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( jessica alexander / female / she/her) — IRENE CLERMONT has been living in Port Leiry for 6 MONTHS. They currently work as a SHOP ASSISTANT AT TUMATARAU APOTHECARY , and are 26 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH/HUNTER or if they’re connected to THE BROTHERHOOD. They tend to be quite VINDICTIVE and SECRETIVE, but can also be RESILIENT and COMPASIONATE.

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Name: Irene Clermont Occupation: Apothecary Assistant & Brotherhood Hunter Age & Birthday: Twenty-Six | August 15, 1999 Sexuality: Straight Species: Witch (Mirrormind, aspiring Weaver) - Currently a Hunter Hometown: Columbus, Ohio Relationship Status: Single Personality Traits: Irene is calculating, quietly intense, emotionally closed off but not cold. She’s fiercely loyal to the few she trusts, slow-burning in her grief and rage. Tactical, self-disciplined, and emotionally guarded, she is a survivor before anything else—but her anger runs deep.

TW: Torture / Death / Mental Illness / Exile

"They called her dangerous. And they were right."

Born into the Circle of the Reverie —an insular coven of prophecy, dreams, and memory— Irene was always the wrong kind of magic. A child cloaked in quiet, feared for the way her eyes lingered too long, for the way her presence stirred old feelings. They whispered about her blood. About how her mother had lied. About how no one knew who her father was.

But Irene did.

She found out as a teenager: her father wasn’t some mystery, but a hunter —skilled, tactical, and very much alive. She met him in secret under moonlight and ash, learning to fight with her hands and her heart. He didn’t ask her to shrink. He made her sharp. Loved. Seen. And when her magic began to twist—when she realized she could pull best or worst memories to the surface and make others live them again—he was the only one who wasn’t afraid.

But the Circle was. And fear makes monsters of the devout.

The truth came out. And then everything burned. Her father’s location was leaked. Another coven took him—tortured him—killed him. Her mother, complicit in the secrecy, was punished until her mind broke open. Irene found her father’s body cold. Her mother no longer knew her name.

Then came exile.

Six months ago, Irene arrived in Port Leiry, drifting quiet beneath its fog-covered skyline. She tends an apothecary now—mixing poultices for strangers and tucking herbs into brown paper while her mother stares at walls she doesn’t understand. But at night, Irene hunts. Not for coin. Not for chaos. She hunts the witches who destroyed her family—one by one. The ones who killed her father. The ones who made her mother scream. The ones who stood back and smiled at their pain.

Her magic is unstable—raw, frayed by grief and sharpened by rage. As a Mirrormind, Irene crafts illusions in the waking world—twisting what others see, what they believe, what they feel. She can cloak herself in beauty or fear, turn hallways into labyrinths, or smiles into threats. It’s misdirection at its most intimate, seduction, deception, and control laced into a glance.

But Irene is more than that. She was born different—something the Circle feared from the beginning.

She can do what most Mirrorminds cannot: not just create illusions, but resurrect emotion itself. With a touch or focused gaze, she can pull someone's strongest memory to the surface —grief, joy, terror—and force them to relive it in unbearable clarity. The scent, the sound, the pain of it. As real as the first time. She doesn’t just show you your past—she makes you drown in it. It’s a rare, unspoken branch of Mirrormind magic that even the most devout fear to name.

Now, Irene trains as a Weaver —learning to slip into the minds of her enemies in sleep. To plant nightmares that linger like bruises. To stitch fear into their rest. Weavers are artisans of the subconscious—quiet, slow-burning retribution —and Irene wants that precision. That patience. To haunt before she harms.

Her magic is unstable—frayed at the edges, easily overwhelmed by emotion. The deeper Irene feels, the harder it is to control. Grief tangles the threads. Anger burns through illusion. And when she loses control, her powers lash out in unpredictable bursts—sometimes triggering someone else’s worst memory without meaning to, sometimes trapping her in a vision that isn’t hers. That’s why she’s learning to become a Weaver: not just for the power, but for the discipline. Weaving requires patience, precision, detachment—all the things she’s had ripped away. If she can master that control, she can make her pain purposeful. Turn the chaos into something quiet. Deadly. Lasting.

Because revenge isn’t just a blade. Sometimes it’s a dream you can’t wake from.

She doesn’t fight loud. She fights smart. And she fights only those who deserve it.

Once, she was just a child. Curious. Kind. Too soft for the world she was born into.

Irene doesn’t make noise. She makes consequences.

More:

She barely sleeps. Between taking care of her mother, Brotherhood work, and pushing herself to control her magic, Irene exists in a state of constant exhaustion. Nighttime is for training. She runs drills in silence, practices weaving on scraps of cloth and empty walls, trying to thread dreams into something she can hold. She doesn’t rest until her body forces her to.

Her mother’s sleep matters more than her own. Irene’s primary motivation for becoming a Weaver isn’t power—it’s mercy. Her mother, fractured and fading, is haunted by memories the Circle forced into her. Irene believes if she can learn to weave well enough, she can soothe her mother’s dreams, give her a few hours of peace. She hasn’t succeeded yet, and every failure feels like a personal betrayal.

She avoids mirrors. Her Mirrormind magic has backfired before—turning a glance into someone else’s memory, or her reflection into a moment from her own past. When she’s overwhelmed, reflections can feel like traps.

She used to laugh all the time. When she was younger, when Riven was around, Irene was a bright, warm presence—curious, clingy, always offering the last bite of her treat. She was the kind of child who believed in promises and tried to keep them all. Sometimes, when she sees him again, that ache creeps in—of who she could’ve been if things had gone differently.

Her most precious possession is a silver-edged knife. Slender, balanced, and etched with quiet runes, it was the last thing her father ever gave her. He said it was forged from hunter’s steel and carried through generations. She wears it at her thigh like a second spine. It’s not just a weapon—it’s a vow, a memory, a tether to the person who believed in her first.

She keeps a small box of things that don’t belong to her. A child’s drawing. A coin from the Brotherhood’s first offering. A feather she once pulled from her father’s coat. None of it is magical, but she treats it like it is. These are her anchors when her magic spirals, her grief surges, or she forgets what softness feels like.

She’s cast a cloaking spell over her magic—layered, meticulous, and laced with intent so fine it hums beneath her skin. It took weeks to perfect, built from forgotten sigils and quiet hours hunched over worn parchment, every line a thread in the weave of her protection. The Brotherhood doesn't tolerate strangeness it can't control, and Irene knows too well what happens to witches who shimmer too brightly. So she dims herself carefully. No flare, no scent of power, nothing for the gifted or monstrous to catch hold of. It’s not just concealment—it’s survival. A hidden pulse beneath her heartbeat. She checks it constantly, reinforces it like a cracked wall. Even when she’s alone, she whispers its binding words. Just in case.