Hazel Valentine

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Hazel Anne Valentine

Need to Know

- She/Her
- 170 (Nov 15)
- 5’8”
- Dark Brown Hair
- Brown Eyes
- Unemployed in Outskirts
- Lives in Outskirts


-Willowy, almost emaciated
- Prefers earthy tones and tight-fitting clothes
- Hair—often dirty—kept loose and falls below her shoulders
- Ankle boots for all seasons
-Jewelry, all gold, is as old as she—simple bands on several fingers, studs in her ears, and a single chain around her neck

About Me


↑ Placid, Calculating, Overtly Polite
↓ Unforgiving, Obsessive, Cruel
→ Lonely, Independent, Heartsick


TW: westward expansion
Boston, 1850
Arton was not content. Cordelia had no desire to leave Boston, but there was gold in the west. He could make them rich, he said. But what of their daughter? Hazel was barely weaned when they joined more settlers headed across the vast, unfamiliar country. California ended up being their final destination, but the road was long, harsh, and took a toll on the young couple. Hazel had no clear memory of that passage, but trauma changed Cordelia from a bright woman to a shade.

California, 1860
The mines dried up before Hazel’s tenth birthday. Arton found his freedom in a bottle; he wanted to continue their trek for more riches. Cordelia wanted to return to her family on the east coast—manifest destiny seemed out of their reach. Arton met his end after a night of drinking—robbed by outlaws and left with one of their knives in his belly.

The West - The Civil War
Cordelia often claimed to be a war widow and dragged the teenage Hazel up and down the West coast, finding work where she could and renting rooms when she could make a deal. Most people pitied her—grey hairs sparkled brightly among the deep browns, and the bags under her eyes seemed permanent. Hazel mended clothes and linens while her mother sold herself. Content pariahs, they trekked from one dusty town to another, making enough money to feed themselves.

They talked long after the purchase of Seward’s Folly. Should they make the long trip north and try their luck in that strange new land? ‘Too cold.’ Cordelia would say under her breath. The desert spoiled her, comforted her. No matter how Hazel would plead, there was no extracting mother. No way in hell.

The Gilded Age
The scholars named it. Hazel only saw the soot and sweat of industry. The blood of the land’s stewards and the ones who should be free. The cruelty of men. Women’s jealousy and scorn. They found themselves in Colorado for the establishment of the railroad. Cordelia was on a downward spiral then, continually muttering to herself. Hazel feared it was the end.

The Long Depression
Unemployment was up, and Hazel stayed with her mother in the hospital. The flu took her the winter after Hazel turned twenty-four.

The Empty Years (1875-1888)
Without the burden of her mother, Hazel wandered. She had few skills but presented herself as teachable. A farmer took her on for a season, and she learned to care for the animals. A female carpenter made sure she could build a shed by the time she moved on. She learned to blow glass.

The proposal came at night. She accepted. Cordelia always said she wanted Hazel to make a good match, and Ralph seemed to be a good man. They never met in daylight. Hazel had work to do for whoever she’d found to teach her something new, but he would be by the door to her lodgings in the evenings. There was never a temptation to step beyond the boundaries of courtship. She did not even touch him until they clasped hands in a garden, swearing forever to one another. The judge from the bar belched and pronounced them man and wife.

His hands were as cold as she once imagined Alaska to be.

He turned her that night.

The next evening, she surged from a loosely-filled grave, gasping, or rather, wanting to. The motions were still there—the memory of muscles and organs, but air was no longer a requirement. Ralph sat on a nearby tombstone, nonchalant and smiling down at her, and having the gall to inquire about her sleep. They shouted then—Hazel terrified and livid. How was it his business to steal her life? Why did he do this? Why wasn’t he an honest man? Earnestness could be faked, so it seemed.

They drew an eavesdropper. A caretaker. He was an older man. Hazel could smell him, but not because of his state. She could feel the pulse surging in his neck from twenty yards away. Before Ralph could explain further, Hazel was on him. The red stained her dress and dried black under her fingernails and in her disheveled hair. Even as she drank, she began to hate. It was only the first night of many.

Her life changed after that. Loathing still occupied her thoughts, but the passage a time—as Ralph would teach her—became something to be ignored. Sleep. Wake. Eat. Fuck, sometimes. Hazel hated him too much to sleep with him in anger, most of the time. They traveled slowly south, then east, but she balked when they came to Mississippi, refusing to tread any closer to the place of her birth. So they skirted the southern states, swinging back into the Midwest in the 1920s.

Prohibition was in full swing, according to the news, but no one told the Midwesterners, apparently. They propped themselves up with belief Hazel now knew to be patently false, despite being devout enough until her rise from the ground. They didn’t care what went on in the capital, though. Possibly even less than she did. They could be touched. She could not.

The sire-progeny relationship continued well into the Second World War. He’d succeeded in making her a decent con artist, but she hadn’t completely abandoned the idea of an honest living even if it had to be done in the dark.

Unless one shut oneself off from the world, you couldn’t ignore how fast things changed. Hairstyles. Clothes. Cars. Technology. Hazel struggled to keep up, even if she was just trying to make a few swindled dollars before having her breakfast behind the bar. Mostly, she stayed away. The humans always drew her back. Small towns in the Southwest kept her fed once again, and conscripted cars kept her moving.

California, again.
The home she’d shared with her parents was long gone. The spot where it had sat now held a strip mall. She sat on a corner staring at it for most of the night, almost hoping for the ghost of her father to shamble down the street—as drunk in death as he had been in life, but he never came.

Portland was adequate. Plenty of private spaces and humans for sustenance. She didn’t kill them anymore, not on purpose, anyway. When she occasionally did, she’d cart them back to her spot in the Outskirts and burn them. They deserved better than that, but it was all she had left.


Face Claim: Michelle Dockery