallowing every drop.
In the following weeks, Burong’s skin felt softer, and she found a depth in her voice that she never knew existed. During her next audition, the director took notice, enraptured by the sound that rang through the theater. As the song ended, Burong thanked the director before coughing blood into a handkerchief. She stuffed it into her pocket, choosing ignorance. Whatever was happening to her was working—she wouldn’t dare stop it now.
That night as she slept, a soothing warmth dripped down her body. She bolted upright, hand fumbling for a lamp that wasn’t there. She lay in a yard she did not recognize, covered in blood. Next to her, a ravaged chicken coop, feathers and gore staining the ground.
She stumbled home before the city awoke to a new day. Under a scalding shower, she spit up blood, dreading the thought that this hadn’t been her first hunt. In between sobs, she prodded her abdomen, searching for where something might hide within.
She called Janjira but couldn’t bring herself to reveal the horrors, instead telling her friend she’d been restlessly sleepwalking each night and needed someone to coax her back to bed. Janjira agreed to help.
That morning, Burong awoke to Janjira’s hand lovingly placed on her cheek. As she looked up, she choked on her cries. Janjira’s severed hand fell from the bed, landing on her disemboweled carcass.
For hours, she sat beside her friend’s remains in a state of silent shock. Janjira was dead and for what?
When she couldn’t stand the smell of blood any longer, she grabbed cleaning supplies. As the sun set, a deep stain remained on the carpet.
She walked through the streets until she reached Malai’s home. Malai opened the door and, upon seeing Burong’s eyes, immediately defended herself. She claimed she committed no wrong—she had been cursed, and the only way to be rid of it was to pass it on to someone else. She believed that Burong, in her desire for fame, could withstand the torment and achieve what she’d always wanted.
Anger stirred within Burong. She fell to the floor as furious heat spilled over her. Malai stared in horror while Burong dug nails into her own skin, ripping at the burning agony. As she tore chunks of flesh from her neck, her entrails wriggled inside. Her head tore free from her body, a long string of organs dragging behind like fish slapping against the shore.
A seething hunger took over as Burong’s disembodied head lifted into the air. It swooped at Malai, ravenously mauling the woman until nothing remained but blood, hair and bone. Burong awoke to the mess, unable to find the sympathy to shed a tear.
She returned home, allowing her thoughts to swirl until the room filled with light.
The phone rang.
The director’s voice cut through the haze that had settled in her mind. He offered her the leading role. Burong fell to her bed and cried, not from sadness, but relief and elation.
During the evenings on the Bangkok stage, her star shined bright. At night, she fed the creature within, and together they thrived in a world of hunger and song. But the creature always wanted more and one night it was presented just that—a promise of meat, hung on hooks, dripping in tantalizing blood.
And then there was fog.